That was my Melbourne synagogue set aflame.

“Just one arson attack,” some might say. “Not indicative of a broader trend.” But this would be a lie, a self-soothing fiction.

A synagogue (photo: Gökhan Topel/Unsplash)

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I saw the footage, and my stomach churned.

Mask-wearing arsonists set a synagogue ablaze in a predawn attack Friday in the Australian city of Melbourne, police said, sparking widespread condemnation.

The fire broke out at 4:10 a.m. local time in the Adass Israel Synagogue when some congregants were already present, police said, gutting much of the inside of the building in the southeast Melbourne suburb of Ripponlea.

The flames that consumed that synagogue were not just destroying bricks and mortar; they were attacking something far more sacred. That building was a beacon, a house of prayer, a place where my people have gathered to celebrate, to mourn, to stand before God in all our flawed humanity.

And now, it is charred rubble.

But the pain extends far beyond the local Jewish community in Melbourne. The attack feels personal — because it is personal. To strike at one synagogue is to strike at us all.

For Jews, community and continuity are lifeblood. The synagogue is not merely a physical structure; it is the embodiment of our collective spirit. It is where generations have come to hear the same ancient words read from the Torah, where the melodies of our ancestors find new life in each recitation of the Shema¹. When a synagogue is set aflame, it is not just a local tragedy. It is a desecration of the sacred, a violation that rips through time and across oceans.

It would be easy to write this off as another isolated incident in a faraway land. “Just one arson attack,” some might say. “Not indicative of a broader trend.” But this would be a lie, a self-soothing fiction.

The reality is that antisemitism has always been global. It wears different masks in different countries, but the underlying hatred is the same. It was the same hatred that torched synagogues in Europe during Kristallnacht. The same hatred that fueled the slaughter of Jews in Pittsburgh, in Poway, in Paris. The same hatred that turns a house of worship into a target.

What frustrates me is the world’s selective attention to these acts. When a church is vandalized, when a mosque is desecrated, there is an outpouring of solidarity and condemnation. And rightly so! But when synagogues are attacked, too often the response is muted, couched in sterile terms like “complicated” or “contextual.”

Why?

Why is an attack on a Jewish place of worship treated with less urgency, less moral clarity?

This double standard is not just unfair; it is dangerous. It sends a message to the perpetrators: your actions are ignorable, excusable, even tolerable. And it sends a message to us, the global Jewish community: your pain is less important, your safety less worthy of defense.

When I look at that synagogue in Melbourne, I see more than the ruins of a building. I see the faces of Jews worldwide who feel increasingly vulnerable, increasingly isolated. I see the children who will ask their parents why their shul² was targeted, and the parents who will struggle to explain hatred to innocent minds. And I see myself: my synagogue, my community, my people.

This is not just a Melbourne story. It is a Jewish story, a human story. Because the hatred that sets fire to a synagogue in Melbourne today will burn through other communities tomorrow. History has taught us this. We ignore it at our peril.

So, what do we do?

First, we refuse to let this incident fade into obscurity. We name it for what it is: an act of hate, an assault on Jewish life.

Second, we demand accountability — not just from the arsonists, but from the broader society that allows such acts to fester.

And finally, we reaffirm our solidarity, not just within the Jewish community, but with all who value justice, decency, and freedom.

And the majority of people of the West do value justice, decency, and freedom — but they are often a silent majority. Fringe movements, even when composed of a minority, can reshape societies, reframe political landscapes, and wreak havoc far beyond their numbers. Unfortunately, the opinions of “most people” often do not matter until it is too late.

History’s minority movements have always been buoyed by a familiar dynamic: the inertia of the mainstream. While the fringes agitate and organize, the majority procrastinates, rationalizes, and — when push comes to shove — compromises, not because they do not care, but because they are too busy to think twice about most things. Due to socioeconomic issues such as inflation, most Westerners are endlessly busy with the struggle for day-to-day economic sustenance.

They are also too busy to learn history, especially a history that is not exactly theirs. They might know about or have heard about the Holocaust, but does the average Westerner understand all the geopolitical and socioeconomic nuances that led the Nazis to slaughter six million Jews in six years? Probably not, and it does not matter how many movies we make or museums we build about the Holocaust.

Nor is this a condemnation of the so-called “silent majority.” It is simply an observation of human nature. Most people, in most societies, prefer the path of least resistance. They trust that the status quo will hold because it always has — or so it seems. They might shake their heads at troubling headlines or mutter a disapproving “tsk-tsk” at unsettling news, but they assume someone else — a politician, an activist, a journalist, a neighbor — will handle it.

It is not that they do not care; it is that their attention is elsewhere: on careers, children, debt, caring for someone sick or elderly. The machinery of daily life grinds relentlessly on, leaving little time to ponder the warning signs flashing on the edges of society.

But history is merciless to those who fail to heed its lessons. And history, inconvenient as it is, shows us time and again that the fringes thrive not in a vacuum, but in the blind spots of the majority. It is in those overlooked spaces that small, determined minorities plant their seeds of influence. The majority, distracted and overwhelmed, often fails to notice until those seeds have grown into invasive weeds, choking the very roots of society.

This dynamic is all the more magnified when the majority does not feel personally implicated by the threat at hand. Why learn about the long shadow of antisemitism if you are not Jewish? Why study the mechanics of othering when it is not your group being othered? The majority assumes these battles belong to someone else, comfortably confident that the tides of extremism will not reach their shores. After all, they are not antisemites, so what does it have to do with them?

Yet this is precisely the point. The success of fringe ideologies rarely depends on converting the masses to their cause. It depends on the apathy of the uninvolved and the inertia of the indifferent. It is not about whether most people are antisemites; it is about whether most people care enough to act when antisemitism begins to slink back into the mainstream, wearing new disguises and speaking in dog whistles rather than bullhorns.

Sure, most people are not antisemites, and they are not inherently driven by ideology. Most people want stability, security, and a general sense of normalcy. Extremists, on the other hand, want upheaval — and they work tirelessly to achieve it. The mismatch in energy, focus, and ruthlessness creates an uneven playing field.

Fringe ideologues also understand a vital truth about human nature: Fear is a more powerful motivator than reason. A tiny, determined group can cow the majority into submission if it stokes the right fears, whether through propaganda, violence, or the strategic targeting of scapegoats. The majority does not need to believe in the ideology — it just needs to feel powerless to oppose it.

And therein lies the danger: While the majority procrastinates, rationalizes, and compromises, the fringes never rest. They organize, they strategize, and they exploit the spaces where the busy majority’s vigilance falters. By the time the majority looks up from its distractions, it is often too late.

So, let this be a wake-up call and ensure that you and everyone you know hear it: When a synagogue burns, it is not just a building that goes up in flames. It is a piece of our collective humanity. And if we do not act — decisively, unequivocally — the fire will spread.

We have seen it before. We must ensure that we do not see it again.

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1. A central Jewish prayer that affirms the oneness of God

2. A Yiddish word for a synagogue