Good point, its not.
Actions of some homicidal individual nutcases vs the actions of a genocidal government, before you even get to the comparative scale.
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Religion Bondi shooting - 16 confirmed dead at Jewish event
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Actions of some homicidal individual nutcases vs the actions of a genocidal government, before you even get to the comparative scale.
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ASIO examined Bondi Beach gunman in 2019 for ties to Islamic State cell
Australia's domestic intelligence agency, ASIO, examined one of the Bondi Beach gunmen six years ago for his close ties to a Sydney-based Islamic State terrorism cell, the ABC understands.
www.abc.net.au
Not Important
never test the depth of water with both feet.
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There is definitely a “horse shoe theory” to antisemitism. But I guarantee the motives of the shooter are more aligned with a pro-Palestine activist than a neo Nazi.
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spinynorman
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I found out that a friend of mine who was at the beach yesterday received confirmation this morning that a friend of hers is among the dead.
It’s so deeply tragic.
It’s so deeply tragic.
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A hungry man sits on the shore. He catches a fish. Saint says: "there's always a bigger fish. Don't eat this one, let's wait and eat the other one". The hungry man dies before catching the bigger fish.
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Can imagine big shotty, little shotty, big rifle , little rifle. Most would get by with less.
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What about the views of the shooters makes them 'left-wing'?
Wieambilla and Porepunkah shooters were both right-wing.
Investigation update: Wieambilla shooting event - Queensland Police News
The Queensland Police Service (QPS) has released its intelligence assessment of the motivation behind the tragic incident involving the deaths of two
Porepunkah police shootings - Wikipedia
netanyahu is a turkey. i'm no fan of islam, especially fundamentalist islam. but if the shooting of jewish folk is the result of stoking anti-semitism, what's his excuse for the attacks in israel? why bibi gotta stoke anti-semitism so much?
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Roonescape
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What alternate universe are you living in to genuinely think this?
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Beautiful piece by writer Andrew Nagy on Facebook:
You're going to come at me no matter which way I frame this, so... here goes nothing...
Two Histories, One Crime Scene - Why this violence means different things to those inside it
Dec 15, 2025
There are places a country tells itself stories about.
Bondi is one of them.
It is not just a beach. It is a shorthand. A promise made to itself and repeated until it feels like truth: sun, salt, bodies at ease in their own skin. The casual democracy of towels laid too close together. The idea that whatever horrors exist elsewhere, they have been held at bay by water, light, and distance.
A Hanukkah gathering carries its own quiet grammar. Candles. Children. The choreography of continuity. A ritual explicitly designed to say: we are still here.
When violence erupts in a place like this, it does more than kill. It ruptures a national alibi. The alibi that says geography protects us. That history is something imported via documentaries and foreign headlines. That Australia is a place where the world’s angers arrive diluted, sun-bleached, softened by time and tides.
This is why the shock lands so heavily in the body. Not just grief, but vertigo. The sense that the firewall has failed. That the war we learned to watch on screens – buffered by commentary, disclaimers, and distance – has stepped barefoot onto the sand.
The rage that follows is not mysterious. It is not ideological at first. It is territorial. A howl that says: this was not supposed to happen here. The Australian social contract – informal, unspoken, deeply felt – has been violated. Not merely law, but expectation.
And expectation, once broken, curdles quickly into fear.
The Speed of Certainty
In most acts of public violence, there is a pause. A dangerous interval where not knowing leaves room for doubt, speculation, even restraint.
Here, that pause collapses.
The perpetrators are identified. Their motives are legible. The ambiguity that often forces a society to hesitate – to weigh, to wait – is gone. For many, this is not a tragedy to be processed but a conclusion to be drawn.
“I told you so” arrives early and loudly.
The event is seized as evidence, not exception. Proof that warnings ignored have consequences. That immigration, particularly Muslim immigration, is not merely an economic or social question but a civilizational gamble. That you cannot import people without importing their wars.
This is how fear becomes doctrine.
The transformation is rapid and chilling: grief into grievance, grief into permission. What begins as a legitimate terror for public safety mutates into something broader and more corrosive – a narrative in which entire communities are rendered suspect, not because of what they have done, but because of what someone like them has done.
The argument hardens. It is no longer about policing or radicalisation or mental health. It becomes metaphysical. About incompatible values. About whether pluralism itself is naïve. About whether coexistence was always an illusion sustained by luck.
The tragedy is immediately conscripted into political service.
And once that happens, the dead are no longer simply mourned. They are mobilised.
Two Histories Passing in the Dark
At the centre of this event is not one story, but two. They occupy the same space without touching, like ghosts moving through each other.
For the attackers, the frame is brutally contemporary. Gaza. Rubble. Bodies pulled from ruins. A death toll that climbs beyond abstraction into obscenity. In this narrative, borders are irrelevant. The conflict is global.
Responsibility is collective. Retaliation is moral.
In this view, the attack is not hatred but accounting.
But for the people running for cover beneath picnic tables, history is not modern at all. It is ancient, intimate, and unfinished.
To be Jewish is to live with a long memory that is not optional. A memory written into rituals, names, absences. A memory of being targeted not for policy, but for existence. When violence erupts at a Jewish celebration, it bypasses geopolitics entirely. It does not arrive as critique. It arrives as recurrence.
They do not think of Gaza in that instant. They think of Kishinev. Of the Inquisition. Of Europe in the 1930s. Of the knowledge, passed down without needing to be spoken, that there are moments when the world decides your presence is intolerable.
This is the catastrophic misalignment at the heart of the violence.
The attackers believe they are striking a state. The victims experience an attempt on a people.
The anger over Gaza is real. It is justified. It is shared by millions who would never harm a civilian. But to demand that those under fire interpret bullets as political commentary rather than existential threat is to ask for an impossible generosity. It is to ask them to translate terror into theory while bleeding.
Both histories are real. They simply cannot be reconciled in the moment of impact.
The Forbidden Question
In the aftermath, another silence settles in.
It is not the silence of shock, but of prohibition.
To mention Gaza is, in many spaces, to be accused of justification. To explain becomes indistinguishable from excusing. The mere act of contextualisation is treated as a moral failure, a dilution of outrage.
Yet to refuse context entirely is its own kind of dishonesty.
We are trapped in a binary that our public language cannot escape. Absolute condemnation or dangerous nuance.
Mourning or analysis. Choose one.
So we pretend the shooters emerged from nowhere. As if they were meteorites rather than products of a world saturated in images of annihilation. As if rage does not travel, does not compound, does not metastasise across borders and feeds and screens.
Explaining a spark is not the same as endorsing the fire. But our discourse lacks the maturity to hold that distinction. We fear that acknowledging causality will fracture solidarity. That complexity will weaken condemnation.
The result is a conversation that cannot speak honestly about why violence now travels so easily, so far, so fast.
We condemn – and we must. But we do not inquire. We moralise, but we do not investigate. We speak of evil as if it were self-generating, requiring no soil.
And in doing so, we guarantee recurrence.
What This Leaves Us With
Bondi will recover. Icons always do. The sand and wind erase footprints with tireless indifference. Cafés reopen. Life resumes its performance of normality.
But something lingers beneath that ease.
A recognition that distance no longer protects. That imported conflicts are not metaphorical. That global rage does not respect national myths. That pluralism, if it is to survive, will require more than slogans and denial.
This essay does not ask for equivalence. It does not ask us to flatten moral distinctions or soften condemnation. Shooting civilians is terror. Full stop.
But it asks for something harder: the capacity to hold multiple truths without weaponising them. To acknowledge the horror of Gaza without translating it into permission. To recognise Jewish fear as historical, not hysterical. To confront the failures of integration without surrendering to collective blame.
After the shooting stops, what matters is not how quickly we find certainty, but whether we resist the urge to turn grief into ammunition.
Because once every tragedy becomes proof, every society becomes a powder keg.
And the distance collapses again.
You're going to come at me no matter which way I frame this, so... here goes nothing...
Two Histories, One Crime Scene - Why this violence means different things to those inside it
Dec 15, 2025
There are places a country tells itself stories about.
Bondi is one of them.
It is not just a beach. It is a shorthand. A promise made to itself and repeated until it feels like truth: sun, salt, bodies at ease in their own skin. The casual democracy of towels laid too close together. The idea that whatever horrors exist elsewhere, they have been held at bay by water, light, and distance.
A Hanukkah gathering carries its own quiet grammar. Candles. Children. The choreography of continuity. A ritual explicitly designed to say: we are still here.
When violence erupts in a place like this, it does more than kill. It ruptures a national alibi. The alibi that says geography protects us. That history is something imported via documentaries and foreign headlines. That Australia is a place where the world’s angers arrive diluted, sun-bleached, softened by time and tides.
This is why the shock lands so heavily in the body. Not just grief, but vertigo. The sense that the firewall has failed. That the war we learned to watch on screens – buffered by commentary, disclaimers, and distance – has stepped barefoot onto the sand.
The rage that follows is not mysterious. It is not ideological at first. It is territorial. A howl that says: this was not supposed to happen here. The Australian social contract – informal, unspoken, deeply felt – has been violated. Not merely law, but expectation.
And expectation, once broken, curdles quickly into fear.
The Speed of Certainty
In most acts of public violence, there is a pause. A dangerous interval where not knowing leaves room for doubt, speculation, even restraint.
Here, that pause collapses.
The perpetrators are identified. Their motives are legible. The ambiguity that often forces a society to hesitate – to weigh, to wait – is gone. For many, this is not a tragedy to be processed but a conclusion to be drawn.
“I told you so” arrives early and loudly.
The event is seized as evidence, not exception. Proof that warnings ignored have consequences. That immigration, particularly Muslim immigration, is not merely an economic or social question but a civilizational gamble. That you cannot import people without importing their wars.
This is how fear becomes doctrine.
The transformation is rapid and chilling: grief into grievance, grief into permission. What begins as a legitimate terror for public safety mutates into something broader and more corrosive – a narrative in which entire communities are rendered suspect, not because of what they have done, but because of what someone like them has done.
The argument hardens. It is no longer about policing or radicalisation or mental health. It becomes metaphysical. About incompatible values. About whether pluralism itself is naïve. About whether coexistence was always an illusion sustained by luck.
The tragedy is immediately conscripted into political service.
And once that happens, the dead are no longer simply mourned. They are mobilised.
Two Histories Passing in the Dark
At the centre of this event is not one story, but two. They occupy the same space without touching, like ghosts moving through each other.
For the attackers, the frame is brutally contemporary. Gaza. Rubble. Bodies pulled from ruins. A death toll that climbs beyond abstraction into obscenity. In this narrative, borders are irrelevant. The conflict is global.
Responsibility is collective. Retaliation is moral.
In this view, the attack is not hatred but accounting.
But for the people running for cover beneath picnic tables, history is not modern at all. It is ancient, intimate, and unfinished.
To be Jewish is to live with a long memory that is not optional. A memory written into rituals, names, absences. A memory of being targeted not for policy, but for existence. When violence erupts at a Jewish celebration, it bypasses geopolitics entirely. It does not arrive as critique. It arrives as recurrence.
They do not think of Gaza in that instant. They think of Kishinev. Of the Inquisition. Of Europe in the 1930s. Of the knowledge, passed down without needing to be spoken, that there are moments when the world decides your presence is intolerable.
This is the catastrophic misalignment at the heart of the violence.
The attackers believe they are striking a state. The victims experience an attempt on a people.
The anger over Gaza is real. It is justified. It is shared by millions who would never harm a civilian. But to demand that those under fire interpret bullets as political commentary rather than existential threat is to ask for an impossible generosity. It is to ask them to translate terror into theory while bleeding.
Both histories are real. They simply cannot be reconciled in the moment of impact.
The Forbidden Question
In the aftermath, another silence settles in.
It is not the silence of shock, but of prohibition.
To mention Gaza is, in many spaces, to be accused of justification. To explain becomes indistinguishable from excusing. The mere act of contextualisation is treated as a moral failure, a dilution of outrage.
Yet to refuse context entirely is its own kind of dishonesty.
We are trapped in a binary that our public language cannot escape. Absolute condemnation or dangerous nuance.
Mourning or analysis. Choose one.
So we pretend the shooters emerged from nowhere. As if they were meteorites rather than products of a world saturated in images of annihilation. As if rage does not travel, does not compound, does not metastasise across borders and feeds and screens.
Explaining a spark is not the same as endorsing the fire. But our discourse lacks the maturity to hold that distinction. We fear that acknowledging causality will fracture solidarity. That complexity will weaken condemnation.
The result is a conversation that cannot speak honestly about why violence now travels so easily, so far, so fast.
We condemn – and we must. But we do not inquire. We moralise, but we do not investigate. We speak of evil as if it were self-generating, requiring no soil.
And in doing so, we guarantee recurrence.
What This Leaves Us With
Bondi will recover. Icons always do. The sand and wind erase footprints with tireless indifference. Cafés reopen. Life resumes its performance of normality.
But something lingers beneath that ease.
A recognition that distance no longer protects. That imported conflicts are not metaphorical. That global rage does not respect national myths. That pluralism, if it is to survive, will require more than slogans and denial.
This essay does not ask for equivalence. It does not ask us to flatten moral distinctions or soften condemnation. Shooting civilians is terror. Full stop.
But it asks for something harder: the capacity to hold multiple truths without weaponising them. To acknowledge the horror of Gaza without translating it into permission. To recognise Jewish fear as historical, not hysterical. To confront the failures of integration without surrendering to collective blame.
After the shooting stops, what matters is not how quickly we find certainty, but whether we resist the urge to turn grief into ammunition.
Because once every tragedy becomes proof, every society becomes a powder keg.
And the distance collapses again.
peternorth
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Waiting for tom swells comments?
I used the term "celebrating" when describing how some viewed Charlie Kirk's death and was shouted down, I'm happy to stick with it.
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lmfao
Yeah that ****en waste of oxygen, he'll be saying some shit with that shit eating grin of his.
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What
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Islam is not considered a left-wing political group by any measure I'm aware of.
Anti-Israel is also not a particularly left-wing view, I also suspect you're very much using 'anti-Israel' to lump in anyone and everyone pro-Palestinian. Which would be deeply incorrect.
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And yet, there's simply no denying that women in Australia are just as freely able to buy and use guns as men, and yet somehow...
Pro palestine like Hamas? The far right group
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D
Del203211
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Those very same people are part of the problem right now, and not just on this forum. Please do stick with it.
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Nah, Aussies prefer to travel to NZ to slaughter innocent worshippers. Have you forgotten already?
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