The conversations that actually matter after Bondi

Since the Bondi massacre on 14 December, the Jewish community has carried a familiar mix of grief, vigilance, and exhaustion.

Not because the tragedy was ours alone, but because we know what often follows a major shock. Emotions run hot. Social media becomes a megaphone. Complex issues are forced into slogans. And Jewish people find ourselves dragged into arguments that have little to do with the original event, and everything to do with how quickly the public mood can turn.

But this piece is not for the activists. It is not for the online pile-on. It is not for the faceless keyboard warrior who has already decided what they think. You can pour hours into that void and come out with nothing but frustration.

The conversations that matter are different. They are quieter, closer, and sometimes harder.

They are with people you know. People who know you. Friends, colleagues, neighbours, other parents at school. People you have shared dinners with and milestones with. People who would recoil at the suggestion that they hold antisemitic views. And yet, when the topic turns to Israel, many still do not understand what Zionism means, what Israel represents for Jews, and why so many Jews hear anti Zionism and anti-Israel rhetoric as something more than political critique.

That is the conversation this piece is about. It is about the relationships that shape the environment our kids walk into at school, the tone in workplaces, the casual comments at barbecues, and the small moments where people either lean into decency or drift into prejudice without realising it.

Most of these conversations begin the same way. Someone reassures you, often warmly, that they oppose antisemitism. Then, as if it resolves the tension, they add a second sentence.

I am not antisemitic. I am just anti-Israel. Or anti-Zionist.

They mean it as a separation. Jews over here, a state over there. The problem is that the separation collapses once you look at what is being said and what is being demanded. Criticising a government is one thing. Denying the legitimacy of the world’s only Jewish state is another. That distinction is not technical. It goes to the heart of Jewish identity and Jewish safety.

So here is the simplest place to start. Zionism is the movement for Jewish self-determination in the Jewish ancestral homeland. In plain language, it is the belief that the Jewish people, like other peoples, have the right to a nation-state where they can live safely and shape their collective future. Zionism is not a requirement to endorse any particular Israeli government. It is not a claim that Jews are superior. It is not a denial of Palestinian rights. It is a statement about Jewish agency and Jewish continuity.

For many Jews, that is not theoretical. It is a response to history. Jews know what it means to be a minority in other people’s countries. We carry memories, personal and inherited, of expulsion and exclusion, persecution, and the lesson of what can happen when Jews are stateless and defenceless. Even in places where Jews have flourished, that knowledge sits behind our instincts. Israel, for many, represents the end of Jewish powerlessness. Not the end of Jewish debate or moral responsibility, but the end of being entirely at the mercy of others.

That is why a friend saying “I oppose Zionism” does not land like an ordinary foreign policy disagreement. It can sound, to Jewish ears, like a rejection of the Jewish right to collective safety.
This is where I often pause and ask a question that reframes the conversation without turning it into a fight. What do you mean by anti-Zionism? What outcome are you actually arguing for?

People use the term casually, as if it simply means “I am critical of Israel.” But anti Zionism, in its straightforward meaning, is opposition to Jewish self-determination in a Jewish state. If that is the position, it is not comparable to criticising a prime minister or opposing a policy. It is closer to saying that one people, and only that people, should not have the right that is readily granted to others.

If your values support self-determination for peoples around the world, but deny it to Jews alone, that is not a neutral stance. It is a double standard, and double standards applied to Jews have a long and ugly history.

Sometimes friends respond by trying to redefine Jewish identity. They will say Judaism is only a religion, not a people, implying Jewish nationhood is artificial. But Jewish identity is not something outsiders get to reclassify for convenience. Jews are a people with a shared history, culture, language, and collective memory. The connection to the Land of Israel is woven through Jewish prayer and tradition over millennia. You do not have to share that attachment to respect that it is real, and that it matters.

It is also worth saying plainly that many decent people are simply misinformed. They have absorbed slogans that present Zionism as racism, Israel as uniquely illegitimate, and Jewish attachment as something sinister. The framing is emotionally satisfying because it is simple. But it collapses when you apply it consistently. If someone opposes racism, they should recoil from singling out Jews as uniquely undeserving of collective rights.

Then there is the part of the conversation that friends often do not expect, because it shifts the focus from intention to impact. What happens when anti-Israel rhetoric becomes the social currency of a workplace, a campus, or a community? What happens when Jewish students are told they must renounce Zionism to belong? When Jewish organisations are excluded unless they disavow Israel. When Jewish people are treated as responsible for events half a world away. When Jewish identity becomes conditional.

You do not have to intend harm to contribute to harm. In these moments, good intentions are not a shield. The effect is what Jewish families live with.

The goal of these conversations is not to win. It is to restore clarity and consistency, and to give good people a chance to understand what they are actually saying when they use certain terms. Criticism of Israel is not the issue. Israelis criticise Israel every day. Jews argue about Israel all the time. The issue is the move from criticism to delegitimisation, from disagreement to denial. A friend can oppose a policy without denying Jewish collective rights. A friend can care deeply about Palestinians without arguing that the Jewish state should disappear. Any serious pathway to peace requires recognising the legitimacy and humanity of both peoples, not erasing one of them.

After Bondi, we talk a lot about decency and cohesion. Those words only mean something if they show up in ordinary life, in the conversations that actually shape the climate around us. The tone in schools, workplaces, sporting clubs, and friendship groups is not set by the loudest voices online. It is set by the people we know, and the standards we are prepared to hold.

So if you are a friend of the Jewish community, start here. Ask questions. Be precise with language. Apply consistent standards. And when a Jewish person tells you that something you have repeated lands as a denial of Jewish identity or safety, take that seriously.

Not to avoid disagreement, but to avoid unfairness. Not to silence debate, but to keep it honest. And not to pick a fight, but to protect the basic dignity that every community should be able to take for granted.

By Michael Gencher, Executive Director, StandWithUs