Yom Kippur is the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. It’s a day of reflection, quiet contemplation, and asking: Where have I been going wrong, and how can I do better? It’s a day when thousands of Jews head to synagogue – even if they aren’t usually observant. The day is both solemn but hopeful, focusing on forgiveness, repair and renewal to welcome in the new Jewish year.
I haven’t observed Yom Kippur for many years; not since I was a child. Back then, I loved it – not just because it meant taking a day off school (although that was a big reason), but because my grandparents would take us to shul (the Yiddish word for synagogue). We’d sit quietly listening to meditative Hebrew prayers, then we’d collect conkers on the nearby common, followed by tea at their house (only for us kids – all the adults were fasting). Every Yom Kippur, even though I’m still working when I shouldn’t be, and still eating when I shouldn’t be, I miss those days when I connected more deeply with my Judaism, and I wish my grandparents were still here.
However, this year was the first time I felt glad that my grandparents weren’t here. I was glad they didn’t have to hear the news that the Heaton Park Congregation Synagogue in Manchester, on British soil where they were both born and raised, had been attacked by a car-ramming and stabbing, leaving at least two dead and four seriously injured. I was glad that they weren’t here to witness this echo of antisemitic terror that they knew so well when they were growing up, when many of their cousins and extended family died in the Holocaust. Back then, Britain felt like a safe haven for Jews. Sadly, it doesn’t feel that way anymore.
‘We must remember what happened in those dark times, so that we all stay in the light.’
British Jews are a small community – we make up only 0.5% of the population. Most of us know people who were affected; we spoke to friends who were locked down inside their synagogues in Manchester, terrified, while many of us frantically messaged our loved ones who had gone to shuls around the country, fearing a coordinated attack (this was made even more agonising considering many Jews turn off their phones on Yom Kippur).
Clearly, this attack was designed to hurt the Jewish community in the worst possible way – on our holiest day, in our holiest place. But it didn’t happen in isolation. Even though PM Keir Starmer described the events as “shocking”, I doubt a single Jew in this country was shocked.
Antisemitic incidents have been on a sharp incline in Britain over the past two years; visibly Jewish people have been attacked in the streets, Jewish schoolgirls have been attacked with glass bottles, Jewish nurseries have been smeared with faeces, synagogues have been graffiti’d – to name just a few. This rise has directly correlated with the ongoing war between Israel and Gaza. In fact, in 2024, 52% of incidents reported to the CST featured rhetoric related to the conflict. This is in combination with the deep-rooted antisemitism, such as Holocaust denial, conspiracy theories, and stereotypes, that already existed before 7th October 2023.
Many people, with the best intentions, would say that British Jews should be separated from what’s happening in the Middle East. But the truth is, they’re not separate. When antisemitic rhetoric and hatred towards the world’s only Jewish country is normalised, this paves the way for hatred against Jews in Britain to become normalised too. When Jewish deaths are celebrated or deemed necessary, this is where it leads: innocent British Jews killed on their most sacred day, for simply having the audacity to pray.
Events are still unfolding – but as of right now, Starmer has promised more security outside synagogues across the country. But we’re not getting to the root of the problem here. What we need is a deep understanding of what has landed us here: anti-Jewish rhetoric that has been allowed to fester, slipping under the radar in even the most liberal spaces. We need to weed out antisemitism with eyes wide open, instead of ignoring the problem. This is what happens when we ignore it. And if we continue to ignore it, we know what happens next.
As such a small community, we cannot fight this rising tide alone. We need more allies – people who will defend us without looking around to check if it’s acceptable first, without ifs and buts. Speaking up for your Jewish friends shouldn’t be controversial – but, for some reason, it is.
I, like many other British Jews, have been worried about my future in this country for some time now. Having lived in South London for years, disconnected from the Jewish community, my husband and I recently started the process of buying a house in a Jewish area. We hoped that being enveloped in our community might soften the blows of antisemitism around us. We hoped that joining a synagogue and sending our unborn baby to a Jewish nursery might make us feel more at home here, providing a safe space to be ourselves.
Now, I’m not sure. Making this choice feels reckless - and I’m truly terrified about putting my daughter in harm’s way. When even these ‘safe spaces’ no longer feel safe, where can we go? Jews deserve to feel as accepted and protected in this country as my grandparents did growing up. We should be able to go to our holy places, honour our sacred days, and walk the streets, without fear. If this attack doesn’t act as a wake-up call – a siren alarm, even – then I don’t know what will.
