Miznon gives us a chance to start a more positive conversation

Back in June 2017, I got a phone call from Ron Lazarovits, the owner of the Miznon restaurant group. He invited me to interview Eyal Shani, the Israeli master chef, ahead of Miznon’s opening in Melbourne. At the time, I was the editor of Eton – Australia's Israeli newspaper – and I was thrilled.

Our conversation was everything you'd expect from two passionate Israelis — full of energy, ideas, and a shared love of food. I remember Eyal raving about long beans he’d just discovered at the Queen Victoria Market. He was absolutely fascinated by them. (Next time you’re at Miznon, grab the bag of greens.)

For us Israelis, food is never just about filling your stomach. It’s about connection. It brings comfort, evokes memories, ties generations together. We can spend entire evenings just debating hummus recipes — and love every minute of it.

That night at Miznon’s launch, I felt proud. Proud to see Israeli cuisine land on the streets of Melbourne's CBD — far from the shtetl, yet deeply rooted in our culture. Watching people from all backgrounds line up to taste our food was powerful.

Yes, feeding our own is beautiful. But seeing people from around the world embrace our flavours? That’s something else. It was delicious, fresh, bold — just like Israelis. I felt like we’d made history.

Fast forward to 2025, and the streets of Melbourne feel different. Antisemitism isn’t just a word anymore — it’s a shadow many of us live with. But for me, my relationship with antisemitism took a different path.

After October 7, I made a conscious decision not to share antisemitic incidents on my Facebook. Not because they didn’t matter, but because I didn’t want to give hate more oxygen. I felt that by constantly highlighting the darkness, I was helping it grow.

But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get to me. For weeks after that terrible day, I felt lost. Questions swirled in my head: Should I be afraid to say I'm Jewish? Or Israeli?

People here always ask me about my accent — and suddenly, I didn’t know how to answer. I forgot I’m actually an Australian citizen, and that I’ve lived here longer than I lived in Israel.

Then my Israeli roots kicked in. I reminded myself: Enough. Hiding who I am is letting ignorance win. And that’s not who I am.

Since then, I’ve organised and participated in countless community events. I refuse to be silent or afraid. And I’ve never had a negative experience. Only once — climbing Mount Kosciuszko with Israeli climber Danielle Wolfson — did a group of Aussies start yelling at us from a distance when they saw our Israeli flags. We stared them down, kept walking, and didn’t give them air. They backed off.

Since that moment, every time someone asks where I’m from, I proudly say: I’m Israeli. And every time, the response has been warm, curious, and positive.

We must demand our rights as Australians — to be safe, to be protected, to be treated equally. But we’ve also spent too long amplifying hate — and not nearly enough time amplifying love.

Let’s talk about the silent majority for a second. We often ask: Where are they? Why don’t they speak up? But have we ever stopped to ask: Do we give them space to be heard? Do we encourage them to speak?

So here’s my suggestion: the next time you have a beautiful interaction — with an Aussie friend, a stranger, someone from any background — share that. Celebrate it. When I say “Aussie”, I mean all of us — whether we’re from Greece, Italy, Lebanon, Afghanistan, India, Africa, or anywhere else.

Now, back to Miznon. Last Friday, I was furious when I heard what happened. I know the people who work there. I love Afik, the chef, and Inbal. They don’t represent politics — they represent love, passion, food. They serve everyone — regardless of faith, background, or nationality.

So why should they have to defend themselves against a gang of hooligans who threw stones at their restaurant?

The next day, I went to Miznon with friends. We came hungry — not just for food, but to show support. And the place was full. People of all ages, all faiths, all backgrounds — breaking bread, laughing, talking. I was especially moved to see a table of women wearing hijabs, sitting outside and enjoying themselves.

I spoke to the staff — I wanted facts, not media spin. What I learned blew me away: the vandals weren’t Muslim Australians. And the people who helped Afik and his team? Lebanese, Indian, other restaurant owners. This was the silent majority. They stood with them. They protected Miznon's staff — most of whom aren’t even Jewish — just good people doing the right thing.

This is my Australia — the one I thought I lost. But I didn’t. It’s still here, alive and kicking.

After my visit, I shared my thoughts online. I didn’t expect much — but the response was overwhelming. Dozens of messages thanking me for bringing light into a dark space. People needed it. I needed it too.

We’ve all been stuck in the same gloomy narrative for months. Social media, WhatsApp — all we see is hate. It wears down our souls. But it doesn’t have to be this way.

Let’s shift the conversation. Let’s share joy, kindness, connection. Let’s share food, stories, love. Let’s let the love in — and not let the hate win. We can choose differently.

I choose hope.