I grew up in Sydney. Like so many Australian children, I remember singing songs about our beautiful country in kindergarten. Some of my most cherished early memories are long summer afternoons with family and friends on the Bondi shore.

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Bondi was not just a destination. It was childhood. It was family. It was freedom. It was Australia.

That is why I still struggle to comprehend what happened there six months ago.

Almost every day, I catch myself hoping it has all been a terrible mistake. That I will wake and discover none of it was real. That my father will walk through the door and everything will go back to how it was.

My father, Reuven Morrison, came to Australia from the former USSR, where Jewish life was suppressed and hidden. Australia was something entirely different: a land where you could live openly and proudly as a Jew.

He loved this country. He loved Australian mateship. He loved the way people looked out for one another. He loved the belief that wherever you came from, you could build a life here and belong.

To have his life taken while he celebrated his heritage at Bondi is a wound our family will carry forever. But the Bondi massacre did not take one life. It took 15.

Fifteen Australians who woke expecting an ordinary day. Fifteen people with families waiting for them to come home. Fifteen people with plans, dreams, responsibilities and futures.

When we speak about Bondi, I hope we never reduce it to headlines, statistics or political talking points. For the families of the victims, Bondi was not a news story. It was the moment life split into before and after.

One of the reasons the "One Mitzvah for........

© Canberra Times