6 Things I Learned about Moving to Australia as a Newlywed

It was on our third date, that my (born-and-bred-in-Melbourne) husband said to me “So, where would you want to live?” 

“I’m not really fussed,” I said, “Anywhere that I could build a Torah home.”

And that is where I now live. 5 oceans, 20 hours, 10,000 miles away from where I grew up. But building a Torah home.

Moving from London to Melbourne is definitely no small feat, but a year and a half in, here are some lessons I learned along the way. 

1. The best place for you to live is the place where you and your spouse will fulfill your potential 

When the bombshell news spread that I, your average Londoner, would be jetting off to Melbourne with my brand-new husband, the reactions were colorful and varied. But perhaps the most interesting comments came from those who said to me “It’s hard enough adjusting to shana rishona, why add the massive adjustment of moving to Australia?” 

And it’s true. It’s true that shana rishona is an adjustment. I’m sephardi, my husband is ashkenazi. He grew up keeping 6 hours between meat and milk, I grew up keeping 3. I do words, he does numbers. There are lots of changes. But moving to Australia did not add a complication. Rather, it was the perfect backdrop for us to develop.

When you move to another country, you kind of lose your whole support system. I don’t just mean family and friends. I mean your local grocer and your post office, your optician and your dentist, the tomato sauce you like and the yogurt you don’t. The shuls, the schools, the shops. It’s all completely different.

If marriage is meant to be an incubator for spiritual growth, then the place we choose to live forms the conditions of the incubator. In Torah hashkafa, the man is the mashpia, the giver and the woman is the mushpa, the receiver. The woman takes the man’s energy and uses it to elevate her home. In other words, watching my husband thrive in his home environment helps me thrive. Knowing that he is able to be the greatest mashpia he can enables me to be the mushpa. Watching him love his shul, his chavrutot, seeing him so close with his Rav, his network, helped me settle. Because when I see my husband thriving, it makes me want to thrive. 

2. Eretz Yisrael is always home

When the painful news reached Australia, our hearts shattered. For some reason, I was surprised that I felt so connected, that I was unable to sleep and that my whole reality had changed. I was under the impression that my connection to Israel was somehow tied to its geographical closeness to London. I forgot that spiritual connections are formed in the soul and not created in maps. Although the painful events are still affecting us all, I take comfort in the knowledge that we have the ability to feel. That even though I am too many miles away, a piece of my heart is eternally tied to Eretz Yisrael. 

A message went around the Whatsapp groups, calling on the Jewish community in Australia to say Tehillim in the daytime, because that time of the night in Israel was the most dangerous time for our soldiers. Although our hearts shuddered for the brave heroes in Gaza, it simultaneously warmed my heart to know that as a Jew in Australia, I can give something to Eretz Yisrael that no-one else can. My tehillim can protect even when the whole world is sleeping. 

3. Working from the bottom up is humbling 

When you move to another country, you kind of lose your whole support system. I don’t just mean family and friends. I mean your local grocer and your post office, your optician and your dentist, the tomato sauce you like and the yogurt you don’t. The shuls, the schools, the shops. It’s all completely different. Even though there is no language barrier between England and Australia, it is still a completely different society and culture. Working my way in and finding the park I like to walk through, the orange juice similar to home and the best place to buy bagels – is extremely humbling. Starting from scratch means I’m not an expert, I’m a beginner and I’m out of my depth.

I remember last Shavuot finding a recipe for chocolate cheesecake bites and asking a colleague where I could buy whipped cream cheese. Her short response is one I think I will always remember; both humorous and humbling. “Whip it yourself!” 

4. It’s not just about what we get, but what we give 

I could write an article about all the things I love about Melbourne. I could also write an article about all the things I struggle with. But that would be missing the point. When I approach living here, so far from all my family and friends, I view it as a tafkid. A mission which Hashem selected me for, almost a mini “Lech lecha.” I feel strongly that Hashem, in His perfect wisdom, brought me here for a reason. There is a benefit to me living here and it’s not just for the easy tan and the palm trees. I see areas of community life where I can add something, that there is a unique chessed, a unique koach, a unique avoda not only that I could bring – but that I must. There is a spiritual purpose of me living here, to bring out the best in me and to contribute in a way which will add something to a place I once knew nothing about. 

My husband and I joke that I fulfill the pasuk “lechteich acharay bamidbar, b’eretz lo zarua.” That by marrying an Australian, I committed to trying to live in a faraway desert. (Note: I don’t actually live in the outback so the only koalas and kangaroos I’ve seen are in the zoo!) But there is depth to the joke. Melbourne must be devoid of something which I have an achrayut to provide. Because Hashem brought me here and it’s not something I ever could have imagined.

5. We don’t need as many comforts as we think

There is a powerful story Rabbi Frand, a Rebbe in Ner Israel Yeshiva, Baltimore, told of a woman who was becoming religious. She had recently learned the laws of kashrut and was overturning her kitchen, separating milky and meaty and buying new pots and pans. She phoned up Rabbi Frand and confessed that she couldn’t do it. Surprised, Rabbi Frand pointed out that she had already done the difficult part by investing the emotional and financial efforts of changing her kitchen. 

“Rabbi,” the woman responded, “It’s my Chiclets. I can’t let go of them.” 

Chiclets are a non-kosher brand of chewing gum and while this dedicated lady was willing to refurbish her kitchen, she could not give up her Chiclets for the sake of kashrut.

I find this story incredibly telling. We all have our Chiclets, our little things we can’t let go of. But the truth is, we don’t need as many comforts as we think we do. When I go back to London, I’m obsessed with the range of yogurts, my beloved cottage cheese, the takeout pasta (Pizaza, I’m talking to you!) There is so much more choice there. But even though I’m so attached to my home comforts, I manage without. I don’t need so many sauce options, so many pre-made frozen kosher meals, I can live without the candy corner in Kosher Kingdom (I do miss you though!) 

We are actually less attached to gashmiyut than we think and we could live with fewer comforts than we think we can handle. Although I used to bemoan the fact that the shops here are not as well stocked, now I just appreciate the simplicity and the easy choice (or lack of!) 

6. Success is measured by community 

It was close to Purim time when we moved and I remember calling up my Mum to complain that I would feel like such an outsider not receiving a Mishloach Manot on Purim. Who would be there to bring round food when I had only just arrived a few weeks earlier? I definitely didn’t have any friends yet. My Mum hid some prepackaged Mishloach Manot in our suitcases, full of all my favorite things and a friend from London arranged for someone in Melbourne to make me one too, but aside from maybe one or two others, my Mishloach Manot supply was sorely lacking compared to previous years.

Fast forward to this past Purim, a year on, where I baruch Hashem am much more integrated. I received a whole collection of Mishloach Manot from people who are so meaningful to me.

It felt good. Not because our value is counted by Mananim Wafers or Laffy Taffys. But because it told me that I was part of a tzibbur, I was part of the community. To me, this was a success. I might think I have ‘made it’ in Melbourne, celebrating my personal achievements. But being a Torah Jew means that greatness cannot be reached in isolation. Those Mishloach Manot told me that I have made an impact, touched people, been a friend. It means that I am doing exactly what Hashem wants, molding myself into a member of a new Torah community. And in Hashem’s eyes, there is nothing more beautiful than a united tzibbur.

Even if it is as far-flung as Melbourne.