Here we go!!!

All the details are here!

It’s October 1 and I’m kicking off this HUGE fundraiser in the hope that we can really make a huge difference.

I know that I know that I know that there are soooooo many people who want to help…but just don’t know how!

I really hope I’ve made this as simple as possible and that you will help me by sharing the link directly with your circles. Often it’s just as simple as people wanting to know that they can trust the person they are transferring to.

And yes, if you live in Melbourne…make sure you read the whole link!

Much love, Veronica

The timing is terrible.

I’m meant to be focusing on the HUMAN ANIMALS film that I’m screening on October 9th.

Melbourne peeps: share this link please

However…

The planets have aligned and I have a RARE opportunity to do something BIG leading up to my birthday.

So I’m throwing caution to the wind (which yes…you don’t need to say it…is very normal for me) and going ahead with this OTHER THING as well.

Here’s the thing.

In order to pull it off…I need your help. And your friends help. And your workmates help.

Which is why I’m giving you a heads up today to be on the look out for my post tomorrow.

I’m not sure what I will call it yet…but it will probably have the word BIRTHDAY in it.

Stay tuned…

(and yes…it involves my grandmother’s cheesecake)

Last week I wrote about the incredible film: HUMAN ANIMALS

Lots of you said that you wished that you could see it.

As did lots of people on Instagram and on Tiktok.

So yeah, I’ve gone ahead and taken a big big risk.

I’ve hired the auditorium at the KINO cinema, that I hired for the film “Two Kids A Day” by the same producers: Mhamad Babai and David Wachmann.

It’s a lot of money.

But I honestly believe that this is a MUST SEE film.

Something that really stands out to me is the intimacy of the footage out of Gaza.

And Mhamad explained in the Q&A after the last film, that they had a wedding videographer do the filming. More importantly, a WOMAN wedding videographer. She captures something so tender that is rare in these documentary style films.

The other aspect that stands out to me is that when they picked which Israelis to interview, they didn’t choose religious fanatics or the stereotypical warmongers we are familiar with. Instead they invited Israelis that identify as “lefty” and progressive. Which makes it even MORE confronting hearing their vile, racist and Jewish supremacist views.

Mhamad highlighted that it’s similar to why the movie “Zone of Interest” was so powerful. Because it gives us a glimpse into the mundane life of those living their day to day life next to a genocide.

All this to say…

I really want you to see this film.

It’s really important.

And sharing the link with your circles would be super helpful since I’ve not given myself a lot of time to find 200 people.

Here is the link!

I should add that I’ve also booked enough time for there to be a debrief after the screening.

I don’t know what that will look like yet, but at least there is an option for “something” before heading out of the cinema after watching such a heartbreaking documentary.

I feel responsible for providing some cushioning.

There is an option in the link to give a donation to help cover the costs. 100% of the profits will go to the producers to help them continue with their incredible truth telling. They are already working on their next project.

Here is the video from yesterday in case you are curious.

(I filmed it after standing on a cold bridge for three hours so I was somewhat flustered to say the least)

I also want to acknowledge that the only reason it was possible for me to book the cinema is because I now have an “events” fund thanks to everyone who has come and supported my previous films. It’s amazing to not have to borrow money and as long as tickets cover the hire…I can keep organising educational experiences like this.

I really really really hope you can come along.

Here is the link again for the film & debrief

Much love, Veronica

I stepped outside this morning and my neighbour had mowed our front lawn without being asked.

It’s exactly what he told me would happen, but still…such a delightful surprise.

The back story is that a couple of weeks ago I introduced myself to the woman who has moved in next door with her husband and son. She was sitting in their front yard enjoying the sunshine. She told me that her husband had wanted to mow our lawn but didn’t want to assume I needed any help.

I burst out laughing. Because at that point my lawn was very “jungle vibes”.

I explained that her husband was very very very welcome to mow our lawn whenever he wanted and to assume away. In fact, any “manly” jobs would be greatly appreciated.

Sure enough, a couple of days later, true to his word, there he was…mowing our lawn when I got back from a big day.

I thanked him profusely and attempted to explain how wonderful it is to get such practical help without even asking.

“Oh, it’s NO TROUBLE at all! I’m already mowing my own…it’s effortless. Happy to do it.”

And now again today, he has mowed our lawn.

It’s just such a lovely feeling.

And it has made me think.

Because I believe him. Mowing our lawn is effortless for him.

While for me it’s a complex chore that requires many planets to align and falls to the wayside with too many other more important tasks.

In the same way that giving meals to a neighbour that has a disability and is coeliac is effortless for me.

I’m already cooking dinner. And it’s coeliac safe because of my daughter. It’s literally no trouble at all to pop some into a container and give it to someone who needs it.

Yet for them, it’s incredible to be on the receiving end to be gifted something that feels too complicated.

I can give endless examples like this.

The tech thing that would take me hours, if not days and definitely tears.

My friend moves his hands like magic with the mouse and keyboard and somehow gets the solutions within seconds. Often solutions I didn’t even know existed!

Or the woman down the road that goes for a walk every day so she offers to take the toddler next door for a ride in the stroller while the mum gets a few moments to herself.

Or the young person seeing a homeless guy at the petrol station, and instead of ignoring him, offering to buy him food.

These micro exchanges is what makes us feel connected. And give us a burst of much needed dopamine in a heavy world.

I don’t know if there is anyone or anything in particular to blame for the voice in our head that so quickly will say:

“I don’t want to assume.”

And not offer our help.

But it’s such a thing.

And we would be transformed as individuals, as a community, as a society…and yes, even globally…if we taught ourselves to listen out for that “I don’t want to assume” voice…and then go ahead and do it anyways.

To not let the “I don’t want to assume” voice have the final say.

Because EVERY SINGLE ONE OF US has a “lawn next door to mow”.

What feels like such a small thing for us…can be life changing for someone else.

(This is so funny…JUST NOW my friend sent me a text that I decided to look at because she’s in hospital and I’m not wanting to miss any updates. It’s a photo of two small tubes of fancy looking shampoo & conditioner. With this message: The friendliest day nurse just says to me - I asked my mum for any shampoo or conditioner samples I could collect for the ward for the women - and just brought me fresh towels and some shampoo and conditioner like the greatest little love in action moment.

There it is! A perfect example of what I’m trying to express.

The nurse could have so easily chosen to dismiss her urge to do something kind, in case it made my friend feel uncomfortable. Instead she went ahead with something small (and effortless) and in turn has brought such a deep sense of care and nurture to someone stuck in a hospital bed.)

Even writing this piece felt clumsy. The same voice that says “I don’t want to assume” also says things like “that’s really awkward”. And of course, the temptation is to opt out.

But I’m trying to trust these moments of vulnerability because I’m often thanked more for these “cringey” pieces that I write…than the ones that I feel are more substantial and worthwhile.

So yeah, here’s to the micro moments of kindness that can so easily slip by and becoming better and not just spotting them…but taking a risk and making an offer.

I’m still unsure if I’m doing the right thing by sharing the early writings of the book that is sloooooooowly emerging.

Please know that you are the first to read this. There has been ZERO editing. It’s very likely that the words will change countless times before the chapters become a book.

But I want to share some of the process with you.

(At least these very early days of the genocide that now feel so distant)

Try to be gentle with your responses because it’s a bit like showing someone an ultra sound. Keep any harsh criticism for when I’m feeling more robust.

And yes, I do have a not so secret agenda with sharing my writing. I’m hoping that those of you who have the financial buffer, and who think (or feel) that my book has value, will consider becoming a paid subscriber here on Substack. Because if there are enough $8 a month supporters…I will have the financial freedom to not take as many shifts to cover my rent and instead get more writing done. At the moment it’s such a hectic juggling act attempting to take as many shifts as possible, while also writing a book.

It’s important that I remind you though, that everyone has the same access to my Substack posts. Paid subscribers don’t receive any extra benefits. It’s really important to me that those who can’t afford to financially support, don’t miss out. And I’m well aware that they are supporting me in other ways, by commenting and sharing etc.

Alright…

So first things first.

Here is the opening to the book which I shared a few weeks ago:

Read it here...skip to bottom half of post :)

And now that you have finished reading that, you have permission to read below:

CHAPTER 2:

October 7th, 2023 started out like most of my Saturdays. I did a shift as a support worker in the morning, which meant helping a woman declutter her living-room. I then went home and shared some photos on Facebook and Instagram hoping to sell some handwoven kimonos that had arrived from the women I support in Cambodia. Even in October people start thinking about Christmas presents and weekends are a good time for online shopping. I also baked a cake. Looking back it feels like such an innocent time, because I will never be able to go back to how I saw the world, or more importantly, how I saw my family and friends before October 7.

As I stepped out of the bathroom after a shower, hoping to finally get to bed, my daughter called out and said that something had happened in Israel. Something is always happening in Israel.

No mum, this is big.

She showed me her phone and I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. It looked as if hundreds of Palestinians were climbing over a toppled fence and running across the border. A tractor had broken through barbed wire and young men were riding past on motorbikes, waving their fists in the air.

It’s hard to explain. But a surge of energy swept through my body. The most effective way I can describe it is as if I had seen images of the fence around Auschwitz being torn down, and the prisoners breaking free. Finally!!!

Since 2014, when I first understood that I had been brainwashed to believe a lie, I had advocated for Palestinian liberation. I protested online about Israel restricting their access to water. I had also raised awareness about Israel counting how many calories were allowed into Gaza. In fact, it was actually a photo from Gaza that had successfully smashed through my Zionist goggles nine years earlier. It was the image of a destroyed building, and among the rubble was the torso of a toddler. That was my “before and after” moment.

So now to see the Palestinians who had been locked up in a tiny strip of land, with constant surveillance and inhumane restrictions finally break free, was exhilarating.

It was a micro-second of joy.

Oh man, Israel is going to R E T A L I A T E.

I must have said my thoughts out loud because I saw my daughter’s eyes grow big before she stepped back into her bedroom. It was moments like this that I was reminded of how much I had protected my four children from my Israeli experience. My youngest was seventeen, when I was seventeen I was preparing to serve God and my country in the military. Me and my daughter’s lives and our view of ourselves and the world could not be any more different. At her age I was a Jewish supremacist, willing to sacrifice my life for a higher calling.

A photo of a young family flashed up on my phone, interrupting my thoughts. A mother, a father, two daughters and a little boy; I realised they had been killed. Headlines naming kibbutzim infiltrated by terrorists filled the phone screen.

Terrorists.

The word felt uneasy, but I was too engrossed in the news updates to give my discomfort any attention.

There was no way that I could sleep. I just kept staring at my phone as more and more footage flooded in: rows of houses burning, a bus stop with scattered bodies covered in blankets, endless cars with bullet holes abandoned on the side of the desert road.

Ramzy! I realised my friend Ramzy lived in this area.

Then I saw a road sign. I recognised that name. Exactly one year earlier, almost to the day, I had planned to travel down this road to visit my school friend Ramzy.

In the last week of September and the first three weeks of October 2022, I spent a month in Israel. I flew there to be a support worker for an Israeli woman living in Melbourne who wanted to visit her family with her young son. It was one of the craziest experiences of my life, but one of the few positive outcomes of the trip was the possibility of catching up with my friend Ramzy.

We had not spoken in years, but during the lockdowns I set up a WhatsApp group for my classmates. It was incredible to feel such a strong connection after so many years. Not only did we chat in the group, but we also organised a couple of Zoom sessions. We might have been scattered around the globe, but for the first time since being in school together, we were sharing a similar experience. The lockdowns brought us closer and precious friendships were reignited. Out of everyone in the group, I had spent the most time chatting with Ramzy. Reconnecting with him was priceless. He was now married to an Israeli woman and they had moved to a kibbutz together. The way Ramzy described their life, it sounded like he had found utopia. They lived in a beautiful home, their three sons were surrounded by friends and cousins at a neighbouring kibbutz. They had manicured gardens and fields growing vegetables and flowers all around them. Ramzy had shared photos of his idyllic life. One image that stood out to me showed how, during the harvest festival, tractors would slowly drive through the kibbutz showcasing the babies born in the previous year. So adorable!

Organizing a visit to his kibbutz had been too difficult, so Ramzy drove to Jerusalem to meet me instead, and we spent a precious day together. We used to live around the corner from each other, so we even went for a walk past our childhood apartments, reminiscing about the few years our lives overlapped from grade 6 to graduation. Of course back then it felt like forever, but it had only been half a dozen years. Maybe the fact that we experienced the Gulf War together made our connection feel stronger, since most of our classmates had been flown back to their home countries. The war itself might have only lasted for forty days, but the months leading up to the first scud missile streaking across the sky from Iraq painfully went past in slow motion.

Surely Ramzy was safe? It felt impossible to find the words for a WhatsApp message.

At 12:27am on October 8 I wrote:

You’re on my heart. As is your whole family

I then hit send.

I woke up the next morning hoping to find a response. So at 6:37am I sent another message:

Ramzy

A minute later, at 6:38am, I received a notification that there was a response. I clicked on his name and it felt as if all oxygen disappeared from my lungs.

They kidnapped my son.

Technically I should attend to that before heading off to work.

But there is a story I want to share with you.

And it followed me into my dreams last night and I woke up with an urgency to share it with you.

So the mess behind me will have to wait.

The context is that I went along to a super small gathering for a friend yesterday. (Hence the messy kitchen, as I brought a lot of food with me)

(Yes I can only cook for a village even if only a handful of people are going to eat)

Incredibly, my friend didn’t have music playing during the gathering. Which meant that we were able to TALK. (Hallelujah)

(I come away from most catch ups feeling robbed of good conversation because of the music.) (But that’s a whole other topic)

There was a woman there, who is probably about twenty years older than me. Maybe a bit less. It’s hard to know. But I assume late sixties.We had spoken earlier and

she has obviously lived a very big life. She was having a conversation with a man next to me about being crushed by a truck.

So I jumped in and asked if she could repeat the story for me.

Turns out, that in her twenties she had worked at a cattle station as a jillaroo (which for those of you who don’t know is the female version of a jackaroo...which is someone who helps with cattle and maintenance on a farm).

One day she was helping with moving two horses in a truck from a paddock. When they arrived at the last gate it was locked. So the man driving the six ton truck went to get the keys from the farm house. The young woman was standing by the gate and realised that the truck had begun to roll. And it was going to roll into the dam!!

So she ran around to the driver’s side of the truck to pull the handbrake, but the door was locked!

And just then the truck moved enough to crush her against the gate post!!!

At this point, the man who was listening to the story exclaims:

“I would have just let the truck roll into the dam!”

Which is EXACTLY what I was thinking.

And the woman says:

“And let those horses drown???? Never!”

It turns out that she spent the next six months in a hospital, had eight surgeries and has lived with excruciating pain, still feeling the consequences decades later.

As someone who has had spine surgery and has experienced a tiny amount of what she has survived, what she said next is still echoing in my body and I’m sure why her story followed

me into my dreams last night.

“I WOULD DO IT ALL AGAIN IN A HEARTBEAT TO SAVE THOSE HORSES.”

And then she stopped for a moment, as if to check in with herself if that was really true.

“Yes, I DEFINITELY would. Those horses were worth every bit of pain.”

And it’s hard to explain this, because it wasn’t so much the words she said...but HOW she said them.

She spoke with such conviction.

She was so earnest.

Her words came from the core of her being.

It’s rare that I ever hear someone speak like that.

So this morning I woke up after dreaming about driving a car without brakes and the handbrake not budging, and the first thought I had was:

What price are you willing to pay?

If we really believe that life is valuable, what are we willing to pay to save lives?

Horses. Humans.

What are we willing to sacrifice to save their lives?

It’s something I’ve been wrestling with for nearly three years now.

Those of us opposing a genocide...if it’s not costing us anything...are we ACTUALLY opposing it?

Is feeling something strongly good enough?

I keep hearing that eighty something percent of Australians oppose what Israel is doing in Gaza.

Eighty percent!!!

Every time I hear it, I say bullshit.

Because eighty something percent of Australians are not on the streets protesting.

And eighty something percent of Australians are not giving money to families trying to cling on to life in Gaza.

I mean, eighty something percent of Australians are not even willing to write to their MP demanding sanctions.

IF WE REALLY BELIEVE THAT LIFE IS VALUABLE...IT HAS TO COST US SOMETHING.

Anything.

Money.

Time.

Energy.

Hopefully not a crushed body and six months in a hospital.

But this woman said she would do it all again, to save TWO horses.

What am I willing to give to save lives in Gaza?

We are almost three years into a genocide. And those who have been sacrificing their money, time and energy are tired. And of course they refuse to even admit that, because nothing

compares with the price those in Gaza are paying from sunrise to sunrise for over a thousand days.

New people are needed to step in.

It’s as simple as moving past the discomfort and showing up at the October 11 rallies.

Or giving money to those providing food and water for families in Gaza (and soon warm clothes as the thought of another winter in Gaza is terrifying)

I really hope my words land softly. This is not about shaming or criticising. I need to hear this message just as much as everyone else.

One day all this will be over.

Sigh.

It’s hard to believe that.

But it really will.

And we will be asked what we did to help.

We can all do something.

Money.

Time.

Energy.

And now I must rush off to work...

If you want to give:

PARA: wonderful organisation

And if you prefer not giving through a link. This is PayID and 100% goes to help 12 women in Gaza. My friend Greta has been tirelessly raising money week after week.

PayID: starfishkeeper@hotmail.com

(My kitchen window is bringing me so much joy, so I’m sharing it with you instead of the pile of dishes)

I did it to highlight something that Netanyahu does right…which is share stories.

Which is what my Christian Zionism seminar talks about…how effective story telling is compared with just sharing information. Especially if it's personal stories…which is exactly what Netanyahu did.

But then all day his speech stayed with me.

Because as I mentioned in the video, I never watch UN speeches, so I can't compare Netanyahu's speech with anyone else's. But it just seemed soooo out of place. Like why would he speak like that at the UN???

And the answer is of course: HE WASN'T ACTUALLY SPEAKING TO THE UN.

He was speaking to us, the Israelis.

Not just the ones living in Israel. But all of us living around the globe.

It's so damn genius.

And this is why it's so crazy that the UN would give a war criminal who should be behind bars…a global platform!

Israeli elections are around the corner and Netanyahu was given the golden ticket.

As an Israeli, I can't tell you how much the story of Netanyahu's brother Yoni is at the core of our national identity. In Australia the closest I could think of is Ned Kelly (terrible example but that will have to do).

Even “dormant” zionists will be emotionally triggered hearing his story mentioned on a global platform. And that's exactly what Netanyahu needs to win the next election.…emotions!

Any rational thinking goes out the window.

And Netanyahu's speech was aimed at every type of Jewish Israeli. Religious, secular…there was a story for each of us.

It's exhilarating to see all the protests that took place and the auditorium emptying before the speech…but don't for a moment think that it had much impact.

Netanyahu had FORTY MINUTES to smooth talk his way into the Israeli psyche…and everything else was just noise.

Sigh.

Can someone please explain to me why he was allowed to speak at the UN…I really don't understand.

#UN

#Netanyahu

#USA

#Newyork

I've been wanting to share this with you for a few days but my life is topsy-turvy and I'm just going to do a very quick update, instead of the more in-depth one I've been trying to make time for.

(I was meant to have a week off from work so I had all these “to do” intentions piling up…

Only to have to step in last minute with my client who refused to board a flight. So I'm actually staying with him for the week which means I'm more scattered than usual 🫠)

Anywayyyys…

On Saturday I spoke with Murad, the bio-dynamic farmer we've been raising money for (and now over our target 🥳)

And he told me that the day before (so last Friday) Israeli settlers STOLE SOME OF HIS LAND!!!!

It felt as if someone punched me in my stomach when I heard.

It's just INFURIATING that these terrorists are above the law and can just steal land that has been in Murad's family for generations.

Thankfully it's not the land his farm is on….but still!!!!

Murad explained that land is being stolen at record rates leading up to the Israeli elections.

So yeah, I just wanted you guys to know that this is happening RIGHT NOW.

We MUST put pressure on our politicians to demand sanctions on Israel. It really is the only way to see justice.

Check it out here!

Apparently she had heard my seminar about Christian Zionism

You can watch it here

She showered me with positive feedback (which honestly felt really good after a few too many knocks recently) and asked me if I would be available for an interview.

Of course I said YES.

And it’s happening tomorrow!

I would love as many of you to listen as possible. They replay the show on Monday and then share it on a podcast as well. I will link those once I have them.

As always, if what I say resonates and if you feel it’s important for others to hear my words…please share far & wide.

Oh….and have a look at the olive harvest link!!!!! I’m so touched by your generosity. I will write more later…just juggling too many things right now.

Olives will be picked!!!

- Veronica

(I took this photo this morning…I have never noticed this part of the mural at Ceres before)

You might not know this, but today is International Day of Peace.

And this year it happens to coincide with Yom Kippur…the holiest day of the year in the Jewish calendar.

And funnily enough…I was asked to “preach” at church yesterday.

To which I very quickly replied that I’m happy to talk…as long as it’s not seen as me preaching.

But yes, I had a rare opportunity and I decided to make the most of it. Because I have decided that I will say YES to every opportunity to speak about Palestine…even if it’s uncomfortable.

Because I’m not a “church goer” as such. But being a support worker means I spend Sunday mornings at church. And I’m just very very very lucky that my client goes to a church that aligns with my values and I (mostly) don’t have to curse under my breath at what is being said from the pulpit.

The fact that they asked me to give a ‘sermon’ shows the trust that I have built up over the years and I don’t take that for granted.

Anyways, I know it’s controversial, but I wove International Day of Peace in with Yom Kippur. And yes, I know that most people are not brave enough to use the holiest Jewish day to expose Zionism…but someone had to do it. Because we are almost three years into a genocide committed by the self-appointed “Jewish” State. So yeah, sorry not sorry.

Here is a link to the 10min sermon which I hope you make time to watch:

Yom Kippur sermon

And speaking of controversial…

Yesterday I decided to share a video of what I did last year for Yom Kippur.

The video has gone viral on Instagram…and has been removed by Tiktok.

So it would be really fantastic if you could take a moment to share it with your circles.

I know it offends some people…and frankly, I don’t care. Because you know what offends me? A mass slaughter. That most of the world seems to be able to turn a blind eye to.

And I will continue to come up with different actions and honestly, my only restrictions are being able to take time off work, or the $ involved.

I really really believe that these “performances” are super important because they make the general public stop and THINK. And it forces them to look at something with fresh eyes.

I’m not saying that rallies and protests aren’t important, because I think they are…but they exclude people who identify as “not political” and are dismissed before they have time to engage what the banners or chants say. Which is why we need lots of different approaches, and “stunts” like these expand the conversation in a SAFE and creative way.

Here is a link. And again, engaging and sharing it is such a fantastic way to contribute to my efforts:

Yom Kippur message on a ute

Back to International Day of Peace…have you seen anything meaningful done for the occasion? I would really like to know. Please surprise me and let me know of how the day can be acknowledged in a proactive way.

- Veronica

I have just set up the crowdfunding link so we can reach the target in TEN DAYS.

.

Hopefully you are able to share it far and wide.

If you think other information is needed, please let me know.

It seems self-explanatory to me, but it’s hard to look at it with fresh eyes.

I'm sitting here on a park bench reading screenshots from my local Facebook group.

Someone has asked if anyone knows where I've disappeared to.

Which is really lovely…

Except people are giving incorrect information.

Apparently I'm taking a mental health break 🫠

That's exactly the OPPOSITE to what I'm doing.

The banning has impacted my mental health…yes.

But I'm not taking a break.

It has been forced on me.

I hate that people think I'm taking a break.

And that my posts have been interpreted that way.

Ugh.

Being misunderstood is such a yuck feeling.

Anyways…

Hopefully you guys know the truth.

It's just a table.

Why would I write about a table?

Last night while awake with a stomach ache (hello anxiety) a photo was shared to the whatsapp group I have with my friends from Jerusalem.

The photo dates back to New Year's 2000.

So I had already moved to Australia five years earlier.

But it's a snapshot I've been part of hundreds of times. A kitchen full of my favourite people.

I call it the centre of the Universe.

At least my universe.

What catches my attention though, is not the faces of my friends. But the table.

You see, that's my table.

Or more precisely, that's my family's table.

The story goes that when we left Sweden in 1985, we had given away all our belongings. I was ten years old, and the only piece of furniture I remember feeling the absence of, was our big wooden kitchen table. When that left our apartment, it was the first time it hit me that we were ACTUALLY moving.

Up until then I had been able to pretend it wasn't real.

But yes, my parents, and my three brothers and two sisters were all moving to Israel.

Our dad promised us watermelons, giant avocados and a camel trek through the desert.

We arrived to the hills outside Jerusalem with only a few suitcases.

Many long months later, half a shipping container arrived. Our Swedish friends had collected some much needed furniture for us to help with our move to the Holy Land. This was a practical way for them to participate in fulfilling Biblical prophecy.

It wasn't our own, but we now had a big wooden IKEA table again. At least something in my world felt "normal".

The big wooden table would follow us to every rental we had. Up three flights of stone stairs when we moved in. And down three flights of stairs when we moved out.

I very clearly remember my dad heading off early in the morning to Damascus Gate. The "arab" gate. Apparently that's where he could find men waiting around hoping to be hired for labour.

It was one of the rare times I questioned what I now very clearly see as apartheid.

But yes, it was curious to me as a now young teenage girl that those "arabs" that I was told were dangerous and probably terrorists...

Were allowed into our home when it suited us.

Their strength and ability to carry fridges on their backs outweighing the risk to our family.

I remember feeling uncomfortable. But unable to attach words to the discomfort.

Of course now, as a 51 year old woman in the comforts of Melbourne, far away from the hills of Jerusalem I burn with shame at the image of a young blonde Swedish girl, in a cold stairwell, watching Palestinian men carrying a big wooden IKEA table into a home that a Palestinian family were removed from.

My Brooklyn born dad was obviously promised this Palestinian home 3000 years ago.

In 1994, while I was on an Airforce base somewhere near the Gaza border, our table went into storage while my parents moved to the States for a year.

That year stretched into many more years and the table was gifted to our friends. Along with all our other belongings.

And that's why it was in the photograph in my friends' kitchen at New Year's 2000.

And now in 2026, the IKEA table is still in Jerusalem, being used by some other friends.

The big wooden table will outlive all of us.

And when I shift my focus from the table to the faces in the kitchen, I have to wonder, how many of my friends have been able to admit that we participated in an apartheid.

Some of us simply by living in Jerusalem and not using our privilege to speak up.

Some of us by serving in the IDF.

Or by sending our children to serve in the IDF.

And now of course...remaining silent during a genocide.

It makes me cry writing this, but I will not return to the centre of my universe until Palestine is free.

Mine is kap0.

Because there's only one type of person who calls an Israe|i who speaks out against Zi0nism a kap0.

And let's just say, it's not a mus|im.

So yeah, nice try "Abdili" 🤦🏼‍♀️

You and all your Zi0nist friends know you've lost your stronghold. So you only have slurs left. And faking your online identity.

I almost feel sorry for you.

Almost.

Thankfully the world is waking up and seeing the truth about Zi0nism.

Whether it's billionaire stadium owners trying to silence humanitarian artists...

Or "philanthropists" stopping authors from speaking at writing festivals...

Or local councillors cancelling library talks...

Your time is up.

⌛️

#truth

#Politics

#humanity

#news

#edsheeran

So much so that I had to step back inside to grab my hat, as my daughter was stretched out on a blanket soaking up some vitamin D.

I felt good.

Or so I thought.

But then, once I arrived at the medical centre, my doctor made the mistake of asking me how I’ve been since my last appointment.

And yeah, let’s just say I collapsed into a crying mess.

I think both of us were taken by surprise.

Long story short, is that after I attempted to explain in a very summarised way, everything that has been taking place, and what I’ve attempted to juggle or carry depending on how you look at it….

My doctor told me she wants me to sign up for twelve free therapy sessions.

And she’s going to let them know it’s urgent.

Damn.

It feels like such an over-reaction. But I have lived long enough to learn that sometimes we just have to nod and agree and bite our tongue.

As I stepped out from the medical centre forty five minutes later, rain was bucketing down!

I had to hold my hat down so it wouldn’t blow away, and I wrapped my kuffiyah around my shoulders to attempt to stay dry.

It was wild!

Lygon Street was a wind tunnel and I was doubled over and shivering.

Oh how quickly things can go from feeling okay to absolute chaos.

____

I’m sharing this with you because many people perceive me as always being strong and positive.

And they feel embarrassed admitting to me that they are not coping.

So this is me letting you know that it happens to me as well.

I’m buoyant by nature. But yes, I also breakdown.

And that’s okay. And it’s okay to mention it even during a genocide where others are going through something much worse that deserves our attention.

And no, the answer is not to “take a break”…because I really believe that one of the main reasons I feel is bad, is because I haven’t been able to be as vocal as I like. My platform has shrunk so significantly and while I build it up again, my contribution feels pathetic.

Anyways, I’ll stop here.

I’m okay. And I will feel better. And hopefully me being transparent helps those of you who have been struggling know that you are not alone.

- Veronica

Subscribe now

I just couldn’t get it out of my head and I had to say something.

So yesterday I recorded a short video that I shared on Tiktok and Instagram.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DdNwSsbBy3W/

Where I basically say that yes, Jewish Australians are a minority when it comes to numbers. But we need to look at things holistically and through the power dynamic lens.

And if we look at the Jewish community, which is MOSTLY a Zionistic community…it has a disproportionate amount of power in our government, media, local councils, art institutions and school curriculum.

So in that sense…then no… (Zionist) Jews should not be referred to as a minority in Australia.

I’ve had a few conversations about this with different people who have correctly pointed out that technically billionaires and the Epstein Class are also a “minority”. Which is a valid point but not super helpful.

But then my friend Keren said something that I think is REALLY worth highlighting. For context, Keren is the fantastic person I’ve been doing some chats with on YouTube.

You can watch our first episode here

Keren said that referring to Jews in Australia as a minority is equivalent to referring to the European Jews in Palestine in the 1930s as a minority. As in, yes…they were smaller in numbers…BUT THEY HAD THE SUPPORT OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE!!!

(The new film Palestine 36 highlights this really powerfully and I highly recommend you watch it while it’s still in the cinemas)

Palestine 36 trailer

So yeah…I will be adding “Jews are a minority in Australia” to my long list of “truths” that I’ve had to accept are actually misinformation and part of the Zionist narrative.

I’d love to know how this lands for you.

- Veronica

*I can no longer find the podcast from Antony and I’m wondering if he deliberately removed it. I want to clarify that I respect Antony’s work and normally fully support his views…but I just couldn’t let something like this be said without responding.

I have been wrestling with if I should share this or not.

In many ways it feels like making a pregnancy announcement while still holding the pregnancy test. I’m much more a “wait till at least twelve weeks” kind of person.

However, things are a bit challenging for me at the moment. I’m having my work hours reduced because of NDIS funding being cut. I’m trying not to get nervous, but I can feel the anxiety biting at my heels.

I could probably find another client to work with. But I already feel really stretched with everything I do. And adding another person means adding to my mental load as well since I really give the people I support a lot of my brain space.

So my idea is this:

What if I share the beginning of my NEW book that I’ve just started to write? And those of you who want to support my writing process, sign up to be a paid subscriber.

I’ve made a promise that I won’t restrict anyone to what I write based on income, so subscribing won’t give access to anything special; instead it’s just a very very very practical way to help me out so I can give more time to writing my book.

And in case you don’t already know, this third book of mine (I have already published two books about my life) will be about these past three years. My goal is to squeeze in as much of my learnings and observations but using my lived experience, since I believe that most people are much more receptive to stories than just straight information.

The other benefit of doing it this way, is that I am deeply motivated by people’s encouragement. So if I know that there are supporters literally invested (ha! That’s such a perfect expression in this context) and giving $8 a month, I’m much more likely to put up with my very frustrating lap top and write another chapter.

I really hope you are okay with me being so blunt about my current situation. I’m purposely not sharing this on social media because it feels too vulnerable.

Alright.

Here we go.

This is the beginning of my book. Hopefully it sets the scene. From here on it will jump to October 2023.

- Veronica

_______

My life trajectory changed in a shipping container in the middle of the desert somewhere close to the Gaza border.

I was eighteen years old and had just completed three weeks of Basic Training in the Israeli army.

I had been waiting for hours along with all the other eighteen-year-old girls, who desperately wanted to find out what role we would have in our compulsory service.

We were all wearing the same army fatigues: baggy khaki green pants with a matching buttoned top and a white T-shirt underneath. The metal dog tags around our necks were the real proof that we were now soldiers in service for our country. Seeing my name engraved twice in Hebrew still felt surreal. Apparently the dog tag was perforated so that it could easily be snapped in half in case I was killed and my body needed to be identified. One half would remain chained around my neck and the broken-off section would be given to the authorities as proof of my identity.

I knew that for most girls there was a very small chance of that ever being needed.

When I was conscripted for my military service in March 1993, women were not allowed to serve in any combat roles. I was told it was to prevent us from being taken hostage and possibly raped. I never fully accepted that as a reason but also didn’t have the language or understanding to challenge the status quo.

What the other girls didn’t know was that leading up to my army service I had been having top-secret interviews. These meetings were not the standard tests done to determine what role was most suitable for the compulsory two years.

I had strict instructions not to tell anyone about these mysterious conversations scattered throughout the year after I turned seventeen.

What was especially strange was that the men who interviewed me never wore army uniforms. They were casually dressed in civilian clothes and had a very easy and comfortable way of speaking with me. If anything, they seemed more like a friendly new neighbour having a chat.

Each meeting went into more detail about my life. It felt nice to have someone interested. I assumed they knew most of the answers before even asking me, so I tried to be as honest as I could. But at the same time, I knew that my story was unusual and it was highly unlikely they had encountered someone like me before.

It wasn’t that I was an immigrant that made me different.

In 1993, thousands if not millions of immigrants had served in the Israeli army.

In my cohort of girls there was only one other immigrant that I had met. Tal from Sydney, Australia. We had quite a dramatic first encounter. We met on day one of Basic Training while lining up in rows with our giant duffel bags next to us. Just after we had introduced ourselves, and realised we were both English speakers, Tal fainted at my feet!

There would have been other non-English speaking immigrants that I didn’t get a chance to meet. Mostly Russians, Romanians and Ethiopians. Like me, they had Jewish ancestors, and this gave their family ä “Right To Return”. No matter what country we were born in around the globe, we were welcomed to Israel with open arms. Some of us more warmly than others.

I was only ten years old when my family moved from Sweden to Israel as “returning Jews”. And now eight years later, like every other eighteen-year-old Israeli citizen, it was my turn to serve in the army.

What set me apart from other immigrants, was that I had been raised as a fundamentalist Christian.

Most people think that being Jewish is only based on which religion you follow. In Israel, being Jewish is a bit more layered than that.

Over there, being Jewish is about your ancestry. In fact, plenty of Israeli Jews are atheists.

It might be different now, but in 1985 all that was needed was proof that two grandparents had been buried in a Jewish cemetery, which was the case for my family.

And here I was, in the spring of 1993, being called into a shipping container in the middle of the desert, waiting to hear how I would spend the next two years of my life. Which at age eighteen feels like an eternity.

I was one of the last girls to be called in. By then time I heard my name, Sherman Veronica I had seen lots of girls come out of the shipping container in tears. Your military service defines how you fit into Israeli society, so being told that you have not been accepted into the unit or role that you were hoping for has a deep impact.

Not even my parents knew about the top-secret meetings I had been having in the past twelve months. Now was the moment of truth.

I sat down in front of the commander who was looking through a folder with my name on it. The shipping container smelled like cigarette smoke and I was thankful that the door was left open for some fresh air.

The commander cleared his throat and then explained that he had only just received my file. Up until now I was meant to be allocated for something else, but I didn’t pass the final security check.

I must have looked confused. He explained that I had too many Arab friends which meant that I wasn’t cleared for a top security role.

I could feel my whole body exhale.

After three weeks of Basic Training in the Israeli Army, any grand illusion of serving my country had completely vanished. I had absolutely no desire to give more than was required. I would do my two years and then be done.

And I had my school friends to thank!

After two years in an Israeli school, I was given a scholarship to attend an International school in Jerusalem. There were only about 300 students and we were an eclectic mix of children whose parents served in the United Nations, served their countries as diplomats, or served God as missionaries. And then, of course, there were the local kids. Mostly from wealthy Arab families. Thanks to friends like Ramzy and Tarek I had been deemed too risky to be signed up for the Mossad, the national intelligence agency.

I couldn’t believe my luck.

What had I been thinking all those months earlier when I said yes?

It was such a relief to know that I had been rejected and that they decided I was better suited for the Air Force instead.

The Air Force!! This was pretty much the highest honour you could have as a female in the Israeli Defence Force. I didn’t really know anything about the Air Force except that the soldiers wore beige uniforms with blue hats instead of the regular khaki green. I also knew the slogan: “The best go to the Air Force”

Wow. It was pretty exciting to be chosen for this sought after position. Although I knew full-well that it had nothing to do with my skills or intelligence, but that girls with blue eyes and blond hair were most likely picked for the “high currency” roles.

#neverforget

#911

#september11