In the wake of the Bondi terror attack, I’ve been labeled a hero. But let me set the record straight: I’m not a hero. I’m a mother who simply happened to be at a Hanukkah celebration with my family. And this is the part most people miss—amidst the chaos, ordinary people became extraordinary, not because they sought heroism, but because they acted on instinct to protect what mattered most.
Hanukkah, often called the 'Festival of Lights,' is a minor Jewish holiday, unburdened by lengthy religious services or strict observances. It’s a time for candles, songs, and doughnuts—a celebration I’ve always cherished for its simplicity and joy. In 2024, Sydney hosted several Hanukkah events, but parking woes led us to Bondi, where the festivities were held near the beach. My family—my mother, husband, three-year-old son, one-and-a-half-year-old daughter, and I—piled into the car, eager to join the community gathering.
Jewish events in Sydney often keep their locations discreet, a security measure to deter potential threats. So, when I discovered the event was near the children’s playground, it felt almost too accessible. We arrived, took photos—later learning the photographer was Peter Meagher—and enjoyed the petting zoo, bubbles, and treats. My son was with his grandmother, while my husband and I tended to our daughter. But as the evening unfolded, I realized I hadn’t seen my son in a while. I left my friends to search for him, unaware of the impending horror.
But here’s where it gets controversial—in moments like these, every decision feels scrutinized. Should I have stayed put? Should I have trusted the strangers offering help? As I walked through the open area, a loud bang shattered the air. Unfamiliar with the sound of gunfire, I initially dismissed it. But then came more shots, screams, and the sight of people falling. The music—techno renditions of Hanukkah songs—continued, eerily juxtaposed against the chaos. I spotted my husband running with our daughter, but my son was nowhere in sight. I screamed his name, ran in circles, and then saw a little girl, face painted, screaming for her parents. Without thinking, I grabbed her and sought cover behind the last row of chairs.
Lying on the grass, shielding the girl, I remained calm, reassuring her as the shots continued. Time blurred, but I recall seeing a gunman on the footbridge, his weapon pointed directly at us. I took a video, hoping the zoom would help me locate my son. The girl asked if we could hide, and I lied, saying yes. At 6:43 pm, I put the phone down. A woman lying nearby was shot, her head turned unnaturally, her brain matter scattered in the grass. My shoulder stung, and I realized I was bleeding, though I wasn’t sure if it was my blood or hers.
At 6:47 pm, I texted my husband, my messages fragmented and frantic. He replied that my daughter was safe, and my son was with his grandmother. A man approached, claiming the little girl was his daughter. Hesitant at first, I handed her over, relieved to see her reunited with her father. Strangers offered to help me escape, but I declined, distrusting their intentions. Eventually, I made my way to the boardwalk, where I found my mother, husband, and children. And this is the part most people miss—in the midst of terror, humanity shines through in the smallest acts of kindness and courage.
I insisted on seeing a doctor, though the ambulances were overwhelmed with more critical cases. My husband cleaned me up, and we returned home, where he fed the children yogurt and jam before putting them to sleep. At the hospital, I was treated for minor injuries, including a deep gash in my nose and a slash on my shoulder blade. An ultrasound confirmed my unborn baby was safe, a relief beyond words.
In the days that followed, I met the little girl’s parents, grateful she was unharmed. Yet, the label of 'hero' feels misplaced. I did what any parent would do—protect a child in danger. The real heroes are those who shielded others, like Boris Gurman, Sofia Gurman, Ahmed al-Ahmed, and countless first responders. But here’s where it gets controversial—how do we define heroism in a world where ordinary people are forced to make extraordinary choices?
My son once asked why I couldn’t keep him safe that night. I reminded him of our family’s three rules: be gentle, be kind, and listen. Because in a world marred by violence, these values are our greatest defense. I’m not a hero, but I’m grateful for the heroes who emerged that night, and I’m determined to raise my children in a world where such heroism isn’t necessary.
Thought-provoking question for you: In a society increasingly marked by division and fear, how can we foster a culture of gentleness, kindness, and listening? Share your thoughts in the comments—I’d love to hear your perspective.
