I grew up in the Eastern suburbs, but I’m not Jewish. Still, my childhood was steeped in Jewish culture. My friends had surnames like Cohen, Levi, Goldberg and Weiss. My sister decided she was Jewish when she was five and went to Mount Sinai College; she’s still Jewish to this day. We celebrated Hanukkah and Christmas. We knew the rhythms, the humour, the warmth. It was woven into the fabric of who we were and where we lived.

That’s why what happened at Bondi Beach cuts so deep.

Fifteen innocent people are dead. Fifteen. Mums, dads, kids, strangers just going about their day. Now forever joined together. One gunman is also dead, but that fact offers no comfort. There is no balance in that ledger. There is only horror, grief and a sickening sense that something precious has been shattered.

Bondi Beach is not just a place. It’s a symbol. Of summer. Of safety. Of the Australian way of life. It’s where tourists learn how to say “no worries” and locals take their worries for a walk along the sand. It’s where we gather to worhip the sun, to frolic in the waves, to hang out with friends, because it feels open, shared and free.

And now it’s a crime scene. A massacre site. A place forever marked by bloodshed.

That should terrify all of us.

This attack is being spoken about through many lenses. As an act of antisemitic violence. As terrorism. As imported hatred. As something “un-Australian”. Some of that is true. But none of it is enough on its own.

Because this wasn’t just an attack on Jewish Australians, even though Jewish people were clearly targeted and are rightly grieving and afraid. This was an attack on all of us. On our sense of safety. On the idea that you can live your life in public without fear.

Hatred doesn’t stay neatly in its box.

History tells us that again and again. Violence aimed at one group rarely stops there. It spreads. It escalates. It mutates. Today it’s Jews. Tomorrow it’s Muslims. Or queer people. Or women. Or migrants. Or journalists. Or anyone the perpetrator decides doesn’t belong.

This moment matters.

We can’t reduce this to a “community issue” or a “foreign conflict playing out here”. That lets the rest of us off the hook. It turns a national trauma into someone else’s problem.

It isn’t.

Australia, the ‘lucky country’, has its own mythology around gun violence. After Port Arthur, we acted. We changed laws.  We vowed never again. We bought back guns. We said, collectively, that public safety mattered more than anyone’s hobby or ideology. And for decades, that choice saved lives.

That story is now being tested.

We need to ask hard questions. How did a man with a gun end up at one of the most crowded public places in the country? Were warning signs missed? Are our laws strong enough? Are they being enforced? Are we doing enough to stop radicalisation and violent extremism before it turns deadly?

This isn’t about copying America. In fact, it’s about refusing to.

The normalisation of mass shootings in the United States should horrify us, not numb us. The idea that public massacres are an inevitable price of “freedom” is a lie Australians have never accepted. Nor should we start now.

We don’t do active shooter drills as a way of life. We don’t accept that going to the beach, a shopping centre or a concert comes with a risk assessment. That’s not who we are.

Or at least, it shouldn’t be.

There’s also something deeper here. Something uncomfortable. A rise in rage. In dehumanisation. In online spaces that reward outrage and conspiracy, that flatten people into targets and enemies. When words get violent enough, actions often follow.

We can’t shrug and say this came out of nowhere.

We have to look at the atmosphere we’re all breathing in.

Right now, Jewish Australians are grieving and scared. Many are asking whether they still belong. Whether it’s safe to wear a Star of David. Whether sending their kids to school or synagogue is a risk. That should shame us.

But we should also recognise that fear doesn’t stop there. Violence has a ripple effect. It teaches people that public spaces aren’t safe. That strangers can turn deadly. That hate can walk right up to you on a sunny day.

That’s a heavy thing to carry as a nation.

Fifteen people should be alive today. They should be arguing over the petty and mundane, complaining about parking, planning dinner, checking the surf. Instead, families are planning funerals. Lives have been split into before and after.

We owe them more than thoughts and flowers.

We owe them action. Serious conversations. Political courage. Strong laws. Better prevention. And a clear line in the sand that says this is not acceptable here. Ever.

Bondi Beach should be a place of memory for joy, not massacre.

We can’t undo what happened. But we can decide what happens next. And whether we let this become something we learn to live with, or something we refuse to repeat.

Because once is already too many.

Remember them. Say their names.

Boris Gurman. Sofia Gurman. Rabbi Eli Schlanger. Edith Brutman. Boris Tetleroyd. Adam Smyth. Marika Pogany. Dan Elkayam. Peter Meagher. Reuven  Morrison. Tibor Weitzen. Alexander Kleytman. Rabbi Yaakov Levitan. Matilda. Tania Tretiak.

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