A Hanukkah gathering at Sydney’s Bondi Beach turned into a mass casualty attack on Sunday, December 14, 2025, when two gunmen opened fire near the “Chanukah by the Sea” celebration. Officials said at least 15 people, including a child, were killed, with dozens more injured. The horrific event has been labeled an antisemitic act of terrorism by the Australian government.
New South Wales police said the alleged shooters were a father and son, and that emergency calls came in around 6:45 p.m. One suspect was shot dead at the scene, while the other remains hospitalized in critical condition. Authorities said those killed ranged from 10 to 87 years old, including Rabbi Eli Schlanger of Chabad of Bondi, an event organizer, and Holocaust survivor Alex Kleytman. The author of this piece, Chavi Israel, was in attendance at the event on Sunday; she wrote this essay while hiding from the gunmen and in the hours after.
They say you never know when it’s going to be your last.
It’s 8:07 p.m. The hell started around an hour ago, but it feels like a lifetime ago. I’m writing on my sister-in-law’s iPad because I don’t have my phone, my keys, my pram, or anything else. Everything is there. I feel naked without my phone, and I can’t stop fixating on it. And yet I am so grateful for my life, and most importantly, my baby’s life.
I can’t even believe I am writing this.
I am in shock. I’m in disbelief. I want to vomit.
One minute, everything is nice and normal. I’m chatting to my friend Chaya about joining her beach plans on Friday, and then I hear what I think are fireworks. I look up at the sky, confused. I don’t see fireworks.
Then I hear shouting. CSG security guys are saying, “Down, down, everyone down.”
A resident crosses the road near the site of a shooting incident at Bondi Beach in Sydney on December 14, 2025. (Photo by Saeed KHAN / AFP via Getty Images)
I am bewildered, confused. I drop to the ground so fast I don’t remember deciding to. My brain is screaming, no, no, this can’t be happening. I am in Australia. People don’t have guns here. This can’t be happening.
I shove my body over my baby. All I want to do is protect him.
I start saying Tehillim (psalms). I say, “Chaya, what’s happening?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. I keep saying Tehillim anyway, because it’s the only thing my mind can grab onto.
I see crates nearby.
“Quick,” I say, “Let’s put these crates over our heads,”
I drag one toward us. I hold a bright orange crate above us like it’s a roof.
My baby, Meir, is hot and sweaty and crying. Dirt and mud get into his tiny eyes. His face is bright red. He’s screaming. I’m trying to shield him with the crate and random baby wipes I found.
The whole time, I cannot make sense of it. What is going on?
I hear loud, pounding gunshots all over the place.
I keep saying Tehillim. And I keep saying to my baby, l’Torah, l’Chuppah, ul’maasim tovim, the blessing I tell him every day: for Torah, marriage, and good deeds. As I’m saying it, I’m thinking: this is not my last day. This is not my baby’s last day.
I’m half crying. Meir is screaming.
“What is going on?” I say to Chaya. I’m so confused. Where are the police? Why aren’t they doing anything?
Alex Ryvchin, Co-Chief Executive Officer of the Executive Council of Australian Jewry, left, mourns in front of the Bondi Pavilion at Bondi Beach on December 15, 2025 in Sydney, Australia.(Photo by George Chan/Getty Images)
Chaya is on the phone, making sure her husband and baby are OK. She keeps saying, “I love you.” I yearn to call my husband, Ezry, but he is singing at a wedding three hours away. I don’t even have my phone, and my focus is just staying alive.
Chaya and I start breathing on Meir to cool him down. Time stretches. It feels slow.
My brain is half frozen, half speeding. In my head, I start bargaining with physics. If a bullet comes, let it hit me; just protect my baby. Maybe the crates will protect us. Maybe somehow it won’t find us, or the bullet will go through the baby wipes, and the baby wipes will protect us.
There is a face-paint lady next to us. She keeps popping her head up. Chaya hisses at her to get down.
Then, suddenly, there’s silence. And then there’s chaos.
Someone calls out, asking if anyone is injured. Chaya asks, “Who are you?” I tell Chaya I don’t trust anyone. My whole body is a live wife; I don’t know what’s safe, or who is safe.
We look up and see people running.
In the confusion, I don’t know if the shooter — well, it turns out it was shooters, plural — are still there. My family and friends saw them with their own eyes, holding massive hunting guns, on the loose.
We run.
I say to Chaya, “Wait, let me get my phone,” but there is no time. I don’t even know where my pram is. We just run.
An Israelis arranges nightlights in the form of the Star of David during a candlelight vigil hours after two gunmen shot and killed people gathered on Australia’s Bondi beach for the Jewish festival of Hanukkah, in Tel Aviv on December 14, 2025. (Photo by JOHN WESSELS / AFP via Getty Images)
We run toward the beach, collecting missing kids who got separated from their parents. We find my friend’s sister-in-law; she has a newborn baby. There’s blood on her back.
“It’s OK,” she says, “I just got grazed.” I see her and burst into tears.
We duck behind cars.
“I need to call my father-in-law,” I say. I only know my husband’s phone number by heart, and he’s still performing.
The woman tells me to breathe. “You have a baby,” she says. “He feels everything.”
I try to pull myself together. I try to make my face calm so my baby’s face can be calm.
We move again, down to the beach, looking for cover, looking for any place that might be safer. There are tourists around, crying, staring, frozen in confusion. Some people look strangely calm, as if they don’t know yet, or don’t understand what they’re seeing. I say, “This is what happens to Jews.”
One of them gives me a compassionate, solemn look. A stranger gives me water. My baby is still crying. I give him water. He is so thirsty.
Somewhere in the scrambling, I manage to get through to my father-in-law. He tells me he’s on his way.
I start feeding Meir, trying to soothe him. When my father-in-law arrives, we pile into the car, too close together, all of us shaking. A highway patrol officer yells at us to hurry up. I know they’re trying to clear the area, but at that moment, it lands like harshness. Everything is too sharp. I try to remember their number plate, but my brain is in a tizz.
We drive off. Sirens are everywhere. Ambulances. Police cars. Lights flashing against the night. My hands won’t stop trembling.
I manage to speak to my husband for a second. Thank G-d. I can’t stop crying.
Mourners gather at a tribute at the Bondi Pavillion in memory of the victims of a shooting at Bondi Beach, in Sydney on December 15, 2025. (Photo by Saeed KHAN / AFP via Getty Images)
We get to my in-laws’ house. My mum is about to leave for Israel. I tell her what happened, and I collapse into sobs, like my body has been holding the door shut and finally lets it swing wide.
I am OK, though. I am OK.
Meir is OK.
We are OK, for now.
I keep praying that everyone else is OK, but even as I write this, I’m hearing terrible news.
And yet we still light the menorah tonight.
We sing the songs, our voices thin and shaken, the flames small and stubborn. My hands feel like they belong to someone else. I keep looking at my baby’s face, willing him to forget what his body just learned.
It’s 9:20 p.m. now, and the sirens are still going.
Hashem yishmor. May G-d protect us.
