Shock. Bewilderment. Panic. Dread. A reflex, even in the immediate aftermath, that something precious about Australia has been pierced.
A terrorist attack at Bondi Beach, targeted at Sydney’s Jewish community.
Even typing the words the next morning feels unreal. We will remember where we were, what we were doing, when it happened.
Not all the details – just the moment our stomachs dropped. Hands trembling at the first buzzes on WhatsApp. The frantic scrolling of Instagram feeds. Eyewitness videos that load, then stop, then load again.
I was walking home, having left a local event in Carlingford. Lights. Families. Children still singing. I shared the news with a stranger on the pavement. We stood there, phones in hand, watching footage of two armed men firing into a crowd on the beachfront.
“What’s happening to society?” I heard myself say. He shook his head. What’s becoming of us.
The next day, it still hasn’t sunk in. I keep imagining the scene. Blood on the grass. The dead and the maimed. People trying to help. The moment when the sound stopped being confusing and became unmistakable. Not fireworks. Not celebration.
Beachgoers running, scaling hills, hiding behind cars, fleeing into back streets, losing sight of friends, parents grabbing for children – that primal fear, the kind most of us have not known and hope never to know, flooding the body all at once.
It’s important to note this was not random, in the way we sometimes say to protect ourselves. This was a deliberate act of antisemitic hatred. A community gathered in peace, celebrating Chanukah by the Sea, was attacked because of who they are.
I cannot imagine what Jewish Australians are experiencing today. The question that must be echoing: Are we safe here? Why weren’t we safe? Everybody in this country should be free to practise their faith openly, proudly. That is the Australia we believe in.
I also grieve for us. Our worst fears realised. Shots fired into a crowd. A mass-casualty terrorism event. Many parents try to shield their children from violent images to preserve their innocence. They might not let them watch too much of the news. But events like this expand our map of human darkness. They whisper that Australia was never the shield we imagined.
Bondi Beach is not simply a beautiful place. It’s the ultimate calling card of a nation meant to be happy, carefree and open to the world. And it belongs to everyone – surfers catching a break, influencers meditating on clifftops, families with sand between their toes. It’s where so many of us have tried the yoga studios or wine bars, sipped from its smoothie counters, or triumphantly completed the City2Surf. And it’s where we proudly take visitors to show off who we are.
For me, it’s where I go to find peace. All the way from Parramatta, as much as three nights a week during summer, simply to run along the boardwalk or the sand, leaving my belongings out in the open, never worrying they won’t be there when I return.
How many of us thought about the beach yesterday? I almost went. The weather was perfect – I had my swimmers in my bag – but changed plans at the last minute so as not to be late for the carols.
The Prime Minister said that in moments of darkness we must be each other’s light. It’s a simple phrase, but it feels right. There will be anger in the days ahead – that’s human. But anger, left unchecked, only generates heat. It doesn’t help us see the way forward.
Those responsible wanted nihilism. They wanted fear. They wanted fracture. They wanted Australians to turn on one another, to entrench hatreds that do not belong on our streets – let alone our beaches. Will we give them that victory?
If there is a different story from last night, it lies in the actions of a single bystander. As shots rang out, a man ran towards danger and crash-tackled one of the gunmen. The Premier called it the most extraordinary footage he had ever seen.
With one act of bravery, he neutralised half the threat. He gave police time. He left people space to escape. He did it, not knowing if the attacker had another weapon, a suicide vest, or accomplices nearby.
We are told his name is Ahmed al Ahmed. We will learn more about him, but perhaps the most important thing is this: he was an everyman – balding, unremarkable – who did something not everyone would attempt. In a moment of terror, he chose instinctively to protect the innocent.
Let’s let that sit. Something quietly profound. Not a slogan. Not a sermon. Just a reminder of who we are at our best.
That, too, is Australia.
Alan is a journalist and communications specialist. He writes a weekly column for Parra News.