My great-grandparents saw England as a place of refuge to escape persecution sweeping across Eastern Europe. They came with nothing more than willpower and work ethic. When WWI broke out, my great-grandfather, who fled Ukraine, enlisted without hesitation, motivated by a deep sense of gratitude and a resolute desire to give back.
A talented musician, he also served as a choirmaster in Heaton Park Synagogue, filling the community with joyous light. Three generations later, that light was dimmed on Yom Kippur. The shul became a place of death, targeted by the very Jew-hatred he fled as a teenager.
A cumulation of shock, grief, and a searing anger is directed most sharply at UK Prime Minister Keir Starmer. The cowardice of our prime minister is laid bare; his overriding concern appears to be placating the most extreme pro-Palestinian factions within his party, rather than safeguarding the Jewish community.
While British Jews grieve, Israel is vilified
This is evident in his failure to meaningfully confront the escalating hate marches, which have turned parts of the country into de facto no-go zones for Jewish people. Even on Thursday evening, as bereaved families grappled with the devastating events at Heaton Park, demonstrations vilifying Israel once again spilled onto the streets of Manchester and London.
The blood of British Jews is on the hands of those who have chosen posturing over principle. Politicians who fueled extremism with their virtue signaling and appeasement. Police chiefs who stood by as mobs took over our streets. Universities and schools that have tolerated open incitement.
I grew up in Manchester, surrounded by a thriving Jewish community. Through our traditions, songs, and stories, my great-grandfather’s survival was kept alive. Many, like me, are the descendants of refugees who came here seeking sanctuary from persecution and, in return, worked tirelessly to build lives, businesses, and communities that enrich this country.
I was proud to be British. I saw no contradiction between my Jewish identity and my British identity. I felt a profound harmony between the principles of liberal democracy, religious tolerance, and the values I was raised with. British Jewry prays for the royal family in our synagogues.
A sense of betrayal
We commemorated the late queen with reverence. For generations, we have seen ourselves as proud participants in the British story, contributing to the nation’s prosperity while embracing its values as our own. Now? I feel betrayed.
The monster who murdered Jews of my community showed nothing but contempt for those values. Our government opened the floodgates of terror long before this attack. Antisemitism is a light sleeper, and Starmer’s spineless appeasement has only stirred it awake. Rather than confront the reality that these marches are open displays of Jew-hatred and chanting for Israel’s eradication, Starmer responded with striking ineffectuality.
Most consequentially, the prime minister’s decision to recognize a prospective Palestinian state, without making such recognition conditional on the release of hostages or the disarmament of Hamas, effectively handed antisemites a loaded weapon. In doing so, he conferred political reward upon violent jihadists, a move that Hamas itself greeted with grotesque satisfaction.
The shadow of October 7
That reward has now returned to roost in the heart of the United Kingdom’s second-largest Jewish community, the place I have always called home, and within a synagogue profoundly close to my heart. Now, as the shadow of October 7 looms over Jewish communities across the world, we cling to hope that one day our government will honor the promise that made my great-grandfather’s survival in this country possible: to protect its Jewish citizens.
British Jews don’t want to run. We want to help restore the UK to the country that once welcomed Jewish refugees and gave generations after them the chance to build a life. The outpouring of kindness from non-Jewish friends, colleagues, and even strangers has reminded me that Britain’s true character is rooted in decency, not extremism. That gives me hope, fragile, perhaps, but real.
The writer is a policy fellow for the Pinsker Centre.