Speaker, I rise to support this motion on behalf of the people of Bass. I speak with both sorrow and resolve. Last month, I travelled to Bondi to pay my respects in person. I spent the afternoon with the Chabad of Bondi community, meeting with Rabbi Yehoram Ulman, speaking with men and women of the congregation, and being guided through their shul, their synagogue.
When I arrived, there was a significant security presence. In nearly 52 years of attending churches across Tasmania, interstate and overseas, I have never once walked through armed security personnel in order to worship.
That reality alone tells a story, a stark reality for people living in a country that says we respect freedom of religion, freedom of speech and freedom of association.
Inside the shul, I was shown behind the curtain to the ark that holds the sacred scrolls of Scripture, the heart of Jewish faith and tradition. For Christians, it is the Old Testament. We revere it.
I felt without doubt that this shul is a place of reverence, prayer and continuity, connecting Abraham, the children of Israel, and today’s believers.
But what was hardest was not the symbolism. It was the silence.
Why, during a condolence motion about murdered Australians, do I begin my contribution by sharing about this visit? It is this: as I moved through the synagogue, I saw the empty seats. Seats that should have been filled with fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, sons and daughters. Seats now marked with a simple sign asking visitors not to sit there – because it is the seat of the deceased. A sign that reads:
“THIS IS THE SEAT OF TIBOR WEITZEN HY”D
MOSHE AHARON BEN YOSEF HAKOHEN
PLEASE LEAVE HIS SEAT VACANT.
HIS PRESENCE IS CONSTANTLY FELT.”
“THIS IS THE SEAT OF REUVEN MORRISON HY”D
REUVEN BEN EMMANUEL
PLEASE LEAVE HIS SEAT VACANT.
HIS PRESENCE IS CONSTANTLY FELT.”
Reuven Morrison’s story reflects a journey familiar to many Jewish families. As a teenager he ran away from the Soviet Union with his family, seeking the freedom and safety that Australia offered. It was here in Australia that he met his wife Leah, on that very beach at Bondi. Following October 7 and before he was murdered, he spoke openly about the rise of antisemitism, warning leaders that Jewish families should never have to live in fear and that both condemnation and action were needed.
On the night of the attack, when gunmen opened fire on families gathered to celebrate Hanukkah, Reuven did not run away. He ran toward the gunfire. Unarmed, except for a brick, he confronted the attackers, shouting and throwing whatever he could to try to stop them. In doing so, he helped others escape. Reuven Morrison died as he lived, protecting his community.
Reuven was a strong supporter of the Chabad of Tasmania and an encourager of Rabbi Gordon.
“THIS IS THE SEAT OF ALEX KLEYTMAN HY”D
ALEXANDER BEN SIMCHA
PLEASE LEAVE HIS SEAT VACANT.
HIS PRESENCE IS CONSTANTLY FELT.”
My host told me: “Alex was known as a man who always had a smile, a Holocaust survivor and a deeply loved member of the community. He was devoted to his wife and rarely left her side.”
“THIS IS THE SEAT OF RABBI ELI SCHLANGER HY”D
FEIVEL ELIEZER BEN BINYOMIN HALEVI
PLEASE LEAVE HIS SEAT VACANT.
HIS PRESENCE IS CONSTANTLY FELT.”
Rabbi Eli Schlanger was the son-in-law of Rabbi Ulman, whom I met earlier that day. The brother in law of Mendy, my guide through the shul. Close friend of Rabbi Gordon and his family.
To see these seats deliberately left empty is to feel their absence in a profoundly human way.
It was not abstract. It was not political. It becomes personal.
Afterwards, I was escorted to Bondi Beach, to the site of the atrocity, the massacre. The lawn. The playground. The footbridge.
The footbridge was busy with pedestrians going about their day. The playground was alive and noisy – the sound of children playing is like a symphony to me; their laughter like a song. And on the day I visited, that is exactly how it was.
As it should be. But not on that Sunday night in December.
On the first night of Hanukkah, when the community gathered for a beloved tradition — Hanukkah on the Beach. Many present were refugees from the Soviet Union and their descendants who had come to Australia to escape religious persecution.
Hanukkah is the Festival of Lights. That festival commemorates a moment in Jewish history when oppression sought to extinguish faith, and yet the light endured.
The message at the heart of Hanukkah is simple but profound: darkness cannot drive out darkness. Only light can do that. And the light of truth, courage and faith is stronger than hatred. Perfect love drives out fear.
Another great Jewish festival carries a similar lesson — the festival of Purim. Purim recalls the story told in the Book of Esther, when Haman, with the consent of King Xerxes of Persia, plotted the annihilation of the Jewish people throughout the empire. Through the courage of Esther and Mordechai, that evil plan was exposed and stopped. The very day chosen for the destruction of the Jewish people became instead the day of their deliverance.
This week, Jewish communities across the world have been celebrating Purim. And today, as we meet here in this House to consider this condolence motion, Purim continues to be celebrated in Jerusalem.
For thousands of years these stories — Hanukkah and Purim — have been told because they remind humanity that when darkness threatens to prevail, courage, faith and righteousness can overcome it.
An act of antisemitic terror sought to turn a place of celebration into a place of horror. It sought to make worship fearful. It sought to silence joy. It succeeded that night in bringing horror.
But it will never succeed in extinguishing the light. Because the Jewish people have carried that light for thousands of years.
But those motivated by hate and evil have it the exactly the wrong way around. For it is the LIGHT, however small, however fragile, which drives away the darkness, however great, however overwhelming that darkness may seem.
This Jewish truth can is also a human truth. It calls on us all to act: we must condemn antisemitism, an ugly and ancient hatred, without hesitation. I do.
And we must affirm — clearly and confidently — that every Australian, every Tasmanian, has the right to live, work, worship and gather in peace.
Those empty seats in that synagogue are a reminder of lives stolen. But they are also a reminder that hatred has not broken that community. The synagogue still gathers. The playground is still full of children. The footbridge is still walked by ordinary people living their lives. In moments like this, in need of comfort, I am reminded of the words of Scripture.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.
He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness
for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Psalm 23 — a Psalm of David, shared, loved and believed by both the Jews and Christians.
Life continues. Faith continues. Community continues.
And as Tasmanians, together, so must our resolve.
