A little over three weeks ago, my father, Reuven Morrison, was murdered in cold blood for being a Jew.
My father was celebrating Hanukkah with his Chabad community on Bondi Beach, an event he’d been to every year since 1996. Every year, this Hanukkah event took place on one of the most famous beaches in the world. Holding a Jewish event at a place that every Australian knows meant something to him, to all of us.
That night, Bondi Beach was turned into the scene of a massacre. Blood stained the ground where just moments before people were standing, celebrating the Jewish people’s triumph over oppression. Prams were scattered across the grass. White sheets covered the bodies.
Along with 14 others, my father was gunned down. He faced the terrorists and bought others time to get away. He took over 10 bullets while shielding others. He saved the lives of innocent people.
In the last few weeks, time has stopped making sense. The days blur into one other and the world without my father feels wrong. Our grief is all-encompassing, an ache so strong it is hard to breathe. I feel as though I have been thrown into an alternate reality. In his final moments, my father was exactly who he had always been. When the shooting began, he did not freeze; he did not run. He stood his ground, throwing bricks at the terrorists, furious that they would dare attack Jews celebrating Hanukkah on his favorite beach. He protected his community until the very end.
