Lou's Views: The Sydney Hanukkah Massacre: When Hate Goes Unchallenged

The Hanukkah celebration near Bondi Beach in Sydney was meant to be a moment of light, joy, and community. Instead, it became a scene of horror. During Chanukah by the Sea, a public gathering attended by families, children, and elderly members of Sydney’s Jewish community, two gunmen opened fire on the crowd, killing 15 people and injuring dozens more. Witnesses described prolonged moments of chaos and terror as attendees scrambled for cover, with the attackers able to continue shooting before law enforcement arrived and intervened. One assailant was ultimately killed by police, while the other was taken into custody and later charged with multiple counts of murder and terrorism-related offenses.

Authorities classified the massacre as an antisemitic terror attack, one that shattered Australia’s sense of safety and reverberated far beyond its borders.

Amid the carnage, there was also an act of extraordinary courage that must not be overlooked. A Muslim bystander, Ahmed Al Ahmed, intervened during the attack, physically confronting one of the terrorists and helping to disrupt the violence before police arrived. At great personal risk, he acted instinctively to protect strangers—many of them Jewish families he did not know. His actions likely saved lives. In a moment defined by hate, his bravery stood as a powerful reminder that this was not a clash between communities, but a confrontation between humanity and extremism. Acts like his underscore an essential truth: antisemitism and terrorism are enemies of all decent people, including Muslims who reject violence and stand against it.

In the aftermath, grief quickly turned to anger—particularly over failures of leadership and preparedness. Former Australian Treasurer Josh Frydenberg, one of the country’s most prominent Jewish public figures, delivered a blistering speech at the Bondi memorial site, placing responsibility squarely on Prime Minister Anthony Albanese and his government. Frydenberg called the massacre “the greatest stain on this nation,” arguing that the attack was not unforeseeable but the predictable result of allowing hatred and radicalisation to flourish unchecked. “Guns may have stolen the life of 15 innocent civilians,” he said, “but it was radical Islamist ideology that pulled the trigger.” He rejected hollow condolences and demanded accountability, clarity, and action. Frydenberg also pointed to protests that took place the day after October 7 in front of the Sydney Opera House, where antisemitic chants were widely reported and Jewish communities felt terrorized, yet no immediate, unequivocal condemnation came from the government. In his telling, the public celebration of the murder of more than 1,200 innocent Jews was allowed to go unchecked—and that failure to draw moral lines helped create the climate in which violence later erupted.

Frydenberg accused the prime minister of refusing to confront the ideological roots of antisemitic violence. “If you can’t say those words—‘Islamist ideology’—you can’t solve them,” he warned. His sharpest words were directed at leadership itself: “Prime Minister, you have failed us. Your government has failed us. You sit in a chair. It is time you earned that title. If you don’t want to do the job, give it to somebody who will.” His message was unmistakable: without moral clarity, enforcement, and consequences, the conditions that produced this massacre will persist.

For Jews around the world, the Bondi Beach massacre was not merely an Australian tragedy. It was a grim reminder that antisemitic violence can erupt even in places long assumed to be safe. A holiday celebration rooted in resilience and survival was targeted precisely because it was Jewish. For diaspora communities, the line between rhetoric and violence has become dangerously thin. Hatred that is tolerated, excused, or minimized does not remain theoretical—it metastasizes.

That reality places a burden on leaders at every level—local, state, national, and global. Antisemitism must be condemned unequivocally, even when it is cloaked as political speech or shielded by claims of free expression. Free speech may protect the right to say hateful things, but it does not require leaders to legitimize them through silence or moral neutrality. In the United States, President Donald Trump has repeatedly and publicly called out antisemitism, making clear that condemning hatred does not violate free speech principles.

Condemnation is not censorship; it is leadership.

The implications are immediate in Los Angeles, home to one of the largest Jewish populations outside Israel. Security can no longer be symbolic or reactive. It must be visible, professional, and constant—especially at open public spaces where families gather. For example, Circle Park, which on Shabbos is filled with Jewish families including babies and children, must have a dedicated security presence. Large public parks are inherently vulnerable, and pretending otherwise is an invitation to tragedy. Professional security, coordination with LAPD, controlled access during events, and clear emergency protocols are necessities, not overreactions.

At the same time, the Jewish community must strengthen communication systems, real-time alerts, and coordination among synagogues, schools, and community organizations. Education and counter-hate initiatives matter, but they cannot substitute for physical protection. Equally important is addressing the emotional toll—ensuring access to mental-health support and reinforcing communal resilience so that fear does not become the defining feature of Jewish public life.

The Bondi Beach massacre was a rupture, exposing the consequences of complacency, delayed response, and moral ambiguity in the face of rising hatred. Yet it also revealed something else: courage, solidarity, and moral clarity in the darkest moments. As Josh Frydenberg made clear, remembrance without accountability is hollow. For Jewish communities from Sydney to Los Angeles, this tragedy is a call to vigilance, unity, and decisive action. The lights of Hanukkah are meant to push back darkness—but only if leaders and communities alike are willing to defend them, together.