About the Author: Josh Aronson is a diaspora reporter for Maariv, a leading Israeli newspaper, and a freelance journalist for several Jewish publications worldwide. Based in England, Josh is on the autism spectrum and brings a unique perspective to his reporting. He previously lived in Israel, where he served as a coordinator for people with disabilities.
Usually, when I write about the Jewish world and the Diaspora, I find myself reporting on attacks at synagogues in faraway places – the United States, Germany, France. Most of the time, it happens across the ocean, and I sit at my desk writing with the knowledge that the pain belongs to others. I even remember one night, I was ill with COVID, at 3 a.m., insisting on reporting an attack that had taken place in Texas. But I never imagined I would one day find myself writing about the synagogue across from my own door, on my own street in Manchester — and that on the morning of Yom Kippur, I would be the one evacuated from my home under police lockdown and spend three days in my pj’s by my parents-in-law.
I never imagined I would one day find myself writing about the synagogue across from my own door.
It all began with the sound of gunfire outside. At first, I told myself: it can’t be — not here, not in Manchester. But minutes later came the sirens and the helicopters overhead, and my gut already knew something serious was happening. I tried to go outside, but the police wouldn’t allow it. Soon after, there was pounding on the door — officers demanded that we evacuate immediately. They didn’t say where or for how long. I grabbed a power bank, my phone, my keys — and I was wearing only pajamas and a coat.
When I stepped outside, the scene was difficult: the community’s rabbi, a dear friend of mine — Rabbi Daniel Walker — stood before me, with blood stains on his kittel (the white robe worn on Yom Kippur). I tried to approach him, but the police separated us. We, the residents, were pushed out without answers, without information. Kind neighbors brought out chairs and water for the elderly, and my wife, beside me, was trembling with tears. At that moment, we met friends who told us that one of the injured was a father of children we knew well. The uncertainty was unbearable: the hospital gave no updates, and the police remained silent.
We were pushed out without answers, without information.
In the middle of the confusion, the phone started exploding with calls. News outlets from around the world wanted to speak with me: Japan, Brazil, the Netherlands, Australia. And then from Israel too — just as the holiday ended — a flood of messages. Suddenly, there was even a call from President Herzog’s office, referring to his recent letter to the King of England warning of a possible attack on the Jewish community. I, who am usually the one sending updates to others, suddenly became the subject of concern.
In the many interviews I gave to various media channels, I kept repeating: it’s not enough to increase security — we need real dialogue between people. Security can protect us for a moment, but only conversation, understanding, and mutual recognition can change reality. My greatest source of hope came from an encounter on the street: a Muslim neighbor, a Christian neighbor, and me — three faiths, three identities — we embraced and said to one another, “This isn’t fair. Not in our community.” At that moment, I felt there was still a chance for hearts to prevail over weapons.
Security can protect us for a moment, but only conversation can change reality.
Toward 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. From there, we went to friends’ house, and eventually found refuge at my mother-in-law’s. On the way, we saw the new reality: numerous police cars around every Jewish institution, armed officers standing guard outside synagogues. By midday, it was already clear — we wouldn’t be returning home that day.
The experience shook me deeply. We, as Jews in the Diaspora, always know the possibility exists — we prepare, we strengthen security. But nothing prepares you for the moment when your synagogue, your street, your neighbors — become the scene of a terror attack. In an instant, the thin line between “news about others” and personal, painful experience disappears.
But alongside the fear and chaos, I took something else from that day: the realization that our future doesn’t depend only on helicopters, cameras, and weapons — but also on an embrace in the street, between neighbors of different faiths. Because in the end, as I felt that Yom Kippur day — this isn’t a “Jewish problem,” but a test for society as a whole: whether it is willing to defend a space where every citizen, whoever they are, can pray, live, and feel at home — without fearing the day they might be evacuated from it, wearing only pajamas and a coat.
Our future depends not only on security, but on the embrace between neighbors of different faiths.
As President Herzog wrote in his Voice of the People address, “Our greatest challenge is not only to remember, but to rebuild.” That sentiment now feels deeply personal. We cannot allow these moments of pain to fade into another news cycle. My hope is that by speaking, listening, and working together, we can transform fear into resilience, isolation into solidarity, and grief into the groundwork for a future defined not by division, but by shared humanity.
Publish date: November 5th
By: Josh Aronson
