I’ve stopped twice while writing this already.
Not because I’m trying to be dramatic. Because my eyes keep blurring and I don’t like that feeling where your throat tightens and you pretend you’re fine even though you’re not. The Bondi Beach shooting in December 2025 has been sitting in my chest since I first read about it. I thought time would dull it. It hasn’t.
It happened during a Hanukkah gathering by the sea. A public celebration. Families. Children. Songs. The kind of night that’s meant to feel safe because it’s open, because it’s shared, because it’s joyful. Instead, it became something else entirely. Fifteen people lost their lives. Many more were wounded. A ten-year-old girl. A rabbi. An elderly Holocaust survivor who had already lived through humanity at its worst once before.
I keep coming back to that last detail. Someone who survived history’s cruelty, only to be taken in a place meant for light. I don’t know how to make sense of that. I don’t think I’m supposed to.
There was a father and a son involved. One died at the scene. The other survived and now faces charges that don’t even feel real when you read them listed out. Terrorism. Murder. Numbers stacked on top of numbers. It all starts to sound abstract, and I hate that. Because none of this was abstract to the people who were there. To the people who ran. To the people who hid. To the people who tried to help and were injured doing so.
I watched footage of strangers holding each other afterward. People sitting on the sand in shock, staring at the water like it might explain something. It doesn’t. The ocean just does what it always does. That’s part of what makes it hurt.
I don’t feel rage when I think about this. I know some people do. I understand why. But what I feel is a kind of grief that doesn’t have a sharp edge. It’s heavy. It’s tired. It doesn’t want to shout. It just wants this not to have happened.
I’m also aware of a quieter danger that follows events like this. The way fear starts whispering suggestions. The way we’re invited to harden, to simplify, to turn whole groups of people into something easier to blame than a complicated truth. I can feel that pull in myself. I don’t like it. I don’t want to feed it.
I don’t write this from any place of authority or certainty. I’m just another person trying to stay human while the world keeps offering reasons not to. I don’t have answers. I don’t know how to stop things like this from happening again. Anyone who claims they do is probably lying to themselves.
What I do know is this: what we carry forward matters. Not in a grand, history-changing way. In small, ordinary ways that don’t make the news.
I think about the people who stepped toward danger instead of away from it. The man who tackled the attacker and was badly hurt. The police who moved in knowing the risk. The strangers who tried to shield others. None of that cancels out the loss. But it tells me something important about who we are, even on our worst days.
There’s a temptation to turn moments like this into lessons, slogans, or arguments. I don’t want to do that. I just want to say this plainly: cruelty spreads easily. So does kindness. One requires almost no effort. The other requires intention.
In the days after Bondi, I noticed myself choosing softness where I might normally choose indifference. Letting someone speak without interrupting. Not firing back when it would have been easy. Sitting with discomfort instead of distracting myself from it. These aren’t heroic acts. They’re barely noticeable. But they change the tone of a day.
If enough of us did that — just a little more often — the world wouldn’t suddenly become safe or fair. But it might become less brittle. Less ready to fracture.
I don’t believe tragedy happens “for a reason.” I don’t believe suffering is sent to teach us anything. But I do believe we get to decide what kind of people we are afterward.
Tonight, there are families who won’t sleep. There are parents whose lives are divided into before and after. There are children who will remember a sound they should never have heard. Writing this doesn’t help them. I know that. But staying tender feels like the only honest response I have.
I’m putting the phone down again now. The room is quiet. The sea is probably still moving, indifferent and steady. I’m trying to be steady too. Not brave. Not righteous. Just steady enough to keep choosing kindness tomorrow, even when fear tries to take the wheel.
That feels like something worth holding onto.
-original-20251218110928.jpg)
Author: Master Yoda
For: Langtrees.com
TalkinSex Forum | Perth Escorts | Sydney Escorts | Melbourne Escorts | Brisbane Escorts | Darwin Escorts | Adelaide Escorts | Hobart Escorts | New Zealand Escorts
“Well written Yoda. There are so many sad stories around this tragedy. I too thought of the incongruity of the Holocaust survivor outliving the evils of a death camp only to meet an end at an event meant to be happy and to celebrate his religion. His life taken at the hands of extremists wanting to wreak fear and havoc on people who they thought were different. I have visited Auschwitz and witnessed the history of man's inhumanity to each other and have never really been the same since. Things happen in this world that don't make sense and this is one. We need to determine how we can stop something like this happening again but unfortunately evil lives amongst us and some use religion as a weapon and a reason to hate instead of letting people live and let live. I would rather focus on the brave acts to look for inspiration. The first couple who tried disarming one of the shooters paying the ultimate price. The old guy refusing to run and staring down the shooter and drawing fire away from women and children. The Muslim guy leaving his relatively safe place to tackle and disarm one of the shooters. The Bondi Surf Life savers treating and saving people while being under fire. The parents who threw themselves onto children, some not their own, to protect them. The police officer who took them down, whose weapon was underpowered compared to the weapons these cowards were using. And I am sure there are many more stories of bravery to come out. That is the real Australia, people willing to sacrifice to help their fellow man. None of us knows how they would react in the same circumstances but I draw inspiration from those brave souls. As a final comment I heard the Father of the dear little girl Matilda speaking of how they came from Ukraine to give his family a better life and they chose the most Australian name they can think of for her to honour the lucky country they put their trust in. We can still be that lucky country if we can see what has made us great and treat each other with understanding and empathy regardless of colour, religion or status. Call me an idealist or naive but Waltzing Matilda. ”
“Reading this felt really heavy. Not in a dramatic way, but in a quiet, lingering one. Thank you for writing this so honestly.”
“This was so Un-Australian its revolting ”
“The story stands as testament to the good and bad of immigration. Those that have stood proudly and assimilated to our culture and those who haven't. I truly hope that one of the outcomes of this event provokes the thought process behind voters and who they consider a strong leader for Australia, because the ones we have are fucking spineless whimps only out to line their own pockets and don't give a shit about us. ”
“Beautifully written as always, Yoda. I have nothing I could possibly add to this, so I won't try. I think you've hit the nail on the head. Thanks for the perfectly written message. xx”
By Clicking "I Agree - Enter Langtrees.com" below, you confirm that You
NZ