Empty Boards in Samarkand: Israel Forfeits Round Six, and a Gap in FIDE's Rulebook

The Netherlands team walked into the playing hall in Samarkand on Monday afternoon carrying jackets, warm coffee, and the focus of a side that needed points in the middle rounds. On the other side of the board, nobody sat down. No piece was placed, no hand was shaken, no move was recorded. The arbiter stood still for a few seconds in front of that emptiness, then bent down and wrote the short line that stings anyone who loves chess: a win by forfeit. The scene repeated itself twice in the same afternoon, in two different halls of the same tournament. In the Open section, the Netherlands finished without touching a piece. In the Women's section, Bulgaria collected full points in exactly the same way. Israel — both the men's and women's teams — did not appear for Round 6 of the 2026 Chess Olympiad in Samarkand. Behind those two scoresheets lie a chain of decisions, a letter sent to FIDE, and a gap in the rulebook that this event has just exposed to everyone. Samarkand these days is a city of chessboards. The 2026 team world championship brings together hundreds of players across continents, competing in the Swiss system, day after day, from morning to night. This is the largest stage in team chess, where every small board win is multiplied into a nation's score, and where administrative rules that seem dry on paper can decide the fate of an entire campaign. Round 6 fell on Monday, September 21. For the Jewish community, that was the second day of Yom Kippur — the holiest day of the year, a time of fasting, abstaining from work, and devoting body and mind entirely to atonement. For a Jewish player, that means being unable to sit at a board, to hold a piece, to press a clock. Anyone who has followed tournaments involving Israeli delegations understands this: the clash between the sporting calendar and the calendar of faith is not a new story, but how to resolve it has never been written into a clear rule. On the preceding Sunday, in Round 5, Israel had requested an earlier start so that its players could finish before sundown. Singapore's Open team and Colombia's Women's team agreed. The games were moved to the Savitsky Hotel and began one hour and fifteen minutes earlier than the official schedule. A gesture of goodwill, with no noise, no statement — just people sitting down and playing their moves in a different window. For Israel, it was a rare lucky day. But Monday painted a very different picture. This time, Israel did not ask to move earlier to finish before dusk. They sent a formal request to FIDE — the world chess governing body — with two options: either postpone the Round 6 games to after 19:30 local time, or move them entirely to Tuesday, September 22, which was a rest day of the event. The nature of the request differed from Round 5. Round 5 was about the biological clock and the setting sun; Round 6 was about whether an entire playing day could be shifted. FIDE contacted the opponents of both Israeli teams. In the Open section, the Netherlands. In the Women's section, Bulgaria. Both declined. FIDE then issued a clarification stating that it had done its part as an intermediary, and that the opposing teams were fully entitled to refuse. A FIDE spokesperson said: "Due to the observance of Yom Kippur on September 20 and 21, the Israeli Open and Women's teams requested adjustments to their playing schedule. For Round 5, they needed to complete their games earlier than the standard schedule would normally allow. For Round 6, they requested either a later start in the evening, at 19:30 or later, or to move the games to September 22, the scheduled rest day of the Olympiad." On the Round 6 games, the spokesperson added: "FIDE contacted the opponents of both Israeli teams. Unlike in the previous round, neither opponent agreed to play at a different time from the official schedule. They are fully entitled to decline such a request." When Israel failed to appear, the result was handled according to the rules: the games were forfeited, and the Netherlands and Bulgaria took full points without playing a single move. Footage of the Dutch team walking into the venue only to find their opponent absent quickly spread across chess forums. It was a strange image: a national team entering the biggest arena of a mind sport, and the only thing facing them was an empty chair. To understand why the incident stirred so much debate, one has to look at the structure of the regulations. The Swiss-system team format pairs teams based on score and seeding. A win by forfeit still counts as a full point for the receiving team, exactly like a win on the board. But the story does not end with points. In team chess standings, tiebreak metrics such as Buchholz or Sonneborn-Berger can decide final rankings when teams are level on points. A forfeit loss can affect those metrics in ways players cannot control through their own strength. Israel entered Monday as the 22nd seed in the Open section, ranked 22nd after winning four of five rounds. The women's team, also seeded 22nd, stood 20th with a similar record. That is the position of a team moving at the right rhythm — strong enough to push into the leading group, and fragile enough that one stumble in the middle rounds could change everything. In my own notebooks, this is the kind of incident for which I always keep a separate line. I have followed team chess across many Olympiads, and what I have learned is this: in a tournament lasting more than eleven rounds, games decided on the board account for only part of the story. The rest is decided backstage — where schedules, hotels, meal times, prayer times, and administrative letters meet. Fans usually see only the final result. They rarely see that a team had to ask its opponent for permission to play on its own holy day, and that the request could be refused without anyone breaking a rule. When the board holds no pieces, memory begins to score. In Round 5, Singapore and Colombia gave Israel a full Sunday. It was an act insiders call a "goodwill gesture," but seen from the system's perspective, it exposed something unstable: a national team's right to observe its faith depending on the momentary goodwill of another national team. It could be Singapore and Colombia this time. It could be the Netherlands and Bulgaria next time. Nothing in the rules obliges anyone to agree. What is worth noting is that Israel approached the two rounds differently, and that difference matters more than it appears. In Round 5, they asked to play earlier. That did not disrupt the broader schedule in a strategically damaging way; they simply sat down an hour and fifteen minutes earlier and finished earlier. In Round 6, they asked to move to the evening or to the rest day. For a team in the middle of competition, waiting several more hours, or shifting entirely to a rest day, creates uncomfortable changes in routine, recovery time, and preparation plans. One could argue that such a request puts the opponent in a position of bearing an inconvenience they did not cause. But FIDE's role also deserves scrutiny. The organizers knew the full schedule in advance. They knew that for years, Israeli delegations have struggled with schedules overlapping religious holidays. Year after year, the tournament is set on a fixed calendar, and year after year, the same story returns in some form. A well-designed system would have a mechanism ready in advance — a backup window, a secondary schedule, or a clause stating that when a legitimate religious reason exists, the two teams involved are entitled to reschedule without each other's consent. Instead, the only mechanism that exists is a letter and a yes or no. Chess commentators split into several directions when analyzing the incident. Some argue that the Netherlands and Bulgaria acted entirely within the rules and that there is nothing to discuss. They point out that a request to move games to a rest day means those teams must change plans, re-prepare psychologically, and possibly lose competitive rhythm. In a tournament where every point is precious, granting an opponent comfort is not an obligation. A second camp argues that FIDE is the party most deserving of questioning. Making a national team dependent on an opponent's verdict in a matter of faith is an administrative gap. If FIDE had clear rules on religious exemptions, neither Israel nor the Netherlands and Bulgaria would be placed in such a heavy position of responsibility. The world governing body could have scheduled both Israeli teams to play in the evening without consulting opponents, or given them a bye in Round 6 and a make-up game at another time without affecting anyone. A third camp, which I find least discussed, focuses on Israel itself. No one can deny their right to observe their faith. But that right sits within a specific context: they entered an international tournament whose schedule was published long in advance. In choosing to participate, they accepted that some rounds would fall on difficult days. The only way to protect themselves in such a situation is to build relationships with opponents — as Singapore and Colombia did in Round 5 — or to negotiate with organizers before the event begins. Without such preparation, an entire campaign can collapse merely because a letter was not answered as hoped. There is one detail I think many overlook. Round 5 was arranged at the Savitsky Hotel. Round 6 took place at the main venue. Changing the venue for a single round is already a complex logistical operation — not merely moving a time on a calendar. When Israel requested moving Round 6 to the evening or to the rest day, they were asking organizers to change an entire operational flow: arbiters, playing rooms, media, medical schedules, team meal times, and even broadcast timetables. In a tournament with hundreds of players and dozens of teams, such a change is not small. This does not justify a refusal, but it helps explain why saying no became the easier choice. Over many years in chess, I have witnessed religious and cultural issues slipping between games more than once. Some players have requested postponements for health reasons; some have been absent for family reasons. Each time, a chain of administrative exchanges unfolds backstage, and the outcome usually depends on the goodwill of the person across the table. What makes the Samarkand case special is its scale: two national teams, both Open and Women's, the same issue, the same day, the same forfeit. Rarely does a rule system lay bare its fragility so clearly. When the clock stops, I learned to move more slowly but more deeply. Looking at the empty boards in Samarkand, I did not think much about points. I thought about a player sitting at home, knowing their team had just been forfeited and they could do nothing — not a single move to salvage anything. In chess, the most frightening thing is rarely an opponent's tactical blow. The most frightening thing is helplessness in the face of what lies outside the board. A loss on the board leaves a lesson. A loss by an empty chair leaves nothing but a question. After Round 6, Israel was pushed back from its position. In the Open section, they lost two full points to the Netherlands while the opponent never had to sit down. In the Women's section, Bulgaria collected full points in the same way. In a tournament where the margin between top teams is sometimes measured in a single win, dropping points without taking the field is a heavy blow. Not because the opponent played better on the board, but because the game was decided before the pieces were set down. It is worth placing this incident beside a simple comparison. In football, when a team cannot reach the stadium for a force-majeure reason, organizers usually have clear rules for awarding a win, a loss, or a postponement. In tennis, when a player cannot take the court, the match is recorded under a defined format. In team chess, when a team does not appear, much depends on whether the opponent agrees to reschedule. The organizers stand in the middle as mediators but do not decide to shift anything themselves. This may sound fair — respecting the common schedule — but it produces a strange consequence: a team's right to observe its faith can be refused by another team, with no one breaking any rule. There is a line I often write when commenting on great moments: a board without pieces — yet memory remains. The memory here is an empty chair on a Monday afternoon, the moment the Dutch team walked in and realized their opponent was absent, the arbiter's gaze as he wrote the scoresheet. Those images outlive the standings. In a few years, we may forget who led the table after Round 6 in Samarkand. But we will remember that there was a first tournament, a Yom Kippur season, and two national teams forfeited because they could not appear on their own holy day. This leads me to a point few dare to state plainly. Sports media loves stories with heroes and villains. In this incident, no one deserves such framing. The Netherlands and Bulgaria had the right to refuse. Israel had the right to request adjustments. FIDE had the right to mediate. All three parties acted within what the rules allow. That is precisely why the incident deserves reflection: when every party is right under the rules, and the outcome is two empty boards, the problem lies with the rules. I have spent many years in the stands, noting what happens on the field and what happens on its edges. Experience has taught me that most change in sports does not come from the games, but from the administrative meetings that follow. An incident like Samarkand's may pass, be mentioned for a few days, then fade. It may also become the premise for a new clause, requiring major tournaments to have ready plans for religious holidays. Which direction unfolds depends on whether the chess community cares enough to demand change. The heart stops, the heart keeps beating. That is what I learned from a Euro night I wrote about in tears, when a player collapsed on the pitch and an entire stadium learned to beat more slowly to make room for life. Chess has no such dramatic moments. But behind every game are people, faiths, and different calendars. When a tournament forgets that, it will one day pay the price with an empty board. Samarkand is such a lesson. On the contrarian side, I want to reframe the center of the story. Public opinion is dividing into two camps: blaming the Netherlands and Bulgaria for a lack of goodwill, or blaming Israel for entering a tournament without anticipating schedule conflicts. Both views place people at the center, and both overlook what is truly unstable. The problem is not one team's goodwill. The problem is that FIDE's regulations turn goodwill into a precondition for a national team to play in accordance with its faith. Look at the sequence of events and a pattern emerges. September 20 and 21 were Yom Kippur. Round 5 took place on Sunday, September 20. Round 6 was on Monday, September 21. September 22 was the rest day. A single clause allowing a swap between Round 6 and the rest day, or moving Round 6 to late evening, would have prevented the entire incident. FIDE has every tool to do so. What it lacks is a rule written in advance, rather than a late negotiation after the situation has become difficult. Seen another way, this incident reminds us that chess is a sport of intellect, yet it does not escape the problems of professional sport. Prize money, qualification spots, federation rankings, and even individual contracts are tied to team performance. A point lost by forfeit can affect a federation's ranking for years. For young players seeking opportunities, a forfeited round also means a lost chance to compete. They do not get to play, do not get to test themselves against strong opponents, and do not get to write their names into a meaningful game. That is a cost the standings cannot show. Throughout my writing career, I have always believed that the best sports stories lie at the intersection of people and systems. A great game of chess is where two minds meet. A great tournament is where hundreds of people with different circumstances, faiths, and goals coexist under one set of rules. When those rules are wide enough to hold differences, a tournament becomes a community. When the rules are narrower than the people, the tournament leaves cracks. Samarkand has just shown one such crack. The next question is not who was right or wrong in Round 6, but whether the chess community has the courage to patch the crack before it recurs at another Olympiad. Tonight, in Samarkand, two boards were cleared away without ever holding a piece. Organizers will record that the result was handled according to the rules. Israeli players will return to their hotel and continue preparing for later rounds. The Netherlands and Bulgaria will enter Round 7 with two points in hand — perhaps the most important points of the whole event that they never had to play for. And somewhere, a chess fan is wondering whether this sport is truly organized to serve people, or to serve a schedule printed in advance. I have lived long enough to know that such questions rarely have immediate answers. But I also know that sports progress only when someone dares to ask. In a season where debates over rules, seeding, and religious observance are livelier than ever, Samarkand may be the beginning of a change. Or it may be just another forgotten round. What decides is the people in the meeting room — the ones who can write a clause, so that next time no player has to sit at home and watch their team lose because of their own empty chair.