As regular readers will know, my wife and I, together with three other couples, travelled halfway around the world to watch a cricket match in Melbourne, Australia. Not just any cricket match, but a Test match – the kind that is meant to last five days.
On the Friday, all eight of us duly arrived at the famous Melbourne Cricket Ground alongside 94,000 other spectators. It was a magnificent day’s play, everything one hopes for when one has crossed continents in pursuit of sport.
The following day – day two of five – was Shabbat. Being Shomer Shabbat (Shabbat observant), we did not attend, but we eagerly anticipated returning on Sunday to see how the match had unfolded.
What we did not know, of course, was that the match was already over.
On Shabbat afternoon, at Mincha, someone casually “spilled the beans”: England had won. Not only had the Test ended early, but England had beaten Australia on Australian soil for the first time in 14 years.
When cricket takes a backseat to Shabbat hospitality
From a cricketing point of view, this was a double-edged sword. We were delighted that “our team” had finally humbled the cocky Aussies in their own backyard – but also more than a little cheated that we had missed it and were now left with perfectly useless tickets for Sunday’s play, which was never going to happen.
But the real story of this trip turned out not to be about cricket at all.
One of our group, Anne – whose organizational skills deserve a medal – took responsibility for arranging our food while we were in Melbourne. This was no simple task. We arrived late on Christmas Eve, when everything was shut, and the following day was Christmas Day itself.
After much research, Anne contacted a kosher catering company in Melbourne called Eshel, owned and run by a woman named Raizel. She ordered food to be delivered to our hotel for the two days of cricket, as well as meals for Shabbat.
But Raizel was having none of it. She took the order – and then insisted that Anne and her husband come to her home for Shabbat dinner.
Anne gently reminded her that there were eight of us. “Even better,” came the reply.
We had no idea what to expect. Here was a complete stranger from another continent who had not only turned down a significant catering order but had invited eight random people – whom she knew nothing about other than that we were Jews who cared about kosher food and cricket – into her home.
On Friday morning, our food arrived at the hotel, delivered by one of Raizel’s sons, who works in the catering business. He was dressed in traditional hassidic garb – breeches, long socks, a long coat and waistcoat – and he was utterly charming.
My wife and I are very familiar with the hassidic world, having had extensive interactions with patients and clients from that community back in Manchester. The other couples were less experienced, and it would be fair to say that alongside curiosity there was also a little trepidation about what awaited us that Friday night.
We had brought a gift from Israel for our hosts, including an illustrated prayer for the IDF. We hesitated. We knew that views on Israel and the army are not uniform across the hassidic world. Would it offend? Should we perhaps hold back that particular item?
In the end, we brought everything.
When Shabbat came, we arrived at Raizel’s home – slightly late, thanks to a minor mishap on the way. We entered a beautiful house, decorated with tasteful art and adorned with photographs of many gorgeous hassidic children – all grinning, some cheeky, some demure, all radiating life.
The Shabbat table sparkled. Every piece of silver gleamed as if it had just left the showroom. Unsurprisingly, given that Raizel runs a catering business, the food was superb.
But what made that evening extraordinary was none of this.
It was the warmth, the ease, and the genuine hospitality with which Raizel and her husband Yankel welcomed us into their home – and into their lives.
They expressed genuine admiration that we had left the comfort of familiar surroundings and made aliyah. We spoke about their lives in the Belz Hassidic community. Raizel had us in stitches recounting her love for the late Princess Diana and how many women once sported “Princess Diana sheitels.”
They listened attentively as we spoke about life in Israel during the war. We swapped COVID stories. Time slipped away unnoticed, and suddenly it was after 11 p.m. and time to leave.
We walked back to our hotel with that rare, glowing feeling summed up by the words Mi Ke’amcha Yisrael – who is like Your people, Israel?
Complete strangers had taken eight foreigners into their home and into their hearts, simply because we are Jews – brothers and sisters.
It did not matter that we wore modern Western clothes while they were resplendent in hassidic Shabbat finery, Yankel crowned by a magnificent streimel. It did not matter that we are Brits who made the ultimate Zionist move, while they are deeply rooted in the Belz community of Melbourne.
After Shabbat, Raizel sent a WhatsApp message thanking us effusively for our gift – including the soldiers’ prayer we had worried about. She had even taken the trouble to track down the artist online and write to her personally.
In the end, the cricket barely mattered.
What we witnessed that Shabbat was something far rarer and more precious than a Test match victory: a glimpse of genuine Jewish unity.
The amazing Raizel and Yankel – if only all of us could be like them – the world would truly be a magnificent place.
The writer is a rabbi who lives in Ramat Poleg, Netanya, and is co-founder of Techelet - Inspiring Judaism.