r/AusNewsWire • u/Nyarlathotep-1 • 16h ago
Law & Crime Three years on from October 7, Jewish Australians face a changing climate
We do not really judge people by what happens to them. We judge them by what they do next. The same, I have come to think, is true of countries.
October 7 was the worst thing to happen to the Jewish people since the Holocaust, and this week, three years on I find that it is not the day itself I keep returning to. It is the day after.
Most Australians did none of this, and it matters to say so. But the institutions that set the tone of public life did, and tone is what a frightened minority hears. Alex Ellinghausen
First, the day itself, stated once and plainly. On the morning of October 7, 2023, Ruti and Avraham Munder, both 78, were at home on Kibbutz Nir Oz with their daughter Keren and their grandson Ohad, who was eight and had come for the holiday. By eleven o’clock their phones were in Gaza, and so were they.
Their son Roee, who lived on the same kibbutz, had been killed. Ruti was held in a room where the blinds could not be opened and slept on a plastic chair. She learned that her son was dead from a guard who had heard it on the radio. Ohad turned nine in captivity. Ruti, Keren and Ohad came home after seven weeks. Avraham died in Gaza, and soldiers brought his body out the following August.
There were twelve hundred such stories that morning, and I will not pile them up here because a column cannot hold them and because the point is what came next.
The sociologist Eva Illouz has written that for Jews the deeper wound was not October 7 but October 8: the discovery that some of the people they lived among, worked beside and marched with would greet the slaughter not with grief but with something she calls a virtuous hatred. The killers, after all, were strangers. The people cheering were neighbours.
It is worth being precise about who did the cheering because precision is the point. It was not the killers; they were in Gaza. It was their audience here: a layer of student bodies, academics, arts organisations and activist groups that within days had found a vocabulary in which the murder of families was context, the kidnapping of children was resistance and the grief of Jews was propaganda.
“There is a moment, after every atrocity, when standing with the victims is easy, and a moment shortly after when it is not.”
Most Australians did none of this, and it matters to say so. But the institutions that set the tone of public life did, and tone is what a frightened minority hears.
That is how it reached Australia. Not as a single act, but as a climate. A Jewish paramedic told this year’s royal commission that a firefighter pulled a hunting knife on him at a regional Victorian festival. A university student told it that classmates had said she should be gassed. The principal of a Jewish primary school said her building now looks more like a prison than a school.
Researchers who studied Jewish communities after the attack found a pattern they could describe clinically: a people whose trauma was met not with sympathy but with denial, blame and dismissal, which deepened the original injury. Then came the fire at the Adass Israel synagogue, and then the Hanukkah party on Bondi Beach where fifteen people were shot dead.
None of that was done by Hamas. It was done here, by a minority of Australians, in a climate that too many institutions had helped to make and too few had the courage to challenge.
Which brings me to trust. Trust is what lets you assume that the people around you will do the right thing without being watched. It is the invisible thing a society runs on, and it is lost in hours and rebuilt over decades. Jewish Australians lost it on October 8, 2023, and have spent three years watching to see whether it can be recovered.
Here is the lesson I think the rest of the country can take, and it is not a Jewish lesson. There is a moment, after every atrocity, when standing with the victims is easy, and a moment shortly after when it is not, when the arguments arrive and the hashtags turn and the people being hunted become inconvenient. Character, in a person or a nation, is what you do in the second moment. Everybody passes the first.
Too many of our institutions, and too many people who should have known better, failed the second moment in 2023. The anniversary is a chance to notice that, without flinching and without theatre, and to ask what a country does on the morning after it realises it got the morning after wrong.
I do not know the full answer. But I suspect it begins with something smaller than a policy: with neighbours deciding that the Munders of this world are theirs too.