Since October 7, many of us have felt—in our bones—what Jewish history has long taught: that not just one enemy has risen to destroy us, but in every generation, many rise against us.
Before that day, I loved that line in the Haggadah as a song, not a truth. It felt like something from the shtetl, not from modern Australia. I knew our history, but it wasn’t my lived reality.
I grew up in peace. The worst antisemitism I’d personally experienced was being called a “bloody Jew” by a drunk on a Saturday morning. That changed in an instant.
On October 7, we saw a level of brutality we couldn’t have imagined—the joy with which it was carried out, the scale, the horror.
What I never expected was the world’s reaction. While the carnage was still ongoing, the streets filled with chants in support of the perpetrators. This wasn’t just fringe extremists. Elites in Western media, academia, and politics echoed these sentiments. Anti-Israel sentiment quickly and seamlessly bled into open antisemitism.
And then, perhaps most jarring of all, were the Jewish voices who joined the chorus.
Some did so out of ideological blindness, others out of fear, careerism, or a desperate need to feel accepted by the dominant narrative. Whatever the reason, their public betrayal stung in a way nothing else did. They lent moral cover to people calling for our destruction. They softened the blow of terror by framing it as resistance. They stood not just apart from us—but against us.
We were exhausted defending our right to exist. We became cautious. Jewish identifiers became risks. Events were shared only with the trusted. Our normal had changed.
Then came June 13, 2025. A day that will be remembered as a second Purim. The IDF launched a preemptive strike against the modern-day Haman of Persia: the Islamic Republic of Iran. This regime, long considered untouchable, was dealt a blow it has yet to recover from. It was an astonishing act of courage, defiance, and strategic brilliance—an unmistakable declaration that the Jewish people will never again wait passively for their fate to be decided by others.
Just as October 7 brought the trauma of Jewish history crashing into our present, June 13 reminded us of the miracle of Jewish survival.
I don’t believe in an interventionist God—such a being would have too much to answer for—but even I find it hard not to see something cosmic in our moment.
This journey has made us more resilient, more connected, more awake. We’ve seen righteous non-Jews stand up with moral clarity, and we’ve had to ask ourselves hard questions: Why stay Jewish? Why not fade into the mainstream?
The Torah calls us a “light unto the nations.” I used to dismiss that as religious platitude. But as an aspiration, it now feels essential. I don’t understand why Jews are hated. I don’t really understand how we survive. But over and over again, somehow, we endure—and in doing so, we teach the world simple, enduring truths.
Today, the truth is this:
Am Yisrael Chai!
*this was written on Friday 22nd June, 2 days before the US military obliterated three nuclear sites in Iran, including Fordow.