I am a cancelled Jewish artist. And I have never been more proud.
Proud not to be part of the rotten, cynical, self-serving, Jew-hating Australian art community in 2025.
Proud to stand apart from the gallery circles who sold out their souls for funding, for fashion, for cowardice, for clout.
For hate.
For performative righteousness.
For trending antisemitism.
Proud to be on the outside.
Because out here is where truth lives.
Out here, I found something deeper than art: I found my people.
Melbourne’s Jewish community is extraordinary. And if you live here, you should know that. You must know that.
In the face of relentless hate, in the face of unprovoked violence, in the face of slogans chanted on our streets that sound like echoes from the darkest chapters of history, this community does not turn bitter. It does not turn cruel.
They shine.
With kindness.
With strength.
With generosity.
With open arms and open hearts.
They are the light.
I don’t know why or how I often seem to end up at the centre of things. Dramatic things. Historic things. It’s both traumatic and strangely necessary. Something pulls me in. Something sacred. Something urgent.
And yesterday was one of those days.
It began with a six-hour master interview for a documentary. Me speaking, at last, the full truth of what happened.
The story of being silenced, bullied, and exiled by Melbourne’s antisemitic art world.
A world that claims to care about the oppressed, yet turned its back on the Jews.
Not just with silence, but with harassment. With exclusion. With cowardice disguised as politics of justice.
Later that day, I went home to prepare for Shabbat, already exhausted. But just as I arrived, an emergency call came through—something had happened at Miznon.
Without thinking, I ran.
Miznon, the Israeli restaurant in Melbourne’s CBD, and also my neighbours in Collingwood near Goldstone Gallery, is part of my world.
My community.
My neighbours.
My dear friends.
I got there twenty minutes after the attack.
Police had blocked off the street, but I made my way through just as the clean-up began. The aftermath looked like a pogrom. Tomatoes, cauliflower and eggplants smashed across the pavement. Broken tables. A shattered glass door.
I thought: Kristallnacht.
And then I saw the faces.
The staff are young people from all over the world: Chinese, Korean, Chilean, Colombian, Israeli, French, Australian, shaken, crying, hugging each other in disbelief. Customers huddled in stunned silence. People were broken. Terrified.
And then a voice began to sing.
A Jewish song. Old, holy, filled with soul. Another joined. Then another. Soon the space was filled with ancient melody. Songs of exile, of faith, of home.
Time stopped.
In that moment, I knew:
This is sacred.
This is strength.
This is survival.
Love will win.
We’ve been here before.
And we survived.
And we will survive again.
And there will be light.
Because it’s not just pain we inherit.
It’s beauty.
It’s tradition.
It’s strength.
It’s wisdom.
It’s generosity.
That’s what carries us.
And then, because it was still Shabbat, another miracle unfolded.
Even in the ashes of hate, Miznon did what Jews have done for thousands of years:
We lit candles.
We broke bread.
We gave thanks.
The challah, still warm from the oven, was brought out.
Two Shabbat candles were lit.
And we gathered, heartbroken, shaken, but huddled in love.
The owner, strong in spirit like David before Goliath, a true leader with a big, soft heart, addressed his staff. He had to explain the senseless to those who still didn’t understand why they had been attacked.
The staff said it’s the happiest place they’ve ever worked.
They hugged.
The light stayed.
And then, another message came in.
Only ten minutes away, by foot, the beautiful almost 150-year-old East Melbourne Synagogue had been firebombed.
I ran, again.
I knew the rabbi. I knew people who’d been inside. When I arrived, the fire trucks were just leaving. The street smelled like smoke. The synagogue was dark, charred.
But there was light, too.
A small group had gathered. Community leaders and Rabbi Dovid Gutnick. The rabbi stood calm. Bright-eyed. Steady.
No hatred.
No vengeance.
Just peace.
Just love.
Just wisdom.
He was worried for his children. They had just been playing inside. Behind the door that was set alight.
But he stood firm. Another true leader. A spiritual rock.
Looking at the charred door, I remembered two other charred doors I keep in my care.
For the past year, I’ve been working with Adass Israel Synagogue.
The other Melbourne synagogue that was firebombed and burned.
I’ve been creating sculptures and installations from salvaged remnants of that sacred, destroyed space.
It’s a full circle.
A heartbreaking, prophetic circle.
From ashes to art.
From destruction to remembrance.
From silence to voice.
From being harassed in the art world.
To watching it spread across the city.
From exclusion to explosions.
From cancelled exhibitions to cancelled lives.
From moral cowardice in the art scene
To Kristallnacht in the streets.
To brownshirts marching openly under police protection.
To death chants.
Broken glass.
And ash.
And if you still don’t see what this is,
I rest my case.
Hey Melbournians, come with us.
Let’s sing.
Let’s pray.
Let’s light candles and dance.
Let’s turn our backs to this hate.
Let’s guard what is still beautiful in this country.
This warm, open, golden place we call Australia.
Let’s protect its light.
We want to keep it that way.
Comrades, you called each other that,
Go on.
You dirty brown shirts.
Disgusting.
You marched in hate.
You shouted death.
You screamed “Heil Hitler.”
But we?
We gathered in love.
So yes,
You shout death,
And I shout life.
You shout hate,
And I shout love.
You scream “Heil Hitler,”
And I sing Shalom Aleichem.
You try to drown us in terror,
But we sing louder.
You try to break us,
But we gather.
We light candles.
We break bread.
We love harder.
You try to drown us in noise,
But we are the song.
You try to erase us,
But we are history.
You want to burn the world down,
But we will heal it.
And we will win.
Because love is stronger.
Because light travels farther.
Because kindness.
Always outlasts cruelty.
So love your Jewish neighbour.
Love your Zionist neighbour.
Yes, that one with the light.
Learn what Zionism actually means:
It is the right of the Indigenous Jewish people to safety and self-determination
in their historic land,
Rooted for millennia, and long before.
And we are not who you think we are.
We have never done the things we’re accused of. Ever.
But we’ve been blamed for every evil under the sun.
And every time,
Every. Single. Time.
The accusations turned out to be lies.
The blood libels.
The conspiracies.
The whispers.
The silence.
Every lie has left a body count.
So I ask you:
When will you finally learn?
We have centuries of cancellations, pogroms, harassment, and Holocausts to prove it:
We were innocent.
And you were wrong.
You were always wrong.
Don’t be wrong again.
Wake up.
Remember history.
And see us.
We are not the ones with hate.
We are the ones with light.
Hallelujah.
This piece was originally published on the Goldstone Gallery Substack (subscribe here) a contemporary fine art gallery committed to platforming silenced voices. It is shared here on JWOW with permission.
Nina Sanadze’s current installation Shiur (Lesson), created from 91 salvaged charred chairs from the firebombed Adass Israel Synagogue, is on view outside the Jewish Museum of Australia until 17 August, as part of the exhibition Chutzpah.
