In the wake of the antisemitic terror attack at Bondi Beach, Green Party co-leader Chlöe Swarbrick delivered a speech that, at first glance, seemed to mark a welcome step forward. She named the attack as what it was: targeted, racist, antisemitic terror against Jews gathered to celebrate Hanukkah. As she said,
“Two men with guns opened fire on those who had gathered to mark their faith, mercilessly killing 15 people. This was an act of targeted, racist, anti-Semitic terror towards the Jewish community. Murdering innocent people is terrorism.”
That clarity matters. Too often, antisemitic violence is softened or contextualised. Naming it plainly is the minimum standard of moral leadership.
But within a single paragraph, that specificity is lost. Swarbrick continued:
“As reports of both anti-Semitism and islamophobia have intensified, the world has been asked when we will see safety for persecuted communities. Our safety, like our liberation, is intertwined.”
Suddenly, Jewish particularity — the reason these people were targeted — is diluted into universalised suffering. The massacre of Jews celebrating a distinctly Jewish festival is reframed as a moment to reflect on human rights and interfaith solidarity more broadly.
Hanukkah is not merely a “festival of light.” It commemorates Jewish survival, resistance, and historical connection to the Land of Israel. Many Jews today see it as a celebration of self-determination — in other words, it carries Zionist meaning, even if individuals vary in how they relate to modern political Zionism. Recognising this dimension is essential to understanding why this holiday is meaningful to Jews, and why targeting a Hanukkah celebration constitutes an attack on Jewish identity and community.
Swarbrick’s speech also elevates Ahmed Al Ahmed, who courageously disarmed one of the attackers. His heroism rightly deserves recognition. But the prominence given to him may reflect how media and public narratives often foreground the rescuer over the victims, rather than being solely the result of Swarbrick’s choice. Meanwhile, the victims are mostly anonymised: “a child, parents, friends, partners, human beings.” This framing, conscious or not, turns Jewish suffering into the backdrop for a lesson about broader morality, rather than centering the victims themselves.
Some may argue that Swarbrick’s approach reflects a desire to build a coalition against all forms of bigotry, or to avoid alienating other marginalised communities. Perhaps she feared politicising a tragedy. But moral courage in the face of targeted antisemitic violence requires naming the victims and their identity clearly, and resisting the impulse to balance or universalise. Sympathy without particularity can feel hollow, especially to Jewish communities increasingly confronted with hostility.
What might a stronger statement look like? A public figure could say:
“Jews were murdered in Bondi because they were practicing their faith and celebrating Hanukkah. We condemn this antisemitic terror, honour the victims by naming them and their community, and commit to standing firmly against antisemitism in all its forms.”
This maintains universality in principle — opposing hate — while keeping the Jewish specificity front and center.
Finally, grounding readers in the facts is important. Fifteen people were killed in a targeted attack on a Hanukkah gathering. Multiple victims were children. This was clearly antisemitic, not a generalised act of violence, and not motivated by fear of Islam. Recognising these facts is essential before drawing broader lessons about morality or human rights.
The Bondi attack, and Swarbrick’s response, highlight a recurring problem: Jewish identity is often acknowledged only to be dissolved. Jewish suffering is valid only if repurposed for universal lessons. Jewish history and self-determination are aspects of identity that often receive less attention in public discourse. True solidarity requires resisting the impulse to neutralise Jewish particularity. It means naming Jewish identity, Jewish faith, and Jewish peoplehood fully, even when inconvenient.
Hanukkah teaches that light is not passive. But light also reveals what we might prefer to keep in shadow. For public figures, the test is whether their words illuminate or obscure the very realities that made such violence possible. For Jewish communities, respect for their identity is not optional — it is the minimum standard of justice.
