A city in shock: Manchester, a synagogue, and a day that should not have ended in blood
On a crisp autumn day in Manchester, a place that usually hums with the ordinary rhythms of northern life — school runs, market stalls, the distant clatter of trams — something terrible ruptured the calm. Families gathered for Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year: a day of fasting, reflection and communal prayer. Instead, a church-bell silence was broken by the sound of chaos and gunfire outside the Heaton Park Hebrew Congregation synagogue.
By the time the orange lights of ambulances faded into the drizzle, two local men lay dead: Adrian Daulby, 53, and Melvin Cravitz, 66. Another person was fighting for life in hospital. The man shot dead by armed police was later named by investigators as Jihad al-Shamie, a 35-year-old British citizen of Syrian descent. Greater Manchester Police have said that, as far as they can tell, the suspect was not carrying a firearm and that the only shots heard were fired by their Authorised Firearms Officer. They added that one of the fatalities appears to have been caused, tragically and unintentionally, by those very shots as officers acted to stop the attack.
What happened at the synagogue
Eyewitnesses describe a terrifying sequence: a vehicle striking pedestrians, then stabbing outside the synagogue doors, and then the exchange that closed a brutal act all too quickly.
“I came out to check on my neighbour after the service,” said Miriam Levin, who lives two streets away. “There was blood on the path and people were screaming. We were all in shock. It felt like the world had flipped.” Her voice, soft and tremulous, carried the exhausted disbelief of someone who had seen too much in too little time.
Police have confirmed that two people who received gunshot wounds were behind the synagogue doors during attempts to shelter and secure the space. One of those shot died, and another remains in hospital with serious injuries.
A community reeling and a nation asking why
Manchester’s Jewish community — one of the oldest and most tightly knit in Britain — is wrapped in grief and anger. On the streets near Heaton Park, small groups gather to leave candles and flowers, the petals sodden with rain. Religious leaders have urged calm, but the air is thick with questions: how could an attack happen on the holiest day? How safe are communal spaces now?
“We come here to pray, to atone, to be together,” said Rabbi Daniel Katz outside the synagogue, his coat pulled tight against the cold. “To be met with this violence on Yom Kippur — it is beyond comprehension. We will grieve our dead, and then we must demand answers. We must be protected.”
The political response has been swift. The British government has pledged to intensify efforts to tackle antisemitism and promised a heavier police presence at synagogues and community facilities. Shabana Mahmood, the interior minister, told Times Radio she understood the strength of feeling on both sides of the Gaza conflict but urged that it not spill into violence on British streets. “We will do whatever is required to keep our Jewish community safe,” she said, announcing plans for increased security measures.
Context and a worrying trend
To understand why a single attack has sent such shockwaves, look at the wider trends. Since the Hamas attacks of 7 October 2023 and the war in Gaza that followed, reported antisemitic incidents in Britain have surged. The Community Security Trust (CST), which records antisemitic incidents, reported a historic high of 2,255 incidents in 2023 — a record that has left many Jewish families feeling exposed in the public square and online. Pro-Palestine protests across UK cities, some large and loud, have heightened tensions; in the hours after this attack, policing saw clashes outside central government buildings that resulted in about 40 arrests.
“When a community feels under siege, normal life changes,” said Dr. Elise Harper, a sociologist at the University of Manchester who studies hate crime and social cohesion. “You see reduced attendance at communal events, increased investment in private security, and a profound psychological toll. That toll becomes a feedback loop: fear feeds fear, and political rhetoric can fan that into anger.”
Police use-of-force and the burden of split-second decisions
The revelation that a police bullet may have struck one of the victims complicates the story further. Officers say the shots they fired were intended to stop an immediate threat. For families and friends of the dead and injured, the possibility that a bullet meant to save life might have taken life is a bitter, almost impossible grief.
“They were trying to do their job,” said Inspector Rachel Morgan of Greater Manchester Police in a statement, careful and measured. “But this was a fast-moving, harrowing incident. Subject to further forensic results, we must acknowledge that one of the injuries may, tragically, have been caused by the necessary, urgent action taken to bring this attack to an end.”
That balance — between rapid intervention and the risk of error — sits at the heart of debates about armed policing. Experts note that British police rarely deploy firearms compared with some other countries, and when they do, decisions are made in seconds.
“There’s no rulebook for perfect outcomes in these situations,” said Dr. Martin Bellamy, a forensic specialist who has advised police on operations. “Every action can have unintended consequences. But that does not absolve agencies of accountability. Transparent investigations and clear communication are critical to maintaining public trust.”
Voices from the neighbourhood
Beyond statistics and statements, there are the small human details that linger: the empty chair at a weekly chess club, the shopkeeper who has run the kosher deli for thirty years and now worries about his morning customers, the teenagers muttering prayers instead of laughing in the park.
“We used to see each other at markets, at synagogue, at school events,” said Tariq Mohammed, who runs the corner cafe across from Heaton Park. “Now people ask me if it’s safe to walk down the road. It’s heavy. We need to talk to each other, not away from each other.”
Others have raised broader, uncomfortable questions: how we balance the right to protest and express political views with the responsibility to avoid incitement and hatred; how online rhetoric translates into real-world harm; what role schools, universities and community leaders play in shaping discourse.
What comes next?
There will be investigations: forensic examinations into the shots fired, inquests into the deaths, and inquiries into whether intelligence or prevention measures could have stopped what happened. There will also be a debate — in parliament, in neighbourhood halls, in online forums — about the long-term steps required to protect communities and defuse rising tensions.
But grief does not wait for bureaucracy. Funerals will be held, candles will burn, and people will gather to ask, quietly and urgently: how do we live together after today? What steps can local leaders and national government take to restore safety and trust? How do we ensure that the sanctity of worship and the sanctity of life coexist?
As you read this, perhaps you find yourself grappling with similar questions in your own city: How do we keep safe the most vulnerable among us when politics is loud and sometimes violent? How do we mourn without letting fear become the default of daily life?
Manchester has endured much through history — industrial upheaval, economic reinvention, communal resilience. This is another test. The answer may lie not only in police presence or parliamentary pledges, but in the quieter, harder work of neighbourly solidarity, honest conversation, and a commitment to the dignity of every person, regardless of faith or background.
“We are wounded,” Rabbi Katz said. “But we are not broken. And we will remember the dead by how we protect the living.” In that resolve, a city and a nation will, for now, try to find its way forward.
