HOME IS WHERE THE HEART HURTS

GulfWeekly reporter Kristian Harrison travelled back to the North West of England for a family visit just days before the Manchester bombing and sent us this report …

Too close to home. That’s the pervading feeling that has struck me this week after the devastating attack in Manchester that left 22 innocent lives destroyed and many more injured.

In some ways, it’s a thought that leaves me with a sense of guilt. Why should I care more about this attack than others? Why should I sit glued to the news for days and feeling myself short of breath and welling up when I didn’t react so strongly on other occasions?

After all, the attacks in Paris, Berlin, Boston, Istanbul, Brussels, amongst others, were as equally devastating in terms of lives lost, if not more so.

On those occasions, I remember feeling sad and watching the news avidly. I recall the hundreds of Facebook tributes, the preaching of peace from the masses, the general feeling of sorrow and shock … but never to a degree where it touched my soul.

They were in countries far away. Places I’d never been to. A culture I wasn’t ingrained in.

Manchester isn’t my hometown, but it’s the nearest major city to it. Whenever I fly back from Bahrain to visit my family and friends, it’s the airport I touch down in. Coming in to land, seeing those famous grey skies, the soggy fields and farmland around the terminals and finally the slick, shiny runway perennially peppered with precipitation gives me a feeling of warmness that I can’t describe.

The feeling of being home.

I’ve followed Manchester United fanatically since before I could kick a ball myself.

I’ve been to Old Trafford (both of them) to watch football and cricket matches more times than I can count. I’ve stayed at friends’ houses who went to university in the city, many of whom are still there, and sampled the various restaurants and nightlife establishments.

And I was 14-years-old when I went to my first concert at the Manchester Arena. Back then it was known as the MEN Arena, due to a sponsorship deal with the Manchester Evening News newspaper, a name which still sticks with me and most locals to this day.

I remember the feeling of being giddy as I boarded the train at Southport station with my cousin, John. We were off to see Iron Maiden, one of our favourite bands. On the journey we sang our favourite songs and wondered how it would feel seeing them, and if the atmosphere would match the concerts we’d seen on their videos and DVDs (YouTube was in its infancy back then).

When we arrived at Manchester Victoria station and climbed the steps to the arena entrance, I was skipping with excitement by that point. Our tickets were scanned, we ran to the merchandise stall to buy a T-shirt with Maiden’s logo and mascot emblazoned on the front, grabbed a quick drink and made our way down the long flight of stairs past the patrons in their seats down to the entrance to the standing area.

There, we fought through the sweaty masses of people, using our smaller, lithe frames to slip under elbows and skirt round shoulders until we were a handful of rows from the front. What followed was a memory I’ll cherish forever and one of the best couple of hours of my life.

More than 11 years later, 22,000 people were in the same situation on May 22, 2017. Ariana Grande might be on the opposite end of the musical spectrum from Iron Maiden, with far fewer excessively-hairy men, offensive tattoos and faded denim jackets with logos sharper than razors in attendance, but the concept is the same.

Children not even a decade old seeing their favourite artist just like I’d done, buying mementos from the same stalls, walking down the same steps, screaming and singing along in the same spot I’d stood.

Too close to home.

No one should go out to see a musician they love and not come home.

No parent should have to live with the thought of loosening the leash and allowing their children to go to concerts on their own, all part of growing up, and not be allowed to safely tuck them into bed that night.

No adults who were waiting in the foyer to see their loved youngsters emerge out of the giant double doors with a beaming smile, fuelled by adrenaline and ready to recount the entire experience word-for-word on the drive home, should not have the comfort of returning safely.

Salman Abedi, pictured below in a CCTV image, denied 22 people that opportunity when he blew himself up with a shrapnel bomb in the foyer just after 10.30pm that night. More than 60 remain injured, some critically so, in hospitals around Greater Manchester.

I first heard the news on Monday night when a friend sent a message over Whatsapp saying there were reports of an explosion at the arena.

What I was doing at the time is an ironic twist of fate that would seem far-fetched at any other time but this. I was transferring pictures from an Iron Maiden concert from my phone to my laptop, having seen them for the sixth time on the Saturday night before the attack.

Lots has happened in the past 11 years. I may be a few inches taller, have a few more hairs on the chin and be a little more world-weary, but my love for live music and the feeling of losing myself in a crowd of people and atmosphere remains the same.

Since that first concert in December 2006, I’ve been to hundreds in arenas great and small, but none more so than the Manchester Arena. It remains my venue of choice and where I have my greatest memories.

So, as I flicked on the TV news on Monday night, and stayed glued to my seat late into the night waiting for details to emerge, I felt absolutely devastated. This wasn’t a place I’d seen on television or read about in a newspaper. I’d been there. Days before, even. I’d LIVED the same experience those children, teenagers and adults had when Grande was performing and putting on a show.

Then those happy memories were ripped from them in the cruellest way possible.

Even those who were unscathed and managed to emerge to safety … how can they possibly ever go to a concert again and fully enjoy themselves?

Those scars will never heal.

Even if they have the courage and bravery to go to a concert again in the near future, throughout it they will cast nervous glances over their shoulder.

Exiting the arena after the show, packed in the stampede where they’d usually be texting their friends, uploading pictures to Facebook or excitedly offering their review of proceedings, will instead be replaced with ice cold fear and the sole wish to get out as quickly as possible and safely to their cars or trains.

I will undoubtedly attend more gigs in the future at Manchester. I don’t even know how I’ll feel when I’m on my way out afterwards. It’s easy to think security will be beefed up and it won’t happen again in the same place, but I’m sure none of the 22,000 there the other night had even the tiniest belief this would happen either.

Music is a platform for love and to bring people together under one roof regardless of race, colour, creed and orientation. Not to sow fear, create divides and destroy the values we hold dear. Arenas are places for enjoyment and memories, not trepidation, fear and anxiety.

I pray those who were in attendance, especially those who were at their first gig, manage to overcome this horrible experience and show evil people that they won’t win, that they won’t intimidate us, and that we will carry on with our normal lives without the yoke of terror bringing us down.

The response has been swift. The police operation has been well-documented and various arrests have taken place as the forces close in on the network that led to this attack and the reasons behind it.

British Prime Minister Theresa May raising the nation’s threat level from ‘Severe’ to ‘Critical’ was felt on the streets. I walked into Southport town centre in the days after the attack and saw armed police wandering around, smiling at the locals and reassuring them with a machine gun in their hand.

That was a bizarre sight indeed in this quaint seaside town with an abnormally high average age demographic. Indeed, the only crime usually likely to raise the town’s police force from their slumber is grand theft auto of a mobility scooter.

Tuesday night was particularly poignant as a friend of mine, who runs our local newspaper, the Southport Champion, used his online presence and social media to organise a vigil for the deceased outside our town hall. I attended, as did a crowd of around 200, as candles were lit and left on the stairs, and balloons were released.

At the time, the identity of only a handful of victims were known. However, these hit hard as 18-year-old Georgina Callendar and eight-year-old Saffie Roussos were from Tarleton, a small village just up the road. A close friend of mine lives two doors down from the Callendars, and another friend of mine’s mum was very close to Saffie’s mum.

Both are obviously absolutely devastated, and even writing this, I’m reminded again how real this feels as people I know are affected.

This isn’t just a tragic story you read about or see, you can feel the sorrow around you, live the sombre mood around the entire North-West, and feel the community pull together in defiance.

Emotions run high at times like this, and conclusions are jumped to far too rapidly. I’ve had to bite my tongue numerous times having seen anti-Islamic sentiment on social media and even in person, from ignorant people labelling an entire religion based on the fanaticisms of the few who disgracefully use its name.

Living in Bahrain, I see the wonderful side of the culture and the people every day, and pray that in time others realise this is the norm. Hopefully, they will remember that Muslim taxi drivers were offering free lifts home for those stranded in Manchester after the attack, Muslim doctors and paramedics were treating the wounded at the scene and in the hospitals, and members of local mosques turned out at the vigils to distribute free drinks and snacks.

This is far from the first terrorist attack to happen, and I’m afraid to say it won’t be the last. However, it’s the first of its kind so close to home, and it reinforces that we must do our upmost to preserve our strong values of peace, courage and determination and not allow us to be subjugated by evil and terror.

The 22 may have been cruelly robbed of their lives, but their spirit and memory will ‘live forever’ in this small section of the world.