Bondi Jews’ Refusal to be Broken by the Weight of History Left an indelible Mark on my Character

"My perspective is grounded in the beach of my childhood and the stories of survival and loss from those who endured horrors Australians cannot imagine."

As an Australian father of three grown children, my reflections on the state of our world are rooted not in academic theory, but in lived experience.

I grew up in Bondi and the Eastern Suburbs of Sydney, surrounded by Jewish families whose influence on my life was profound, though I only came to fully appreciate it much later. Their humour, resilience, and steadfast refusal to be broken by the weight of history left an indelible mark on my character and my understanding of the world.

Today, as I watch the world spear off in directions I once thought unimaginable, I am confronted by a disturbing and fundamental truth: rising antisemitism is the gravest threat to Western civilisation. How I choose to respond to it will become the clearest example I set for my children.

My ancestors, whether they knew it or not, understood this implicitly.

For them, freedom was never something passively inherited, like an old malibu “tank” surfboard handed down through generations. It was something to be defended, renewed, and sometimes paid for in blood. With a quiet, sober seriousness, the kind that comes from having truly seen the world, and fought for it, they instilled in me the conviction that Zion, and all it represents, is a hill worth dying on.

My perspective is not abstract. It is grounded in the beach of my childhood, the families who raised me, the friends I loved, and the stories of survival and loss from those who endured horrors most Australians cannot imagine. These experiences lead me to ask, time and again, as I look at my own children: What kind of a world am I leaving them?

And when history asks them to stand, will they have the courage to do so? I believe they will, if we show them how.

Australia does not possess a founding document as iconic as America’s Declaration of Independence, yet the civilisation we inherited rests on the same bedrock: a Judeo-Christian understanding of the human person. This worldview asserts that every life possesses inherent dignity, that our rights come from God rather than government, and that no state can strip a person of their humanity.

These ideas were not born in a vacuum. They were carried, often at great cost, across continents by people who had suffered, endured, and rebuilt. People who refused to let darkness write the last chapter of their story.

The Jewish families of my youth did not preach these principles; they embodied them. They were living proof that a people can be wounded and yet remain unbowed, that a battered culture can still produce beauty, intelligence, humour, and moral clarity. Their example taught me that a civilisation survives only when ordinary people decide it is worth protecting.

Today, I see a strange and dangerous phenomenon: individuals who enjoy every freedom the West has to offer now sneer at the very foundations that keep them safe. They chant slogans they barely understand, excuse violence they would never accept in their own homes, and revive ancient prejudices by blaming Jews for the world’s ills, as though history has not already shown us where such paths lead.

When Israel defends itself, when Jewish people refuse to surrender quietly, these same voices decry it as aggression. Some even say, with misplaced pride, “I won’t send my kids to fight for Israel.”

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Let’s be honest: that sentiment, however it is dressed up, is antisemitic. It singles out the Jewish state as uniquely unworthy of defence. It pretends that standing with a democratic ally is an act of betrayal.

Worse still, it ignores a basic truth: when tyrants are permitted to devour their neighbours, they will, in time, come for us as well.

This is not just a matter of poor geopolitics. It is, at its core, a form of moral cowardice.

I refuse to allow my children to inherit a civilisation that has forgotten its own purpose. I do not want them to grow up in a culture that prizes comfort above all else, or that sees sacrifice as an outdated relic. I do not want them to live in a society so afraid of being impolite that it cannot call evil by its name.

What I owe my children is clarity. I want them to understand that freedom is fragile, that evil is real, that antisemitism is a warning sign of civilisational decay, and that some things are worth defending, even at great cost. This is not a burden, but an inheritance: the same inheritance my ancestors imparted to me.

Faith, I have learned, does not promise safety; it promises meaning. It does not guarantee that we will be spared tragedy, only that tragedy is not the end of the story.

For thousands of years, the Jewish people have lived this truth. Western civilisation was built upon it. If we forget it, we will not survive.

Therefore, I will continue to speak out.

I will stand with the Jewish people, not out of sentimentality, but out of conviction. I will keep reminding my children that civilisation is not a possession to be enjoyed, but a trust to be defended and handed on.

And I will teach them that there are things worth dying for, which, paradoxically, makes them all the more worth living for.

This is the example I was given by those who came before me, and it is the example I intend to pass on.

We are not the passive recipients of civilisation; we are its guardians. In a world where old hatreds are finding new voices, our vigilance, courage, and moral clarity are the legacy our children need most, now, and for generations to come.