Betrayed in our beloved Australia

I was born in Zimbabwe, grew up in South Africa, moved to New Zealand shortly after marrying, and migrated to Australia with my family in 1998. 

I was one of the fortunate generations. My father lost his entire family, apart from his father, in the Holocaust. My mother and her family left Lithuania for South Africa in the 1930s after she was attacked as a young child for being Jewish. 

But I belonged to one of the more fortunate generations, growing up with a strong yet untroubled sense of my Jewish identity. I did encounter mild antisemitism in the neighbourhood where I was raised and later in the South African Defence Force, amid the charged atmosphere of apartheid South Africa. But even when I felt targeted because of the kippah on my head, I didn’t feel threatened. 

When we moved to Australia, we felt fortunate to join a large, vibrant, and thriving Jewish community. We believed it was one of the best places outside Israel to live openly as Jews. We were warmly welcomed into a proud and engaged community, embraced our Australian citizenship, and became deeply involved in wider Australian society. We encountered very little antisemitism and, when it did arise, it was usually subtle ‒ unsettling and uncomfortable but far removed from the anti-Jewish hostility seen in some United Nations forums and resolutions at the time, including the disgraceful 2001 Durban conference, which equated Zionism with racism. 

It all changed on 7 October, when the State of Israel faced genocidal enemies in Hamas, Hezbollah, and Iran. It changed again for us in Australia just days later at the Sydney Opera House, where unchecked and virulent hatred, not only of Israel but of Jews, was openly expressed and allowed to go largely unchallenged by government and police. Jews across Australia, like Jews around the world, were and remain traumatised by the attempts to destroy Israel and by the hatred of Jews that the subsequent war helped normalise. 

We didn’t expect the genie of antisemitism to be released, and even welcomed, in our beloved Australia. While working at Jewish Care at the time, I led our staff in reassuring our elders, especially Holocaust survivors, that Australia in 2023 wasn’t Berlin in 1936, despite the naked antisemitism being expressed on our streets. I also reassured non-Jewish staff who were afraid of being identified as Jewish when they left work. 

And then there was Bondi. 

It was the day we had long feared. It was the nightmare we had relentlessly tried to avert. 

The Royal Commission into Antisemitism, established in the wake of the Bondi massacre, has heard how antisemitism has run wild since 7 October, how it has affected every Jew in Australia, and how it continues to frighten and haunt us, leaving us fearful for the next generation of Jews growing up in this country. My heart breaks for my grandchildren and for what they now have to face. I grieve with my fellow Jewish Aussies that we have to be so vigilant or, as one individual said to the commission, feel like we are in a kind of open hiding. 

I am a humanist. I believe in the value, equality, and dignity of every human being. I believe that what unites us is stronger than what divides us. For more than 30 years, I have worked passionately to bring people of different faiths and cultures together. I have attended countless interfaith conferences and sessions, worked to uplift and recognise the First Peoples of Australia, and written, spoken, and acted in support of harmony in our country. 

I feel personally betrayed by many of the people with whom I had worked in interfaith over the years. I was disappointed by many Christian colleagues, dismayed by Buddhist and other faith colleagues, and devastated by the response of some Muslim associates. I had travelled together with Christians and Muslims and spent a week in Jerusalem. I thought we were friends; instead, I discovered that we were now seen as antagonists, especially by some Muslim colleagues, whose vile comments appeared on social media. There were important exceptions, and I did receive strong and heartfelt messages from some interfaith leaders and colleagues. But the overall lack of understanding, and the failure to recognise my pain and the trauma of my community, still cuts deeply. 

For the first time in my years in Australia, I felt unsafe. 

Although many Muslim organisations condemned Bondi and some Muslim colleagues reached out personally, difficult questions remain unresolved. I worry that antisemitism and the demonisation of Zionist Jews are becoming entrenched within parts of Australian society, including some schools, homes, and religious environments like mosques. Equally, I recognise the need for honest reflection within Jewish communities as well. 

I am tired of feeling obliged to acknowledge Palestinian suffering, which is awful, and Islamophobia, which is reprehensible, in order to be seen as legitimate when defending Israel and my own people. I don’t see that acknowledgement being consistently reciprocated by Palestinian protesters or most of Muslim leadership. 

After 7 October there was confusion and hesitancy in many interfaith interactions. Many well-meaning faith leaders – especially in the mainstream churches – found it hard to disentangle their sympathies for the suffering of citizens in Gaza and their compassion for the suffering of Israeli citizens and Jewish people across the world. 

There was a failure to recognise that the antizionism of the professional protesters was so very often a camouflage for anti-Judaism. There was also an undercurrent, even among friends, that we Jews were paranoid ‒ or even worse, exploitative ‒ of our suffering to gain public sympathy and support. They didn’t seem to see our loneliness or appreciate our feelings of abandonment. They didn’t seem to recognise our deep fears or the existential trauma of our people. 

It feels different now. If something has emerged from the blood-stained beach at Bondi on 14 December 2025, it is hopefully a sea change among the Australian people. 

The prodigious outpouring of grief and support from ordinary Australians suggests this, although we are aware that for many and possibly most Australians antisemitism isn’t even on their radar. They are more concerned about the budget, housing prices, the cost of living, or the footie finals. 

I do think there’s a different spirit among our politicians and government. They were initially slow to respond but there have been many encouraging signs, for example, in changes to the legal system regarding hate and antisemitic crimes. There may even be an attempt by our Australian Broadcasting Corporation to temper its anti-Israel bias. And a different understanding and empathy among some and possibly many of our interfaith interlocutors except for the Muslims. 

The critical question is how deep and wide is this sprit and will it endure as the months pass; will it outlast whatever will emerge from the Royal Commission? I personally have moved from a cautious optimism to a kind of hopeful pessimism! 

The Koran calls Jews and Christians “People of the Book” and a good part of the answer, as many have suggested, lies in education, adult education, school and university education, and grassroots education. 

Jonathan Sacks, in his wise book The Home We Build Together ‒ well aware of current social breakdown and threats to liberal democracies ‒ reminded us that “Society is the home we build together, Christians, Jews, Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, atheists, agnostics, and secular humanists. To do this we need a shared language. The democratic conversation must include all of us. We must be prepared to explain ourselves to one another, and to listen to one another.” 

• Rabbi Ralph Genende OAM is interfaith and community liaison for AIJAC (the Australia/Israel & Jewish Affairs Council) and senior rabbi in the Australian Defence Force. He is in South Africa this week and will be speaking at Sydenham Shul on Friday night, 29 May, at The Base on Saturday, 30 May, and at Glenhazel Shul after mincha on Saturday.