You can't fix what you won't even name
In a Sydney hearing room, Jewish Australians — many of them children — placed before a Royal Commission the quiet, corrosive weight of living under hatred: the Nazi salutes in school bathrooms, the sleepless nights after terror, the unanswerable question of where a family might finally be safe. Outside the same building, a man in a swastika shirt drank his coffee, embodying in plain sight the very force the commission was convened to examine. Announced in the wake of the Bondi Beach terror attack and formally called by Prime Minister Albanese in January 2026, the inquiry seeks not only to name anti-Semitism but to measure how deeply it has threaded itself through Australian institutions and daily life. It is, at its core, a reckoning with whether a society can protect the belonging of all its members — and what it costs when it fails.
- A man wearing a swastika shirt stood metres from the hearing entrance, casually drinking coffee while inside, Jewish children described the terror that symbol inflicts on their lives.
- Testimony revealed a pattern of school-based harassment — Hitler salutes in bathrooms, mocking chants on excursions, and a social media group called 'Hitler support group' — that educators repeatedly failed to confront or even name.
- A 10-year-old asked her father where their family could go if neither Israel nor Australia was safe; he had no answer, and the question has not left him.
- A 13-year-old locked down during the Bondi attack still wakes from nightmares, hides her Jewish jewelry in public, and fears walking alone — her childhood reshaped by a terror she watched through glass doors.
- The Royal Commission is working to formally define anti-Semitism, map its reach across Australian institutions, and forge a path toward accountability — but witnesses are already living the urgency its findings must meet.
On a Wednesday morning in Sydney's CBD, a 68-year-old man stood outside 83 Clarence Street wearing a shirt emblazoned with a swastika and the words 'Anti-Semitism. Proud to be accused. Speak up!' He described it as a protest against social media censorship. Police issued a move-on direction and he complied, walking to the end of the block. Inside, the Royal Commission on Anti-Semitism and Social Cohesion was hearing its third day of testimony. The commission called it appalling. The proximity — hatred performed in plain sight while its victims testified metres away — was not lost on anyone.
The accounts from inside the hearing room described anti-Semitism not as isolated incidents but as a texture woven into daily life. A teacher's aide recounted students surrounding Jewish children on a Melbourne excursion, chanting and laughing, and the following year, boys cornering those same children in a school bathroom to perform Hitler salutes. A parent broke down describing his 10-year-old daughter asking him where their family could go if both Israel and Australia felt unsafe. He had no answer. The question, he said, haunted him.
A teenager identified only as AAG described the day after the Bondi Beach terror attack, when a classmate performed a Hitler salute directly at her — one incident among many, including peers saying 'A Jew' instead of 'Achoo.' Her mother told the commission that when she raised the harassment with the school's deputy principal, he repeated a rehearsed line about zero tolerance for racism but refused to use the word anti-Semitism. 'You can't fix what you won't even name,' she said.
The most affecting testimony came from a 13-year-old who had been locked down at a bat mitzvah at Bondi Pavilion on December 14, watching through glass doors as hundreds of people fled screaming outside. She did not see the shooting, but the day had not left her. Months on, she still woke from nightmares. The sound of a balloon popping sent some of her friends into panic. She had begun hiding her Jewish jewelry in public and found herself unable to walk alone, afraid of what might happen. 'I don't think Jewish kids should be scared to live normally like other kids do,' she told the commission. 'It's not fair. I hope the commission can help us.'
The two-week hearing, formally called by Prime Minister Albanese in January following sustained pressure after the December attack, is tasked with defining anti-Semitism, measuring its prevalence across Australian institutions, and determining how to assess its reach. The testimony it is receiving makes plain that the question is not abstract — it is the lived reality of children trying to find a place where they are simply allowed to belong.
Outside a Sydney office building on a Wednesday morning, a man in a swastika shirt stood drinking coffee while, metres away inside, Jewish Australians testified about the fear that symbol represents. The man, who identified himself as Ian Minus, wore a shirt bearing the Nazi emblem alongside text reading "Anti-Semitism. Proud to be accused. Speak up!" He was there as the Royal Commission on Anti-Semitism and Social Cohesion held its third day of hearings at 83 Clarence Street in the CBD. When police approached him about the banned hate symbol, he asked reporters whether what he was wearing was "clearly a swastika," claiming he was simply enjoying a beverage on a public street. He described his shirt as protest against social media censorship. Police issued him a move-on direction, and the 68-year-old complied, walking to the end of the block. A commission spokesperson said they were "appalled" by the incident and emphasized that safety protocols were in place for witnesses.
Inside the hearing room, the testimony painted a picture of systematic harassment woven into the daily lives of Jewish children across Australia. Blake Shaw, a teacher's aide, described a school excursion in Melbourne where older students from another school surrounded his young charges, laughing and chanting "Free Palestine." When he asked the other teacher to intervene, the man dismissed it as simply the students' beliefs. The following year, boys confronted Shaw's students in a bathroom, performing Hitler salutes and shouting the Nazi greeting. The children emerged distressed.
Dean Cherny, a parent, broke down while recounting a conversation with his 10-year-old daughter. She had asked him: if Israel wasn't safe and Australia wasn't safe, where would their family go? He had no answer. The question, he said, haunted him—that his child lay in bed at night consumed not by childhood peace but by existential fear about where she could belong.
A teenager identified only as AAG testified about the day after the Bondi Beach terror attack. A student at school performed a Hitler salute directly at her, staring and laughing. This came after months of other incidents: classmates saying "A Jew" instead of "Achoo" when sneezing, mocking her faith. AAG's mother, known as AAE, described speaking to the school's deputy principal about the harassment. He repeated the phrase "we have a zero tolerance to racism" but refused to use the word anti-Semitism. "You can't fix what you won't even name," she told the commission, explaining how that refusal had shattered her trust in the school's ability to protect her children. Her eldest child had been added to a social media group called "Hitler support group" while in high school.
The most wrenching testimony came from a 13-year-old girl who was locked down at a bat mitzvah celebration at Bondi Pavilion on December 14 as the alleged terror attack unfolded outside. Through glass doors, she watched hundreds of people fleeing and screaming. She did not witness the shooting itself, but the terror of that day had carved itself into her mind. Months later, she still woke from nightmares. Some of her friends had become so traumatized that the sound of a balloon popping triggered panic. She spoke of the 10-year-old girl killed in the attack, Matilda, and how the sight of the Bondi Bridge or the sound of sirens sent her back to that day. She had tried to hide her Jewish jewelry when out in public. She wanted independence like other teenagers but found herself paralyzed by anxiety about walking alone, afraid another anti-Semitic incident might occur. Her school had increased security. "I don't think Jewish kids should be scared to live normally like other kids do," she said, her voice steady but weighted. "It's not fair. I hope the commission can help us."
The two-week hearing, announced after the December 14 attack and formally called by Prime Minister Anthony Albanese in January following sustained pressure, aims to define anti-Semitism, measure its prevalence across Australian institutions and society, and determine how to assess its reach. The commission's work unfolds against a backdrop of escalating incidents—not abstract policy questions but the lived reality of children afraid to be themselves in their own country.
Citações Notáveis
I don't think Jewish kids should be scared to live normally like other kids do. It's not fair. I hope the commission can help us.— A 13-year-old girl who was locked down during the Bondi Beach attack
You can't fix what you won't even name— A mother (AAE) describing her school's refusal to use the word anti-Semitism
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does a man wearing a swastika shirt outside a hearing about anti-Semitism matter? Isn't he just exercising free speech?
Because the timing and location aren't accidental. He's standing metres from people testifying about the terror that symbol causes them. It's not speech in a vacuum—it's speech designed to intimidate witnesses in the act of seeking justice.
The commission called it "appalling." What would actually help these children feel safer?
The testimony suggests two things: schools need to name anti-Semitism explicitly, not hide behind generic "zero tolerance" language. And adults need to believe children when they report it. One mother said talking to her school felt like talking to a brick wall.
A 13-year-old still has nightmares from Bondi. How does a country heal from that?
Not by pretending it's over. She's still afraid to walk alone, still triggered by sirens. Healing requires acknowledging that the attack didn't end on December 14—it's still happening in her nervous system, in her friends' reactions to balloons popping.
What struck you most in the testimony?
A 10-year-old asking her father where the family could be safe if neither Israel nor Australia was safe. He had no answer. That question—asked by a child who should be thinking about school and friends—that's the real measure of what's broken.
Is the commission's investigation likely to change anything?
Only if schools and institutions actually listen and act. The mother was clear: you can't fix what you won't name. The commission can investigate all it wants, but if schools keep saying "zero tolerance racism" instead of "anti-Semitism," nothing changes.