My day after the Manchester bomb
Liz Green sees people at their best in a time of tragedy
I get the message on my phone at 11:30pm on Monday night. I am texting my brother about taking Mum to an unexpected doctor’s appointment the next day. Our Mum is ninety-six. Is there any point in the referral? Why are we going? Mum is nearing the end of her life. She’d been out of it – eyes closed, not responding – when I’d seen her on Sunday. Today she had been more alert. But living for what? For me? For us? Then comes the intrusion into our own private, personal concerns. A bomb explosion, death in Manchester Arena, Victoria Station, where we often go.
Ellie, my partner, is asleep. I can’t – mustn’t – tell her. It’s too late to speak to anyone. I pour a whisky and lemon, a ‘hot toddy’, telling myself I need it for my cold. I can’t sleep. I sit downstairs. Shall I read Ben Pink Dandelion’s Open for transformation? No, I gaze at the photo on the cover of our Quaker newsletter. A banner with the words ‘Love to all, hatred to none’ is displayed outside a Manchester mosque.
Next morning Ellie, in tears, comes to tell me the news. ‘I know,’ I say. We hold each other.
We know we have to tell Ben, our nine-year-old son, before he goes to school. He listens sombre, quiet. The news comes through that an eight-year-old is among those who have lost their lives. Ben looks alarmed and questioning. We have one of our family hugs. We tell Ben the tragedy does not mean that all Muslims are bad. Islam does not teach believers to kill in this way. Ben has a special friend, Hasan, who is like a brother to him and whose father is Syrian.
Ben and I walk to school together. It is a beautiful day. We look at the flowers, listen to the birds and gaze at the blue sky. We look up at the hills. There is the Pots and Pans war memorial where Ben has climbed up with Hasan.
The headteacher is in the school yard, warmly greeting everyone. Ben comes back to hug and kiss me goodbye. I talk with the head. She tells me that she has asked the teachers of the older children to speak with them, to reassure them. They would be reaffirming all that Ellie and I had said to Ben. They would say prayers.
The head and I wince as we remember that some parents would not allow their children to go to the mosque in Oldham a couple of years ago when Ben’s class had been part of the school’s interfaith and community building. ‘My child’s not going. Those Muslims cut off people’s heads,’ one parent had declared.
In the past the dreaded phone call from the nursing home has meant only bad news: a sudden disaster, a fall, a collapse, a visit to the accident and emergency department. I have just finished my mentoring session, immersed in someone else’s life, when this particular call comes. Now I am worried about taking my dear, precious Mum to the doctor. Is it worth putting Mum through what could be an ordeal? Is she up to it? I am concerned, worried, wanting to do the right thing for my Mum.
I ring Mum’s surgery. The doctor will be asked to phone me back at 11:30am after he has finished seeing patients. I wonder if he will have the time? How much of a priority will I be? He phones just after 11:30am. He is Asian, a Muslim. We speak for more than twenty minutes. He is understanding, patient, kind, warm and reassuring.
Our visit to Oldham’s Integrated Care Centre is a delight. It is my Mum’s first trip out in over a year. She smiles at everyone and they smile back at her. The Asian taxi driver pushes her up the ramp, joking about her flying. The care centre is a place with the richest diversity of people. Africans, Asians and Indians are squashed together in the lift – squashed because they are insistent that room can be made for Mum’s wheelchair.
We greet a young Asian couple, asking how old is the baby being cradled by the young man. ‘One week.’
‘Congratulations!’ we say. ‘Little one-week-old, meet this ninety-six-year-old,’ I add. They beam back at us and everyone smiles together.
Let us ‘walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in everyone’.
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