Candles in the Darkness

Last night I joined a vigil for Gaza outside the BBC on Oxford Road in Manchester. Feelings of helplessness often overtake me in the face of such injustice and misuse of power. But holding a candle in the cold and dark last night, with around a hundred other people who shared by feelings of outrage, sadness and disgust, and hoped for an end to the killing and a peaceful future felt powerful.



Other people I knew had turned up, including a friend of Nick's who I had never met before. He is Gazan, studying for an MD in Manchester. His parents had come to visit him recently and were still with him, but the rest of his family remained in Gaza. I struggled to imagine what that must feel like. He had had some contact with them, and everyone was okay so far. Then he introduced us to his friend, M. M had a pale and sad face, that seemed somehow familiar. I wondered if I had met him before. A told us that one of M's family members had been killed today in the raids. I was speechless. I didn't know what to say. M said that he had just spoken with his family on the phone a few minutes ago, he said the bombs were falling now. All four of us were silent. The reality of this was speaking to us in the silence. Our candles kept being blown out by the passing buses, but we always found someone else's candle to re-light from. I thought about just how similar to campaigning and fighting for justice holding a lit candle on the street in wintertime is.