Will Yom Kippur in Manchester ever feel the same again?

It felt unreal during those long hours of Yom Kippur, when news was scarce. I wasn’t using my phone. Leaving the house mid-morning, I found police, CST and security clustered at the end of the road. There had been an attack. There were fatalities. Still, it didn’t seem real.

Even when I was told synagogues were sending people home – or instructing those already inside to stay put – I didn’t quite believe it. Instead, I walked towards the synagogue I`d joined after I got married (at the time a younger, livelier choice, filled with students and newlyweds,). Only because I knew the security number did I make it through the gates.

Inside, we davened. We felt unsettled. We exchanged quiet words about the unreality of it all while the chazan’s voice soared. From time to time the rabbi interrupted the service to remind us: the situation was ongoing, and if we left shul, we should not expect to return that day.

As details emerged, the disbelief only deepened. That our little corner of north Manchester – and this vast but often under-attended synagogue – had been targeted seemed incomprehensible.

And so the community splinters in its response. Some rush to book tickets out of here . Others argue it was inevitable. I belong to neither camp. I can’t simply accept this as fate.

I’m used to CST patrols, the guards in high-viz waistcoats, the occasional police officer strolling past on Shabbat morning. But until now it all felt benign: cheery waves, a friendly word or two. Like sitting opposite a restaurant kitchen – you know what’s happening back there, but you’d rather not see it.

Perhaps it’s the Manchester spirit – our black humour, our gritty faith that things will come good – that keeps me from despair. Or perhaps it’s that this feels like a violation too far. We know about rising antisemitism, the spitting thugs, the desecrated buildings. But murder?

Ironically, the last time I sat in Heaton Park was only months ago, when it hosted released hostage Eli Sharabi. For old times’ sake I chose to sit in my childhood seat – upper left, close to the ark. I remember listening as Eli relayed his ordeal, and thinking how strange, how jarring, to hear such horror in this beautiful shul where I had only happy memories. It was terrible story of Jews slaughtered for being Jews Only yesterday that story played out within the walls of this elegant building

Now, in such a short time, I’m repeatedly asked: What next for Manchester’s Jews? More security? Fewer shul-goers?

I don’t know.

What I do know is this: the bravery of the rabbi, the lives taken, the brutality of the attack—these have made it all too real. The place of my childhood innocence and marital joy is now another mark on the bloody roll call of Jewish suffering.

Will Yom Kippur here ever feel the same again?

It must. Because even in the flintiest, most devastated human heart lies the Jewish will to endure. History is behind us, pushing us forward, reminding us not to be defeated. Especially here, up north—where welcome is not only expected, but essential.