That’s the moment.

You wake up on Sunday morning, and pick up your phone, and there’s a photo of someone you know, covered in blood. His head, his face, his T-shirt: he’s covered in it.

He’s on the ground, on the grass, and there’s some cars behind him, and some banners fluttering in the sky.

The accompanying BNO News Live post reads: “Human rights lawyer Arsen Ostrovsky shared a photo of himself after being shot at Bondi Beach in Sydney. He survived”

That’s the moment.

There’s no period after the word “survived,” as if the author was interrupted. There’s no indication of why Arsen was shot, or who did it, or why. But, soon enough, your phone fills with the relevant details: two Muslim men, a father and son, have gone on a killing spree at a beach in Australia. Hunting for Jews.

Arsen was on the beach with his family. To celebrate the start of Chanukah, which is an eight-day Jewish festival, and which marks the triumph of light over darkness. And, now, he’s staring back at you on your phone, covered in blood from a bullet wound to his head.

And that’s the moment, folks, when the camera lens swings back onto you. What do you do? How do you react?

If you are like a lot of other people, these days, you just keep scrolling. A weather report and some sports scores later, you’ve perhaps already forgotten about Arsen Ostrovsky and the 15 people – a rabbi, a Holocaust survivor, children – who were slaughtered on Bondi Beach.

Me, I couldn’t stop thinking about Arsen, who I know. I’ve talked to him, I’ve interviewed him. He helped me out on the book I’ve written. He’s this smart, thoughtful, kind-hearted guy. He talked to me about his family, about moving from Ukraine to Australia when he was a kid. To get away from antisemitism. He talked about living in Israel for a while, and then returning to Australia to start a new job. To oppose the haters.

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