We arrived back in London from Italy two days ago, as we usually do, flying from Pisa to Stansted and then taking a National Express coach that stops at Golders Green. From there, we take our usual London bus to where we stay.

The day itself was strikingly calm. The sky was a clear, beautiful blue—everything above us felt still, open, almost untroubled.

But something felt different when we reached the bus stop.

The shelter’s electronic display showed none of our usual buses. No familiar numbers appeared. Instead there was uncertainty: people standing, checking phones, looking up the road, waiting without clarity. Slowly, the crowd at the stop began to grow, forming a longer and longer queue as time passed.

Above us, a helicopter circled steadily and noisily in the sky, tracing wide loops overhead. It did not immediately translate into panic on the ground, but it created a quiet sense that something was happening beyond what we could see.

Then I checked my phone.

It became clear that there had been a serious violent incident nearby in the Golders Green area, involving an attack in which two Jewish men—one older and one younger—had been stabbed. Reports indicated that a suspect had been arrested by police following the incident, and that the matter was under major investigation. The suspect was reported to be a British passport holder of Somali heritage with a history described as violent and associated with mental health problems. The police were treating the incident as terrorist-related.

On the ground, however, there was still very little visible police presence at first. No obvious cordons where we were standing—just the growing queue, the confusion at the stop, and the slow realisation that the system around us had been temporarily reconfigured.

As we waited—over an hour now—the situation became gradually more legible through fragments: conversations, phone updates, and movement in the crowd. And it was not a small gathering. It was quite a large gathering.

At one point, at the crossroads near Golders Green Station, an Israeli flag was visible and a gathering had formed. There were chants, and signs of a demonstration connected to what had happened. Only then did a clearer police presence appear—not initially as a barrier, but as coordination and control around the gathering and the surrounding diversion routes.

Eventually, our bus arrived, though the journey itself was far from straightforward. The driver had to navigate altered routes, and at one point we passed through the same stretch of road twice due to the diversion layout and confusion over the temporary path.

In the end, we made it home.

Later, more details emerged through news reports, and the full seriousness of the incident became clearer in retrospect. It was widely reported and became a major news event, with the suspect later formally investigated within the legal framework of the case.

The Jewish community in the area was very shaken by what had happened, particularly as in recent weeks its voluntary ambulance fleet had been torched, its wall of memory defaced, and its synagogues attacked.

What stayed with me most was the atmosphere at the time: the contrast between a bright, ordinary London sky, a functioning city still moving, and the subtle but unmistakable sense that something sinister was unfolding just out of full view.

That experience also led me to think more broadly about Jewish life in London.

It struck me that, unlike many other demographic patterns in the city, the Jewish population has remained relatively stable in overall size—but with a very significant change in its distribution.

Historically, Jewish life in London was rooted in the East End. Areas such as Spitalfields, Whitechapel, and wider parts of Tower Hamlets were once densely populated Jewish neighbourhoods, particularly before the Second World War. That area had synagogues, schools, and a dense community life.

But over time, that centre of gravity moved. After the war, and through the later 20th century, the Jewish population gradually shifted away from the East End, largely in a north-westward direction. When we first moved to Woolwich there was a synagogue and a kosher butcher -all gone now. Today, one of the largest concentrations of Jewish life in London is in the borough of Barnet.

Within that overall stability, there is an important internal difference. In places like Golders Green, the presence has remained relatively constant. But in Stamford Hill, it has increased quite significantly, largely due to the growth of more Orthodox Haredi Jewish communities. In those groups, large families are common—often seven, eight, or more children—encouraged by religious traditions, which contributes to demographic expansion within that community.

These Haredi Jewish communities largely trace their origins to Eastern Europe. Before the war, Jewish populations were widespread across places such as Lithuania and Poland, where entire communities were destroyed during the Holocaust. That catastrophe, which we saw and experienced first-hand when visiting Auschwitz-Birkenau in Poland last year, gave a very direct and visceral sense of what had been lost.

In the aftermath, survivors and their descendants rebuilt their lives in places like London. That history has shaped how identity is preserved. It is often the case that communities which have experienced deep historical rupture place greater emphasis on continuity—through family life, tradition, education, and visible cultural identity.

The Haredi communities in particular are distinctive in appearance—the long coats, fur hats on special occasions, black Homburg hats, and the white garments with fringes that reflect religious obligations. The clothing itself reflects high-class fashions prevalent among Eastern European Jewish people in the nineteenth century. They are not a single uniform group, but a collection of related sects, each with its own leadership and tradition, many rooted in Eastern European Jewish history.

The fact is that what has happened has created, among many Jewish people, a greater sense of fear. And, of course, many are now—according to what I hear and read—thinking of moving out of London to other parts of the UK, and in some cases even to the continent itself, where they feel safer.

And yet, despite all of this complexity, what remains striking about London is that these communities—Jewish, Muslim, and others—generally live alongside one another without constant friction. The reality is one of coexistence, often parallel rather than fully integrated, but still largely stable in everyday life.

At the same time, events of violence or tension inevitably create emotional and political strain. In this case, the incident quickly became a major news story, and public reactions followed, including demonstrations and counter-presence in the area. This included a quite large gathering—not a small one—with visible signs and chanting.

There is also a wider context in which perceptions are shaped by global events, including developments in the Middle East, which can influence how communities are viewed, or how they feel they are viewed. Within the Jewish community itself, there is also significant diversity of opinion, including strongly religious Haredi groups that are explicitly non-Zionist or anti-Zionist in their theological outlook, alongside other Jewish populations who may feel differently.

All of this creates a very complex picture. But alongside that complexity, there is also something very ordinary and important: Jewish people in London living normal lives, working, contributing to cultural life—particularly in areas such as music, museums, education, and public life. Among my Jewish friends dating back years, children of refugees who escaped the Holocaust miraculously, are those who have become mayors of London boroughs, heads of museums, well+known musicians and generous patrons and directors of the arts.

That leads to a broader reflection on how London holds itself together. Because for all its tensions, it remains a city where different communities largely share the same space, negotiate daily life side by side, and continue to function within a shared civic framework.

And that, ultimately, is what stands out: not a city defined by a single identity, but one that remains layered, complex, and—despite everything—still held together in everyday coexistence.