The stories we heard were harrowing, chilling and dystopian. They were also stories of strength and resilience, of pride and determination, and of refusing to be cast as victims.

Australians should be thanking the brave Jewish and non-Jewish witnesses who came forward to testify, because they profoundly love our country and want it to be safe for all Australians.

The Royal Commission has already revealed that Australia has a huge blind spot when it comes to understanding and addressing Jew hatred. And the blind spot is more pronounced in our cultural sector.

Yesterday, Bialik College Jewish Studies teacher Sharonne Blum, who is also a writer and contributor to the book, Ruptured, helped the Royal Commission diagnose the problem of anti-Jewish bigotry.

Sharonne described how Jew hatred mutates over time, how antisemitism has manifested in new forms, and that antizionism (minus the hyphen) is the current iteration of Jew hatred.

She explained how antizionism manifests in the Australian parliament, in calls to globalise the intifada from a former Australian of the Year, and in the doxxing and exclusion of Jewish creatives, academics, writers and artists.

She told the Royal Commission: “…while these three things [antijudaism, antisemitism and antizionism] are distinct, they all carry these throughlines that mutate over time.

“Scholars say that anti-Jewish vilification is a mutating virus, and it is. Whilst you have in the Middle Ages Jewish people charged with blood libel, today we have the Jewish state charged with intentionally killing babies.

“Whilst in the Middle Ages Jews were accused of deicide, today the State of Israel is accused of genocide.

“In the time of antisemitism in the middle of the 20th century, with the Holocaust, Jews were seen as race polluters to society. Today, the Jewish state is seen as a pollutant to the world, something that is worthy of being destroyed.

“So, antizionism is the current iteration of anti-Jewish bigotry and anti-Jewish hate that really needs to be addressed.”

Australia’s education and cultural leaders need to listen to Sharonne’s full testimony. She’s leading by example with her students and her testimony should become primary source material for all Modern History students in our country. She just set the gold standard.

Sunlight after all is a powerful disinfectant. And Australia needs a lot of it right now.

Kol hakavod to Sharonne and every witness who testified to the Royal Commission this week, shining their light with dignity and courage.

Jew hatred is flourishing in Australia’s cultural sector

Before October 7, I didn’t know any Australian Jewish creatives. I’ve since met other writers, authors, artists, performers, musicians, academics and arts leaders who all describe working under very challenging and confronting conditions over the last three years.

I’ve also heard from non-Jewish creatives who are appalled by the hostility directed at Jewish creatives in the Australian arts sector. For them, speaking up publicly can be career suicide; I understand why many don’t take the risk.

Recently, I asked Claude AI for the name of a prominent non-Jewish Australian creative who unapologetically supports the Jewish community and speaks up about Jew hatred in the way that Nova Peris and Gerard Healy do. I’m still waiting for an answer.

After a more traditional search, I discovered Archibald winning painter and sculptor, Tim Storrier. In his speech to the Sydney Institute on 18 February 2026, he shared his deep concerns about the increasing marginalisation of Jewish Australians within significant parts of cultural life:

“This marginalisation is rarely explicit. It does not usually take the form of official policy or public declarations. Instead, it operates through omission, silence, and a series of decisions that, when viewed individually can be defended – but when viewed collectively, reveal a disturbing pattern.”

I recommend the Royal Commissioners read Tim Storrier’s speech in full to understand the sinister culture within our arts sector that normalises exclusion, rewards ideological conformity, and remains silent in the face of prejudice.

Author, lawyer and consultant Julia Lawrison has also written to the Royal Commission about this: “My submission concerns the ideologically motivated extremism that has been evident in the arts community since 8 October 2023. My experience demonstrates that people who openly support Jewish Australians are liable to be publicly undermined if they speak out for their fellow Australians.”

In his essay, “Why is Antisemitism so hip?”, novelist David Free observed: “The cultural elite in this country – that is, the kind of arts bureaucrats who run literary festivals, and the kind of writers who get invited to them – have a tolerance for antisemitism that they don’t have for any other form of racism… in today’s Australia you can, for some reason, sail very close to the wind of antisemitism and still be viewed as a pillar of the literary community.”

An example of this ideological conformity is reflected in Readers and Writers Against the Genocide (RWAG). Founded in 2025, RWAG is supported by many Australian writers. It also includes members of the Jewish Council of Australia, which did not support the call for a Royal Commission on antisemitism after Bondi, and is aligned with antizionist groups.

Here is another example of the sinister culture in the Australian arts sector.

In August 2025, Australian author Clementine Ford who was involved in doxxing over 600 Australian Jewish creatives and academics in February 2024, shared this message with her half a million social media followers about the 36 Jewish women who wrote essays for Ruptured:

“The only thing that’s been ruptured here is Israel’s decades long propaganda. Zionists can no longer silence people, which is very bad news for the ones who cling to a belief in their own superiority while justifying their hatred of Palestinians. Fuck all the dumb bitches involved in this embarrassing white victim shit.

“Jewish women in Australia who want to pretend they’re the real victims of Zionist genocide are beneath contempt. This is breathtaking in its arrogance and racism. Why are you more important than maimed children?? Absolutely pathetic.

“…it’s an anthology of victimhood, written by some of the most narcissistic women in the country.”

How I am impacted as a writer

Across the Australian arts community, the line between political criticism of Israel and antizionist hatred that dehumanises Jews and Israelis is often crossed.

Many creatives have absorbed this strain of ideology from within their echo chambers. While WA’s small and highly interconnected arts community is less radicalised than on the east coast, it hasn’t escaped ideological capture.

I recently had an opportunity to listen to the experiences of emerging, mid-career and established Perth-based Jewish writers, artists, musicians and academics.

They described a general lack of cultural responsivity in the WA arts sector. In workplaces, arts spaces and educational environments, they often feel unwelcome, isolated and unsupported. This is more pronounced for young artists.

In my own experience, I’m more cautious around other writers. I’ve chosen not to attend literary events in Perth out of concern they’d become “culturally unsafe” arenas for performative politics and selective outrage. I avoid some arts organisations and spaces for this reason too.

I haven’t sought out opportunities to engage with many writers beyond those I already know and trust. This includes my writing group where I’m the only Jewish writer. My trusted circle is very small.

My exposure to Jew hatred

There’s no escaping the tsunami of Jew hatred online. I’ve called out Holocaust inversion posts shared on Facebook by a person I’ve known for years, who’s become staunchly antizionist. When I was called a “Zionist bootlicker” on one of their Facebook posts by one of their friends, they did not challenge or delete the comment.

I was publicly shamed on Facebook by someone I know after I called out an offensive antisemitic comment by one of their friends on an insensitive political post they’d written two days after the Bondi massacre.

After October 7, I was derided in Instagram comment sections by Australian creatives when I attempted to engage in constructive dialogue. I was called “patronising” for sharing moderate Israeli, Palestinian, Arab, Muslim, Jewish and Iranian perspectives in the Middle East.

Every day I’m exposed to a relentless stream of virulently antisemitic and antizionist conspiracies and libels about Jews and Israel in the comment sections of social media. Often these sections aren’t monitored, and the level of hate is astounding.

I don’t know of another minority group in Australia that is confronted with such relentless hatred online. I’m so used to seeing it that it’s become background noise. But it still stings and shocks me to see such open hatred in plain sight, and to know ordinary Australians feel emboldened to be bigots.

Setting boundaries to protect myself

Over the last three years, I’ve taken precautions to protect myself from antisemitic and antizionist bigotry and abuse, both online and in person.

I’m selective about who can follow me on social media and vigilantly monitor my LinkedIn and Instagram accounts.

I’ve been asked in person, “you’re not one of those awful Zionists, are you?” I no longer engage with people who demand I pass their moral purity test where I’m expected to defend their construction of “Zionism”, disavow Israel and turn out my pockets in exchange for their acceptance and approval.

I can distinguish between legitimate critics of Israel’s government, actions and policies, and antizionists. I do not engage with people who indulge in and spread conspiracies and libels about Israel that put targets on the back of Jewish people everywhere. This is abuse and I refuse it.

Light from darkness

From a young age Jewish children learn about being “a light among the nations.” On Friday evenings, we light two candles to bring light and peace into our homes. During Chanukah, the Festival of Light, we celebrate a miracle. We learn from our history that in dark times, we never stop looking for and creating light.

After living under duress in Australia for the last three years, some Jewish people are understandably concerned this Royal Commission will be a futile exercise that results in very little change. We don’t hold much hope for it, and yet it is also our only hope: a tiny glimmer of light in a dark tunnel with no exit.

That’s why we need the Royal Commission to deliver a courageous plan that will steer Australia down a radically different path.

I believe the moderate majority of Australians are ready to support this effort, including those who broke their silence after Bondi to stand with the Jewish community.

They lit candles with us and continue to do mitzvahs, good deeds, alongside us in memory of the 15 victims.

In their actions, I see signs of “My Australia” again. I am holding firmly onto that.

My light, my joy, my purpose

Writing this submission has consumed me for many days and nights. It’s been overwhelming to reflect on the last three years and challenging to piece my 5752-word story together.

I’ve separately prepared a 10,805-word appendix which includes the confidential emails and letters I’ve written to education leaders and ministers, members of Australian Parliament, and the Australian literary community, along with my published opinion editorials and personal reflections.

I’ve lost sleep over my submission and feel vulnerable sharing it. While writing, I’ve been distracted and distant from my family and friends. But it’s also been therapeutic and revelatory.

Like many Jewish people in Australia, I’ve felt estranged from my country and other Australians for the last three years. Writing this submission has helped me realise that I don’t want to keep living in the shadows.

I’m proudly Australian and deeply Jewish. I bridge both worlds and am in a unique position to bring more Australians together through my Tikkun Olam.

My children belong here. I’ve never forced being Jewish on them; it’s a gift we share, and I’ll keep showing them I’m proud of our heritage. I believe by sharing this gift with more Australians, we can help to repair the divisions in our country that have made us feel like strangers in a strange place.

In the Jewish tradition, a Bar or Bat Mitzvah is a rite of passage that marks the start of a young person’s journey from childhood to becoming an adult who is morally responsible for their own actions. A mitzvah is a conscious act of empathy and kindness.

My sons haven’t had a formal bar mitzvah. When they turned 13, I gave them an ‘unofficial’ one at home. I explained that in the Ashkenazi tradition, when a child is born and given a name, they’re often named after a family member who’s passed away. They’re also given a Hebrew name which is the spiritual channel through which the neshamah, or soul, connects them to the Jewish nation.

My sons are named after their maternal and paternal great-grandfathers. On their 13^th birthdays, I named them Lior, my light, and Ranen, he who is full of joy. I recited the Shehecheyanu blessing which reminds us that every moment holds the possibility of something new and extraordinary.

Yesterday I met with two rabbis who told me a formal bar mitzvah can happen at any age, and they will guide my sons on this journey should they wish to take it one day. This morning, I wore my biggest Star of David necklace when I took my sons to school.

Today, I’m not tucking it in.

Jew hatred in Australian schools

I’m the mother of a child who has endured repeated antisemitic abuse at high school because he’s openly and proudly Jewish. His younger brother has understandably chosen to be more private about his Jewish identity.

Nothing prepares you to hear that 13-year-old children have Hitler-saluted your child, screamed “Fuck the Jews” at him, told him “Hitler was great”, hissed “HAMASssss” at him, and refused to sit next to him on the school bus because he supports Israel.

Nothing prepares you for the day when your 15-year-old son will courageously walk out of a classroom because an educator made him feel unsafe.

Parenting today is challenging enough without the hidden cost of parenting Jewish children in Australia. Hours of phone calls, meetings, emails, research, time taken off work, and sleepless nights is our new normal.

Australia must reform and strengthen antisemitism education

My son’s experience reveals that many young Australians are woefully under educated about the Nazi Holocaust and the social constructs that enabled the industrial scale murder of more than six million Jews during World War II.

Nor are they explicitly taught that antisemitism is an ever-mutating virus that develops new strains over time, latching onto the guiding social constructs of each era. Much of today’s antisemitism speaks in the language of human rights, the liberal and secular religion of our time.

This must be urgently addressed as part of the Australian Government’s Antisemitism Education Taskforce, chaired by David Gonski AC.

Our schools are failing in Holocaust education

Out of my son’s 35 Year 10 history lessons this year, there was only one on the Holocaust – and his teacher apologised for having to rush through it.

In Year 11, the Holocaust is only taught to students who elect to study Modern History, and most don’t choose this subject. For many students, including my son’s cohort, their formal Holocaust education begins and ends in Year 10 with one lesson.

Which means by the time most young Australians are 15, unless they’ve read a book or watched a movie about the Holocaust, their formal Holocaust education at school is extremely limited.

Is there any wonder we have an antisemitism problem in Australia if by the time most young people leave school, they have limited knowledge of such an historically significant and incomparable event?

Without this foundational knowledge, is it any wonder why young Australians are so susceptible to social media propaganda and misinformation that denies, distorts, inverts and weaponises the Holocaust – as we have seen on a daily basis since October 7?

Under the national curriculum, Australian schools are mandated to teach about the Holocaust in Year 10. Why not earlier? And why isn’t it taught uniformly nationwide?

Australia’s role in the Holocaust is not widely understood either; it should be. In January 2026, I visited the Melbourne Holocaust Museum with my son. We learnt that under the “White Australia Policy”, our nation only accepted 8,200 Jewish refugees between 1933 and 1945.

Why aren’t our schools teaching this and about Indigenous Australian and Yorta Yorta man, William Cooper, who courageously protested the persecution of Jews in Nazi Germany? Why aren’t more schools engaging with Australian Jewish museums and Holocaust education centres to learn about this part of our history?

In his essay, “After Bondi,” independent Australian art critic John McDonald observed: “Many young people who have casually embraced antisemitism in their fury over Gaza, have completely forgotten about the tragedies of the Second World War. Such a failure of historical awareness is rapidly becoming one of the most alarming traits of our age.”

Writing about Holocaust evasion and erasure in his essay, “Why is antisemitism so hip?” Australian novelist David Free concludes:

“The Holocaust was the worst thing that has ever happened in modern history. It showed that an advanced and apparently civilised western nation could descend, in the space of a few years, into rampant barbarism. Only by vowing to remember the Holocaust, as a lesson and a warning, was western civilisation able to rebuild itself morally after the Second World War. Anyone who seeks to make us forget the Holocaust poses a threat not just to Jews, but to civilisation itself.”

Courageous conversations

From a young age, many Australian children have access to smart phones and social media where they’re exposed to propaganda and misinformation. So are their educators and parents.

In a post-truth, AI-driven information war era characterised by misinformation and revisionist history, schools must play a greater role in helping students build their digital literacy and critical thinking skills. This will help to inoculate them from ideological echo chambers and being radicalised online.

Programs like Click Against Hate teach primary and secondary students about complex issues including online dangers, racism, antisemitism, Islamophobia, homophobia, freedom of speech, cyber bullying and more. This program is free and available to all Australian schools. Why is it not mandatory for them to teach it?

In such divisive times, Australian classrooms must always remain neutral territory where students feel safe to learn. Educators, particularly those teaching Humanities, must be equipped to have courageous conversations in the classroom that draw a line between political criticism and bigotry.

The Holocaust Institute of WA (HIWA) is offering workshops to schools through its new education centre. It’s also developed a “Leading With Awareness” program for education leaders and students. HIWA recently provided this training to more than 100 WA Department of Education leaders.

Through a pedagogic lens, the program looks at patterns of hate, human behaviours, contemporary antisemitism, language and tropes, propaganda and social media, and social justice. It equips educators to have courageous conversations in the classroom that enable them to foster curiosity and build empathy. Why is this program not being offered to all schools across Australia?

Solutions are available right now, but where’s the appetite and urgency from our education leaders and decision makers? This must be addressed as a priority.

Bracing for Jew hate at Australian universities

What keeps me awake at night is knowing that in just over two years, my first-born child is likely to confront antisemitism and antizionist bigotry from students and faculty at Australian universities, which are breeding grounds for this hate.

All I can do to prepare my children for this reality is inoculate them with knowledge that will give them confidence to stand up for themselves and others. That’s why they now pass through synagogue security each week to learn about Jewish history, language and culture.

I’ve also completed online training with the Movement Against Antizionism to deepen my understanding of the permission structures and libels that are driving contemporary Jew hatred today. I’m educating my children on how to identify and respond to this strain of Jew hatred that will soon greet them on campus.

Behind closed doors we’re talking about taking self-defence classes and which universities are more culturally responsive to Jewish students. To my knowledge, there’s only one in WA that currently falls into that category.

Most of our friends would be surprised to hear we’re having these conversations. We appear to be moving through life like everyone else. But unlike most of them, we’re living with a heavy burden that takes a huge mental and emotional toll on us.

Ruptured

Being Jewish has always been sacred to me; it’s part of my identity and heritage. Before October 2023, I never felt the need to explain this. Now I’m compelled to speak up about what life is like for Jewish people in Australia, and how dramatically it’s changed over the last three years.

That’s one of the reasons why I contributed an essay to the book Ruptured: 36 Jewish women reflect on life in Australia post-October 7, which has been submitted as testimony to this Royal Commission.

As the only WA contributor, I volunteered to organise the Perth Ruptured launch in November 2025 with the book’s Melbourne-based co-editor as part of my tikkun olam.

We held two events – one at a synagogue for the Jewish community and an official launch with my local bookshop. Ahead of this, we notified Perth’s Community Safety Group (CSG) as is standard practice for public events involving Jewish people.

In the current climate of antisemitism, we weren’t sure if our launch would be well attended; we had low expectations. An hour before the event started, we were informed all 100 tickets had sold.

Instead of celebrating, we considered the possibility that activists had purchased a block of tickets. We requested the guest list and hurriedly scanned it before doors opened. Thankfully, all ticketholders were legitimate, and the audience was wonderfully supportive.

Afterwards I wondered: how many Australian writers have to think about security arrangements and activists derailing their public events like we do? It’s not normal.

Speak the fuck up

While contributing to Ruptured gave me the confidence to speak up about Jew hatred in Australia, I’m still nervous doing it given the hate directed at Jewish people, and the animosity in our openly hostile cultural sector.

I’ve always kept a low profile on LinkedIn and Instagram where I’m connected with my professional network and other creatives. I’ve played it safe, not wanting to risk my reputation or future opportunities, lest I be seen as too opinionated or provocative.

That changed on the day of the Bondi massacre when I called for the silent majority of Australians to “Speak the fuck up” on an Instagram post. It went viral for an account with a tiny following.

Two weeks later, The Australian Financial Review published my opinion editorial, “After Bondi, we all must shatter Australia’s antisemitism silence.” I was inundated with messages from mostly non-Jewish Australians who expressed their deep regret and remorse for not speaking up sooner for fear of repercussion.

Their messages motivate me to keep writing about life as an Australian Jew and speaking up about Jew hatred in our country because there are so few of us.

I elevate radically moderate voices that are missing from mainstream discourse. I expose the hypocrisy and bias within large parts of Australia’s literary sector. And I share educational content about antizionism to help others recognise the bigotry that’s hiding in plain sight.

For being outspoken, I’ve accepted that Australian publishers and literary agents may not work with me in future. It’s a risk I’m prepared to take.

Continue reading in Part 3

I write this submission in memory of my late grandmother whose Yiddish name, Hodda, means “gratitude”. A wise and prescient woman, my gran warned me for years that Jew hatred was lurking beneath the surface in Australia and elsewhere. I dismissed these warnings, reassured her we were living in different times. But the last three years proved her right.

This submission is for my two sons whose Hebrew names are Lior (“my light”) and Ranen (“he who is full of joy”). They are my reason for speaking up despite the risk and personal cost.

I want them to know I gave my all for them to live freely and safely in Australia.

My Australian story

I was 10 years old when my family immigrated to Australia from South Africa. My parents sacrificed heavily for this, working multiple jobs around the clock to provide for me and my younger brother. For over 30 years they were small business owners who provided employment for many Australians. Their greatest gift to us was Australian citizenship.

In South Africa, I grew up in the Pretoria Jewish community surrounded by my Orthodox elders. I attended Jewish nursery and primary schools. In Australia, my life became more secular. We didn’t live in the Jewish community or have many Jewish friends. My brother and I attended Uniting Church and Anglican schools. I’m one of the only Jewish people most of my friends know.

My Australian-born husband isn’t Jewish; he’s the strongest ally and upstander I know. Our sons are aged 15 and 13. We don’t live in the Jewish community, and our sons attend an Anglican school. We’re raising them to be proud Australians of Jewish heritage.

October 7, 2023

On the evening of October 7, 2023, our family of four was returning home from a holiday in far north Queensland. After spending time in the spectacular Daintree Rainforest and snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef, I was more in love with Australia than ever.

When I turned on my phone mid-flight, my newsfeed began to fill with reports of a massacre and hostage taking in Israel where I have family, and where I visited once in my teens. I watched the unfolding events in horror and disbelief. By the time we landed in Perth, all thoughts of our Australian holiday of a lifetime had evaporated.

Two days later, my life in this country turned upside down. It hasn’t been the same since.

My Australia: an illusion

Australia has been my home for 37 years. I’ve always felt extremely grateful to live in this remarkable country and believed it would be a safe place for my children.

That belief was shattered on October 9, 2023, when a seething antisemitic, anti-Israel mob protested at Sydney Opera House. They burnt the Australian flag and screamed “Fuck the Jews” and “Gas the Jews/Where’s the Jews”, just two days after the October 7 massacre in Israel and before the Gaza war began.

On that day I realised “my Australia” was an illusion. Extreme Jew haters live freely among us. And since that day, I’ve been living in a parallel reality to my non-Jewish friends, whose lives here have largely continued unchanged.

Our worst nightmare in Australia

In November 2023 I confided in a friend that I had grave concerns for the future of Jewish people in Australia, and where the trajectory was heading. They reminded me I was safe in Perth, that I don’t live close to the Jewish community, and am not identifiably Jewish. They reassured me I had nothing to fear.

Over the next two years, I realised that educated, well-meaning Australians had little idea what was unfolding in their country – and what many Jewish people feared was to come. They didn’t recognise the patterns their Jewish friends are attuned to from centuries of persecution, embedded in our DNA. They couldn’t see themselves in the story that was developing in their country, right in front of them.

That changed on 14 December 2025 when 15 Australians were slaughtered on Bondi Beach, proving how deadly extreme Jew hatred is for all Australians.

My friend texted me that day: “I never thought this would happen here and I’m so sorry I didn’t want to believe it would come to this.” The rest of the country had finally woken up to the worst fears of many Jewish people like me.

Australia is not safe for my children

I’ve lost faith in Australia as a safe place for my children. I’m no longer confident they have a future in the country we love.

Like many Jewish Australians, I’m seriously questioning if we still belong here. But I also refuse to be pushed out of the country my parents sacrificed so much for. I never imagined contemplating a “Plan B” exit; I don’t want to leave. There aren’t many alternatives as Jew hatred is as bad if not worse elsewhere.

I still want my sons to have a future here, to be able to live without having to hide any part of their identity. I’m giving my all to preserve that right for them, as my parents did for me and my brother to become Australians.

They’re devastated the country they brought their children to is no longer safe for their grandchildren. That’s why I want to be part of a solution that will turn things around in Australia.

This starts with documenting my experiences over the last three years for the Royal Commission. I hope the hours of writing and reliving these painful experiences won’t be in vain.

Understanding Jew hatred today

There are three distinct forms of Jew hatred. The hate object of antijudaism is the Jewish religion, the hate object of antisemitism is the Jewish race, and the hate object of antizionism is the Jewish state, Israel.

Antizionism nests within antisemitism and is the driving force behind the moralisation of anti-Jewish violence and abuse today. Antizionism does not distinguish between political critique of Israel and the dehumanisation of Jews.

The antizionist hate movement is obsessively focused on Israel and Palestine. Deploying the genocide, apartheid and coloniser libels, it constructs the Jewish state, and by extension Jews, as a moral threat. It uses this construction to authorise violence against Jews everywhere.

An existential crisis

Australian Jews are fighting an uphill battle to survive in our country. If we are to have a future here, Australia must urgently and radically course correct.

Our country is heading down a very dangerous path. Radical Islamist and neo-Nazi ideologies have incubated on the political left and right; they’ve taken root in Australia.

These extreme ideologies are proliferating openly on our streets, in our schools, universities and cultural institutions, online and elsewhere, accelerated by social media.

Ideologically opposed, they converge around an obsessive hatred of Jews and Israel, and they seek elimination of the world’s only Jewish state. They have seeped into the mainstream via the antizionist hate movement.

This hatred has become normalised. Fifteen Australians are dead because of the most extreme expression of antizionist hatred which directly targeted Jews at a Chanukah celebration on Bondi Beach.

The Royal Commission must draw a definitive line in the sand at Bondi and prevent Australia from heading further down an extremely dangerous path.

Australians must be inoculated from the radical hatred that paved the way to the Bondi massacre. The Royal Commission must develop a vaccine without delay. We don’t have time for trials.

Tikkun Olam – how I am helping

Jewish people are only 0.4 per cent of Australia’s population, a tiny minority. Many Australians have never met a Jewish person. Most have no idea what the last three years have been like for us, beyond what makes news headlines.

Many Jewish Australians are living in a different reality to our friends. Our lives have been turned upside down and we no longer recognise the country we were born in or moved to.

I’m particularly concerned about the excessive hate confronting Jewish students, academics and creatives in our education system, in our universities, and in our arts sector.

That’s why I am directing my advocacy in these areas. I’m drawing on my skills as a writer and corporate communications consultant to speak up in my personal, professional and creative circles. My corporate communications background has prepared me for this. I’ve put my consulting work on hold to give this attention.

I’ve also applied to become a facilitator with Together For Humanity (TFH), an Australian intercultural non-profit organisation that works with school communities to combat prejudice, teaching students how to deal with differences.

Recently I attended a facilitator training session with Australians of Jewish, Muslim, Christian, Palestinian and Noongar heritage to learn more about the work TFH is doing in WA schools to support social cohesion.

I invited my Palestinian friend to join me, have encouraged my sons’ school to consider the program, and will advocate for it within my networks. I’m also encouraging more Jewish people in Perth to get involved.

All of this independent and unpaid work is my “tikkun olam.” It’s my way of giving back, advocating for my children’s future, and doing all I can to help repair the deep divisions in the country we love. It’s the most meaningful work I’ll ever do.

How my life has changed

Many Australians only see what makes the news headlines – lifeless bodies on a blood stained beach, the charred remnants of a synagogue, burnt out cars, smashed windows on Jewish-owned businesses, graffiti on the walls of Jewish schools, and loud protests at Australian landmarks – but they don’t see what’s happening behind the closed doors of Jewish homes.

They don’t see how dramatically our lives have changed, how much smaller they’ve become, how cautiously we’re treading every day, how we’ve retreated from many corners of Australian life.

A friend observed recently that I seem withdrawn. Another said I looked as if I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. Her husband said the same thing about my husband. In 2026, we’re hyper alert to the climate of ambient antisemitism in Australia that has seeped into so many areas of our life.

I now move with extreme caution and vigilance in my country, making decisions I never contemplated before. To wear or not wear my Star of David necklace; asking hospitals to remove ‘Jewish’ from my personal records; accompanying my son to a sports carnival in Melbourne a month after Bondi, where 600 Jewish teenagers were protected by a fortress of police and security.

Unless I know the person, I don’t disclose that I’m Jewish, especially if I’m on my own. Before October 2023, I never thought twice about revealing this part of my identity if it came up in conversation.

While my last name isn’t Jewish and provides some cover for me and my children, I’m exposed through my advocacy and published writing. I worry about the implications for my family.

A mezuzah is an ancient, ornamental marker of a Jewish home. For years we had one affixed to our front door and didn’t get round to putting it up when we moved. In the current antisemitic climate, we’ve decided to leave it in the drawer.

When I’m wearing my Star of David necklace at home, I tuck it in before answering the door. My son’s new maths tutor is a university student; I tucked it in before he arrived the other day as we’re still getting to know him. I remove it altogether when travelling on public transport, interstate or overseas.

I feel a flutter of anxiety when I take parcels to the Post Office to send to family in Israel, or when we visit my parents for Shabbat and my son wears his kippah in public areas of their apartment building. I’m on constant high alert in public, scanning my surroundings, and cautious around people I don’t know.

Alongside my sadness and despair over October 7 and the ensuing wars in Gaza, Lebanon and Iran, I’ve seen, heard and absorbed so much Jew hatred over the last three years, I don’t know where to put those feelings anymore.

Jewish Australians are gaslit from every direction. We’re told we’re overreacting and jumping at shadows; that there’s no antisemitism problem in Australia; that antisemitism doesn’t need special consideration, it’s just another form of racism.

And yet, no other Australians are sending their children to school, places of worship and community events under heavy police and security guard. Those measures were already in place before October 7; they’ve been strengthened since.

Writing this submission is my attempt to reckon with and document what’s happened in our country that we never thought was possible. It’s my way of saying “stop the gaslighting”, this is real. It’s pervasive and extremely confronting for us. And as we all now know, it can be deadly.

By lifting the lid on what the last three years have been like for me and my family, I hope the Royal Commission will help Australians understand why antisemitism is a very particular type of hate that mutates over time. It’s therefore in a different category to other forms of racism and requires a very specific approach.

Continue reading in Part 2

This is a plea to the moderate majority of Australians who broke their silence after the Bondi massacre to stand with the Jewish community.

To those who privately expressed regret and remorse for not speaking up for fear of repercussion, and those who want to help their Jewish friends and colleagues: now is your chance to do so without fear.

The Royal Commission into Antisemitism and Social Cohesion is calling for submissions until the end of May. As Jewish people are just 0.4 per cent of the population, we are counting on you to submit your testimony.

Submissions can be made anonymously and in confidence. Tell the Commission what you’ve seen, heard and experienced online and behind closed doors over the last three years. Before then too, because history teaches us that Jew hatred simmers beneath the surface before it explodes.

Let the Commission know what’s been happening in boardrooms, classrooms and newsrooms, on campuses, stages, festivals, sporting fields, and elsewhere.

Be an upstander like Julia Lawrison who explains in her submission: “I am a non-Jewish writer, consultant and lawyer from Western Australia. My submission concerns the ideologically motivated extremism that has been evident in the arts community since 8 October 2023. My experience demonstrates that people who openly support Jewish Australians are liable to be publicly undermined if they speak out for their fellow Australians.”

Hearing the testimony of allies who aren’t Jewish is vital if we are to fully understand the scale of the problem in Australia, and the pervasive, mutating nature of Jew hatred.

Jewish Australians have been urgently telling our stories well before the Royal Commission on Antisemitism. I shared mine in Ruptured: 36 Jewish Women Reflect on Life in Australia Post-October 7, which was published last year and has been submitted to the Royal Commission.

The impact of these testimonies can’t be overstated. Some were cited in Phillip Mendes’ Progressive Intolerance: The contemporary antisemitism landscape in Australia report for the Centre of Independent Studies. Ruptured has also been distributed to Australian politicians, Human Rights Commissioners and cultural sector leaders.

Many Jewish Australians saw their stories reflected in Ruptured, and now more are coming forward to give testimony for the Royal Commission. Beyond the Jewish community, many Australians also have a Ruptured story to tell.

I’m expanding on mine for the Royal Commission too. Part of my testimony will focus on the hidden cost of being a Jewish parent in Australia today. The hours of phone calls, meetings, emails, research, time taken off work and sleepless nights dealing with incidents that continue to take a significant toll on our family.

It will also focus on my exposure to online hatred and interactions with people who demand I pass a moral purity test, where I’m expected to disavow Israel and turn out my pockets in exchange for their acceptance and approval.

My submission will explain how I now move more cautiously in my country, and the everyday decisions I never imagined making in 2026. To wear or not wear my Star of David necklace; asking hospitals to remove ‘Jewish’ from my personal records; accompanying my son to a sports carnival in Melbourne a month after Bondi, where 600 Jewish teenagers were protected by a fortress of police and security.

After Bondi, I began speaking up about the hypocrisy, bias and bigotry that is rampant in Australia’s openly hostile cultural sector. I risk being ostracised for this. Will I feel “culturally safe” at a writers’ festival or workshop? Should I bother submitting an expression of interest to that arts organisation, or entering that writing competition?

I’d rather not write about any of this; it’s soul destroying. But I don’t have the luxury of staying silent if my children are to have a future in the country we love.

When I feel despondent, I remind myself that 15 Australians paid with their lives because of extreme Jew hatred on our shores. Writing a submission is the least I can do for them and their families. It’s the least we all can do.

It’s time to draw a line in the sand at Bondi and speak up.

Together, we must make our stories count.

(Published in The Jewish Independent 14/04/26)

Afterword: I encourage you to read Dean Cherny’s Royal Commission submission. His testimony is profound.

What the actual fuck?

This week is Pesach. Also known as Passover, it’s one of the most significant Jewish festivals celebrated over eight days and it began on Wednesday. This year, Pesach is celebrated two weeks after Ramadan, and it concludes four days after Easter.

As Jewish Australians gathered around seder tables with their families for the first night of Pesach, our Prime Minister delivered an Address to the Nation. It was an exercise in crisis communications that left many wondering, “what the actual fuck was that?”

I missed both Pesach and the PM’s address as I was lying under a thumping MRI machine having a brain and spinal cord scan (I was recently diagnosed with MS). So, I had time to work through a very serious and difficult situation we dealt with this week involving one of my sons.

It will now form part of my confidential submission to the Royal Commission on Antisemitism which brings me no joy to write. What I can say is it involved countless hours of phone calls, meetings, emails, research, late night conversations with my husband, time taken off work, and sleepless nights. Otherwise known as the hidden cost of being Jewish in Australia today. But more importantly, our son is okay. More than okay. He’s strong and resilient AF. His courage and conviction blow us away.

Tonight my small family will gather for Pesach around my parents’ seder table, including my in-laws. Being together is the balm we all need right now. We’ll take turns reading from the Haggadah, the book that guides the Pesach seder and tells the story of Jewish persecution, survival and freedom from slavery in Egypt over 3,000 years ago. A story that feels so relevant to us today.

I grew up in South Africa around my Orthodox Jewish elders. My great-grandfather was heavily involved with the Pretoria Hebrew Congregation and wore a smart black suit to Friday evening services. My great-grandmother kept a kosher home where meat and milk weren’t mixed. My great-great-aunt buried a fork in her garden when my younger brother accidentally used the wrong one at Sunday lunch. Not kosher.

My maternal grandfather died three months before I was born, and my maternal grandmother had a significant role in my life. We lived with her before my family moved to Australia when I was 10, and she came to live with us in Perth a year later.

My gran’s house was connected to ours by a shared passageway. My brother and I moved freely between the two; it felt like one home to us. In Australia our Jewish life became more secular. We didn’t live in the Jewish community, we went to Uniting Church and Anglican schools, and most of our friends weren’t Jewish.

But being Jewish, and proud of our heritage, remained sacred to us. In our family there was an unwritten rule: Shabbat was non-negotiable, gran was never alone on Friday nights, and we were always together for Pesach, Yom Kippur, Chanukah and Rosh Hashana.

Every week, my gran spent hours in her kitchen preparing a three-course meal for Shabbos. There was always a pot of soup simmering on the stove, a jar of pickled cucumbers in her fridge, and flowers from her garden on the table.

At sundown on Fridays, she lit two candles to bring in the light. We broke challah bread with our hands and sipped sweet sherry from my grandfather’s kiddush cup. We knew the Hebrew prayers by heart for these three rituals that begin with: “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloeinu Melech ha-olam (Blessed are you Lord our God, Sovereign of the Universe)...”

These family rituals have anchored my life. I rarely missed gran’s Shabbat dinners and would often meet friends at parties and clubs afterwards. When my non-Jewish husband arrived on the scene, it became one his favourite rituals too. When our sons were born, gran gave them kippahs and kiddush cups engraved with their names – the cups they now raise on Friday nights.

It’s been six years since we sat around my gran’s Shabbat table. I miss her every day. I miss her weekly Shabbos. I miss her Pesach seder table, her pickled herring and chopped liver. I miss our conversations, our arguments and her wisdom. I miss being able to call her from the car, or dropping by her house for a cuppa and a slice of matzah lathered in butter and vegemite.

At this time of year, I feel her loss more acutely and her spiritual presence more deeply. Gran’s yahrzeit (the anniversary of her death) is days away. She released her final breath surrounded by all of us on a warm Monday afternoon. A few hours later, the sky blazed rose gold and I’ve never taken a sunset for granted since.

Summer is fading, the days are shorter, the mornings are cooler. In the evenings I sit on gran’s bench in my front yard listening to magpies warble as the sky turns purple. I wonder what gran would make of the world right now. On Friday nights she’d warn us that Jew hatred was lurking, just beneath the surface. We dismissed her warnings, reassured her we were living in different times.

It turns out she was fucking right after all.

I haven’t authored any books. I don’t have a publisher or agent. I’m not a professional lobbyist or advocate for anyone, other than my children. My independence is my greatest strength.

Writing is my form of therapy. I also write for my work in corporate communications. Over the last two years, writing has helped me find my voice, and my calling. My corporate communications background has prepared me for this.

In 2023, I began to write more about life as an Australian Jew. In 2025, my voice grew stronger when my essay was published in the book, Ruptured. It’s about my friendship with a Palestinian mum at my son’s school, a peace educator in Jerusalem, an author with Palestinian heritage and three Jewish women in Perth.

After the Bondi massacre, I wrote an op-ed for an Australian newspaper. It called on the silent majority of Australians to break their silence on Jew hatred. I was floored by the responses.

Mostly non-Jewish Australians expressed their deep remorse and regret. They attributed their silence to fear of losing relationships with family and friends, being cancelled or ostracised, losing work, or risking their livelihoods. They asked me the same questions — how can we help now? And what specific actions can we take?

Their questions have inspired me to help amplify the moderate voices that are missing from mainstream Australian discourse. To expose hypocrisy and blind spots within Australia’s cultural sphere. To keep writing about what life is like for Australian Jews living through a period of unprecedented hate in the country we love. And to keep sharing the joy of being Jewish, and the silver linings.

I don’t have a big platform and am not looking for one. All I have is a voice, and this is how I’m choosing to use it. It’s my version of “tikkun olam” — a small way I can help to repair the deep divisions in the country I love, and that I hope my children will have a future in.

That’s why I’m asking the silent majority to engage with and amplify more radically moderate perspectives.

As a friend recently said, “moderation is the path to stability.”

We live in the digital era and many of us are chronically online. We are foot soldiers in an online information war, facing a daily battle for our attention.

I hope what I share can help the silent majority inoculate themselves from the highly addictive algorithmic rabbit holes and echo chambers of extreme ideology and hate. I hope to help the silent majority recognise anti-Jewish bigotry in plain sight, and learn how to respond to it.

We need to bring more people into the radically moderate middle ground, where there’s room for nuance, critical thinking, different perspectives, and respectful dialogue. We need to resist group think and the temptation to virtue signal, perform outrage, and pick a side.

My boundaries are clear. I’m selective about who follows me. I don’t engage with ideologues or get into online debates. And I don’t turn my pockets out for bigots.

In the words of Helen Keller: “I am only one, but I am still one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something. I will not refuse to do the something I can do.”

Let’s do this together.

“With a jacket thrown over activewear and a head full of dry shampoo, here I am entering my writer’s era… Writing has always been a passion, but over the last 11 months it’s become an essential part of my life and a great source of comfort. For me, writing really is the best therapy and you can find me doing more of it on Substack.”

My first essay, Battling for sanity in an information war, reflecting on my phone addiction after October 7, had just been accepted for publication in The Jewish Independent, and I’d been asked to send over my biography and headshot.

A few months earlier, I’d published one other piece of creative non-fiction in Ourselves, a micro memoir anthology celebrating life. In Absentia was written as a tribute to my grandmother, meditating on love, grief, memory, motherhood and burning a pot of Bolognese sauce.

I didn’t set out to write these deeply personal reflections. Battling for sanity came pouring out at 5.21am, my fingers tapping wildly in the dark, amygdala on fire after another restless night haunted by horrific scenes of death and destruction many miles away. In Absentia arrived three years earlier, in a calm and nurturing heritage home near the coast, where my writing group meets every fortnight after sunset.

I’ve since published two more essays in The Jewish Independent. A silver lining for these troubled times evolved into A message to my friend which appears in the Ruptured anthology released this week. I wrote A love letter to my non-Jewish husband in response to our son’s experience of Jew hatred at school, recognising the important role of non-Jewish allies in standing up for Jewish people.

Shortly before my gran died five years ago, in the midst of the Covid lockdown, I decided to take writing more seriously. I set up a separate Instagram account to document my writing journey, connect with other writers and immerse in the writing community. I posted three photos of me with gran — as a baby in 1979, at my wedding and at my 40th birthday party, the day before I was told she had terminal ovarian cancer — and wrote:

“The words I am writing are for you, Gran, though soon you won’t be here to read them. They are my way of saying goodbye to you. Of thanking you. Remembering you. I am grateful to these words. They are giving me a way to capture your formidable spirit. Your fierce love. Your strength in the face of adversity. These words comfort me. They will give me the strength to go on without you. To feel you sitting on my shoulder, always.”

Six weeks later, surrounded by three generations, gran released her final breath. We were extremely close. I was born three months after her husband died and named after him. She said my birth saved her life. Her love was a magnetic, vibrant forcefield. We lived with gran in South Africa when I was a young child, and she lived with us in Perth through my adolescence. She was always reading, intellectually sharp, inquisitive and opinionated. She analysed everything I wrote, from poetry to prose and essays, offering thoughtful critique and encouragement.

After gran died, I began working on a fiction novel manuscript, a family drama about an older woman facing an ethical dilemma in her dying days, who must reckon with the consequences of a family estrangement. The main protagonist was loosely based on my gran as I wanted to infuse this character with her fierce loyalty, independent streak, wisdom and charm, while exploring themes of trust, betrayal, acceptance and forgiveness.

For almost three years, I toiled on this manuscript on and off, in between corporate communications consulting assignments. I had conversations with my characters while running along the coast, unpacking groceries and waiting to pick up the boys from school. I spent days plotting and ‘pantsing’, writing synopses, acts and scenes, falling down internet rabbit holes, listening to podcasts, joining online classes and attending writing workshops. Fremantle Press invited me to review a few upcoming releases, an unexpected gift that exposed me to style, structure and narrative across different genres.

At 26,000 words, my manuscript was feeling (and looking!) chaotic. I printed it out but couldn’t face reading it; I felt overwhelmed and disenchanted. I knew this was part of the writing process, so decided to step back and take a break. Days turned into weeks, then months. I had lost my mojo and direction.

Then came October 7 in 2023, and I completely abandoned my manuscript. The imaginative world of fiction instantly lost its appeal. Reality was far more pressing. Glued to my phone late at night, for the last two years my reading diet has been restricted to news articles, essays, opinion pieces, commentary, analysis and interviews. Instead of listening to writing podcasts, I’ve spent hours absorbing current affairs, history and intense political debates.

Ruptured is the first book I’ve had the appetite to read, and been unable to put down, during this time. No surprise that it’s a work of non-fiction. Psychiatrist Lynette Chazan’s essay, The Pain of Others, struck a particular chord: “I don’t read novels anymore; I have no room for fiction. Podcasts about the war become an addiction. Each is an antidote… for ignorance and anguish… for moral reckoning… for bias. I must know. I must be able to answer difficult questions, to interrogate my anguish and parochialism, to distinguish truth from falsehood…. So, I listen and listen.”

Along with a change in my reading habits, my attendance at writing group became sporadic. At one of our meetings, I stared blankly at the writing prompt and froze; disconnected and unable to produce a single word while others wrote feverishly beside me. My desire to write like them had not diminished, but the ground beneath me had fallen way, forcing a fundamental shift in focus.

Fiction seemed flippant and futile. Reality demanded an existential, urgent and more spontaneous form of writing — essays that explore themes of identity, pride and connection, and impassioned emails to members of parliament, to my son’s school, to an author with a huge social media following — as a form of processing, documenting and drawing attention to the ruptured reality of being Jewish in Australia.

As author Dr Lee Kofman recalls in her essay, Writing In The Time of War: “Seven months after October 7, I resumed writing… even though professionally speaking, I no longer know what the future holds for me. I might be writing into the void. Paradoxically, it is this uncertainty that has inspired me again.”

I’m realising, too, that the uncertainty and disillusion I’ve felt over the last two years has also taken my writing in an unexpected direction. Am I any closer to understanding what kind of writer I am? An essayist? A memoirist? A persuasive letter writer? A corporate writer? A literary fiction writer? A combination of the above?

It took four attempts to get started on this piece. It began as, “I haven’t felt much like a writer lately” and it ends here, with the realisation that I’m exactly where I need to be. I’m a writer in progress, grappling with new realities and searching for solid ground. My mantra lights the way: writing really is the best therapy.

Yesterday, my long-held dream of publishing long-form creative work came true, but not in the form or the way in which I imagined.

Ruptured is a collection of essays by 36 Jewish women in Australia reflecting on life after October 7. It includes my first feature-length essay, “A Message To My Friend”, inspired by Simon’s six-minute voice message last year, which prompted me to write a reflection for The Jewish Independent on the unexpected friendships and silver linings that emerged during a very dark and devastating time.

When I was invited to develop this piece into a lengthier essay, I hadn’t worked with a professional editor before, let alone one of Australia’s most recognised authors and writing mentors, Dr Lee Kofman.

Working with Lee gave me an insight into what editors do, and how they walk alongside writers as creative partners and champions. An editor is both a coach and a cheerleader who is deeply invested in and committed to their writer’s work. But they keep enough distance to offer objective critique, pushing the writer to dig deeper and beyond their comfort zone. Editors like Lee help writers like me learn how to strike the balance between leaning in further and holding back, when to show more and tell less.

I didn’t set out to write about being Jewish or be defined as a Jewish writer. But October 7 and every tragedy since set my senses ablaze and words in motion. When the Sydney Opera House protest on October 9 became an international symbol of Jew hatred, my sense of safety, security and acceptance evaporated overnight. For the first time since becoming an Australian citizen in 1989, I began to feel like an outsider. That feeling has intensified to the extent that I deliberately protect my Jewish identity.

Through writing, I’ve found moments of solace and reprieve, a way to express what’s on my troubled mind, to document experiences over the last two years, and to remind myself that even through despair, there are silver linings to be found and cherished.

“A Message To My Friend” focuses on the new friendships and connections I’ve made since October 7. But I could write an entire essay about the friends I’ve made over my lifetime — through school, university and work, while travelling, at my children’s schools, in my neighbourhood, through my book club and writing group. From friends I’m in constant contact with, to those who check in now and then, who I haven’t seen in years, or am unlikely to see again — friends near and far have buffered me against what feels like an unstoppable tidal wave of Jew hatred unfurling across the country I love but no longer recognise.

Thankfully, I’ve never felt the need to hide being Jewish with my friends. And I will never forget who checked in with me after October 7, friends I haven’t heard from in years who randomly reached out, friends who held me up when my son was bullied for being Jewish, who read my words and encourage me to keep speaking up, who don’t speak over me or virtue signal, who have stood by me, even when we have different opinions.

Writing for The Jewish Independent and now Ruptured has allowed me to express pride in being Jewish, even though there are times when I feel the need to retreat. Writing is my way of showing my children that although Jewish people face extreme hatred and persecution, and that we need to protect ourselves, we can still find ways to show up and say, “I’m here.”

When Ruptured arrived at my door this week, I was reluctant to read the essays as my heart is so heavy; I thought they’d be too depressing. But reading these essays has had the opposite effect. I’m proud to be part of this anthology and grateful to editors Lee Kofman and Tamar Paluch, everyone behind Ruptured, and especially the other contributors, for sharing their experiences and making me feel seen, heard and less alone.

I hope this book will bring comfort to those who need it most, and that it will open more hearts and minds to the perspectives of strong, proud and resilient Jewish women in Australia.

Ruptured can be ordered here on Amazon and found in bookstores

Read the first review of Ruptured by Dr Anne Sarzin

My pulse quickened as I wondered what lay beneath this ominous preamble. But as my friend continued and I absorbed his words, the tension in my body dissipated. His message was in response to recent posts I’d shared on social media about antisemitic incidents in Australia, including attacks on Jewish high school students. The gist of it was, if you look for examples of hatred you’ll find them, it will drain your energy, and you’ll amplify hate at a time when more love is needed.

I replayed my friend’s message three times and ruminated on his words all day: “You were born into the world a beautiful human being of Jewish ancestry. And if you keep focusing on finding examples of people hating you or hating Judaism or being antisemitic, it’s not healing or solving the problem. It’s giving all those people more energy that they’re right.”

Recently I wrote about my phone addiction since October 7 and my drive for knowledge amid the exploding antisemitism on our shores. I’ve also been reflecting on the unexpected silver linings that have emerged because of October 7, particularly how my friendship circle has expanded and become stronger.

One of the first people who reached out to me after October 7 was the only Palestinian person I know, the mother of a boy at my son’s high school. We were acquaintances and have become close, we can talk for hours.

Disillusioned and hurting in our own ways, we are forever changed by October 7, the war in Gaza and how painfully close it feels to home. While many of our Perth friends are unaffected by this tragic saga, we’ve been drowning in turmoil and trauma for nearly 12 months, unable to distance ourselves from it. With heavy hearts and troubled minds, we realised early on that we had much in common and that we needed each other.

Shortly after October 7, we went for a walk around the lake and my friend asked, “are you a Zionist?” I was prepared for this but not for what followed, “can you explain what your understanding of Zionism is to me?” I felt a rush of relief to hear the openness in her question. No animosity, just curiosity and a desire to understand. It’s become the bedrock of our friendship, allowing us to navigate difficult topics.

On that walk, I told her how I felt coming to her home the first time. She had family visiting and my son had stayed over for dinner. Their warmth and closeness reminded me of my family and our Friday night Shabbat gatherings. “It felt so comforting and familiar,” I said. She shared her reaction to meeting me the first time. “You looked just like one of us!” We joked that we probably share DNA somewhere along the line.

After one of our long phone calls I asked my friend if she has conversations like we have with anyone else. We both grew up in tightknit families and communities in Australia, South Africa and the Middle East, and now lead secular lives in multicultural Perth. Because she’s my first Palestinian friend and I’m her first Jewish friend, there’s a unique quality and depth to our relationship. We talk freely and nothing is off limits. We have our sons to thank for bringing us together and allowing us to build a friendship that’s become a source of strength and comfort.

Since October 7, I’ve also had profound encounters with Perth author Tess Woods and Jerusalem-based Australian Israeli author and peace activist, Ittay Flescher.

Tess and I bonded over our connection to Israel and Palestine through my Jewish and her Christian Arab heritage. Tess has become my safe harbour in the WA writing community. As we exchanged messages late at night, I confided in her that I haven’t worn my Star of David necklace in public since the antisemitic protests at the Sydney Opera House last year. That my heart sinks every time Jewish artists and creatives are targeted, cancelled and made unwelcome in cultural spaces. That I did not attend Perth Writers Festival earlier this year, fearing antisemitism might rear its head there too. Thankfully it didn’t, but in today’s highly charged political climate the threat is omnipresent.  

Around the time I connected with Tess, I discovered From the Yarra River to the Mediterranean Sea, a podcast co-hosted by Ittay Flescher, which presented the most nuanced and enlightening discussion I’d heard about the Israel-Palestine conflict, offering common ground for learning and conversing about the history and complexities in that land. I shared it with Tess and my Palestinian friend, and they devoured it.

Earlier this year I turned to Ittay for guidance after my 13-year-old son was targeted for being Jewish and supporting Israel. Ittay directed us to educational resources for young people and my son’s face lit up when he heard Ittay’s reassuring voice messages.

Tess has formed a closer relationship with Ittay too. In a full circle moment, my spirits soared when Ittay called from Jerusalem to tell me how meeting Tess had led to the publication of his debut novel, The Holy and the Broken: a cry for peace from a land that must be shared, which will be released in 2025.

Along with discovering a visionary community of Israeli and Palestinian peace builders, these meaningful connections have served as a counterweight, keeping me afloat during the darkest hours. They’ve reminded me that despite the odds stacked against us, we are strong and vital links in a growing chain of hope. And they emerged at a time when I needed them most.

For most of my adulthood, I’ve felt isolated as a Jew in Perth. I didn’t grow up in the Jewish community, my husband isn’t Jewish, and my children don’t attend a Jewish school. Until this year, I only knew one other Jewish person in my postcode. That’s why the message from my friend in Los Angeles struck such a chord, when he called on me to “feed the joy and the love and the companionship and the sense of community that comes from being part of the Jewish community.” 

A few months ago, I visited two Jewish friends in Melbourne who I hadn’t seen for years. It soothed my soul to be around people who implicitly understood how I felt. Through social media, I’ve connected with other Jewish writers and I’m now part of a self-described ‘Chutzpah Club’ of Jewish mothers, which formed after discovering a Jewish neighbour on my street. We’ve gone out for drinks and dinner, and every few weeks we take turns driving to the northern suburbs for our kosher bagel and challah fix. We recently hosted our first Shabbat dinner with our Jewish neighbours, and watched on with full hearts as our children recited the Shabbos prayers in broken Hebrew.

Amidst this, my eldest son continues to experience ongoing antisemitism at his high school. A few weeks ago, another student said “I love Hitler” to him, the latest in a string of antisemitic slurs he’s endured since October 7. Deeply troubled by this, I shared a post on social media of the words “Gas the Fucking Jews” scrawled on a pole in Melbourne, then a news story about students from a Sydney Catholic high school performing Hitler salutes and targeting Jewish students.

Most of my friends are part of the silent majority of Australians who abhor antisemitism and racism in all its forms. Some have reached out to express their dismay at what’s happening to my son and the brazen displays of Jew hatred in Australia. As kind and empathetic as they are, I realise it’s impossible for them to understand the visceral fear their Jewish friends are feeling since October 7, and how the Gaza war is impacting on our daily lives. Because of this and my son’s experience, I will continue to speak out about this insidious and growing problem in Australia. And I know I’ll keep finding the silver linings, too.   

Though there are miles separating us, today and tomorrow my friend’s words will stay with me: “Step out of the focus of evil and negativity and into the positive, because that positive energy is pure love. Show people that we are pure love, and they can’t hate us. And if they do, it’s a reflection of them, not us.”

To my dearest friend across the oceans, the answer is yes, our friendship can take it. And to the friends I’ve made and those who’ve walked alongside me since October 7, may we always be a source of light, hope and strength for each other.

Author’s note: A condensed version of this essay was published in The Jewish Independent on 17 September 2024.

An author’s skill lies in creating an imaginable world for readers, inviting them in and giving them a chance to immerse themselves in alternative realities where they can learn more about others and themselves.

The books I most enjoy leave me lingering on their themes and thinking about their characters long after turning the last page, as was the case with Brooke Dunnell’s second novel, Last Best Chance, which was released in May.

The story follows two women, 20-something year old British expat and mass communications graduate Jess, who’s living in central Europe with her partner Viktor, and recently divorced Perth HR professional Rachel, who’s in her 40s and desperate to have a baby.

This overwhelming desire draws Rachel across the world to an IVF clinic in the same city where Jess is working casual jobs to make ends meet. As the story builds towards them meeting, we’re given a front row seat to a show many people have never seen – a single woman battling the odds as she undertakes fertility treatment on her own in a foreign country.       

Rachel’s lone fertility journey moved me, prompting me to reflect on my own struggle with infertility and what it took to become a mother 14 years ago. I could relate to her desperation to fall pregnant and to her intense need for privacy, which led her to seek IVF treatment in a foreign country and to hide it from her ex-husband, family, friends and work colleagues.

As Rachel’s journey unfolded, I thought about how isolating fertility treatment can be and the unique challenges people face when going through it. After arriving in Central Europe, Rachel is hit with a curveball when the IVF clinic suddenly changes its policy, and she must figure out a way for her embryo transfer to still go ahead before she flies back to Australia in a few days.

At times I found Rachel quite detached as she worked against the clock to have her embryo transfer. I interpreted this as her way of coping with the breakdown of her marriage to a man who didn’t want to have children with her, and the predicament she found herself in, desperate to have a child before it was too late.

In contrast, Jess’s story provided a window into the life of a woman in her prime who is finding her purpose, while grappling with the challenges posed by climate change. While Rachel has her eyes firmly set on having a baby, Jess is figuring out her direction and isn’t convinced that adding to the population should be part of it.

The arrival of a green energy expo in her city gives Jess the impetus she needs to ignite her dream of becoming a journalist. Towards the end of Rachel’s time in Central Europe, the two women meet by chance and give each other what they both need at a critical inflection point – Jess a story that will meet her editor’s deadline and Rachel a way to satisfy the IVF clinic and have her embryo transfer.

While some might feel unsettled by the book’s ending, I respect the author’s decision to leave the reader imagining what happens next. It might have been tempting to tie the story off with a neat bow, but the nature of fertility and climate is unpredictable, and we have to accept that they share many unknowns.  

My vision has been impaired since I was a baby, and my mother noticed I had a squint. By the age of two I was wearing glasses and within five years my myopia and astigmatism had progressed so rapidly I couldn’t see anything without them. I never enjoyed swimming for this reason and wearing glasses wasn’t allowed for ballet exams and concerts, so I learnt to dance by feel in front of faceless examiners and audiences. Fortunately, I only once fell off the stage during a rehearsal.

Transitioning to contact lenses at the age of 11 was life changing. In the early 90s, contact lens technology was still in its infancy and sourcing them was difficult. I spent hours before and after school with father and son optometrists, Donald and Damon Ezekiel, who also operated Western Australia’s only contact lens manufacturing facility.  

They trialled me on hard lenses which hurt and frequently fell out, before making me a pair of soft lenses. Because of my high prescription, they were thick and often irritating, and unlike disposable contact lenses available today, they took weeks to make, were expensive to replace and had to be sent away monthly for deep cleaning. Although they weren’t perfect, it was far better than wearing cumbersome glasses in my teens. And as advances were made, my optometrists were able to source more suitable lenses as I moved through my 20s and 30s.

For over a decade, my optometrist Simon Hogan has kept close tabs on my eyes, along with Perth’s Lions Eye Institute. I’ve been monitored for macular degeneration and retinal detachment, and because I take an immunosuppressant for Lupus, which can also affect peripheral vision.

Although my eyes are in good health despite their severity, my -15 prescription precludes me from having conventional laser surgery. And with my prescription inching higher into my forties, my contact lens options had become very limited. Then last year I found myself in a predicament when my eyes began to reject contact lenses. With deteriorating near vision, I lost confidence driving at night. Then I stopped playing tennis as I couldn’t see the ball and I needed captions to watch movies. With my eyes working overtime and constantly straining to see, fatigue and headaches set in.  

I resorted to wearing my weighty glasses most of the time. Unread books began piling up next to my bed. I turned to podcasts, audiobooks and the less taxing option of scrolling on my phone. While I continued to attend my writers’ group, I felt less connected to my writing and wondered if it was linked to my lack of reading.

Around this time, I bumped into ophthalmic surgeon Tom Cunneen at a mutual friend’s 40^th birthday party. Standing at the edge of the dance floor nursing a strong limoncello spritz, I confided in Tom that I’d recently seen an ophthalmologist who declined to operate on my eyes due to high risk, and that I was resigned to living with poor sight.

“Book an appointment with me,” Tom said above the music. “There’s a good chance I can help you.” A few months later I was having my eyes examined and measured in his West Perth clinic. Tom ruled out intraocular lens replacement surgery, which like cataract surgery involves replacing the eye’s natural lens, as this would risk destabilising my eyes.

Instead, he recommended implantable collamer lens surgery which involves inserting a Phakic lens within the eye under a general anaesthetic. Like all surgeries, there were risks and financial costs to consider. I was flummoxed to learn there is no Medicare rebate for ICL surgery because it’s classified as cosmetic and is typically performed on people with higher prescriptions, for whom contact lenses are also an option.

As I no longer had this option, ICL surgery was the only viable solution for me. And with my eyesight becoming more intolerable by the day, I went ahead with the surgery earlier this year. It was quick, the downtime was minimal, and the result exceeded my expectations. I only wish this surgery was more affordable for people in my situation, and hope that sharing my story might help make this possible.

Being able to see clearly without any aids for the first time in my life is a miraculous and liberating gift. Only now that I have the best vision I’ve ever had, do I fully appreciate how debilitating it was to live with poor vision and discomfort, and how much it was affecting my quality of life.

I’m eternally grateful to Tom for having the skills and determination to find a solution for my complex eyes. My headaches are gone and I’m driving with confidence. I can swim and run and play tennis again. And I can see the tiny freckles on my son’s face when he wakes me with a kiss on the cheek each morning.

I will never take any of these small liberties for granted. And to my joy and relief, along with my eyesight, my love of reading and writing has been fully restored.

In 2019, I joined a writing group as a way to meet other writers and invest more in my writing and creativity. Since then, my op eds and personal essays have been published in The Australian Financial Review, The Jewish Independent and the book, Ruptured.

Writing has helped me find my voice and my calling. Hineni. Here I am.

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