I saw the Manchester attack unfold. How we respond shows who we are as a society

But a few minutes later, sirens and helicopters were heard overhead, and my gut already knew that something serious was happening. I tried to leave, but the police wouldn't let me.

Shortly afterwards, there was a knock on the door – police demanded that we evacuate immediately. We weren't told where or for how long. I grabbed a portable charger, phone, keys, and I was only wearing pyjamas with a coat.

When we went out into the street, the scene was difficult: the community rabbi, a dear friend of mine – Rabbi Daniel Walker – was standing in front of me, and his coat had blood stains on it.

I tried to get closer, but the police separated us. We, the residents, were pushed out without a response, without information.

Good neighbours brought out chairs and water for the elderly, and my wife, by my side, was moved to tears. At that moment, we met friends and they told us that one of the injured was the father of children we knew well. The uncertainty was unbearable: the hospital said nothing, the police were silent.

In the midst of the confusion, a flood of phone calls began. News channels from all over the world wanted to hear from me: Japan, Brazil, the Netherlands, Australia.

And then in Israel too – just as the holiday was coming up – a flood of messages. Suddenly, a phone call from President Herzog’s office, mentioning his last letter to the King of England, warning of an attack on the Jewish community. 

During many interviews I gave to media, I kept saying: “We don't just need to increase security – we need a real dialogue between people.

“Because security can protect for a moment, but only conversation, understanding and mutual recognition can change reality.”

I received my greatest hope precisely in an encounter on the street: a Muslim neighbour, a Christian neighbour and I – three religions, three identities – hugged and said to each other: "This is not fair. Not in our community."

In that moment, I felt that there was still a chance for hearts to prevail over weapons.

Towards the end of the holiday, a police officer contacted me and directed me to a meeting point with my wife, who had gone to pray in the meantime. From there, we moved to a friend’s house, and eventually found shelter at my mother-in-law’s house.

On the way, we saw the new reality: many mobile phones around every Jewish institution, armed police in front of synagogues. By noon, it was clear – we would not be returning home today.

This experience shook me. We, as Jews in the Diaspora, always know about the possibility, prepare, and strengthen security. But nothing prepares you for the moment when your synagogue, your street, your neighborhood, become the scene of a terror attack. In one moment, the fine line between “news about others” and a personal, tangible, painful experience is crossed.

Yet, alongside the fear and chaos, I also take something else from that day: the understanding that our future does not depend only on helicopters, cameras, and weapons – but also on a hug in the street between neighbours of different religions.

Because in the end, as I felt that Yom Kippur, this is not a problem for “the Jews,” but a test for society as a whole: Is it ready to protect a space where every citizen, no matter who they are, can pray, live, and be at home, without fear of the day they will be evicted from it in pyjamas and a coat?