In the wake of unspeakable tragedy, one rabbi’s daily vigils at Bondi Beach are proving that unity, not division, is the antidote to antisemitism. But here’s where it gets controversial: can moments of shared grief truly bridge the divides that fuel hatred? Rabbi Yossi Friedman believes they can.
As the sun dips below the horizon at Bondi Beach, Rabbi Friedman’s voice rises in Hebrew song. Standing outside the Bondi Pavilion, he recites the names and shares the stories of the 15 lives brutally taken just meters away. What began as a spontaneous act of remembrance the day after the December 14th terrorist attack has now become a thrice-daily ritual—at 7:30am, 1pm, and 7:30pm—drawing mourners, onlookers, and even those who stumble upon the vigil by chance.
The floral tributes that once carpeted the path leading up the hill have long since been cleared, but the outpouring of solidarity continues. People still bring flowers, candles, and stones—a Jewish tradition of remembrance—transforming the space into what Friedman calls a ‘beautiful, holy sanctuary of reflection and connection.’ And this is the part most people miss: it’s not just about mourning; it’s about infusing meaning into silence, a core principle of Judaism that Friedman has woven into these vigils.
In the first week, he shared the victims’ names and stories every hour, accompanied by the Kaddish—the Jewish mourner’s prayer—and Oseh Shalom, a song of peace. Today, the vigils include Psalm 23:4 and conclude with the Australian national anthem. Friedman plans to continue at least until the end of the 30-day mourning period, a deeply significant tradition in Judaism.
What sparked this movement? Friedman, who serves as a ‘rabbi on demand,’ recognized the need for a communal space after the public tributes of flowers and messages were removed just one week after the attack. ‘The flowers were taken away too soon,’ he reflects. ‘People still needed a place to grieve.’ And grieve they do—hundreds continue to gather, seeking solace and connection.
Among them is Shoshana Ghent, who visited the site one Monday afternoon. ‘All I can do is leave a stone and say Kaddish,’ she shares, her voice heavy with sorrow. Laura and her partner Leslie, former Bondi residents, describe Friedman’s vigil as an ‘anchor’ in their grief. ‘Hearing the names, singing together—it’s incredibly powerful,’ Laura says, her words echoing the collective pain of not just this tragedy, but the broader struggles of the Jewish community over the past two years.
Here’s the bold truth: Friedman’s vigils are more than memorials; they’re a call to action. He’s begun inviting survivors of the Hanukkah party attack to share their testimonies, like Rabbi Mendy Litzman, a Hatzolah paramedic who triaged over 50 gunshot victims that fateful night. ‘Leaving a patient who’s still breathing, knowing you have to save the next one—it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done,’ Litzman confesses, his voice breaking. Yet, he stands firm: ‘We must return to this place. We must stand united.’
Friedman’s ultimate goal? To keep the victims’ stories alive and build a movement of unity, regardless of faith or background. He recounts a poignant moment when a Muslim man approached him, tears in his eyes, sharing how he’d preached solidarity with the Jewish community at his mosque. ‘We’re all human beings,’ Friedman reflects. ‘This should never happen to anyone.’
The outpouring of support from non-Jews in Australia has been profound, and Friedman believes it’s the key to healing. ‘Jews can’t do it alone,’ he asserts. But can this unity truly ‘cure’ antisemitism? That’s the question that divides opinions. While some see it as a powerful step forward, others argue systemic change is needed. What do you think? Can shared grief dismantle hatred, or is it just the beginning? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s keep this conversation going.
