Some of the most decisive moments for our collective future are playing out quietly in places that most Israelis have never even heard of. A rented university hall in Adelaide. A tiny synagogue in Brisbane. The back corner of a Melbourne café where a group of Jewish students and I huddled over flat whites and tried to map out how to respond to a campus incident.
I used to think the most important work happened on big stages — the rallies, the speeches, the headline moments. But two years as a shaliach in Australia and New Zealand taught me that the real work — the work that actually drives people and inspires actions — happens in quiet spaces. It’s the conversation at the bus stop after an event, the Shabbat dinner where half the guests don’t know each other, the kitchen clean-up where someone finally says what they’ve been holding in for months.
Many Israelis misinterpreted the recent images of tens of thousands of anti-Israel protesters marching on the Sydney Harbor Bridge as indicating no opposition, no nuance of opinion. “Australia’s gone,” some said. If I didn't know better, I might have said the same. But the strength of the local Jewish community and its resilient connection to Israel are not measured by numbers on bridges. They’re made by the small moments that don’t make the news, but build trust, connection, and a shared sense of identity. And without them, everything else collapses.
When the small rooms matter more than the big stages
Before I left Israel in June 2023, I pictured my shlichut in broad, cinematic strokes: speeches to big audiences, rallies with flags waving, maybe the occasional fiery debate. And yes, those things happened — especially after October 7, when everything became urgent overnight. But the moments that felt most meaningful didn’t happen under spotlights.
They happened in the smallest rooms.
There was the Australasian Union of Jewish Students’ (AUJS) leadership retreat where I found myself at 1:00 a.m. in a draughty kitchen, nursing a cup of over-brewed tea with a first-year student who wasn’t sure she belonged in the Jewish community. She’s now running her campus AUJS branch. Or the Friday brunch where a handful of Israeli expats, half of them practically allergic to synagogue life, ended up sketching out plans for Jewish culture events. Or that Shabbat debate in Auckland when a teenager — clearly rehearsing the words in her head first — asked, “How do I speak up for Israel without antagonising myself?”
No headlines. No applause. Just bridges being built, one conversation at a time.
Why Israel needs a strong diaspora — and vice versa
October 7 collapsed the distance between Melbourne and Jerusalem in a way I never thought possible. Within hours, students, expats, and long-time community members mobilized — booking flights, raising money, sending supplies, showing up with flags and moral clarity without anyone asking them to.
But here’s the thing: that kind of response doesn’t spring out of nowhere. It’s the result of years of connection, trust, and making sure Jewish life still feels relevant when the news cycle won’t stop gaslighting you.
If we let that relationship fade — if Israel treats the Diaspora like an audience to be addressed instead of a partner to be worked with — then when we face the next crisis, the bridge won’t hold. And that’s not just the Diaspora’s problem. A weakened Diaspora means fewer advocates in Canberra, London, Washington. It means losing ground in the places where political support for Israel is built and maintained.
Jewish continuity is no longer inherited — it’s chosen
In Israel, Jewish identity is baked into the week — the Friday afternoon rush before Shabbat, the Yom Ha’atzmaut street parties, the fact that the Hebrew calendar is Israel’s national calendar. In Australia and New Zealand, it’s different. Jewish life is a daily choice. Every Friday, every holiday, every community event — you decide whether to show up or not.
And choices need reasons.
I saw students who had been totally disconnected from Jewish life find their reason through AUJS programs, through a Yom Hazikaron ceremony, through something as simple as a Hebrew language class. I met an Israeli family who “hadn’t done the community thing in years” come to a Yom Ha’atzmaut event just for the kids’ activities… and end up staying because they “felt a piece of home.” None of this was inevitable. Someone reached out. Someone listened.
The small moments are strategy
We like to think “strategy” happens in glossy conference rooms with whiteboards and bullet points. But in this line of work, strategy is the five-minute chat while packing up folding chairs. It’s walking with someone to the tram stop after an event and hearing, for the first time, why they’ve kept their Jewish identity under wraps.
These aren’t just “nice extras.” They’re the foundation. And they decide whether the next generation sees itself as part of the Jewish story at all.
Don’t stand idly by
שאננות — complacency — is dangerous not because it’s loud, but because it’s quiet. It pretends to be harmless. But standing idly by is a choice, and it’s one that shapes the outcome just as much as the actions of those who push against us. We were reminded of that during a recent assault of a visibly Jewish father in Montreal, Canada alongside his young daughter. As passersby stood there and filmed in silence, they were virtually telling that poor child: “You’re alone.”
The small rooms matter. The unseen conversations matter. And the relationships we nurture today, far from the headlines, will decide what kind of Jewish world we pass on.
As I head back to Israel, I know my shlichut isn’t really ending. The work — the bridge-building — just changes zip codes. The story we’re writing together is still unfolding. And the most decisive scenes may be happening right now, in some small room halfway around the world, between people who don’t yet realise they’re shaping the future.
Tobias Siegal is an outgoing Jewish Agency shaliach in Australia and New Zealand.