A short story by Ezra Nadav

Dedication

In memory of those who were killed and harmed at the Bondi Beach Chanukkah by the Sea gathering. יהי זכרם ברוך — may their memory be a blessing. This story is written in honour of their lives and the light they brought into the world.

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On the first night of Chanukkah, Pip went down to the water with his friends.

The forest had gathered by the edge of the bay, where the water caught the last of the sunlight and held it gently, like a promise. Lanterns glowed in soft colours. Candles flickered. Someone hummed a tune Pip recognised — a song about light lasting longer than expected.

Pip felt warm inside. This was a night for being together.
This was a night for being who you are.
But something changed.

Not all at once — just enough for Pip to notice.
The singing stopped.
The lanterns seemed very still.
Grown-ups’ voices grew quiet and tight.

Pip felt it in his chest before he understood it in his head.
Something sad had happened.

Pip looked around. Some of the older squirrels and birds were holding each other. A few were crying softly. Others stood very straight, like they were trying to be brave on the outside because their insides felt shaky.

Pip tugged gently on his friend Tamar’s sleeve.
“Why are the grown-ups sad?” he asked.
“And why do I feel scared, even though I don’t know why?”

Tamar knelt down so her eyes were level with Pip’s.
“Because,” she said carefully, “something happened today that hurt people. Not because they did anything wrong. Just because they were being who they are.”

Pip’s ears drooped.
“But this is a night for light,” he said. “And songs. And being together.”

“Yes,” Tamar said softly. “That’s why it hurts. When something dark tries to touch a moment like this, it makes everyone feel shaken.”

Pip thought for a moment.
“Are we in danger right now?”

Tamar shook her head. “No. You are safe. We are together. There are many helpers around us. But it’s okay to feel scared when something frightening happens — even if it didn’t happen to you.”

Pip nodded slowly. That made sense.
He looked back at the candles by the water. Their flames were small, but steady.
“Did the lights do something wrong?” Pip asked.

Tamar smiled, a little sadly. “No, Pip. And neither did the people who were hurt.”

They stood quietly for a moment.

Then Pip asked the question that had been sitting in his heart like a pebble.
“Does this mean we shouldn’t light the candles anymore?”

The grown-ups nearby heard him. One by one, they turned.
A gentle hush fell over the gathering.
An older owl stepped forward. Her feathers were silvered with age, and her voice was calm and strong.
“No,” she said. “It means we light them anyway.”

“Even when we’re sad?” Pip asked.

“Especially then,” the owl replied. “Chanukkah is about light that keeps going — even when it’s hard. Even when people are afraid. Even when the world feels unkind.”

Pip felt something warm rise in his chest.
“But what if someone doesn’t like our lights?” he asked.

The owl looked at him kindly. “Then we remember that the light isn’t for them. It’s for us. And for anyone who needs to see that hope still exists.”

One by one, the candles were lit.
Their reflections shimmered on the water, doubling the light. Then doubling it again.

Pip noticed something else, too.
No one rushed away.
No one hid.
No one put the lights out.

They stood closer together.
Some sang softly.
Some cried.
Some held hands.

Pip realised something important:
Being brave didn’t mean not feeling scared.
It meant not letting fear decide who you are.

When the last candle was lit, Pip whispered a promise to himself:
“I will remember the ones who were hurt.
I will keep lighting the candles.
I will not make myself smaller.”

The water carried the light outward, farther than Pip could see.
And though the night had known sadness,
it also knew something else:

The light was still here.
The people were still here.
And so was Pip.