For years, there was a tall leafy plant on the front porch of a friend’s house that always caught my eye whenever I visited. It stood in a cobalt blue pot bowing gracefully like a ballerina taking her final curtain call at the doorway to her home.
So, when my pal announced that, after years of declared intent, she and her husband would finally be leaving Manchester to live in Israel, I found myself gracelessly blurting out that I’d love to have the plant if she wasn’t taking it with her (which, admittedly, seemed unlikely).
“Take it whenever you want,” was her generous and immediate response.
Feeling bashful and a little crass, I didn’t follow it up. Even though my friend has been spectacularly methodical in sorting through what will travel with her to the Promised Land, what would be generously given to charity, and what would be sold on Vinted.
You could argue that I was doing her a favour by offering to relieve her of a plant and pot. Yet something stopped me. My friend is a truly lovely person, and although I am happy for her, I also feel a deep sadness at the thought of her leaving. Taking her possessions felt strangely significant – making her departure feel real before it had actually happened.
More fool me. When I went round for a delicious Shabbat lunch the other week, there was an empty space in the porch. Apparently, someone else had managed to square sentimentality with nabbing this stylish piece of greenery.
It’s a situation to be confronted on repeat as more and more friends decide to pack up and head for our homeland. This summer alone, several people I personally know here in Manchester are leaving or have already left. Some have family in Israel; others have children elsewhere in the UK who they believe will eventually make aliyah. Some have simply had enough of Britain and wouldn’t trust Andy Burnham as far as they could chuck him.
The trend is becoming impossible to ignore. An estimated 742 British citizens left the UK to live in Israel in 2025, the highest annual number since the mid-1980s. Figures for 2026 are not yet available, but if I were a betting person, it’s likely this year won’t be far behind. Particularly given the sharp rise in antisemitic incidents recorded in the UK.
It sometimes feels as though I barely sit down at a Friday night dinner or Shabbat lunch without hearing about fellow guests’ plans to quit Britain. Even if they may be a few years hence.
It’s a conversation to which I can’t really contribute. With grown-up kids scattered in different directions as well as jobs rooted here and elderly parents to consider, the plan is not to plan. Anyway, I like Manchester (now the country’s new capital, courtesy of our prime minister). It’s friendly, compact and familiar. But how to set that with this rolling exodus? Can pragmatism help balance the pain – putting in a bid for a quirky teapot to help crowd out unsettling thoughts?
Recently, after losing a brilliant cleaner who wanted a full-time job, I found myself despairing at the difficulty of finding a reliable replacement. (I know – tune up the string section – this is a first-world problem.) Then I had a thought: ask the friends who are leaving. After all, if their cleaner was about to lose a regular slot, why not go to someone they already know?
This time, unlike the plant – a lovely decoration rather than a necessity – I was more forthcoming. I rang a couple of departing friends to ask about the cleaners they were leaving behind.
But it’s strangely unsettling, this balancing act between the practical and the emotional. There is the sense of loss: of friends you are used to seeing in the shops, at each other’s houses, in shul, or simply bumping into in the M&S car park in Manchester. (One of the beauties of living in a compact city is that you always see someone you know there!)
Of course, over the years, I’ve watched many leave our community, including some very close friends who, even though I see them whenever I visit Israel, I still mourn not having nearby. But the snowball is getting bigger. Going into someone’s home as they prepare to leave and realise that all that remains is an anaemic version of their former life is disquieting. Perhaps blurting out, as I did, jokingly, at one friend’s lunch: “Are these salad servers making the cut?” is a form of coping.
Good manners or good memories? It’s a value judgment with every departure. Meanwhile, to all those who are brave, certain and determined to go, I have huge admiration and wish you well.
And to whoever got my friend’s plant, you know where I am if you also decide to leave.
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