I genuinely thought we were going to be attacked
In the weeks following a royal commission convened after a deadly terror attack on a Hanukkah gathering, Jewish Australians are offering testimony that maps a quieter, more intimate geography of prejudice — one that lives not only in violence but in the progressive communities, pride parades, and school hallways where belonging was once promised. A gay Jewish teacher and a university student have described fear, slurs, and exclusion from the very circles that once offered them refuge, asking a society to reckon with the uncomfortable truth that antisemitism does not belong to any single ideology or space.
- A man who found acceptance as a gay teenager in progressive circles discovered those same communities turned hostile after he converted to Judaism — former friends called him slurs and accused him of supporting genocide.
- Before marching in Sydney's Mardi Gras with a Jewish LGBTQIA+ group, he sent his sister his location and a message of love, preparing as someone who genuinely feared he might not come home safely.
- Protesters surrounded the group on Oxford Street, chanting and accusing the marchers of genocide — despite the group carrying no Israeli flags, only symbols of their Jewish identity.
- A university student separately testified that classmates told her she should be gassed, and that her school's response was to demand names before acting — leaving her largely unprotected.
- Both testimonies are being heard by a royal commission established after 15 people were killed at a Hanukkah event in December 2024, as Australia formally examines how antisemitism moves through its institutions and communities.
- The inquiry is surfacing a pattern: prejudice shapes not just moments of violence but the daily calculus of where Jewish Australians feel safe enough to exist visibly and authentically.
Benjamin F came out as gay as a teenager and found acceptance in the LGBTQIA+ community. When he converted to Judaism in 2022, he expected something similar. Instead, former friends called him Jewish slurs and accused him of supporting genocide. The progressive spaces that had once embraced him became hostile. "It's lonely," he told the Royal Commission on Antisemitism and Social Cohesion.
Earlier this year, he marched with Dayenu, a Jewish LGBTQIA+ group, in Sydney's Mardi Gras. Before leaving home, he made sure a colleague knew his whereabouts and sent his sister a message with his location — and that he loved her. The group wore Stars of David but carried no Israeli flags. On Oxford Street, protesters surrounded them, shouting accusations of genocide and chanting "Free Palestine." Benjamin F described it as one of the scariest moments of his life — a visceral, guttural fear that violence was imminent. Another group, Pride in Protest, had already been removed from the parade over inflammatory posts targeting Dayenu.
He told the commission he still fears for his safety and cannot live what he called "a true and authentic Jewish life." He was afraid even walking into the hearing room.
Maya Hockey, a university student, offered a different but parallel account. As the only Jewish student in her year at a Christian high school, classmates told her she should be gassed. When her parents reported it, the school said it could not act without names. When the Holocaust appeared in the Year 10 curriculum, the lessons felt rushed — more sympathetic to perpetrators than instructive about victims.
Together, their testimonies trace antisemitism not as a single dramatic rupture but as something woven into everyday spaces — schools, friendship groups, pride events — and into the quiet decisions people make about where they can safely be themselves. The royal commission was established after 15 people were killed at a Hanukkah gathering in December 2024, but the stories emerging from it suggest the reckoning required goes far beyond that single act of violence.
Benjamin F came out as gay to his family and friends as a teenager, and the LGBTQIA+ community welcomed him. Years later, when he told those same people he had converted to Judaism in 2022, the response was nothing like the acceptance he had known. "It was quite horrific actually," he told the Royal Commission on Antisemitism and Social Cohesion this week. Former friends called him Jewish slurs. They accused him of supporting genocide. The progressive circles that had once embraced him now felt hostile, unwelcoming, unsafe. "It's lonely," he said.
Earlier this year, Benjamin F marched with Dayenu, a Jewish LGBTQIA+ group, during Sydney's Mardi Gras parade. Before he left his house, he made sure a colleague knew exactly where he would be. He sent his sister a message telling her his location and that he loved her—a precaution, a contingency, a small act of someone preparing for the possibility of violence. The group wore Stars of David and other symbols of their faith. They carried no Israeli flags. They were simply Jewish people, marching visibly, in public, in daylight.
Walking up Oxford Street, Benjamin F experienced what he described as one of the scariest moments of his life. Protesters surrounded the group. They shouted that the marchers were genocide supporters. They chanted "Free Palestine." The fear was visceral, primal—what he called a "guttural fear" that an attack was coming. The Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras had already removed another group, Pride in Protest, from the parade after a series of inflammatory social media posts directed at Dayenu. The threat felt real.
Since that day, Benjamin F said he continues to fear for his safety. He cannot live what he called "a true and authentic Jewish life." He was afraid even walking into the royal commission hearing room, worried that members of the public might heckle him. His testimony was one of dozens given this week as the inquiry examined the lived experience of antisemitism in Australia.
The commission itself was established in response to the Bondi terror attack on December 14, when 15 people were killed at a Hanukkah event at Archer Park. That tragedy opened a formal investigation into antisemitism and social cohesion in the country. But Benjamin F's story points to something quieter and more pervasive: the way prejudice operates not just in moments of violence, but in the everyday spaces where people gather—in progressive communities, at pride events, among friends who once offered acceptance.
Maya Hockey, a university student, offered another dimension of this experience. At her Christian high school, she was the only Jewish student in her year. Classmates told her she should be gassed because she was Jewish. When her parents reported the bullying to the school, administrators said nothing could be done without the names of the students involved. Some of her friends eventually changed their behavior after she confronted them directly about the remarks. But when the Holocaust and antisemitism came up in Year 10 curriculum, the lessons felt rushed and incomplete—what she described as a "Hitler sympathy session" rather than genuine education about the impact on the Jewish community.
Both testimonies reveal a pattern: antisemitism operates across different spaces and communities, sometimes from people who consider themselves progressive, sometimes from institutions that claim to care about inclusion. The fear is not abstract. It shapes where people go, what they wear, who they tell, whether they can be themselves.
Citações Notáveis
It was quite horrific actually— Benjamin F, on the response from former friends after his religious conversion
It's lonely— Benjamin F, on no longer feeling safe in progressive circles
I was scared walking in here today— Benjamin F, on his fear even attending the royal commission hearing
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does it matter that Benjamin F's rejection came from progressive spaces specifically? Couldn't that have happened anywhere?
Because he had reason to expect better. The LGBTQIA+ community had shown him what acceptance looked like when he came out as gay. When that same community turned on him for being Jewish, it wasn't just rejection—it was betrayal. It suggested that solidarity has limits, that some identities are acceptable and others aren't.
Did he feel unsafe because of the actual threat of violence, or because of the hostility itself?
Both, but they're inseparable. The hostility created the threat. Protesters surrounding a small group, chanting, calling them genocide supporters—that's not just words. In that moment, on that street, he couldn't know if it would stay verbal. The fear was rational.
Why did he tell his sister where he was before marching?
Because he was genuinely afraid something might happen to him. That's what it means to fear for your life—you take precautions. You leave a trail. You say goodbye just in case.
What does "a true and authentic Jewish life" mean to him?
It means being able to wear his faith openly, to march with his community, to exist without calculating the risk. Right now, he can't do that. He's always calculating.
How does Maya Hockey's experience connect to his?
Both show that antisemitism isn't just about violence or extremists. It's embedded in schools, in friend groups, in institutions. And when people try to address it, they're often told it's not serious enough to warrant action.