As a Jew in Australia – Anonymous Lev Echad member

Where do I even begin? Perhaps at the beginning. Well, casting back 2000 years might take a while, so how about we start at a more recent event that changed the life of every Jew forever; October 7, 2023.

It would do everyone good to remember what happened that day in order to understand why it has changed the DNA of all of us Jews since.

The killing spree that occurred in the early morning of October 7, perpetrated by blood-thirsty Hamas members and Palestinian Hamas supporters, was the most significant attack on Jews since the Holocaust. The violent and sadistic ways in which mobs of terrorists snaked through Israel with the intent to kill, torture and rape was and is the stuff of nightmares. The gleeful cheering, laughing and filming of these attacks by the terrorists is nauseating for anyone with a conscience. That day, children were stolen from their beds, mothers were slaughtered in front of their families, babies were beheaded and burnt alive, whole families were wiped out, teenagers and children were taken in turns to be raped until, for some, their pelvises broke. Corpses were desecrated, pregnant women had their stomachs ripped open, foetuses were mutilated and innocent humans of Israel were captured as bait, and would later be used as a bargaining tool for the demands of this maniacal terrorist group. If you skim read this paragraph, go back. Read it again. Slowly. And understand the brutality and savagery that is being described here. You want to talk genocide? There it is. Clear as day.

Alarmingly, October 7’s brutal atrocities granted permission for the ugly reality of antisemitism to reappear confidently under the cloak of anti-Zionism here in Australia. We were not fooled. Instead of hashtags of condolences and comfort, there were trends supporting slogan’s like ‘free Palestine’ and ‘resistance by any means’. It was the feeling of being kicked when you’re down, being told that you deserve it, and being blamed for your loss. Hate is a twisted, ugly and venomous evil that can poison the insides of people. Its remedy is to love and listen. But I have felt little love and as though no one can hear me.

Two days later in Sydney (just two days), a night meant for Jews to come together to mourn and grieve with our community was hijacked by a violent and aggressive Pro-Palestinian mob who chanted “Fuck Israel”, “Allahua Akbar” and “where’s the Jews”. In Israel, they were still counting the bodies of their dead and trying to ID burnt faces of babies. And here on the steps of the iconic Sydney Opera House, this hate-worship and celebration was occurring.

What message do you think that sent to us Jewish members of Australia? It was all downhill from there.

As a Jew I spent the next six months in a zombie-like state. We all did. The lights were on but no one was home. I remember standing at the park swings with my children wearing a vacant smile, while squeezing the hand of another mother beside me who hid her bloodshot eyes behind wide-framed sunglasses. We understood each other’s pain without the need for words. Our hearts were bleeding together.

I spent hours scrolling through Australian media, I tirelessly wrote letters to newspapers, influencers, politicians and the Prime Minister in an attempt to have my communities voice amplified among a tidal wave of opposition. You must remember that the Jewish population is 0.2% of the global population so when Gigi Hadid posts statements that use untrue and inflammatory language against Israel and its Jewish people, it’s a big uphill battle for us 15.7 million Jews to compete against the 77 million followers she’s just influenced.

The world felt (and I’ll be honest, continues to feel) upside-down, inside-out and back-to-front. Weekly Sydney protests spewing hate meant that I now had to avoid the city for not only my safety but for my emotional well-being too.

Amazingly, the enduring resilience of the Jewish people began to surface, as community members unearthed their grandparents’ Judaica and jewellery, reconnecting with their heritage. Our necks were adorned with Magen Davids—not just as ornaments, but as declarations of pride and defiance, a silent vow that we would never be driven into hiding again. And yet, the first time I wore my Star of David necklace, I felt a deep, physical tension. Some might call that an overreaction, but that is the insidious effect of rising antisemitism—it forces you to question your safety, your belonging, even your very right to exist in society. That unsettling process had already begun. Even now I oscillate between pride and fear, determination and concealment.

Over the past fifteen months, I have witnessed a disturbing surge in antisemitism across Australia. Cars have been firebombed, synagogues and schools have been defaced with antisemitic graffiti, Jewish businesses vandalised and threatened, and attacks on Jewish individuals have escalated. Protests displaying Hamas flags have been permitted in the city centre, politicians have been photographed smiling alongside placards with images that call for the ethnic cleansing of Jews, and intimidating encampments were granted control of university grounds. A mass doxing campaign that targeted Jewish Australians in academia and the creative industries exposed personal information that ultimately subjected them to harassment and death threats. And let’s not forget the abandoned caravan of explosives accompanied by a list of Jewish sites. Just to name a few.

And so, this has impacts…

Consequently, as a Jew in Australia, I never reveal my identity until I am certain I can trust the person I’m speaking to.

As a Jew in Australia, I turn my necklace backward in certain situations to avoid being visibly identifiable.

As a Jew in Australia, I lie about where my mother was born to avoid saying she is from Israel.

As a Jew in Australia, I desperately seek support from those outside my community—but I’ve learned to lower my expectations.

As a Jew in Australia, I feel the weight of every event in Israel, knowing it affects my people and, in turn, my own safety.

As a Jew in Australia, there are suburbs I would never set foot in for fear of what might happen.

As a Jew in Australia, I am hyper-aware of how I carry myself, knowing that for some, I may be the only Jew they ever meet—my words and actions unfairly held as a reflection of an entire people.

As a Jew in Australia, I talk in hushed tones when discussing Jewish events in public.

As a Jew in Australia, I drop my child to a school surrounded with armed guards.

As a Jew in Australia, I won’t let my daughter onto the school bus for fear of an attack.

As a Jew in Australia, I have changed my name on my Uber account so it sounds less Jewish.

As a Jew in Australia, I walk out to the street to sign for deliveries so that our mezuzah affixed to our doorpost isn’t seen.

As a Jew in Australia, I feel disappointed in our government for not taking a stronger stand against hate speech in this country and for leaving my community exposed to racist vitriol.

As a Jew in Australia, I walk a tightrope between wanting my daughter to be proud of her heritage but also trying to change the topic when she shares with people that we are Jewish.

The balancing act of being a Jew in Australia requires constant consideration and a high degree of caution.

This article can’t end on a positive note, not yet. But I hold onto hope that the good of society will prevail eventually. Antisemitism will not be gone. It never will. However, the power of the righteous should never be underestimated, for when you reach out to your Jewish friends or colleagues in support, it is like a light breaking through the darkness. And when you provide moral support, whether in quiet solidarity or open allyship, you become the wings that help us soar. When you take a stand against evil, you contribute to justice. When you dedicate energy to goodwill, you help advance humanity. Your advocacy and friendship allow us to believe that love is stronger than hate.

And we have to believe.

We just have to.