Dear friends, this account below is not written by me. But by someone unknown
“IF YOU THINK YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED AT BONDI, YOU REALLY DON'T UNTIL YOU READ THIS
Dear friends, this account below is not written by me. But is shared with permission and on request.
“IF YOU THINK YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED AT BONDI, YOU REALLY DON'T UNTIL YOU READ THIS...
December 22 at 1:54 AM ·
I HELD A RABBI AS HE DIED,
HIS BABY STRAPPED TO HIS CHEST.
THIS IS BONDI BEACH.
His blood was warm.
That's what I remember most.
Not the gunshots.
Not the screaming.
The warmth of Rabbi Eli Schlanger's blood
soaking through my shirt as I pressed my hands
against the hole in his chest.
The baby—his baby—was crying against him.
Two months old.
Strapped in a carrier.
Inches from where the bullet entered.
The baby survived.
Rabbi Schlanger didn't.
He looked at me.
His eyes were wide.
Not with fear.
With something worse.
Awareness.
He knew he was dying.
He knew his baby was right there.
He knew his wife was ten feet away, screaming his name.
He knew his other four children were somewhere in the chaos.
He knew.
And there was nothing I could do.
I'm not a doctor.
I'm not a paramedic.
I'm just a guy who went to a Hanukkah celebration
and watched fifteen people get murdered.
I'm just a guy who tried to stop the bleeding and failed.
I'm just a guy who held a rabbi
while he died with his infant son crying against his chest.
This is what Bondi Beach looks like now.
This is what December 14th, 2025 means.
This is what it means to be Jewish in Australia.
His name was Rabbi Eli Schlanger.
39 years old.
Father of five.
Husband to Rachel.
Leader of a small synagogue in Rose Bay.
He baked challah every Friday.
He taught Torah to children every Sunday.
He volunteered at the homeless shelter every Monday.
Everyone loved him.
Everyone.
His 8-year-old daughter Shira saw him get shot.
His 6-year-old son Avi was holding his hand when it happened.
His 5-year-old daughter Noa keeps asking when Abba is coming home.
His 3-year-old son Moshe doesn't understand yet.
His 2-month-old son Yitzhak will never remember him.
Five children.
No father.
Rachel—his wife—tried to get to him.
She was carrying Yitzhak in the baby carrier.
She saw Eli fall.
She saw the blood.
She screamed his name and tried to run to him.
Someone grabbed her.
Held her back.
Told her it wasn't safe.
She fought.
She screamed.
She watched strangers—me—try to save her husband
while she was held back.
She was ten feet away and couldn't reach him.
When I got to him, he was on his back.
Yitzhak was still strapped to his chest, screaming.
The carrier was soaked with blood.
The baby was covered in his father's blood.
I didn't know what to do.
I took off my shirt.
Pressed it against the wound.
The blood just kept coming.
"Stay with me," I said.
Stupid thing to say.
Like he had a choice.
He tried to speak.
His lips moved.
No sound came out.
Just blood.
His hand reached up.
Shaking.
He touched the baby's head.
One finger.
Stroking his son's hair.
That's when I started crying.
Not when the shooting started.
Not when I saw bodies.
Not when I saw children running.
When I saw a dying man
try to comfort his infant son one last time.
The baby kept crying.
Rabbi Schlanger's hand fell.
His chest stopped moving.
His eyes stayed open.
I didn't know what to do.
Do I keep pressure on the wound?
Do I move the baby?
Do I get Rachel?
A paramedic appeared.
Pushed me aside.
Checked for a pulse.
Shook his head.
"I'm sorry."
That's all he said.
Sorry.
Like that fucking means anything.
Rachel collapsed when they told her.
Just dropped.
Her legs gave out.
Someone caught her.
Someone else took the baby.
Yitzhak—covered in his father's blood—was crying in a stranger's arms
while his mother wailed on the sand.
Shira—8 years old—watched all of it.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
She just stood there.
Silent.
Staring at her father's body.
That silence is worse than any scream.
I found out later why Rabbi Schlanger was near the stage.
Why he was shot.
Why he died.
He was trying to reach Matilda.
Matilda Britvan.
10 years old.
She was singing the Hanukkah blessings when the shooting started.
She was the first one hit.
She fell on stage.
Rabbi Schlanger saw her fall.
He was 20 feet away.
He ran toward her.
With his 2-month-old baby strapped to his chest.
He ran toward an active shooter.
Toward gunfire.
Toward death.
Because a child was hurt.
Because that's what rabbis do.
Because that's what good men do.
He died trying to save her.
Matilda died too.
Rabbi Schlanger never reached her.
He collapsed 10 feet from the stage.
Two bodies.
Twenty feet apart.
Both killed for being Jewish.
Do you understand what that means?
Do you understand what happened at Bondi Beach?
A 10-year-old girl was murdered while singing prayers.
A rabbi was murdered trying to save her.
An 87-year-old Holocaust survivor was murdered while celebrating survival.
A couple married for 52 years was murdered trying to stop the shooter.
Fifteen Jews were executed at a Hanukkah celebration.
Not killed.
Not caught in crossfire.
Not collateral damage.
Hunted.
Targeted.
Executed.
The shooters brought 400 rounds of ammunition.
They brought homemade bombs.
They brought an ISIS flag.
They didn't come to make a statement.
They came to kill as many Jews as possible.
And they almost succeeded.
If Senior Constable Hannah Whitfield and Constable Mitchell Forrest hadn't engaged them within 90 seconds...
If they hadn't run toward the gunfire while everyone else ran away...
If they hadn't put their bodies between us and the terrorists...
There would be dozens more bodies.
Both officers are in critical condition.
Hannah took a bullet to the chest.
Mitchell took two to the abdomen.
They might not survive.
They saved us.
And they might die for it.
I can't stop thinking about Rabbi Schlanger.
The way he looked at me.
The way he touched his baby's head.
The warmth of his blood.
The sound of Yitzhak crying.
I hear that baby crying in my sleep.
I dream about it every night.
The same dream.
I'm holding Rabbi Schlanger.
But this time I save him.
This time the bleeding stops.
This time he lives.
This time he gets to hold his baby.
This time he goes home to Rachel.
This time his children still have a father.
And then I wake up.
And remember that he's dead.
And I'm covered in his blood again.
I can't wash it off.
I mean that literally.
I still have the shirt.
Soaked with his blood.
I can't throw it away.
I can't wash it.
It's evidence.
It's proof.
It's all I have left of those moments.
It's in a plastic bag in my closet.
Rachel came to see me three days ago.
I don't know how she found me.
She just showed up.
With all five kids.
Yitzhak was in her arms.
Clean now.
The blood gone.
But I could still see it.
"Thank you," she said.
For what?
For failing to save her husband?
For watching him die?
"For being with him," she said.
"So he wasn't alone."
And then she handed me a photo.
Rabbi Schlanger.
Rachel.
All five kids.
Taken two weeks before Bondi Beach.
Everyone smiling.
Happy.
Whole.
"This is who you tried to save," she said.
And I broke.
I've been holding it together.
For three weeks.
Through the funerals.
Through the memorials.
Through the nightmares.
But seeing that photo.
Seeing what was taken from them.
Seeing what I couldn't save.
I broke.
Rachel held me while I cried.
This woman—who just lost her husband—held me while I sobbed.
"It's not your fault," she whispered.
But it feels like it is.
It feels like I should have done more.
Pressed harder.
Moved faster.
Known what to do.
Saved him.
But I couldn't.
Because I'm not a paramedic.
Because the bullet hit his heart.
Because he bled out in 90 seconds.
Because there was nothing anyone could do.
Because two terrorists decided Jewish lives don't matter.
That's what this comes down to.
Not my failure.
Not bad luck.
Not wrong place, wrong time.
Hate.
Pure, calculated, deliberate hate.
They looked at a thousand Jews celebrating Hanukkah and thought: "They deserve to die."
They looked at children and thought: "They deserve to die."
They looked at Holocaust survivors and thought: "They deserve to die."
They looked at a rabbi with a baby and thought: "He deserves to die."
And they acted on it.
Fifteen Jews are dead.
Forty-two are in the hospital.
Hundreds are traumatized.
Thousands are terrified.
This is what antisemitism looks like in 2025.
Not swastikas.
Not mean tweets.
Not "criticism of Israel."
Dead children.
Dead rabbis.
Dead Holocaust survivors.
Bodies on Bondi Beach.
And the world is already moving on.
"Tragic incident."
"Lone wolves."
"We must come together."
Bullshit.
This wasn't a tragic incident.
This was a massacre.
These weren't lone wolves.
This was terrorism.
This was a hunt.
And Jews were the prey.
Again.
I don't know how to live with what I saw.
I don't know how to go back to normal.
I don't know how to celebrate Hanukkah again.
I don't know how to light candles without seeing Rabbi Schlanger's blood.
I don't know how to hear babies cry without hearing Yitzhak.
I don't know how to forget.
And I don't want to.
Because if I forget, then who remembers?
If I move on, who holds space for them?
If I heal, who carries their pain?
Rachel can't do it alone.
Shira can't do it alone.
The Jewish community can't do it alone.
We need you to remember too.
Why i created Bondi United.
It's a memorial.
To Rachel and her five children.
To Matilda's mother.
To the 42 people still in hospital.
To the officers who saved us.
To the community rebuilding.
Because I held a rabbi as he died.
Because his baby was crying against his chest.
Because his blood soaked through my shirt.
Because I failed to save him.
Because this is Bondi Beach.
Because this is what they did to us.
And we will not let the world forget.
Rabbi Eli Schlanger, 39.
Husband.
Father of five.
Hero.
He died trying to save a child.
His baby survived.
His 2-month-old son will never remember him.
But we will.
#BondiUnited
#RememberRabbiSchlanger
#NeverAgain
I still have his blood on my shirt.
I'll carry it forever.
So should you.
Writer unknown”THIS...
December 22 at 1:54 AM ·
I HELD A RABBI AS HE DIED,
HIS BABY STRAPPED TO HIS CHEST.
THIS IS BONDI BEACH.
His blood was warm.
That's what I remember most.
Not the gunshots.
Not the screaming.
The warmth of Rabbi Eli Schlanger's blood
soaking through my shirt as I pressed my hands
against the hole in his chest.
The baby—his baby—was crying against him.
Two months old.
Strapped in a carrier.
Inches from where the bullet entered.
The baby survived.
Rabbi Schlanger didn't.
He looked at me.
His eyes were wide.
Not with fear.
With something worse.
Awareness.
He knew he was dying.
He knew his baby was right there.
He knew his wife was ten feet away, screaming his name.
He knew his other four children were somewhere in the chaos.
He knew.
And there was nothing I could do.
I'm not a doctor.
I'm not a paramedic.
I'm just a guy who went to a Hanukkah celebration
and watched fifteen people get murdered.
I'm just a guy who tried to stop the bleeding and failed.
I'm just a guy who held a rabbi
while he died with his infant son crying against his chest.
This is what Bondi Beach looks like now.
This is what December 14th, 2025 means.
This is what it means to be Jewish in Australia.
His name was Rabbi Eli Schlanger.
39 years old.
Father of five.
Husband to Rachel.
Leader of a small synagogue in Rose Bay.
He baked challah every Friday.
He taught Torah to children every Sunday.
He volunteered at the homeless shelter every Monday.
Everyone loved him.
Everyone.
His 8-year-old daughter Shira saw him get shot.
His 6-year-old son Avi was holding his hand when it happened.
His 5-year-old daughter Noa keeps asking when Abba is coming home.
His 3-year-old son Moshe doesn't understand yet.
His 2-month-old son Yitzhak will never remember him.
Five children.
No father.
Rachel—his wife—tried to get to him.
She was carrying Yitzhak in the baby carrier.
She saw Eli fall.
She saw the blood.
She screamed his name and tried to run to him.
Someone grabbed her.
Held her back.
Told her it wasn't safe.
She fought.
She screamed.
She watched strangers—me—try to save her husband
while she was held back.
She was ten feet away and couldn't reach him.
When I got to him, he was on his back.
Yitzhak was still strapped to his chest, screaming.
The carrier was soaked with blood.
The baby was covered in his father's blood.
I didn't know what to do.
I took off my shirt.
Pressed it against the wound.
The blood just kept coming.
"Stay with me," I said.
Stupid thing to say.
Like he had a choice.
He tried to speak.
His lips moved.
No sound came out.
Just blood.
His hand reached up.
Shaking.
He touched the baby's head.
One finger.
Stroking his son's hair.
That's when I started crying.
Not when the shooting started.
Not when I saw bodies.
Not when I saw children running.
When I saw a dying man
try to comfort his infant son one last time.
The baby kept crying.
Rabbi Schlanger's hand fell.
His chest stopped moving.
His eyes stayed open.
I didn't know what to do.
Do I keep pressure on the wound?
Do I move the baby?
Do I get Rachel?
A paramedic appeared.
Pushed me aside.
Checked for a pulse.
Shook his head.
"I'm sorry."
That's all he said.
Sorry.
Like that fucking means anything.
Rachel collapsed when they told her.
Just dropped.
Her legs gave out.
Someone caught her.
Someone else took the baby.
Yitzhak—covered in his father's blood—was crying in a stranger's arms
while his mother wailed on the sand.
Shira—8 years old—watched all of it.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
She just stood there.
Silent.
Staring at her father's body.
That silence is worse than any scream.
I found out later why Rabbi Schlanger was near the stage.
Why he was shot.
Why he died.
He was trying to reach Matilda.
Matilda Britvan.
10 years old.
She was singing the Hanukkah blessings when the shooting started.
She was the first one hit.
She fell on stage.
Rabbi Schlanger saw her fall.
He was 20 feet away.
He ran toward her.
With his 2-month-old baby strapped to his chest.
He ran toward an active shooter.
Toward gunfire.
Toward death.
Because a child was hurt.
Because that's what rabbis do.
Because that's what good men do.
He died trying to save her.
Matilda died too.
Rabbi Schlanger never reached her.
He collapsed 10 feet from the stage.
Two bodies.
Twenty feet apart.
Both killed for being Jewish.
Do you understand what that means?
Do you understand what happened at Bondi Beach?
A 10-year-old girl was murdered while singing prayers.
A rabbi was murdered trying to save her.
An 87-year-old Holocaust survivor was murdered while celebrating survival.
A couple married for 52 years was murdered trying to stop the shooter.
Fifteen Jews were executed at a Hanukkah celebration.
Not killed.
Not caught in crossfire.
Not collateral damage.
Hunted.
Targeted.
Executed.
The shooters brought 400 rounds of ammunition.
They brought homemade bombs.
They brought an ISIS flag.
They didn't come to make a statement.
They came to kill as many Jews as possible.
And they almost succeeded.
If Senior Constable Hannah Whitfield and Constable Mitchell Forrest hadn't engaged them within 90 seconds...
If they hadn't run toward the gunfire while everyone else ran away...
If they hadn't put their bodies between us and the terrorists...
There would be dozens more bodies.
Both officers are in critical condition.
Hannah took a bullet to the chest.
Mitchell took two to the abdomen.
They might not survive.
They saved us.
And they might die for it.
I can't stop thinking about Rabbi Schlanger.
The way he looked at me.
The way he touched his baby's head.
The warmth of his blood.
The sound of Yitzhak crying.
I hear that baby crying in my sleep.
I dream about it every night.
The same dream.
I'm holding Rabbi Schlanger.
But this time I save him.
This time the bleeding stops.
This time he lives.
This time he gets to hold his baby.
This time he goes home to Rachel.
This time his children still have a father.
And then I wake up.
And remember that he's dead.
And I'm covered in his blood again.
I can't wash it off.
I mean that literally.
I still have the shirt.
Soaked with his blood.
I can't throw it away.
I can't wash it.
It's evidence.
It's proof.
It's all I have left of those moments.
It's in a plastic bag in my closet.
Rachel came to see me three days ago.
I don't know how she found me.
She just showed up.
With all five kids.
Yitzhak was in her arms.
Clean now.
The blood gone.
But I could still see it.
"Thank you," she said.
For what?
For failing to save her husband?
For watching him die?
"For being with him," she said.
"So he wasn't alone."
And then she handed me a photo.
Rabbi Schlanger.
Rachel.
All five kids.
Taken two weeks before Bondi Beach.
Everyone smiling.
Happy.
Whole.
"This is who you tried to save," she said.
And I broke.
I've been holding it together.
For three weeks.
Through the funerals.
Through the memorials.
Through the nightmares.
But seeing that photo.
Seeing what was taken from them.
Seeing what I couldn't save.
I broke.
Rachel held me while I cried.
This woman—who just lost her husband—held me while I sobbed.
"It's not your fault," she whispered.
But it feels like it is.
It feels like I should have done more.
Pressed harder.
Moved faster.
Known what to do.
Saved him.
But I couldn't.
Because I'm not a paramedic.
Because the bullet hit his heart.
Because he bled out in 90 seconds.
Because there was nothing anyone could do.
Because two terrorists decided Jewish lives don't matter.
That's what this comes down to.
Not my failure.
Not bad luck.
Not wrong place, wrong time.
Hate.
Pure, calculated, deliberate hate.
They looked at a thousand Jews celebrating Hanukkah and thought: "They deserve to die."
They looked at children and thought: "They deserve to die."
They looked at Holocaust survivors and thought: "They deserve to die."
They looked at a rabbi with a baby and thought: "He deserves to die."
And they acted on it.
Fifteen Jews are dead.
Forty-two are in the hospital.
Hundreds are traumatized.
Thousands are terrified.
This is what antisemitism looks like in 2025.
Not swastikas.
Not mean tweets.
Not "criticism of Israel."
Dead children.
Dead rabbis.
Dead Holocaust survivors.
Bodies on Bondi Beach.
And the world is already moving on.
"Tragic incident."
"Lone wolves."
"We must come together."
Bullshit.
This wasn't a tragic incident.
This was a massacre.
These weren't lone wolves.
This was terrorism.
This was a hunt.
And Jews were the prey.
Again.
I don't know how to live with what I saw.
I don't know how to go back to normal.
I don't know how to celebrate Hanukkah again.
I don't know how to light candles without seeing Rabbi Schlanger's blood.
I don't know how to hear babies cry without hearing Yitzhak.
I don't know how to forget.
And I don't want to.
Because if I forget, then who remembers?
If I move on, who holds space for them?
If I heal, who carries their pain?
Rachel can't do it alone.
Shira can't do it alone.
The Jewish community can't do it alone.
We need you to remember too.
Why i created Bondi United.
It's a memorial.
To Rachel and her five children.
To Matilda's mother.
To the 42 people still in hospital.
To the officers who saved us.
To the community rebuilding.
Because I held a rabbi as he died.
Because his baby was crying against his chest.
Because his blood soaked through my shirt.
Because I failed to save him.
Because this is Bondi Beach.
Because this is what they did to us.
And we will not let the world forget.
Rabbi Eli Schlanger, 39.
Husband.
Father of five.
Hero.
He died trying to save a child.
His baby survived.
His 2-month-old son will never remember him.
But we will.
#BondiUnited
#RememberRabbiSchlanger
#NeverAgain
I still have his blood on my shirt.
I'll carry it forever.
So should you.
Writer unknown”