They burned a local synagogue, but we’re not going anywhere
The arson attack against a Melbourne synagogue is only the latest antisemitic outrage
Member of Parliament Josh Burns walks past the damaged Adass Israel Synagogue on Dec. 10, 2024 in Melbourne, Australia after an arson attack. Photo by Asanka Ratnayake/Getty Images
Waking up one morning last week to news of an arson attack — it would soon officially classed as a terrorist act — at Melbourne’s Adass Israel Synagogue, my first instinct was to joke. As messages poured into my family group chat, I quipped about figuring out who our righteous gentiles would be and where we might hide.
My first instinct is always to joke, to lighten the mood, to make things seem not so bad. But this feels bad.
The attack on Adass Israel Synagogue is the most brazen act of antisemitism I’ve witnessed in my 28 years in Melbourne. And it has been followed by a week of unrest. Just a few days after the attack, residents in a predominantly Jewish suburb in Sydney woke to see their cars had been firebombed overnight, accompanied by graffiti reading “Hitler was right”, among other antisemitic and anti-Zionist slogans scrawled on nearby property. The perpetrators of these incidents are yet to be caught. Sadly, none of this comes as a surprise.
I grew up around the corner from the synagogue. Until I moved to New York six months ago, I’ve always lived within walking distance. It’s one of more than 50 synagogues in Melbourne, which altogether serve a community of 50,000 Jewish people. This is a community shaped by resilience, built on the foundations of trauma — more than 17,000 Jewish refugees, including my grandparents, settled here after the Holocaust. For many years, Melbourne has been home to one of the largest Holocaust-survivor populations outside Israel. That generation not only rebuilt their lives here but also laid the groundwork for a thriving community: youth movements, schools, cultural centers, and some of the world’s strongest remaining Yiddish institutions.
For decades, Melbourne has felt like a safe haven, especially for those first-generation survivors. It’s a place where Jews celebrate their identity openly — Chanukah festivals light up local parks, billboards promote Jewish summer camps, and being visibly Jewish never felt unsafe. But things feel different now.
The rise of antisemitism in Melbourne following the Oct. 7, 2023 Hamas attack on Israel has been undeniable, playing out both online and in real life since. Despite being more than 8,000 miles from Israel, Melbourne’s Jewish community has faced rising attacks, both online and offline and been increasingly targeted, held collectively responsible for the actions of a government they don’t control.
Earlier this year, a WhatsApp group for Jewish creatives — dubbed the “Zio600”— was hacked and its members doxxed. Full names, phone numbers, and personal messages were leaked online. Those behind the attack claimed they were targeting Zionists, insisting their actions weren’t antisemitic. But the leaked list didn’t distinguish between Zionists and non-Zionists, leaving all members equally vulnerable. What purpose could such a list serve, other than intimidation? At what point does this become unequivocal antisemitism?
In June this year, two teenagers attacked the office of a Jewish federal Member of Parliament, smashing the windows and spray-painting horns and anti-Zionist slogans on photographic portraits of him. Supporters of the attack defended it as purely anti-Zionist, denying any connection to the MP’s identity as a member of the Jewish community.
Over in Sydney, in the days following Oct. 7, 2023, protesters at a rally at the Sydney Opera House shouted “Gas the Jews!” Later, video analysis found that they were in fact shouting, “Where’s the Jews?” Supporters online used this to claim the Jewish community was overreacting to what they called exaggerated antisemitism. But for most in the community, the intent felt clear — it didn’t seem like they were looking for Jews with good intentions.
These incidents feel personal, because they inherently are. In March, my husband and I were married under a chuppah in a public park in Abbotsford, right in inner-city Melbourne. The venue assured us that extra security wasn’t necessary — park-goers were always respectful when a wedding ceremony takes place. In the months leading up to our wedding, our wedding planner advised otherwise, telling us the Jewish Community Security Group needed to be aware and on standby. Similar stories echo among my friends—wedding planners and venues have advised couples not to hold public Jewish weddings without extra security.
A few months after our wedding, I mentioned to a senior member of staff at my former workplace that my husband worked for a Jewish organization. Without missing a beat, he asked me whether he was involved in “dropping bombs on kids in Gaza.” I chose not to respond.
For the past 12 months, I’ve stayed silent about my growing fears and unease, not wanting to appear extremist or dramatic in front of my non-Jewish peers. I convinced myself it “wasn’t that bad.” But then a synagogue was set on fire. And then my husband told me he no longer felt comfortable wearing his Magen David necklace in certain places. And I realized we have started to lower our voices in public when we speak about Jewish topics or issues.
So, what now? It’s hard to know where a community, built on the backbones of trauma and survival, can go from here. As much as it’s become tempting to stay quiet, to not “rock the boat,” I think it’s become clear this isn’t the answer. I’m choosing not to give into the pressures of fear, assimilation and dread.
This moment calls for a response that reflects the spirit of the community I grew up in — one defined by Jewish renewal and survival, not by dissolution or demonization. Our strength has always come from within. I spent the majority of my teenage years and early 20s in the youth movement, Habonim Dror, where I first encountered the powerful words of Zivia Lubetkin, a leader of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising.
“[There was] a community of people who cared about each other, who shared ideas and values in common, made it possible for each of us to do what he or she did. This was the source of our strength to live. It is the very same source which keeps the survivors alive even today. The Jewish people stood the test.”
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