As I write these lines, I am making my final preparations for what was meant to be a “bucket list” trip of a lifetime. A pilgrimage, of sorts, to two of the most iconic sporting arenas in the world: the Melbourne Cricket Ground and the Sydney Cricket Ground, to watch the final two matches of the Ashes series.
For my American readers, think of it as attending the Super Bowl or the World Series finale; for football fans, the World Cup final. For those of us raised on cricket, it is hallowed ground. I have wanted to do this for years.
The planning began almost eleven months ago. Flights booked, tickets secured, accommodation carefully chosen. And that accommodation happens to be in a place that until recently was known primarily for its beach, cafés, and relaxed Australian charm – Bondi.
Now, Bondi is known for something else entirely.
Infamous. Blood-soaked. Another name added to the long and tragic list of places across the globe where Jews have been slaughtered for being Jews.
To be honest, it is difficult to summon much enthusiasm for the trip at all. It almost feels perverse to be going on holiday to a place currently gripped by shock, horror, grief, and pain. Packing shorts and sunscreen while a Jewish community is still reeling from trauma feels jarringly discordant.
This unease comes from a very deep place. It is called family.
Jews have always had a peculiar emotional reflex. When one of us achieves greatness – in science, medicine, literature, business, or sport – we bask in the reflected glory. “He’s one of ours,” we say with pride. And when one of us stumbles publicly, disgraces himself, or betrays our values, we feel the shame too. Even when we have never met.
BUT BEYOND pride and embarrassment lies something far deeper. At moments of tragedy, we feel the pain as if it were our own. As if the wound were inflicted on a shared body.
Rashi, the great medieval commentator, famously described the Jewish people at our best as “one people with one heart.” Not merely a poetic flourish, but a sociological and spiritual observation. We argue endlessly. We disagree fiercely. But when disaster strikes, those arguments fall silent. One heart aches.
So what, exactly, are we – British Israelis – doing turning up in Bondi at this moment, intending to “enjoy ourselves”?
Why visit Bondi Beach now?
That question troubled me deeply. Until I realized that perhaps there is, after all, a serious and intangible purpose to this journey.
Like many community leaders around the world, I received a message from the Sydney Jewish community shortly after the massacre. It was simple, unpolished, and utterly devastating in its sincerity. The shlichim – the community representatives – wrote to ask for help. They requested that visitors take a photo of themselves holding a sign that read: “We stand with the Sydney community,” along with the name of their city or country. These photos, they explained, would be compiled into a video – a visual embrace from Jews across the globe.
They wanted to feel that they were not alone.
Just being there matters.
Standing silently. Without speeches. Without platitudes. Saying, simply through presence: we see you; we feel your pain; we share your anger; we mourn your dead; we cry with you.
That presence has immense value. And Judaism has known this for thousands of years.
This is precisely the purpose of shiva – the Jewish mourning period. When someone suffers a bereavement, the Jewish response is not to send flowers or write eloquent cards. It is to show up. To walk into the house of mourning and sit.
THE HEBREW term is nihum aveilim – comforting the mourners. Yet one of the most misunderstood laws of this mitzvah is that the visitor should not speak unless the mourner initiates conversation.
The ancient rabbis were not trained psychologists, but their understanding of human grief was profound. Sometimes a person in unbearable pain does not want words. Not advice. Not theology. Not explanations. Just presence. The knowledge that someone has rearranged their life, even briefly, to sit with them in their darkness.
I have visited many shiva houses where I said nothing at all. A look. A nod. A silent acknowledgment. And often that silence was louder, deeper, and more comforting than any speech I could have delivered.
And so, next week, when my wife and I – together with three other couples – arrive in Bondi, we will, in a very real sense, be visiting a shiva house.
We will go to the synagogue. We will stand with the community. We will offer our presence. And if words are invited, we will speak them softly – expressing sorrow, solidarity, and love on behalf of ourselves, our community, and the wider Jewish people.
This is not tourism. It is not escapism. It is shared mourning.
The cricket, I have come to realize, does not matter. Not really. Whether Australia wins or England salvages pride is entirely irrelevant in the face of freshly dug graves and traumatized souls.
What matters is that Jews show up for other Jews.
In an age when antisemitism wears many masks – political, ideological, cultural – and when Jews are told, explicitly or implicitly, to keep their grief private and their fear quiet, our response must be collective, visible, and unashamed.
We stand together. Or we fall alone.
Bondi, like so many places before it, has been unwillingly transformed into a symbol. Of vulnerability. Of hatred. But also, potentially, of resilience and unity.
If our presence can offer even a sliver of comfort – if it can help the Sydney community feel the embrace of a global family – then the journey will have been worthwhile.
The cricket will come and go.
But showing up for family is eternal.
The writer is a rabbi and physician who lives in Ramat Poleg, Netanya. He is a co-founder of Techelet-Inspiring Judaism.