SCHOOL’S OUT

What does the school’s name tell you about it? The Moriah War Memorial College Grade 4 annual selfie, 1966. I’m not in touch with any of them anymore; it’s been decades. I can’t even recognise many of them. I just wonder what they’re making of a war criminal, representing a genocidal nation, frolicking in the playground with students.

The controversy around Herzog’s visit to a Sydney Jewish school yesterday sits within a much larger political and social context, and the concerns raised by critics are less about visiting children themselves than about timing, symbolism, and how such visits intersect with a deeply polarised public debate.

For many observers, what was troubling was not that a visiting head of state engaged with a community institution, but that this occurred during an ongoing international conflict in which tens of thousands of kids were murdered, and at a time when tensions within Australia were already unusually high.

The first issue is one of political symbolism. Schools are generally regarded as spaces that sit outside political contestation, places where children are shielded from the intensity of adult conflicts. When a foreign political leader associated with an active war enters that environment, it inevitably introduces political meaning into what is normally considered a protected space.

Herzog’s visit to Moriah College was framed as community engagement and solidarity with Jewish Australians, particularly in the aftermath of the Bondi attack and rising concerns about antisemitism. But I reckon that such symbolism becomes complicated when the same figure is simultaneously viewed by many Australians as representing a government whose military actions in Gaza are the subject of global protest and moral dispute. In that sense, the school visit can be seen as blurring the line between pastoral support for a community and political messaging.

A second concern relates to the broader social climate in which the visit occurred. Herzog’s arrival in Australia triggered large demonstrations, with thousands protesting across the country and clashes between police and protesters becoming a major national story. Images of arrests, allegations of excessive force, and reports of injuries intensified public emotions and reinforced the sense that the visit itself had become a flashpoint. Against that background, taking a high-profile political figure into a school setting risked deepening divisions rather than easing them. Instead of reducing tension, it arguably highlighted the extent to which international conflicts are now playing out within Australian communities.

There is also a question of consent and representation. Jewish schools are, understandably, part of the Jewish communal landscape, and many within that community welcomed Herzog’s presence as an act of solidarity and recognition. However, the Australian Jewish community is not politically uniform, and there have been Jewish voices publicly opposing the visit and warning that it could increase polarisation. The difficulty here lies in how public events can unintentionally present a single political narrative as representative of an entire community, particularly when children are involved. When a political leader appears in a school environment, the optics can imply endorsement or consensus that may not actually exist.

Another layer of criticism centres on the role of children in political image-making. Political leaders visiting schools is not unusual, but in contentious circumstances, it raises ethical questions about whether children become part of a public relations exercise they cannot meaningfully consent to. Images of smiling students and informal interactions are powerful symbols, and supporters see them as humanising and positive. Opponents, however, argue that such imagery can function to soften or normalise political figures whose policies are otherwise heavily contested. The discomfort expressed by some commentators stems from the perception that children’s environments should not be used, even unintentionally, to shape political narratives during an ongoing conflict.

Finally, there is the broader issue of timing. Australia is currently experiencing heightened tensions around Israel and Palestine, with protests, counter-protests, and intense public debate dominating headlines. In such circumstances, even routine diplomatic gestures take on greater meaning. A school visit that might have passed quietly in another era instead became part of a national argument about foreign policy, protest rights, and community cohesion. I see the decision as lacking sensitivity to the domestic atmosphere; gestures intended to show solidarity can sometimes have the opposite effect when communities are already feeling strained.

None of this means that visiting a school is inherently wrong, nor that engagement with Jewish institutions is inappropriate. The criticism rests instead on the belief that political leaders, particularly those associated with controversial conflicts, carry symbolic weight wherever they go. In this case, a school setting magnified, rather than softened, the symbolism, placing children and educators in the middle of a debate they did not create. The result was an event that, while welcomed by some, reinforced the sense that Australia’s internal social cohesion is increasingly vulnerable to external political conflicts, and that greater care may be needed when choosing how and where such visits take place.

I bet you can’t guess which one is me.