Antisemitism is no longer abstract

The Bondi Beach massacre was a moment that shattered something fundamental for me. It came after more than two years of a sharp rise in antisemitism in Australia following October 7, and it transformed an abstract fear into something deeply personal.

Like many Jews, I had already been living with heightened awareness and concern. After Bondi, that concern became a constant question about personal safety for myself, for my family, and for the society we live in.

I was born in Poland in 1940. As a child, my parents and I were forced into hiding in Będzin, and later into the ghetto in Środula. We fled during the deportations to Birkenau, and I survived the Holocaust disguised as a girl.

Liberation came on a farm near Auschwitz. In 1949, my family immigrated to Australia, where I rebuilt my life. I became a surgeon, a researcher, and later an academic, teaching and working in universities in Australia, Britain and Israel.

I have spent decades studying history, disease and human survival – and I have spent my life bearing witness as a child survivor of the Holocaust.

Today I live in Sydney. After the October 7 attacks, I was initially shocked by how swiftly and openly antisemitism spread. I soon realised, however, that it had always been there – restrained only by social norms shaped in the aftermath of the Holocaust. October 7 acted as a catalyst. Under the banner of “anti-Zionism”, antisemitism became acceptable again in public discourse, including in places that should know better.

What disturbed me most was how entrenched this hostility became in universities and among nations fully aware of the horrors of the Holocaust. The speed with which anti-Zionist rhetoric was translated into hostility toward Jews, without distinction, was deeply alarming. It forced me to confront the reality that antisemitism does not disappear; it adapts.

Although my wife and I live in a relatively safe area of Sydney and have not experienced overt antisemitism at home, its presence is unmistakable elsewhere. At the university where I teach, hate encampments have appeared, and I am conscious not to openly display my Jewish identity on campus.

My son here, who also works at a university, was compelled to join a self-protection group of Jewish academics who support one another when harassment occurs. My son in Amsterdam has been harassed simply for wearing a kippah.

Despite the growing hostility toward Jews, I have not changed my way of life. I continue to attend synagogue and Jewish events. I do not normally wear religious symbols, but today I wear my cap from the March of the Living, and until they were released, I wore a pin calling for the return of the hostages. These are not gestures of defiance, but expressions of identity and responsibility.

Yet I cannot deny that something fundamental has shifted. After returning from Israel earlier this year, I resumed lecturing to school groups at the Sydney Jewish Museum. For years, I would enter “Sydney Jewish Museum” as my destination when ordering an Uber. Recently, my survivor instinct kicked in, and I changed the destination to a nearby address.

I am afraid, particularly after the Bondi massacre. Even before it, I worried about the possibility of attacks on my family by extremist individuals targeting Jews. With family in Israel, I have lived with fear for their safety since October 7 as well. This is not paranoia; it is the lived experience of a people who know where hatred can lead.

Antisemitism, especially in Europe and societies shaped by European traditions, is deeply ingrained and unlikely to be eradicated entirely. The challenge is to prevent it from becoming institutionalised and from spreading further. Racism never ends with Jews; we are often the first target, not the last. Left unchecked, it has the power to destroy multicultural societies like Australia.

This is why education is not optional – it is essential. Holocaust education, and education about racism more broadly, is the most important tool we have.

Antisemitism is not a separate phenomenon; it is a branch of racism. Teaching children distorted narratives that portray Jews or Israel as uniquely evil ensures the continuation of hatred. Universities, in particular, must be scrutinised, as educators hold enormous influence over future leaders and opinion-makers.

Programs like the March of the Living play a crucial role in this effort. They expose young ­people to the reality of the Holocaust in a way that textbooks cannot. Anyone who has participated in a March understands that it is a transformative experience – one that leaves a lasting moral imprint.

Despite everything, I still place my hope in the common sense of the average Australian and in the strength of a truly multicultural society. Education, vigilance and moral courage are the only way forward. If we fail in this task, the consequences will not be limited to Jews alone.

Professor Mark Spigelman is an Australian Holocaust survivor.