My journey as an Israeli student in Australia

As an Emerson Fellow with StandWithUs, I am proud to be part of an international education organisation dedicated to supporting Israel and combating antisemitism.

The Emerson Fellowship is a prestigious year-long leadership program that equips university students with the tools to educate, engage, and advocate effectively on campus. Through workshops, events, and peer-to-peer outreach, we challenge misinformation, promote understanding, and amplify Jewish and Israeli voices. Here in Australia, our work has become more critical than ever — as we face increasing hostility on campus, we are standing up for truth and strengthening our community through informed, courageous dialogue.

Three years ago, I made a pretty big decision — some might call it a crazy one, but I see it as bold. I packed up my life in Israel and flew across the world to start fresh in Australia. I wanted to explore new places, study in an English-speaking country, and experience the world from a different perspective.

Was it easy? Not at all. It came with a fair share of sacrifices. Leaving my family and friends behind was tough. But looking back now, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ve learned so much about myself, and this journey — which I’m still on — has been absolutely worth it.

I’ve always been proud of my roots. Being Jewish, Israeli, a great-granddaughter of Holocaust survivors, and having served in the Israeli Air Force are all parts of my identity that I hold with pride.

Growing up, I knew antisemitism existed — but I never realised how pervasive it still is today. I understood it from history books, Holocaust stories, and my parents’ childhood memories of growing up in Ukraine, being bullied and excluded simply because of their religion. But I never thought I’d experience it myself. In Israel, it always felt like something distant and historical.

When I was younger, my family travelled across Europe. I remember my parents occasionally telling us to speak Russian (their mother tongue) instead of Hebrew if they sensed discomfort around us being Israeli. It was more of a precaution than anything else. But after moving to Australia, I started seeing — and experiencing — antisemitism firsthand.

The first warning sign came from a place I didn’t expect — the university careers centre. When reviewing my resume, the advisor gently suggested I remove any mention of my military service because, in their words, “It might make some people uncomfortable.” They also hinted I shouldn’t mention that I’m Israeli unless absolutely necessary, to avoid potential bias. That was the first time I realised something I was proud of could be seen as controversial. It was a wake-up call — things were going to be more complicated than I imagined.

And then came October 7 — and everything changed. I don’t need to explain the horrors of that day. We all carry that pain. I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news. Everyone was in shock. My younger brother, a combat soldier, was called to the south. My friends in Israel dropped everything and were mobilised. Even some of my Israeli friends here in Australia left to return home and serve. I felt like my world was falling apart. I was thousands of kilometres away — alone, helpless, heartbroken. I couldn’t focus. I stopped going to class, spending days glued to the couch, watching the news, frozen. Outside, life in Melbourne carried on — people unaware of the horror and war unfolding in my home. But for me, time had stopped.

I thought about going back to Israel. But with a lot of encouragement from my amazing mum, I decided to stay. She reminded me that I had a chance to be a voice for truth — to represent Israel from afar. That I couldn’t just give up. I had to do something.

After a few months of keeping a low profile, I returned to university.

Sadly, it wasn’t just the hateful protests or the unsettling encampments that made things hard. The most painful challenge came not from the outside, but from within — from the very institution I trusted to protect my rights and education.

My most difficult experience came with a subject coordinator for a course on terrorism. The content often included false narratives and baseless claims about Israel. The lectures and discussions felt politically biased, and some comments made the classroom environment uncomfortable and even hostile. I filed a formal complaint. The Deputy Vice-Chancellor’s response? I was advised to consider dropping the subject. I was honestly speechless.

Then it escalated. That same professor accused me of allegedly using AI to write one of my essays — without any evidence, report, or explanation. The only justification offered was a vague comment about my hesitation to have a Zoom chat. Eventually, the university investigated and concluded that “there is no case to answer.” The allegation was dropped.

Still, the whole experience felt unjust. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was retaliation — for speaking out, for being Israeli. But how do you prove something like that?

This was the reality I faced all semester — all while the war continued, protests took place outside, and the campus atmosphere grew increasingly tense. Some staff members didn’t hesitate to express personal opinions against Israel, making it even harder.

You can’t always prove bias. But when you’re the only Israeli in the room, you feel it.

It was a really tough semester.

Still, not everything was bleak. Some professors, knowing I was Israeli, went out of their way to check in and ask about my family. They said they’d been following the news and understood that not everything is as it seems. Those small gestures meant more than they probably realised.

And then there are my Asian friends — not Jewish, not Israeli — just kind, open-minded, and genuinely curious. They’ve kept me grounded. Our conversations have been some of the most meaningful ways I’ve shared who we are — beyond headlines and politics. They ask questions. They listen. They stand by me. They choose to see beyond the media narrative. And I’ve come to believe that’s how minds are truly changed — not through shouting or arguments, but through real relationships and honest conversations.

By connecting on a human level, I’ve been able to show them the real face of Israel. That we’re people too — and that the media doesn’t always tell the whole story.

This experience, as hard as it’s been, has made me prouder than ever of who I am.
Proud to be Jewish. Proud to be Israeli.

Even from far away, I’ll always stand up for my country and my people — by speaking the truth, sharing our story, and showing the world the beauty of Israel. And by reminding people that the IDF is one of the most moral armies in the world.

There’s no one prouder than me.

We all have a role to play in standing up to antisemitism and countering false narratives about Israel — with truth, compassion, and honest conversation.

Cindy is an Israeli international student and Emerson Fellow with StandWithUs Australia.