I was born in London. It’s where I built my life. It’s where I have core memories, good friends, a bike, a gym, my local shops. London is my home. But I no longer feel at home, so I’ve decided to stay away.
I love you London. You’ve given me so much. But you’ve broken my heart
My parents emigrated in the 70s. And though I’m ethnically Jewish, I very much see myself as British. I am a beneficiary – and a custodian – of the values which gave my parents the opportunity to thrive in the United Kingdom. Values like equal opportunity, fair play, community, tolerance, freedom of religion and of expression. For the first half of my life, I took these for granted. Eventually, I came to appreciate them; then to cherish them; and in recent years, I find myself regularly defending them. And though in my childhood I had faced some discrimination, I never felt anything but belonging in the country that I’ve called home for more than 30 years. But apparently belonging isn’t indestructible. Brick by brick, my life in London is being undone.
If there had been tremors before, October 7th 2023 was an earthquake. The first brick fell on that fateful Saturday morning, when terrorists, propelled by religious fanaticism, rampaged through villages and a music festival in southern Israel, murdering my peers, obliterating entire families, kidnapping hundreds more. That very morning, a journalist at an influential left-wing outlet described it as ‘a day of celebration for supporters of democracy and human rights worldwide’. ‘The struggle for freedom is rarely bloodless and we shouldn’t apologise for it,’ she wrote. Those words were written even as videos were pouring out of young women being dragged into Gaza by screaming men.
A few days later, our own extremists celebrated on the streets of London, rejoicing in the massacres. Every day since, there have been further painful blows. From the weekly hate-marches (and yes, it felt pretty hateful when one man made a throat-slitting gesture at me, or when another lady told me to ‘go back to Europe’ – I wonder if she knows that neither Yemen nor Iraq, where my family originate, is in Europe), to the defaced hostage posters across the city, to a well-known queer nightclub advertising ‘no fucking Zionists, this is not your space’, to friends of mine being more outraged about Greta Thunberg being ‘abducted’ than they were when 250 people were actually abducted on October 7th, to the beloved Dawn French appearing to refer to the worst day in many of our lives as a ‘bad fing’. Each of these instances, and the myriad others, have made me wonder how much my sense of belonging truly holds.
And then something fascinating happened. I came to Israel to visit family and to enjoy Tel Aviv Pride, and the unexpected yet unsurprising war with Iran began. I found myself ‘stuck’ in Israel. With the airspace closed and all flights grounded, I, like everyone else here, received regular sirens on my phone, warning that missiles were on their way from Iran and that we should take cover. Deep within the bomb shelters, with the missiles falling around us, and explosions heard above us – and with the building literally shaking – a friend turned to me and said ‘…still feels safer than London’. To my horror, I agreed.
Despite the missiles, the destruction, and the tragic fatalities, there is an unshakable sense of hope here. When I walk across the square in Tel Aviv, I hear people singing songs of peace, instead of the chants for ‘Intifada, Revolution’ that I hear at Waterloo station. On the lampposts, I see signs in Hebrew and Arabic of brotherhood and unity, rather than ‘ZioNazi’ graffiti in my local London park. Even as I write these words, I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t want to come back to the city where I was born, where I grew up, and which I still call home. Watching a sea of my peers chant ‘death to the IDF’ at Glastonbury last weekend was the final straw.
Twelve hundred people were murdered on October 7th. But something else died that day. For almost two years I wasn’t sure what it was. I hadn’t been able to put my finger it. Almost every single Jewish person I’ve spoken to, whether British or otherwise, has felt the same thing. Something has changed. And so, I must change. I’ve decided not to rush back to London. I will spend more of my time here. I have Jewish and Israeli friends in London who refuse to budge. ‘We won’t be chased away,’ they say, ‘We won’t let them win’. I respect that. And though, in some ways, it feels like giving up, I just can’t do it anymore. I refuse to remain surrounded by apathy at best, or outright hostility at worst. Why would I?
I love you London. You’ve given me so much. But you’ve broken my heart. And, like in many complicated relationships, I think we need to take a break. So, it’s not goodbye, full stop. But it is goodbye, for now. I’ll keep doing whatever I can to support and defend my home, the UK, and our values, from here in the Middle East – where the cockroaches fly, the road rage is palpable, and threat of war is imminent. But here, at least, my heart is full.
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