Not long after the Bondi Beach terror attack on December 14, which claimed the lives of 15 people and injured dozens more—including me—I was asked a question I was not quite prepared for: Since the attack, am I more a man of faith or less?
The question sounded simple, almost routine, but it stopped me cold. When you stand at the precipice between life and death, faith is no longer abstract. It becomes the lens through which every memory, breath, and decision is framed.
On that Hanukkah night, my family and I had gathered with the Jewish community at Bondi—our community—to celebrate light, life, and belonging. Instead, violence tore through what should have been a moment of joy. I was struck in the head by a bullet and collapsed, unsure if I would ever see my wife and children again. At the hospital, doctors told me that my survival came down to millimeters. By all medical accounts, they said, it was a miracle.
But miracles are not always neatly packaged. They are complicated.
I cannot explain why my life was spared while 10-year-old Matilda, full of laughter, promise, and innocence, was taken from her family and our community. Nor can I explain why I am here today, while 87-year-old Alex Kleytman, a Holocaust survivor who had already endured humanity’s darkest chapter, was murdered protecting his wife.
