A day after one of the worst atrocities in the history of the city, Manchester’s people were keen to show the world the resilience of the Mancunian spirit.
Dom’s, an Italian restaurant, is in walking distance from Manchester Arena, where 22 people had lost their lives to a suicide bomber the night before. On Tuesday, the staff were giving out free coffee, tea and pizza to anyone who needed it. On a table outside, there was a condolences book, and teary passers-by left RIP messages to those who perished. Under a bright blue sky, the community seemed more united than ever, the goodwill pouring out of everyone I met. But the general mood was sombre.
“We need to make space for healing and for building up our community again, and just getting people to feel comfortable in their own city,” the Dean of Manchester, Rogers Govendor, told me.
The terrorist has been named as Salman Ramadan Abedi, a 22-year-old Mancunian of Libyan descent. But with a population of 600,000, Manchester is a cosmopolitan hub, and proud of it. Throughout the day I encountered people of all skin shades and religions. On one of the roads off Albert Square, a couple of Orthodox Jewish boys set up a little stand where people could grab a bottle of water and, if they so desired, hold hands and pray.
On the night of the tragedy, Muslim and Sikh cab drivers turned off the meter and made their way to Manchester Arena to offer free rides to anyone – many of them injured – who was trying to escape the mayhem and reach safety. “It’s what we do around here,” my taxi driver said in a thick Arabic accent.
The dissonance between the increasingly frantic debate on social media and what was discussed on the streets was stark. I spoke, on and off the record, with about two dozen residents, eavesdropped on a number of conversations, and not once did I hear anyone speaking out against the cultural melting pot that Manchester is today. If anything, people were more eager than ever to highlight it.
“Manchester has always been hugely multicultural, and people always pull together at times of trouble and need,” said Andrew Hicklin. “They are not going to change our society and who we are as people. We live free lives.”
It was also a day when political divisions were put aside. Theresa May and Jeremy Corbyn agreed to suspend their campaigns. For the next few days there will be no Labour v Tory, no Brexiteer v Remainer, at least not in this part of the country. This city has closed ranks and nothing will be allowed to mar that cohesion.
“I don’t demonise anyone,” said Dennis Bolster, who stopped by to sign the book of condolence outside Dom’s. “I just know a small minority of absolute idiots, driven by whatever they think they are driven by, are the people who are trying to break us apart.”
Later in the day, as people were getting off work, thousands flocked to Albert Square to show their respect for the victims. Members of the Sikh community entered the square carrying “I love MCR” signs. The crowd promptly applauded. A middle-aged man wore a T-shirt which said: “The only thing that’s allowed to be separated by colour is the laundry.” A moment of silence was observed. It was eerie, at times overwhelmingly sad. But it was also moving and inspiring.
Tony Walsh, a local poet, brought brief respite from the pain when he recited “This is the Place”, his ode to the city and its people. The first verse went:
This is the place In the north-west of England. It’s ace, it’s the best
And the songs that we sing from the stands, from our bands
Set the whole planet shaking.
Our inventions are legends. There’s nowt we can’t make, and so we make brilliant music
We make brilliant bands
We make goals that make souls leap from seats in the stands
On stage, everyday political foes became temporary allies. The Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn, Home Secretary Amber Rudd, the Lib Dem leader Tim Farron, the Mayor of Greater Manchester, Andy Burnham, and the Speaker of the House of Commons, John Bercow, all brushed shoulders. Their message was clear: “We are Manchester too.”
The vigil lasted a little over half an hour. On other occasions, a crowd this size in the centre of Manchester would give the authorities reason for concern. But not this time. Everyone was on their best behaviour. Only a few were drinking.
As Mancunians made their way home, I went over to a family that had been standing not far from me during the vigil. The two children, a boy and a girl, both not older than ten, were clutching their parents’ hands the whole time. I asked the dad if he will give them a few extra hugs and kisses as he tucks them in tonight. “Oh, absolutely,” he said. “Some parents whose children went to the concert last night won’t ever get to do that again. It’s heartbreaking.”
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