The second week of July was a shattering week for Melbourne’s Jews. An attack on yet another synagogue; a burnt door with a congregation sharing a Shabbat meal intimidated. An outrageous affront on diners at the Israeli restaurant, Miznon, as they sat down in the spirit of the Sabbath to sing songs and eat traditional foods.
The mystical angels of peace that Jewish people invite to bless their shared Sabbath meal – singing them in with the warm stanzas “welcome messengers from heaven, welcome in messengers of peace“ – must have been stunned by the hatred and violence that they encountered.
It was a shattering moment for my community – with its menacing memories of 1933 Kristallnacht, Germany, that night of broken windows, burning synagogues, and broken dreams. This moment seemed to encapsulate, more than any other the past 18 months since October 7, how the mighty had fallen, how the proud multiculturalism of our magnificent Melbourne had become a place of malign malaise, of uncertainty, and of fear for its Jewish citizens.
On a personal level, it was also the week that I shattered my shoulder, slipping ingloriously in the rain. Wincing with pain, my pain bled into the pain of my people. It got me thinking of the vulnerability of our lives, how our self-confidence and self-assurance of place can so easily be decimated, how fragile we are, how we balance on a thin thread of eternity, so easily brushed away like a moth before a flame. It got me wondering about faith and fate, and the encrypted messages that God sends our way. Was the Divine sending me a missive? Was the Almighty sending the Jews of Melbourne a warning? Should I have been celebrating that my fall was broken by a shoulder and not by my head hitting a rock? Did God save me, or did He trip me up?
Was the good Lord saying to the Jews of Melbourne, why have you become so complacent thinking that this place was immune from the pandemic of antisemitism sweeping the world? Or perhaps the Almighty was assuring us that we come from a mighty people who have withstood centuries of hostility, and created bounties of creativity and nobility and contributed so much to the betterment of Australia and the civilisation of humanity – from Moses to Monash, Einstein to Governor-General Sir Zelman Cowen. That this time and these abysmal actions will pass, that there is a deep and abiding goodness in this ancient continent, that the people of Australia are not anti-Jewish nor racist in their bones?
Notwithstanding this, it made me agonise about something else that fractures us namely the broken ‘timber of humanity‘, the pain and egregious harm we can cause others.
Hatred knows no religious, racial or cultural boundaries. Antisemitism is a hatred of the other. It’s scapegoating. It’s a sickness. It’s a virus that cannot be cured by Jews. Only the antisemite can do that – together with the society to which they belong.
We Jewish people have a strong, proud and ancient connection to the land of Israel, but can’t be held responsible for all the actions of the Israeli state, nor for the mistakes of its government; and we can’t resolve its vexing moral challenges. And we cannot and we should not allow these dilemmas to be expressed through violence, intimidation and harassment directed at our community on the streets of Melbourne. In the last fortnight the targeting of the Gandel family for its philanthropy to the National Gallery of Victoria, coming just days after the Jewish primary school students were called dirty Jews during an excursion to Melbourne Museum were as egregious as they were outrageous.
My fall and the events in the city also got me reflecting on how menace and malevolence are matched by resilience and benevolence. I experienced the compassion, support and generosity of so many after my accident. In Melbourne, there was an astonishing outpouring of goodness and support after the events of July 4. I’m not just referring to the leaders and politicians who responded with alacrity and alarm, but to the many ordinary citizens of Melbourne who came bearing gifts of love and support. And I’m proud of my many friends of different faiths, and of no faith, who stood together saying this is not the Melbourne we want, this is not the city we celebrate.
Faith leaders who gathered on the steps of the synagogue were led by Catholic Archbishop Comensoli who said it was an honour ‘to be able to stand here with you’ outside the East Melbourne Synagogue and ‘amongst a number of other religious buildings here on the hill’. He added ‘to be able to stand together, to come together in healing and in reconciliation, and in respect of one another is … a message that is so much needed for our city at this moment… in the face of such darkness, we are reminded of the strength of faith, the resilience of community, and the power of unity. Please know that you are not alone’.
And I’m lifted by the spirit of my fellow Jewish Melbournians and their many non-Jewish compatriots who flocked to the synagogue the following Sabbaths to sing and dance and pray and eat together within this battered community.
Bones may heal, but hearts take a lot longer to overcome their hurt. And doors may be burnt, but doors can be rebuilt; doorways unprotected may let in the hounds of hell, but doors can also be opened wide with security and confidence to let the love and light flow back in.
This is also the message of the saddest day on the Jewish calendar which we commemorate on Sunday 3 August, The Ninth of Av. Jewish Tradition recalls this day as one on which causeless hatred destroyed the city of Jerusalem and its glorious Temple. Said Rabbi Kook if this sacred place was decimated by senseless hatred it will only be rebuilt by unconditional gratuitous love. Let the light and love back in …
Shabbat Shalom.
Rabbi Ralph
