Hanukah is called “the festival of light”. It is a minor holiday in the Jewish calendar, not biblically prescribed. There are no long synagogue services, no onerous prohibitions or requirements. Just candles, songs and doughnuts. This is probably part of why I always loved it.
There were four or five events in Sydney for the first night of Hanukah. In 2024 we went to an event at Dover Heights, but parking was a nightmare. We decide on Bondi (where parking is also a nightmare). Five of us – my mum, husband, son (3), daughter (one-and-a-half) and I pile into the car.
We walk past the Christmas markets at Bondi beach, looking for the festival. I google it, but don’t expect to find an answer.
Typically, Jewish events in Sydney are advertised without locations. A party is at an “eastern suburbs location” or “outdoor venue, Sydney south-east”. The exact location is provided only to people who register, and only on the day. This is a security measure. The idea is that nobody can plan an attack on an unspecified location.
So I’m surprised when Google tells that it’s down near the children’s playground. We meander over with the pram.
My son runs straight to his paternal grandmother, already inside. We take some photos – the photographer tells us we’ll have a fridge magnet in about half an hour. I will later learn his name is Peter Meagher.
We play with bubbles. We visit the petting zoo. We eat doughnuts. The kids share a hotdog with my husband.
My son is with my mother-in-law. My husband takes my daughter to chase down my mum in a bid to stop her buying more hotdogs. I am chatting with friends. I haven’t seen my son – or my mother-in-law – for a while. The others haven’t either. Nobody is worried, they are off having fun somewhere. Still. I leave the conversation to go to look for them.
I am by myself, walking around an open area, not too far from the gate, trying to get sight of them. I hear a very loud bang. I am not sure what it is. I don’t think much of it. I am busy looking for my kid.
I have never heard a gun before.
There is another bang, and another.
I see someone fall to the ground. I see blood. People are screaming. People are getting on the floor. This is not fireworks.
The music hasn’t stopped. Techno covers of Hanukah classics. Songs I have sung since I was a kid. The screaming doesn’t stop the music, but it distorts, somehow, like a bad sci-fi movie.
I see the back of my husband’s shirt, I see he is holding my daughter, I see he is near a fence and running. I know he will keep her safe.
But I still cannot see my son. I scream his name. I run in circles looking for him for a few more shots. I cannot see him. I see a little girl with face paint. She is screaming for her mummy and daddy. She is scared. She is in an open space. I run and grab her.
This space is too open. There are too many shots. I take maybe five steps towards the chairs, I am behind the last row. It is the closest thing I can find to cover. I lie on the grass, on top of the little girl.
There are many people lying or crouching in the chairs in front of me. Most are elderly. Everyone is screaming.
I stay calm, I understand the importance of calm. I talk to the little girl. I say, I’ve got you. She is calm, too. The shots keep coming.
This next part is a jumble; I am not sure of the order of events. It seems to go forever. It is less than six minutes.
I lift my phone to take a video; the zoom helps me to see better. One man is on the footbridge. He is holding a gun. It is pointed towards me. He fires two times, three. The other man is pacing on the ground, outside the fence. He is moving slowly. He looks calm. The little girl says, “Can you hide?” “Yes,” I say. I put the phone down. It is 6.43pm.
A woman is lying in front of me, maybe a metre-and-a-half away, among the chairs. She is facing the shooters – I see the back of her head. Then – the woman is a body. Her head must have turned with the impact. I can see the tip of her nose. There is a U shape where her eyes and forehead used to be. Bits of brain, beige and squishy, are laced through the grass.
My shoulder stings. I am dripping blood. I am dripping blood. I am dripping blood and I don’t know how much of it is mine. I am dripping blood on to a little girl. She won’t tell me her name.
There is blood on my glasses. I take a selfie to see whether the blood is mine. I see small pieces of brain in my hair. I stop paying attention to the blood. It is 6:47pm.
I get a text from my husband. There is blood on my phone. He says, “We are safe. I have [daughter] only.” I say “Have a little girl. Not mine. Someone has been shot.” The texts are short. I write, “I hand bloom. Blood. I don’t kni”. He writes “From you?” I say, “I don’t know. Keeping girl safe. [Son]. My mum.” He responds to son with “With [grandma]. Safe inside playground.”
I should explain: these texts are atypical. Normally I write in full sentences, even in text, with no spelling mistakes.
It is 6:53pm. My kids should be starting a bath.
This next part is better.
A man comes up to me, he is crouched. He says I have his daughter. I don’t know him. I don’t want to give her over unless it’s safe. She says “Daddy” and reaches. I feel grateful. I give her over. I tell him: the blood is not hers. I think it is mine. This lady got shot. I tell him, I am sorry. He asks if I am OK. He says I saved her life. His daughter is safe. I am grateful.
I want my husband. My kids. My mum. Nobody has said it is safe. I stay on the floor.
Two young men come up to me. They are not wearing shirts – I think they have come from the beach. They say: come, run, we will get you out of here. I do not trust them. I hate that I do not trust them. I always trust. I say – sorry, I do not know you. I will go myself. They say, of course. Now I am sorry. I feel grateful.
I get up. I stay low, move towards the boardwalk. I see my mum. She looks unharmed. I am grateful. We walk down the boardwalk. I tell her to walk faster. I find my husband. My daughter. I feel grateful.
I tell him, I need to see a doctor.
When I was a kid, if I got a cut on my left hand, my dad would give it a kiss, then ask if we needed to amputate the right hand so the left hand didn’t hurt any more. This is to say: I was raised strong. So if I say I need a doctor, my husband takes it seriously.
But also: there are two, three ambulances. And there are bodies. Wounded, dead. Being dragged or carried to the far side of the park. I see three paramedics working on someone who is more blood and flesh than human. I do not look too closely. My husband is yelling for a doctor. Someone says, “Wait here.”
People are dying. I am sore, but I am OK. I just want to check our baby. We decide to make our own way. I hold my daughter. My husband says, “You need to clean yourself first, you are covered in blood.” I don’t care, I want to hold her. We catch my mother-in-law, my son. I am grateful. I am so grateful. Relief. Relief beyond measure.
My son says, “Ima, why are you wearing makeup?” Ima is mum, in Hebrew.
I say, “It is face paint.”
He says, “I want face paint too.”
“Another time,” I say.
We talk lightly; my son is asking about the helicopters. We are holding hands. We are holding each other. We are going to go back to the car, we are going to go home, we are going to have dinner.
My husband drops me off at the hospital on the way home. He takes the kids home. I have not prepared dinner. I am worried about what they will eat. He tells me later he gave them yoghurt and jam and put them to sleep. This is not a real dinner. I am grateful.
At the hospital, I am seen quickly. People are kind. They are kind beyond measure. My nurse’s name is Connor. He is gentle, speaks softly. I am grateful.
I have minor cuts and bruises. A deep gash in my nose. A long slash on my right shoulder blade, with no depth. Little dots of bleeding on my forehead, my arms. These are already drying. The body heals. Later, I will find out my body has healed around a little piece of shrapnel, under that little dot of bleeding, next to my eyebrow. All that is for later. Now, I want to check my baby. I get an ultrasound. Baby is moving. Baby’s heart is beating.
I cannot describe how grateful I am. I cannot possibly put this into words. I text my husband.
Kids are asleep. My husband comes. Connor and I agree to skip stitches for my nose and glue it instead; it will bleed for a week, but scar less. Connor gets permission to allow me to have a shower. There are brains in my hair. A shower. I am grateful.
My husband helps me to wash my body. He is gentle and slow. He finds more cuts in my scalp. I put my bloody clothes back on. We drive home. It is quiet.
In coming days, I meet the girl’s parents. She is three years old, just like my son. Her parents say she is OK. I am grateful.
People keep calling me a hero. I am not a hero. I am a mum. I am a human. I did what any parent would do. There are so many people I could not help. I am so sorry.
I am not a hero. But I have heroes. My husband, who saved my daughter. My mother-in-law, who saved my son. Every single parent, every single person who saved every single child.
When my son started walking, he would often walk himself into danger, as toddlers do. I would stop him from falling off a couch, and he would scream and kick and bite. I taught him: “Our number one job is to keep you safe. Our number two job is to give you love.” I could not keep him safe. I could not keep so many people safe. I do not know how to live in a world where a parent does not know how to keep their children safe.
I have other heroes.
A group of men who went to the playground, shielded women and children, including my mother-in-law and my son, barricaded them in the surf club.
Hatzolah, paramedics. Community Security Group. Police. Lifeguards. Connor. Every single doctor and nurse in every single hospital.
Boris Gurman. Sofia Gurman. Ahmed al-Ahmed. Gefen Bitton. Reuven Morrison. Scott Dyson. Jack Hibbert. Chaya Dadon. Leibel Lazaroff. Yanky Super. Tash Willemsen.
Here is what I want to say.
We have three main rules for our kids. They are “gentle, kind and listening”. I want them to be gentle. I want them to be kind. I want them to listen. Because I want to live in a world where people are gentle, and kind. I want to live in a world where people listen.
• Jessica Rozen is an economist and writer based in Sydney
• In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is 13 11 14. In the UK and Ireland, Samaritans can be contacted on freephone 116 123, or email jo@samaritans.org or jo@samaritans.ie. In the US, you can call or text the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org. Other international helplines can be found at befrienders.org
