Mourning my Australian identity

I’m mourning my Australian identity.

Israel is my mission, but Australia was my peace. It was a silent anchor that kept me grounded when life felt untethered. It was the only place where I didn’t have to be a “Zionist,” a “Jew” or a “target” – I could just be a guy on a beach, shielded by a society that seemed to have outrun the reach of ancient hatreds.

Australia always represented the “safe room” in my mind. No matter how tense things got here in the Jewish state, Australia was that garden of tranquility I could daydream over.

It was the physical manifestation of Francis Fukuyama’s “The End of History” – a place where the ideological wars were far removed, the only thing surrounding you are oceans and the biggest worry was the cricket score.

The “End of Jewish History” had arrived Down Under, and we were living this privileged moment. It was the proof that after 2,000 years of wandering, Jews in the Diaspora could finally be just another thread in a multicultural tapestry. Ordinary. Boring. Safe.

It was a place where you didn’t need to look over your shoulder while wearing a kippah. A place where “Jewish” could just be an afterthought, perhaps secondary to “Australian” for some. A place where the fence surrounding the Jewish day school was knee-high and you could easily climb over to retrieve your footy.

Israel was where Jewish history was being written – exciting, demanding, and perpetually on the defensive. But Australia? Australia was the exhale. Even when rockets rained down on me, I took solace in knowing my parents in Melbourne were safe.

That solace is gone. The “safe room” has been breached. The Australia of my childhood no longer exists.

I grew up in the true Australian experiment. My public primary school was a melting pot of Italians, Cambodians, Koreans, Scots, and Poles. I remember a new classmate in fourth grade, Ryo, who arrived from Japan speaking no English. We communicated through a clunky electronic translator. I would type in English; he would read the Japanese, his face lighting up with understanding.

That was the Australia I believed in. A place where difference was a bridge, not a barrier. A place where people left the hatreds of the Old World behind to build a better future.

But I was wrong. The hatred wasn’t left behind; it was just dormant.

Today, that Australian dream is being dismantled by a perfect storm of Far-Right neo-Nazis, Far-Left radicals, Jihadist sympathizers and a failed attempt to assimilate immigrant communities that brought their hatred with them and refused to yield to the values that made the country great.

And facilitating it all – an unsympathetic (and perhaps apathetic?) federal leadership that spent their formative years in pro-Palestinian circles and their years in power gaslighting the Jewish community – now ostensibly tasked with protecting us.

In September, Neo-Nazis marched on the Victorian Parliament, Australia’s bona fide Charlottesville-“Jews will not replace us”-moment. Since October 7, “Pro-Palestinian” mobs have gone all out targeting Jewish neighborhoods, protesting outside synagogues, and doxing Jewish creatives. And earlier this week at Bondi, we witnessed the wrath of radical Islamism unleashed at the beach

We saw the mask slip completely on October 9, 2023, at the Sydney Opera House – before Israel had begun to fight back – with celebrations of glee and chants of “Gas the Jews.”

We witnessed 100,000 people marching across the Sydney Harbour Bridge for a conflict Australia has no part in and little leverage over, while remaining deafeningly silent on the actual genocides occurring in Sudan, Yemen, and Syria. The hypocrisy is not an accident; it is a message.

I’ve spent the last few days speaking to Jewish friends back in Oz. The overwhelming sentiment is heartbreak and fear.

The song “I Still Call Australia Home” no longer resonates; it stings.

There is a bitter aftertaste now, a realization that the “multicultural deal” came with fine print we didn’t read: You are welcome to keep your bagels and your holidays, but check your Zionism – and your spine – at the door.

The Australia I loved – the land of the fair go, the land of “no worries” – has been replaced by a society that tolerates intolerance, provided it targets the right set of people.

Before heading to Australia last month, my wife asked me, “Is it safe?”

Think about that for a moment. I live in Israel, surrounded by enemies. Yet for the first time in my life, I am more concerned for the security of my family in Oz than I am about myself here.

For me, this isn’t just about politics. It represents the death of the last hope that a truly decent society is possible for my people in the Diaspora.

Jews loved and contributed to the Sunburnt Country, but today that is a painful, unrequited love.

The Australia that we knew is now just another chapter in the long history of Jewish exile.

Peter Allen sang, “I Still Call Australia Home.” Today, those lyrics feel less like an anthem and more like a question that Australian Jews can no longer answer “yes” to.

The holiday from history is over.

And the “Lucky Country” is just another chapter in the story we thought we’d escaped.