As we prepare to commemorate October 7, in our communities, we will reflect on a year that has changed forever, both in Israel and the Diaspora, the welfare of the Jewish people. So momentous is this chasm, that it is now common to divide our understanding of the world into pre- and -post October 7.

In a short period of time, we have gone from confidence in our place in the world order post WWII, to an overwhelming feeling of vulnerability. The shocking brutality of that day, and the subsequent war that has left Israel isolated in world opinion and Jews around the world fearing the rise of antisemitism dominates our thoughts, prayers and communal life.

The on-going conflict, the captivity of the hostages, the deep divisions in Israeli society, and the heartbreaking loss of life on both sides, have challenged our spirit and unity. The rise of antisemitism being played out on our streets, in the media, and in our universities has reminded us of the darkest times of Jewish history, only recently past.

But within the gloom, there are glimpses of light. 

One year later, despite the many challenges, Israeli society has proven resilient. Its soldiers have fought bravely. Its citizenry has mobilised, despite the failures of its government. The civic unrest, driven by the deep divisions in Israeli society has not destroyed them. Rather it feeds a new discourse which seeks to redefine Zionism and clarify its future.

And in the Diaspora, Jews everywhere have rallied, not only in support of Israel, but in a return to community. Fear remains, but it is moderated by our preparedness to utilise the institutions of Western Democratic Societies, to protect us and remind our fellow citizens of our positive contribution to these societies and cultures.

In this special edition, we present the reflections of those in our community, stretching from Asia to New Zealand, on the significance of October 7 to them.

We wish you all Shana Tova, peace for all Klal Yisrael, for the speedy return of the hostages, and healing for all those caught in this terrible conflict.

365 Days. 

A 12-month journey through shock, disbelief, denial, devastation, outrage, division, invisibility, helplessness, courage, connection, purpose, and action. 

Reflecting on the year since the devastating Hamas attacks on Israel’s innocent civilians on October 7, 2023, my thoughts and emotions are fragmented. The tragedy of Simchat Torah, a day of joyous Jewish celebration, now holds a heavy duality. A day designed for joy as we dance with the Torah, celebrating our Jewish identity, values, and community. Yet, the very joy we are commanded to express was violently shattered. Now, a deep irony clouds that day. Do we restrain our celebrations in mourning for those whose lives were taken, the hostages still held captive, and those who died fighting for their release? Or do we, davka, increase our joy as an act of defiance, as a statement to those who seek to destroy us that terror will not define us or steal our capacity for joy and celebration?

The unfolding of unbridled antisemitism around the world leaves me speechless. My heart breaks for the older generation of Jews in Australia, many of whom came here seeking safety and a better life, a place where everyone is promised “a fair go.” And my heart breaks for the younger generation, who are struggling to feel safe expressing their Jewish identity on university campuses and in high schools. The silence and denial surrounding the Israeli women and children who were raped, tortured, and murdered only deepens the pain. Their suffering has been overlooked, their stories dismissed. What kind of message does this send to Jewish women and children here in Australia who have experienced abuse? That their pain, too, is invisible? Me too, unless you’re a Jew.

Im ain ani li, mi li? If I will not be for myself, who will be for me? 

Many of us find ourselves torn between sharing our Jewish identity and speaking out against antisemitism. We fear being ostracized, ignored, or attacked. But if we don’t challenge the lies and half-truths manipulating public opinion, who will? If we don’t call out anti-Zionism as a form of antisemitism, who will? What other nation is denied its right to exist because of its government’s actions? Where else would a country defending itself after the largest civilian massacre in its history face international denial and distortion of the facts? How did the advocacy for Palestinian rights become so entangled with the vilification of both Israel and the Jews, and even the glorification of a terrorist organization like Hamas? How does killing innocent Israelis, or targeting Jews worldwide, help the Palestinian cause?

Uchshe’ani l’atzmi ma ani? If I am only for myself, what am I? 

Our Jewish tradition teaches us compassion, reminding us to empathise with those who suffer, for we know firsthand what it means to be devalued, persecuted, and suffer loss. Afterall, Hillel teaches us: “What is hateful to you, do not do to others” (Shabbat 31a). How can we not feel sorrow for the innocent lives lost, the homes destroyed, and the livelihoods shattered in Gaza? Just as we mourn the suffering of our own people, we can also mourn the suffering of the innocent in Gaza. The binaries imposed upon us—Pro-Israel or Pro-Palestine—oversimplify and obscure the reality. Both peoples have suffered. Both peoples have a right to self-determination and to live in peace. But the dominant voices of power are drowning out the calls for empathy, return of the hostages, and coexistence.

V’im lo achshav eimatai? If not now, when? 

365 days since our people were murdered, violated, and taken hostage. 

364 days since the world began to blame the victims, twisting the narrative. 

Today, 97 hostages remain in Gaza, thousands of Israelis have died, and hundreds have been displaced. Global antisemitism has increased by 500%. Today, we mourn the lives lost, our shattered sense of safety and inclusion, and unfettered joy. And yet, within us, remains the strength and determination of our Jewish spirit, emboldened by our historical perseverance. Today, we are more committed than ever to Israel’s right to exist, to defend herself, and to continue celebrating our Jewish identity. Now, more than ever, is the time to remember that joy and light are stronger than darkness and sorrow. Now is the time to hold one another close, to draw inspiration from the resilience of our community, to speak out against antisemitism, and to cry out with unwavering conviction: Bring them home alive, now.

The world changed for Jewish people on October 7th and the world changed for me a little over a week before, when, the day before Yom Kippur, my father died. We had a few hours of shiva before Kol Nidrei and the shloshim ended a few days later, with the beginning of Sukkot. I was reeling from Dad’s sudden death and that the usual mourning periods were cut short by the festival calendar. I felt that I had not had the chance to grieve and take time to mourn before Simchat Torah arrived. I attended services but stepped outside for the dancing, it was too overwhelming to be in a space of such celebration as I was mired in grief. As I waited alone, separated from the community, I heard the first whispers of something happening in Israel. At that moment, I had no idea of the magnitude, the horror of what was unfolding; I only knew that there was something happening on the Gaza border. I said a silent prayer while the music and dancing wafted through, not knowing that it was the last time for over a year, our community would dance without the darkness of the events ignited with the terror of that day, casting its shadow on everything. I think back to those moments of quiet, the holding of breath as we waited for news, in blissful ignorance of what was to come. 

As the days, weeks and months have unfolded, our Jewish community has grieved alongside me. I often think of the loss of my Dad one person, as I look at the numbers of lives lost, hostages stolen, each one of them, a life, a world. We have walked the path of mourning together, as we have experienced the world changing around us. We have felt the once steady ground beneath our feet moving and shaking and all that we thought we knew, shifting forever. 

But amidst the sadness and loss, the grief and the struggle, we have found comfort in each other’s arms. We have turned to community and felt the power of knowing we are not alone, that we walk hand in hand with one another. Just as we sit with mourners, we comfort, we listen, we remember and we try to walk into life forever changed, to find the steady ground once more, we have done so for one another. We have found light and inspiration in stories of heroism, selflessness and love. Israelis and Jews around the world leapt into action, doing everything we can, each one in our own way, to contribute and bring healing and through our hands and our hearts we have found hope, comfort and strength. 

Now, as I come to the end of the time of saying kaddish for my Dad, as my year of mourning draws to its conclusion, I can’t believe that the hostages are still captive, the war continues and the pain and trauma of the ongoing losses is still being inflicted. The mourning for our people in ongoing and is not coming to a close. I hope and pray that this Rosh Hashana sees peace, everyone home in the arms of those they love and we can begin to heal together.

From the first moments after learning of the October 7th attacks and to this day, I have found myself turning to the Psalms. These ancient poems reflect the full range of human emotion and give us a voice when, as has happened so often in the last year, our own words fail us. 

The Psalms mirror our anger and bewilderment in the face of those for whom our very existence is intolerable and at the indifference to Jewish suffering we have seen:

Too long have I dwelt with those who hate peace. I am all peace, but when I speak they are for war.  Psalm 120

When we are in need of courage and determination when evil must be faced, the Psalmist gives us the words:

With Adonai on my side as my helper,
I will see the downfall of my foes.
It is better to take refuge in Adonai than to trust in mortals;
it is better to take refuge in Adonai
than to trust in the great.
All nations have beset me;
by the name of Adonai I will surely cut them down.
They beset me, they surround me;
by the name of Adonai I will surely cut them down.
They have beset me like bees;
they shall be extinguished like burning thorns;
by the name of Adonai I will surely cut them down.
Psalm 118

When we need hope and comfort, the words of the Psalmist soothe us:

God is our refuge and stronghold,
a help in trouble, very near.
Therefore we are not afraid
though the earth reels,
though mountains topple into the sea—
Psalm 46

When we feel alone in our pain, the Psalmist assures us that this is not the case:

Adonai is close to the brokenhearted; those crushed in spirit God delivers.  Psalm 34

Most important of all, the Psalms remind us that, in spite of everything, we are a people of hope and that these dark days will come to an end:

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem; may those who love you prosper! Let there be peace in your homes, safety within your borders. For the sake of my people, my friends, I pray you find peace. For the sake of the house of the Eternal our God, I will seek your good. Psalm 122

Ken yehi ratzon— May this be God’s will.

The story of Emanuel School students and Daniel Kashavchuk

By Emanuel School madrichim Noa Avner, Hadar Burstein, Tohar Dahan, Hilli Lam and Abraham Tebeka

I had the privilege of being one of the Israeli madrichim at Ayekah – a week long camp with the Emanuel students of Year 10 where they explore their Jewish identity. I wanted to share a moment that made this experience more than just a privilege, but a great honour .

One evening during Ayekah, I shared something personal with my very special ‘family’ group. I spoke to them about my friend, Daniel Kasavchuk who was killed at the Nova Festival on October 7. Daniel was thoughtful and kind and always stepped up to a challenge. Enjoying life and spreading happiness was his super power. My family group showed such incredible compassion and understanding. I never would’ve imagined such a reaction from this young yet very mature group of teens. 

But it did not end there. The next day, my group wore Daniel’s name and the number of days since October 7 on a piece of tape stuck to their clothing. They did this to show their solidarity with Israel and honour Daniel’s memory.  

This set the foundation for the rest of camp as we talked about how to bring this spirit of Ayekah, of deep connection, back to school. Without my knowledge, my family group created a group chat and talked all night. They came up with the idea of ordering wristbands with Daniel’s name on them.

On Monday morning they surprised me with a pack of 100 wristbands. I was shocked and deeply moved by this meaningful gesture – this is the embodiment of the spirit of Ayekah and it will always be part of me as much as it will be part of this amazing group of teens.

When I return to Israel, I will be giving some of these wristbands to Daniel’s family and sharing the impact that Daniel’s story has had with teens all the way in Australia. 

This article is dedicated דניאל קסבצ׳וק ז״ל

I was in silence. For such a long time, I was in silence. Words simply ran out of me. Months of silence. I could not utter a word.

On Shabbat, the 7th of October, something inside of me was broken. I couldn’t believe that a human being can do anything like that. I refused to accept that such evil exists in the world. Optimism turned into darkness. 

I thought that the people on the other side of the fence were just flesh and blood like me. I believed in the kindness of humanity and the inner beauty of mankind. I thought that when we see a little child, a puppy, or an elderly grandmother, our human instinct is to support and help. I always believed that compassion is inside us, humans.

On October 7th the boundary of humanity was crossed. My people. My country. My family. My faith. Something within me shattered. It wasn’t a war over land, it wasn’t political, not about liberation or religion. It was a brutal attack by Hamas – a terrorist organisation – that harmed both Israeli citizens and the Palestinian people. On that dark Shabbat, something inside of me was broken, something in us shattered and will never be whole again. 

On the September 6th, we arrived in Sydney on a family shlichut. The love we hold for Israel brought us here, and by October 7th, it had transformed into an understanding of why being here is so important.

The ongoing conflict in our homeland fills us more than ever. Every fallen soldier, every hostage, every wounded becomes part of our family. They are our people. Suddenly, we find ourselves identifying with those who made Aliyah during the 1950s, kissing the ground they touched—a pure love for the land, the nation, the soil, the air, the atmosphere, the ruach.

This is the time to raise our voices, calling out to the world for help in bringing back the 101 hostages who have been in the Hamas tunnels for over 350 days. Now. We need the collective power of Jews worldwide. Especially when antisemitism is on the rise, this is the time we should NOT be afraid to walk proudly down the street with the Magen David necklace and a shirt with Hebrew words.

As we mark the High Holy Days this year, these days are even more powerful. We remember our brothers and sisters in Israel and look at our Jewish community here in Australia. We had a painful year; a year that will be never forgotten.

Our country, our beautiful homeland is broken. It’s not a secret that there are so many complexities in Israel right now. We face rockets from Iran, Iraq, Lebanon and Yemen, war in Gaza, economic challenges, debates about equality in army service, thousands of evacuees from our northern border and a government that struggles with public trust.

How can someone who has lost a sibling in battle finish Shiva and fight again? How does a grandmother, waiting for her grandchild’s return from captivity, find the strength to encourage her son? How does a child who lost a parent manage to attend school every day?

It’s the Jewish spirit—the ability to rise from crises—that defines us. We stand tall. The historic Jewish resilience is impressive. We face so many challenges, yet we lift our heads high, proud of our heritage, our people, and our nation. Israel is in a phase of rebuilding. The pieces we collect will eventually form a stronger whole. It won’t happen overnight or even in months. Slowly but surely, we gather the fragments, just as our Jewish faith teaches us.

We sanctify resilience. In the month of Elul, we blow the shofar. The sound of the shofar is so powerful. A sound that stops everything. It seems that all living creatures listen to it: nature, humanity.

The Shofar brings this complicated year to an end. It gives us the opportunity to look back and see what we have gone through. We lost friends and family members. We fought for our freedom like never before. But we also saw how the Israeli society comes together. How the communities in the western Negev rebuild themselves. We see the wounded people recover. We see the connection between so many sectors in Israel.

Naomi Shemer, the national poetess of Israel wrote right after the Yom Kippur War in 73: 

מָה קוֹל עֲנוֹת אֲנִי שׁוֹמֵעַ, קוֹל שׁוֹפָר וְקוֹל תֻּפִּים. כָּל שֶׁנְּבַקֵּשׁ לוּ יְהִי.

זֶה סוֹף הַקַּיִץ, סוֹף הַדֶּרֶךְ, תֵּן לָהֶם לָשׁוּב הֲלוֹם. כָּל שֶׁנְּבַקֵּשׁ לוּ יְהִי

“What is the sound I hear, the sound of the shofar and the sound of drums. All that we ask, let it be.

This is the end of summer, the end of the road, let them return here. All that we ask, let it be.”

Bring them back home safe and sound. לוּ יְהִי!

The most important blessing for the coming year is a year of peace. I wish us all a year of peace among us, and peace in the Middle East.  Amen.

From the miklat (bomb shelter)

It is safe to say that our decision to come to Israel in a post October 7 climate was met with mixed emotions from my community. Luckily for us, the extremely dedicated Netzer team in both Israel and Australia managed to put together a terrific Shnat program for us despite the obvious adversaries. As the smallest Shnat group for 30 years, we embarked on a mission around the country to further our understanding and commitment to Judaism and Zionism. To begin our year, we spent 3 months at the Machon in Jerusalem, hearing from educators and visiting key sites around Israel. This was followed by 2 months volunteering in Kibbutz Revivim alongside Habonim Dror, supporting the local cowshed and kindergarten. We then reunited with 6 of our fellow Kvutzah (group) members in the USA to experience American Jewry in the form of a Jewish summer camp. We learned about their culture and experiences, as well as sharing ours. Back in Israel, we ended the program volunteering on Project 10 – A program in Kibbutz Harduf that strives to find the bridge to humanity through teaching English in local Arab schools and building connections between Jews, Bedouins, Druze and Arabs.

With our program cut from twenty-two people to three following the war, us few who made the decision to come in January would quickly have our previous beliefs and values challenged and re-formed in so many different ways. It truly is a special time to be in Israel. Our consistent volunteering at Kibbutzim and food centres have an added value now – we feel like our efforts are really making a positive difference to this country going through difficult times. Our experiences living here have only strengthened our relationship with Israel, and the shocking rise of antisemitism back home seen through hateful protests, offensive chants and the vandalism of Jewish and Israeli property has consolidated our belief in the need for a Jewish state. Our time in Israel, despite the challenges since October 7th, has deepened our commitment to Judaism and Zionism. Witnessing the resilience here has reinforced our belief in the Jewish state’s importance and strengthened our resolve to stand with Israel amid rising anti-Semitism.

From the miklat (bomb shelter): Jarrah Schlesinger, Ella, Joel (current participants in Netzer Shnat)

Solidarity Mission to Israel participant Daniel Pedroso

The UPJ Solidarity Mission to Israel was a trip that left memories that won’t be easily forgotten, especially as we commemorate the anniversary of the events of October 7. This mission was more than just a visit; it was a testament to the resilience, courage, and solidarity of the Jewish people.

During our time in Israel, we visited Kfar Aza – a place that exposes the scars of the October 7 events. Walking through homes that had been attacked, with the sounds of explosions still reverberating in the background, was a shocking reminder of the conflict. The stories of survivors who spent days locked in their saferooms, waiting for rescue, were deeply moving.

The mission was not only difficult experiences – it was also full of inspiring moments. One of the most inspirational experiences was witnessing (and helping, even if a little) the efforts of Potchim et Halev, where children volunteered to help displaced families in need of food. Their compassion was a beacon of hope in all the darkness. Similarly, the dedication of Achim L’neshek, civilians/reservists who drove to the Gaza envelope in their own cars to rescue families when the army could not show up, was a powerful reminder of the spirit of solidarity and bravery.

The mission also took us to Sheba Hospital, where some of us donated blood while others participated in a Holocaust Commemoration ceremony. Standing in silence as the sirens went off, a statement of our collective memory, was a reminder of the shared history and sacrifices – amplified by the war that was happening simultaneously.

Meeting with various leaders and organisations, such as the Israel Religious Action Centre and the Israel Trauma Coalition, highlighted the incredible work that was already underway, but that suddenly became even more important. The dedication of individuals like Rabbi Yael Vurgan, who has had to deal with the massacre and displacement of her communities, showed us the impact and importance of our support.

As we remember the events of October 7, and with the rise of antisemitic incidents globally, it is important to think of the strength and unity that emerged in the face of adversity. The stories of bravery, compassion, and resilience that we witnessed on this mission are a testament to the enduring spirit of the people of Israel. It highlights the importance of solidarity and the power of coming together.

As we approach the anniversary of  October 7 , we may be holding a great deal of suffering, pain, grief, and anxiety.  For many of us, and for me as well, I am coming into this season with a heart that that is hurting, numbed and closing. 

The challenge for me is to open my heart.  

The sound of the shofar and the teachings around it, have helped me to begin to take down some of the walls I have put up around my heart since October 7. 

The sound of the shofar has been described as a primal cry, as the hearts forgotten language that expresses our shared pain and anguish as human beings.

We learn from a passage in the Talmud that the broken sounds of the shofar express a sob or a wail. Specifically, they mimic the cry of the mother of Sisera, a Canaanite general who led a battle against the Israelites upon realizing that her son has been killed in battle and will never return home. 

The call of the shofar is the anguished cry of our enemies mother.   The shofar calls us to attune to the shared experience of human pain and suffering.  

And so as we listen to the call of the shofar, we can try to notice when we have turned away from the suffering of others.

We start with Teki’ah, a whole note. 

Then Shvarim, a broken note

Then Teru’ah, an entirely fragmented note. 

Each broken note is followed by a whole note, another Teki’ah. 

We start off whole, We become broken, even splintered into fragments. But we become whole again. 

(Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz who lived in Prague in the 17th century) 

We all weep

Jer 31:14 ‘A voice is heard in Ramah,
lamentation and bitter weeping,
Rachel is weeping for her children.
She cannot be comforted
because her children are no more.’
I weep for the innocents.
We all weep for the innocents.

I weep for the innocents of
Be’eri, Kfar Aza, Nir Oz, Netiv Haasara, and Alumim.
I weep for those who were savagely murdered,
I weep for those who were violently assaulted, brutally raped and violated.
We all weep for the innocents of
Be’eri, Kfar Aza, Nir Oz, Netiv Haasara, and Alumim.

I weep for the innocents in
Gaza, the West Bank, Lebanon.
I weep for innocents in
every continent of our world
in continuing wars, conflicts and violence.
I weep for the innocents of
domestic violence, gang warfare and abuse.
We all weep for the innocents.

God reprimanded the angels who rejoiced
when the Egyptians drowned in the waters of the Red Sea.
We are all created b’tzelem Elohim
בְּצֶלֶם אֱלֹהִים  ‘in the image of God’

A voice is heard in Ramah,
lamentation and bitter weeping,
Rachel is weeping for her children.
She cannot be comforted
because her children are no more.’
I weep for the innocents.
We all weep for the innocents.

New Year, New Hope

It’s been a while since I’ve been online, and it’s hard to put into words everything that’s happened in the past few months. Life has been overwhelming, to say the least.

A few months ago, I learned that my Dad only had a short time left. I made my way to Israel to be with him, to say goodbye. Today, as I look at his photos, his smile reminds me of the love and strength he carried with him. I wanted to be there for my mum after my dad’s passing, helping her and our family sort through the things he left behind. There were so many tasks and projects, but I wasn’t alone. My daughter came with me, and I found myself supporting her through this journey too.

Challenging times
But perhaps the biggest challenge wasn’t just saying goodbye—it was adapting to the reality of life here, especially for my daughter, who wasn’t used to this. To be honest, neither was I. Living in Israel, where my heart has always been, suddenly felt slightly different.

For the last 14 years, I’ve lived in Melbourne, Australia. A place that has become my home, with its “no worries” mindset, where war and rockets are nonexistent. In Melbourne, people respect their family time, the workday rarely stretches past 5 pm, and the weekend starts on Friday evening. There’s a public holiday for everything—Cup Day, Footy Day, King’s Day, even My Day, it feels like! It’s a slice of heaven.

Intensity
Then, I arrived in Israel, and it hit me. The intensity—the mess, the chutzpah, the drivers who act like they own the roads. Israel is extreme in every sense—emotions, even in flavors on food packages (so much salt or sweet!). If you had to put Israel on a scale, with 1 being calm and 10 being hectic these days, you can guess where it lands. Australia, on the other hand, is the complete opposite.

It’s amazing how our brains adapt to different environments. Mine had adjusted to a relaxed, easy-going pace, and suddenly, it had to recalibrate to chaos. Strangely though, since October 7, even Melbourne felt empty. The peace there didn’t really matter when my heart was elsewhere.

Hope
Despite everything—the rockets, the sleepless nights, the constant news alerts, the need to stay on high alert—I’ve also seen so much good. I chose to see the beauty in the chaos. I spent precious time with my mum, learned new things about myself and my dad, reconnected with my extended family, and surrounded myself with amazing friends. Through all the projects I took on, I met some truly incredible people with such big hearts—compassionate souls carrying so much trauma but continuing on in survival mode, just like the reality here demands.

What has truly connected me to feeling proud to be Israeli again is witnessing the resilience and determination of the people here. Despite the challenges, they work hard, but they do it with passion and purpose. Their strength, unity, and unwavering commitment to keep going, even in the face of adversity, remind me of the deep pride and courage that come with being Israeli. And while some of my friends might think I’m a little crazy, I’ll say it anyway—every time I see F-15s or F-16s flying overhead, I get chills of excitement. It’s a powerful reminder of my roots, my history, and the strength of this nation. Thanks, Dad, for introducing me to the Air Force!

To summarise
To be honest, the reality here isn’t quite how I remembered it. It’s even more intense now, and living on high alert isn’t good for anyone. But amidst the chaos, I’ve found moments of grounding. Whether it’s through the beauty of the people, the views (even though I couldn’t travel far), or—let’s be real—the food. Israeli food is pure therapy, and each bite helps ground me and brings joy.

Even though I have to head back to Melbourne, I’ve strengthened my identity and hold onto the hope that my family and I will find our way back to Israel soon!
This year, I’m choosing to focus on the good. It’s easy to see the bad—it feels safer and more familiar. But I’m making the choice to surround myself with the positive, the beauty, and the goodness that exists in the world.

Who’s with me?
Here’s to a sweet, grounded, and beautiful year ahead! Shana Tova u’Metuka to everyone! New Year, New Hope

#NewYear #NewHope #ShanaTova #Family #Resilience

Shir Australian Jewish Music Festival | Songs of Hope
Sun, 6 Oct, 7 PM – 9.30 PM AEDT

United Together | Community Commemoration
Mon, 7 Oct, 6.30 PM – 8.55 PM AEDT

We Sing As One | Jointly For Israel
Tue, 5 Nov, 7 PM – 9 PM AEDT

Illuminate October
Mon, 7 Oct, 5.30 PM – 8.30 PM AEDT

Jewish Community Council of SA | 7th October Adelaide Community Memorial
Mon, 7 Oct, 2 PM – 3:30 PM ACDT

Tekes Zikaron October 7th – Voices from Around the World Remember
10 AM Israel & Moscow / 12:30 PM Mumbai / 3 PM Hong Kong / 6 PM Melbourne / 8 PM Auckland

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