Two gunmen took her friend. She won’t let them take something else

Two gunmen took her friend. She won’t let them take something else

Two gunmen took her friend She won – On a summer morning, Nikki Goldstein sat with Rabbi Eli Schlanger in her home, their dialogue a blend of humor and introspection. Schlanger, a man in his late 50s with a black hat and jacket typical of orthodox rabbis, leaned back with a carefree grin. “What are you thinking?” Goldstein asked, prompting him to reply, “I am completely happy. I love my wife and my children, and I am doing exactly what I am meant to be doing. I am completely on my path.” The atmosphere was calm, interrupted only by the gentle drizzle outside. Schlanger was delayed for their Zoom call, but their conversations often meandered through deep philosophical musings, a rhythm they had grown accustomed to over the years.

A Fractured Encounter

Goldstein, a self-described “blonde, blue-eyed, White-passing woman,” had moments of doubt about her Jewish identity. She joked with Schlanger, who wore his traditional attire without hesitation, about being the only secular Jew he knew. “There’s no such thing as a secular Jew,” he gently corrected. “We’re just Jews.” Their bond, forged over shared reflections, would soon be tested by a tragedy that would redefine their lives.

Two weeks after that exchange, Schlanger was in the midst of leading a Hanukkah celebration when the unthinkable occurred. The beach was alive with festivities—children laughing as they devoured jelly-filled doughnuts, families gathering to watch the menorah lighting. The event symbolized light triumphing over darkness, a message Goldstein had always cherished. But at 7 p.m., the joy was shattered. Her phone buzzed with texts from friends: Gunshots at Bondi Beach. Lots of sirens and choppers en route… Her stomach sank. Schlanger was supposed to be there. “Oh God, could be MY rabbi,” she wrote, her voice trembling with fear.

A Global Threat

Goldstein’s anguish was not isolated. The attack at Bondi Beach, seven months prior, had been carried out by two ISIS supporters, who shot Schlanger and 14 others. The event marked a turning point, not just for Australia but for the Jewish community worldwide. Antisemitism, long considered “the world’s oldest virus of hate,” had resurfaced with renewed intensity. In the U.S., the same animosity was spreading, fueled by tensions in the Middle East and growing hostility toward Jewish identity.

The Anti-Defamation League (ADL) reported a significant rise in antisemitic attacks in the U.S. last year, reaching a 46-year high. Armed guards now routinely patrol synagogues, Jewish community centers, and schools. Many Jews report hiding their Star of David necklaces, a simple act of defiance against public scrutiny. Online, 73% of Jewish Americans have encountered antisemitism, often in the form of conspiracy theories or aggressive debates about Israel. These fears are well-founded, as recent incidents like the killing of two Israeli Embassy workers in Washington and the murder of an elderly Jewish woman at a Colorado protest underscore the danger.

Changing the Narrative

“America has totally passed the Rubicon” on antisemitism, said Florida Rep. Jared Moskowitz, one of several Jewish lawmakers from both parties who have noted a surge in personal threats. “Jews are starting to hide in this country, and that is the telltale sign that we are on a very scary trajectory.” His words reflect a broader concern: the Jewish community is increasingly wary of public spaces, their sense of security eroded by a global wave of hatred.

The roots of this prejudice stretch back centuries. During the Middle Ages, Jews were accused of “Christ killers” and expelled from European nations. In the late 19th century, anti-Jewish riots, or pogroms, swept through Russia, targeting communities with brutal efficiency. The Jim Crow era in the U.S. saw infamous lynchings, including that of Leo Frank, a Jewish man falsely accused of murder. Even more recently, Nazi Germany’s systematic genocide of six million Jews during the Holocaust remains a stark reminder of the depth of antisemitic rage.

Goldstein and Schlanger’s story became a symbol of resilience. After the Bondi Beach shooting, she was hospitalized in critical condition, her life hanging by a thread. Doctors had warned her husband, Rowan, and daughter, Liberty, to prepare for the worst. Yet, Goldstein’s survival was described as a miracle, one she attributes to Schlanger’s actions in the ICU. He blew a shofar, or ram’s horn, a ritual meant to call the community to prayer, and in that moment, she found a renewed sense of purpose.

Together, they channeled their shared experience into a new book, “Conversations with my Rabbi: Timeless Teachings for a Fractured World.” The work retraces their dialogue, now infused with urgency and meaning. “Why do Jewish people evoke so much hatred?” Goldstein asks in the book, challenging readers to look beyond conspiracy theories and political debates. Instead, she urges them to discover the values of Judaism that could enrich their own lives. The book is not just a tribute to Schlanger, but a call to action, offering wisdom that transcends the trauma of that night.

Legacy of Resistance

Goldstein’s journey from a woman questioning her Jewish identity to a vocal advocate for her community mirrors the broader Jewish experience. The shooting at Bondi Beach, which claimed Schlanger’s life, was a catalyst for her to confront the deep-seated fears that now shape the lives of many Jews in America. “What are you thinking?” she once asked Schlanger, but now she answers for herself and others, using their conversations as a lifeline against a rising tide of hostility.

As the world grapples with the consequences of the war in Gaza, which began after Hamas terrorists attacked Israel on Oct. 7, killing 1,200 people, antisemitism has surged not only in the U.S. and Australia but across Europe as well. The conflict has deepened divisions, with some blaming Israel for the violence. Yet, the historical context of antisemitism reveals a pattern that extends far beyond recent events. From medieval Europe to Nazi Germany, the narrative of Jewish persecution has persisted, evolving with each generation.

Goldstein and Schlanger’s book serves as both a personal account and a broader commentary on the crisis. It invites readers to reflect on the teachings of Judaism—compassion, resilience, and community—as tools for navigating a fractured world. “There’s no such thing as a secular Jew,” Schlanger once told her, a statement that now feels more profound than ever. Their collaboration, born from tragedy, offers a message of hope: even in the face of hatred, Jewish identity remains a source of strength and connection.