In the long shadow cast by the Bondi massacre, when public joy was pierced by calculated hatred, an older truth presses itself upon us: darkness does not have the final word. Human beings do—by the choices they make when fear demands retreat and conscience calls them forward.
Christmas arrives each year as a season of moral reckoning as much as celebration. Even in secular Canada, it summons reflections on family, peace, justice, and the stubborn hope that the lives of the lonely, the war-scarred, and the dispossessed can yet be changed. Some pursue that hope without religious faith, relying solely on human resolve—often with extraordinary courage and sacrifice. Others draw strength from sacred traditions, prayer, and a conviction that moral action participates in a purpose larger than the self.
As a Muslim, guided by the Qur’anic call to peace, security, and goodwill toward the People of the Book, I see no contradiction between these paths. The Qur’an honours Jesus, son of Mary, as a sign of God’s mercy, and commands believers to stand firmly for justice and the sanctity of human life. It is in this shared moral terrain that the events of Bondi Beach must be understood.
On 14 December, the first night of Hanukkah, the menorah was lit publicly—an ancient defiance of fear, a declaration that light belongs in the open. Hours later, that same space was violated by murderous intent, Jews targeted for the simple, courageous act of celebrating their faith. It was an assault not only on lives, but on the principle that religious identity may be lived openly and safely.
Yet even there, light answered darkness. One such light was Ahmed al Ahmed, an unarmed recent Muslim migrant from Syria who confronted one of the gunmen with his bare hands. In his final moments—terrified yet resolute—he chose solidarity over self-preservation. In Ahmed al Ahmed, we can see a light of hope: a reminder that moral courage is not the preserve of institutions or ideologies, but of ordinary human beings who, when confronted by evil, refuse to look away. His action was not strategic; it was ethical. Whether shaped consciously by faith or by an instinctive recognition of human dignity, it affirmed a truth shared across our traditions—that every life is sacred, and that courage in defence of others is the highest form of witness.
In a society that often treats religion as a private eccentricity, events like Bondi expose the poverty of that assumption. Religious belief, at its best, does not withdraw from the public square; it illuminates it. When a Muslim risks his life to save Jews celebrating Hanukkah, the hollow rhetoric of clash of civilization¹” collapses under the weight of lived reality.
At a time when Gaza, Ukraine, Myanmar, and South Sudan testify to the fragility of global order and the erosion of moral restraint, such examples matter profoundly. In Gaza, a devastating genocide has unfolded before the open eyes of the world—children starved to death, families erased, entire neighbourhoods reduced to rubble—a mass murder witnessed in real time, yet met with a silence and fatigue that stand in painful contrast to the rightful outrage provoked by Bondi Beach. One life lost to terror should trouble the human conscience; the slow starvation and annihilation of thousands of children in Gaza should haunt it beyond measure. That it has not done so reveals not a hierarchy of suffering, but a failure of moral consistency—one that corrodes our collective humanity.
Christians recall at Christmas the words of the prophet Isaiah: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” Jews affirm the same hope through the Hanukkah flame. Muslims echo it in the Qur’anic teaching that saving one life is as if saving all of humanity. Different languages, one moral grammar.
If this season teaches us anything, it is this: peace is not an abstraction negotiated only by states, nor a sentiment rationed by media attention. It is a discipline of conscience, lived daily. If we could all be, like Ahmed al Ahmed, a small leaven of unity, fraternity, and courage, then even flickering lights might yet drive back the darkness.
May those who walk in gloom see a great light. And may we, together, help keep it alive.
¹The term The Clash of Civilizations was coined by Samuel P. Huntington, an American political scientist in a 1993 article published in Foreign Affairs. Huntington later expanded on this concept in his 1996 book, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of the World Order, giving it global prominence and policy influence.
¹The term The Clash of Civilizations was coined by Samuel P. Huntington, an American political scientist in a 1993 article published in Foreign Affairs. Huntington later expanded on this concept in his 1996 book, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of the World Order, giving it global prominence and policy influence.
Javed Akbar is a freelance writer with published works in the Toronto Star and across diverse digital platforms.
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