A night full of silent sobs FIRST PERSON

A RABBI’S life is never predictable. Events can turn what seems to be a normal day into something that lives in your memory for a long time.

The phone rang at 12.30am on Tuesday. It was Peter Gomm, the main chaplain at the Central Manchester University Hospitals. He said: “Amir, the police have declared a major incident. There has been a large explosion with many casualties. Get down to the hospital if you can, we need you.”

Only then did I see the reports coming up on my phone about what had happened at Manchester Arena. I told my half-awake wife, Tova: “I will see you when I see you.”

I took my tehillim and prayer book and drove quickly to the Manchester Royal Infirmary. On the way I listened to radio reports and realised the enormity of what we were dealing with.

In my 18 years of being a hospital chaplain we have trained for major incidents, but never actually dealt with one until now.

I went in to see Peter, Siddiq the imam and Laurence, the Christian chaplain. We were told to go in to adults’ outpatients where the families of the victims were being brought in. As we arrived, another of our colleagues, Sarah, was sitting with the victims and updating us.

We stood by the families offering them support and help.

There wasn’t much you could say to the people who just found out that their son or daughter had been killed. Just give them a hand, tissues, a drink of tea or water and hear them speak.

The atmosphere in the room was tense, full of shock and numbness. There weren’t any angry shouts, just silent sobs and stunned expressions.

We had families who drove over from Newcastle, Middlesbrough, Grimsby, Liverpool — from all over the country to find their kids.

We saw the tears of relief from those being reunited with their children. We heard accounts of people at the scene who stemmed blood from the neck of victims hit by shrapnel from the bomb.

We went into the treatment area. The place was organised chaos — every-