Last weekend, I was in Sydney for a 48-hour visit, three weeks after the massacre at Bondi. My son and I went to the beach. Bondi is not merely iconic; it is the site of my childhood summers, a place that once represented ease, openness and belonging.

It was immediately clear that something had shifted.

A coffin containing the body of Rabbi Eli Schlanger arrives at the Chabad of Bondi Synagogue during his funeral last month. Credit: Getty Images

The pedestrian bridge from Campbell Parade to the grassy area above the beach – once unremarkable – is now inseparable from footage of the alleged attackers moving deliberately towards crowds of innocent Jewish Australians, gathered to mark the first night of Hanukkah. Bondi, long assumed to be insulated from the world’s darker currents, no longer feels so.

That feeling followed us onto a bus back to our hotel. A lone passenger boarded, clutching a tote bag tightly to his chest, visibly tense. I felt my body react instinctively – scanning, calculating exits, preparing. For a moment, I panicked.

I recognised the sensation immediately.

I spend significant time in Israel. There, vigilance on public transport is not paranoia but a lived reality. Since the Second Intifada – and especially since October 7 – buses, cafes and street corners carry an ambient awareness of risk. Sirens, shelters and security checks are woven into daily life.

What unsettled me was not the fear itself, but where I felt it.

This was........

© The Sydney Morning Herald