What can be said that hasn’t already been said?

I have been struggling with how to begin this article.

And let’s be honest: I’ve been struggling this week — and I know I’m not alone.

Not in the vague way people say it when life feels “a bit heavy,” but in the real way that comes from trying to make sense of something that cannot be made sense of. Trying to find words when words feel inadequate. Trying to keep going when everything has shifted.

What can I add—what can I say—that hasn’t already been said about the tragedy that unfolded in Bondi last Sunday evening, at Chanukah by the Sea?

The honest answer is: nothing new. And yet, I feel compelled to write, because silence does not sit easily right now.

I can only speak about how I feel. And I suspect many in our community feel the same.

I am trying to process something that, in truth, cannot be processed.

What happened is almost impossible to comprehend. Not because it was unimaginable—many of us knew, deep down, that something like this was coming—but because the leap from the hypothetical, to the possible, to the probable, and then to what actually occurred, is devastating in a way words struggle to capture.

For over two years, we have spoken about risk. We warned about escalation. We watched the lines move—again and again—each time being told that what we were seeing was not what it clearly was. And then, suddenly, the abstract became real. Names replaced numbers. Funerals replaced warnings. Vigils replaced briefings.

That is where grief begins. And where anger follows close behind.

I am angry at the whitewashing of what occurred.

This was a terror attack. Jews were targeted. That fact should not be controversial, yet it has been conspicuously absent from headlines, official statements, and social media commentary. Sympathy has flowed freely—but too often stripped of the uncomfortable truth that this attack did not happen randomly, nor in isolation. Erasing the Jewish dimension does not bring people together. It denies reality.

That denial was reinforced for me during the Prime Minister’s address on Thursday, 18 December.

I watched it with disbelief.

At a moment that demanded gravity, humility, and moral clarity, we were instead given platitudes—assurances that “more needs to be done” without any acknowledgement of how we arrived here, without accountability for what was ignored, and without a sense of urgency that reflects the reality Jewish Australians are now living with.

This was not the moment for comfort language. It was the moment for truth.

Instead, almost immediately, the public conversation shifted—at both federal and state levels—towards gun laws.

There is a time and place for those discussions. Australia’s history demands seriousness on that issue. But this—right now—is not that moment.

This reflexive pivot feels like a deflection from the real issue.

Remove the weapon and the intent remains. Take away the gun and there are still knives, vehicles, fists, fire—and above all, ideology. Jews were targeted because they are Jews. That reality does not disappear with legislative adjustments. To prioritise anything ahead of confronting antisemitism is to avoid the harder, more uncomfortable conversation.

And that conversation remains largely absent.

Where was the urgency before Sunday?
Where is the urgency now?

For over two years, Jewish communities have been sounding the alarm. We warned about rhetoric, about incitement, about the normalisation of hatred dressed up as activism. Those warnings were minimised, politely acknowledged, and then ignored.

Which brings me to another, deeply confronting truth.

I am incensed by the conduct of politicians who were quick to demonise Israel, who participated in or legitimised movements that fuelled antisemitism here at home—and who now offer sympathy in the aftermath of this attack.

Words from leaders matter. Silence matters too.

When those in public office amplify the wrong voices, or fail to act when lines are crossed, they help create the environment in which Jews are marginalised and, ultimately, targeted.

What is confronting now is not what is being said, but what was not done.

There were opportunities to intervene.
To draw lines.
To act.

They were missed.

And while expressions of sympathy are now offered, words alone cannot undo what was allowed to take root over time. Compassion after the fact does not erase prolonged inaction.

I hope I am wrong. I truly do.

I want to believe this will be a turning point—that antisemitism will finally be confronted with the seriousness it demands. But hope is not policy, and statements are not action.

In the midst of all this, I have also seen something else.

In a week like this, people respond in different ways. Some want to gather. Some need quiet. Some draw strength from being together, while others need space to breathe and process. All of it is human. All of it is valid.

What matters now is that we look after one another—without judgement, without politics, and without division. The Jewish community is not one voice or one approach, but we are one people.

That is why I am proud of our community.

I am proud of people doing what is in their hearts—what they feel they need to do—by coming together, mourning together, supporting one another, and refusing to retreat into silence. In a week like this, community is not a slogan. It is presence.

I also want to acknowledge the extraordinary work of the Chabad family, who have stepped forward with calm, compassion, and unwavering support. Their response has brought comfort and strength to many at a time when it has been deeply needed.

And yet, pride does not cancel out grief.

Over the past week, I have attended funerals I never expected to attend. I have sat with families whose lives have been irreversibly changed. I have watched children and adults alike — entire families — try to understand a world that suddenly feels less safe.

There is no guide for this.
No script.
No neat resolution.

What I do know is this: life for our community will not look the same as it did before Sunday.

For over two years, the lines have been pushed, redrawn, and pushed again. We were told not to overreact, not to name things too clearly, not to make others uncomfortable. The cost of that restraint is now painfully clear.

I do not know what the road ahead looks like. I do not know how long this season will last.

But I do know this.

We owe it to those we have lost, and to those still trying to feel safe, to tell the truth—plainly, unapologetically, and without fear.

Anything less would be a betrayal.

Michael Gencher is the executive director of StandWithUs Australia