Over the years I’ve shot many rolls of Tri-X in and around the beach at Bondi. The wide expanse of sand has been Sydney’s playground for well over a century and the photographic scenes I’ve captured since the mid-1980s were invariably joyous. The eternally fun vibe of Bondi however, was horrifically rewritten in one ghastly act committed on December 14th, 2025.
The local Jewish community were out celebrating the first day of Hanukkah on that fateful Sunday evening. The theme of the event was “Light Over Darkness”. Within ten minutes, fifteen innocent people, including a 10-year-old girl named Maltida, had been killed or lay mortally wounded. A father & son from Western Sydney, with extremist Islamic hatred in their hearts, had unleashed an inexplicable torrent of darkness.
Bondi, Sydney, Australia was in total shock. It was my nation’s worst ever terrorist incident. Deep reflection became my overriding response. In the week following the atrocity, I made the two-hour trip down to Bondi on four occasions. I was also moved to begin a deep dive of my old negatives, an action which would reveal forty years of Bondi moments.
Bondi itself has changed noticeably over the decades. The areas distinct subcultures of the past have become somewhat muted in recent times, hidden largely by a swarm of twenty something Insta-stars. Modern Bondi is a tourist hotspot. Observing the precinct as an ageing and comparatively scruffy outsider, I struggle to clear a path through the beautiful young international guests, creative newbies, and the aspiring real estate moguls – known to old school Bondi surfers as – The Squirrels of the East. I search without much success for the earthy local tribes I recall from four decades past. Skyrocketing property prices have undoubtedly gentrified the district; airbrushing out much of the areas gritty, working-class heritage. The body beautiful doubles-up as Bondi’s contemporary form of currency. The Scum Valley surf culture of the 1980s has been swamped by Campbell Parade lovees. Cafes are filled with social media A-listers, watching on as a never-ending conga line of camera wielding tourists – disembark, snap furtively, before quickly re-boarding their luxury coaches.
While much has undoubtedly changed, the iconic surf lifesaving club with its distinct yellow and red plumage remains the beating heart of Bondi Beach. It is the world’s oldest surf lifesaving club having begun its noble duties back in the summer of 1907. On that fateful Sunday the surf club’s latest cluster of well-tanned, heroic volunteers, momentarily turned their attention away from the surf, to aid the wounded and dying who lay on the besieged parkland behind their clubhouse.
Looking back through my negatives, I note a number of recurring themes. I was particularly drawn to Bondi’s annual Festival of the Winds kite flying extravaganza, as well as the City to Surf fun run whose 14km route finishes each year on the Bondi esplanade. I was also strangely drawn to the beach during the colder months. A number of my photographs depict a somewhat dreary vista of grey clouds and solitary figures atop a barren expanse. The joy of children playing at the water’s edge is however, undoubtedly the prime theme running through my early images. I was a naive, barely 20-year-old photographer during this time and evidently had the work of the great Frenchmen; Cartier-Bresson & Doisneau running through my thoughts. I’d set out to capture Bondi’s version of the universal delight: children enjoying childhood with a purely unfettered joy.
This innocent and gorgeously playful theme contrasts so starkly with the hate filled events of December 14th, and the tone of my photos taken during the aftermath.
The world has changed significantly in forty years. Photographing on the beach drew very little objection back in the 1980s, and terrorism was a word few of us had encountered. Fast forward to 2026 and middle-aged men photographing candidly in public are universally suspected of evil intent, while families can’t even celebrate a religious occasion on Bondi Beach without fear of being cut down by a madman’s bullets.
In the week following the atrocity, I made a number of trips to Bondi. My camera was naturally at hand, yet in these instances, my motivation for visiting wasn’t photography. I was there to pay my respects to the victims; to the local Jewish community, to Bondi itself. As I’ve previously mentioned, it’s a precinct I’ve long been familiar with and one which I realized would never quite be the same again. I was there to mourn the loss of innocence; the passing of a bygone era.
During my visits I spent much of the time in front of the Pavilion, standing in deep reflection. A large collection of flowers and messages had been placed at the gates, growing larger and larger as the days passed. I stood quietly alongside a host of my fellow Sydney-siders, gazing blankly at the burgeoning display, not quite knowing what to do next. A steady stream of ashen faced mourners arrived to stand and reflect. Ultimately the decision to leave, to wander away, always seemed disrespectful. It was as if we were all standing at a hopelessly sombre, yet florally furnished bus stop, waiting for a conveyance that was never going to arrive. Nothing was ever going to make this better.
Bondi, Sydney, Australia had been changed forever.
