I Mourn

On the corner of Cross Street a lonely saxophone is keying a sombre tune. People weave their way through the crowded streets to its slow gentle rhythm. In their solemn silence people wade into St Ann’s Square, row upon row drawing to a standstill.

The sea of flowers swelling minute by minute, while inch by inch tributes are etched in chalk. In each framed photo, in every soft toy, in the flicker of each candle; a wounding truth.

As shiny balloons danced in the evening breeze, I witnessed the shared grief where stranger hugged stranger, and those from the very young to the very old tried to comprehend. Struggling to make sense of what happened, I heard a mother tell her daughter, “the children are now singing with angels” holding her a little tighter. Children holding “We love Manchester” placards, and babies still too young to understand I looked into their innocent eyes and wondered, how do we explain such barbarity? How do we heal? How do we move on?  

That Friday evening, on the cusp of Ramadhan, one of the most sacred months for Muslims worldwide, a myriad of Muslims converged on St Ann’s Square to hold a vigil. Organiser Fesl Reza Khan told me “its aim was to remember those who lost their lives and show solidarity with bereft families and survivors”. Zahid Hussain, poet and author recited his poem “Mancunian Way” to a growing crowd, ending with an eruption of rapturous applause. A young man took the microphone and the lyrics of “WonderWall” rang out leaving people in floods of tears. The ebb and flow of emotion, from pride to pain, surged through. The nostalgia of Manchester’s great history, from music to movement and change, seemed to be the glue binding people from all walks of life. The symbol of the “Bee”, which represents Manchester, was reflected in the low humming of communication between people who beavered to aid one another.

Speaking with many who had attended to show their support, one sentiment struck me the most, “humanity mattered more than anything else”. After all, we are flesh and blood, we bleed the same, as do we grieve for any innocent life lost; be that here on our doorstep in Manchester or London, or in places like Syria, Iraq, Yemen, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Libya, France, Belgium, Germany or Sweden.

While meandering my way through the crowds I witnessed fellow community activists and humanitarians doing what they do best, being present and offering empathy. All week I had heard from friends who had organised food distribution, transport, and who had provided refreshments to those waiting to hear news of loved ones in hospital. I was told about the young girls from a local Muslim school who distributed roses in their local area, and about children from a North Manchester mosque who were walking for peace to lay tributes at the Arena. I heard about the first responders who dropped everything, rushing to the hospital to offer assistance, delivering life-saving treatment to those wounded. Doing what any other human being would do, help and assist.

I spoke with Emma mother of one of the children who survived Monday's attack “you see things happen across the world but never think it would happen here”. She went onto say “I love how everyone has come together. Every one of all faiths and religions speaking to one another and helping one another has been amazing.”

No matter what our race, faith, ethnicity, gender, disability or sexual orientation “humanity” transcends, speaks a universal language, and unites us. Sadly, not all experience the world this way, and use tragedies like this to peddle their own divisive ideologies. I spoke with people who had already experienced the backlash; a woman who was spat at in the street, a man being blamed for what unfolded on Monday and the days that followed, and a child being called a “terrorist”. I heard from a mother who felt fearful of leaving her home, and another who was left feeling shocked and shaken after witnessing one of the numerous raids across the city and wider afield. “It was terrifying. I saw many plain clothed police officers wearing masks, holding huge guns pin a young man to the floor and handcuff him, I came home feeling sick to my stomach” said Muslim grandmother from Whalley Range. “It fills me with dread and sadness, and I wonder why would anyone do such a thing?”

This question remains at large. Why does a person decide killing is justified? What does it achieve? Some argue that foreign policy is to blame, while others claim its religious fanaticism. Some believe its mental sickness, while others think it's revenge. It’s a question that cannot be ignored and needs in-depth analysis and research to be wholly understood. Meanwhile, many worry there will be a continued “othering” through laws which further marginalise, stigmatise, and criminalise one community over another.  I don’t have the answers, but what I do know is this; be it Abedi or Breivik they only represent their criminal selves.

In the words of Andy Burnham “This is an extremist act and the person who did it in no more represents the Muslim community than the person who killed Jo Cox represents the white Christian community.”

As the fading sun bathed the tops of buildings of St Ann’s Square in its golden light, the burst of coloured blooms reached out to the sky. I felt pained as a mother, pained for the backlash experienced by friends and pained as a Muslim for what may come. I feel pained knowing terrorism hasn’t and will not discriminate, and I am just as much of a target as anyone else.

Cheeks wetted by tears I mourn; I mourn for the lives lost in Manchester; I mourn for the needless lives lost across world; I mourn for them all.

©Aisha Mirza