Ed Husic (Chifley, Australian Labor Party) Share this | Hansard source

Early one morning last December, a rabbi and I stood quietly together on the footbridge overlooking that patch of Bondi that's becoming abominably attached to an awful chapter in our history. We earlier visited the memorial at Bondi Pavilion. Respecting an old Jewish tradition, I placed a stone amongst the flowers and wreaths. In this tradition, stones endure. They represent a commitment to remember—to remember Matilda, Edith Brutman, Dan Elkayam, Boris and Sofia Gurman, Alexander Kleytman, Rabbi Yaakov Levitan, Peter Meagher, Reuven Morrison, Marika Pogany, Rabbi Eli Schlanger, Adam Smyth, Boris Tetleroyd, Tania Tretiak and Tibor Weitzen. We remember you all.

While walking towards the footbridge, the rabbi was telling me of the days filled with funerals he'd attended and the grief weighing down his community. Other rabbis and Jewish Australians I've spoken with have told me the same. When I stood next to my friend on that footbridge, it was a cold moment because of what silently crushes your mind and presses on your chest—the realisation that anyone gathered below had so little room to escape the hateful intent that befell them. I keep thinking of Matilda, a 10-year-old. She deserved a life rich with experience, yet she was robbed of this by terrorists fuelled by antisemitic hatred, who targeted her simply because of her faith while celebrating Hanukkah in Bondi. It's chilling. It's wrong on so many levels to every person killed that day.

Bondi Beach isn't simply a place for sunburn and surf; its power comes from those waves drawing in the four corners of the globe. It's a magnet for people from all different walks, from both here and other shores, who make their way to that beach, entranced by a natural wonder. It's a place of shared joy. You don't need to feel the itch or heat of Bondi's sand between your toes to know that, when you see Bondi, you think of Australia—laid back, care free, people getting on. For years it's also been the perfect backdrop for Jewish Australians wanting to celebrate a sacred moment in the calendar of their faith, Hanukkah. But this image, this backdrop, has been marred, stained horrendously by an act of terror and hate—bullets whose purpose was to end lives and divide the rest of us. Worse still, for the children of Abraham to do this to each other, at a moment important to the faith of the other, is truly sinful—two men contorting faith to justify terrorism. One was stopped by another man driven by his faith, guided, he said, by the hand of God. I thank him and everyone who stepped forward when instinct screamed, 'Step back.' Thank you to all first responders, doctors, nurses, lifesavers and those that are now helping people tortured by grief. Our gratitude is deep and profound.

Mourning and condolence is a space for remembrance, reflection and choices about what's next. When it comes to choices, a rabbi put to me, 'We choose our hard.' Even easy choices are made to avoid hard ones. They come with harder consequences and harder choices later. There is little that will be easy for us all in this place with what's before us. The questions we must ask ourselves on the floor of this House are: What are our choices, and what do we bring to this moment? Does the moment need more anger and bitterness? For many who've suddenly, tragically, prematurely farewelled those they love, these are instinctive responses to grief, to fear and to loss. I respect and understand that. But, for us here, have we had enough raised voices, and do we need more temper? What can we do to help draw the nation together? Less brawling, more healing and less driving each other into our own defensive corners. If we say we choose to unite, let's prove it. Let's do the hard work restitching our social fabric, refashioning the bonds between people of all walks.

Resolve doesn't need to be fuelled by anger and hate to achieve its ends. I dare say you've heightened the strength of resolve emphasising clear purpose—a clear resolve to confront and address extremism, a resolve to unite and to build a sense of safety, an ability for others to practise faith free from fear. Let's deliver that. It's what we should absolutely resolve to deliver to Jewish Australians.

The roots of my family tree come from a place that shredded itself with ethnic and religious hatred. What I've resolved and what I bring to this moment, and from the moment I took my first oath to serve here, is a determination that our country, which has been so good to so many, will never contend with the same fate—unity always. We can differ in view, but we should never dissolve as a result of corrosive hate. We can resolve that, no matter from what corner extremism emerges—Islamists or far-right extremists—we will stand up and deal with it together. What presents as a threat to Australians of all faiths and backgrounds is a threat to us all. We can remember who we are as Australians, and we can resolve for better, for safer and for stronger.

I end on this point. One of the toughest books I've ever read is Night by Nobel Peace Prize laureate Elie Wiesel. Night devastatingly details what Elie and his family endured and, in cases, succumbed to during the Holocaust. He wrestles with the testing of faith that comes with horrific experience, a theme he returned to regularly through a prolific literary career. I've retraced many of his words and thoughts lately. I end with this observation he made when I ask friends in this place what we bring to a shared challenge. Elie Wiesel observed:

Just as despair can come to one only from other human beings, hope, too, can be given to one only by other human beings.

This is our moment to give hope to each other and the people we collectively have been sent to represent.

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