Imagine you wake up one morning only to find that someone has planted a bomb where you or your friends live. In the very street, train or station you go through everyday. In your very life.
Imagine the terror that pervades you as you discover that there have been many victims, and that somebody you care about or even just barely know might be among them.
It's something that will never happen to you, isn't it? It feels so impossible, so distant...
Until, well, it does happen.
September 11, 2001: that's when it began.
Three hijacked planes crash into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. A fourth plane crashes somewhere in Pennsylvania. 2,974 people die.
I am in the school building with RC trying to configure my laptop's network connection. RC's phone rings, he cheerfully answers. Immediately, his face goes pale. He can't even speak properly and, when he shuts the call down, he babbles something about a "third world war" and "Chinese planes attacking the Pentagon" (don't laugh, remember how chaotic things were - nobody had a clue about what was going on, hence the crazy theories).
I grab my laptop and we run to the bar where we all usually gathered to see if we could get an idea of what was going on. After all, they had a television.
The bar is as crowded as in a Saturday night, but everyone is silent. As the images of the burning Twin Towers run on the screen, my attention is caught by someone outside the window. It's A's. She is from NY. And she is the only one screaming, and crying.
I go out and I notice that she is been comforted by an English teacher, HT. As I approach her, O stops me and explains what happened: her sister works in a building right next to one of the towers. She can't get in touch with her.
I stare at her. I had never seen someone so terrified. The image of her strikes me as never before. I'll never forget it.
A couple of days later, A got news from her sister. She is alive. A broken leg, nothing serious. Could have been worse, no?
March 11, 2004: first-hand terror.
Ten explosions on four trains in Madrid kill 191 people during rush hour.
I am in my room, working on an economics paper. I am trying to make my work looks pleasant to the eye, making little stupid adjustments on the layout when I decide to take a break and check the news.
When I see what happened I feel cold. Do I know someone in Madrid? Someone who may have been there? Oh, fuck. Yes, I bloody do. H is studying there.
I feel pure terror running through my veins. I haven't been very much in touch with H lately, but he is one hell of a nice guy and one of my best friends.
I grab the address book and compose his Spanish mobile phone number. No answer.
I have no idea how to get in touch with him, but i must know he is safe. So I call his home number, in Valencia. He won't be there, but maybe they'll know whether he is safe or not.
His mother answers. In a pathetic mix of Italian, English and totally amateurish Spanish I manage to identify myself and ask if H is fine. And he is. "H...bien. No worry. Tranquilo".
July 7, 2005: it gets personal.
Three bombs explode on three London underground trains. A fourth one explodes on a bus. The death toll is 56. 700 other people are injured.
It's summer, so I am back home in Italy. It's late morning and I am still dozing in bed when my mother storms into my room. By the look on her face and the "Wake up now and come watch the television" she yells at me I can tell something is not right.
I rush into the kitchen and the first thing I see on the television is a very familiar map: the London tube. I immediately understand what is going on. I get closer to the television and I see the location of the blasts. I freeze.
King's Cross. Russel Square. Liverpool Street. Tavistock Square. They fucking hit my neighborood. The place where I have been living for two bloody years.
Now, you probably don't realize how serious I am when I say that they hit my neighborhood. How personal it felt.
First of all, look at this map showing the locations of the blasts. The green pin is my house. The blue ones are the locations of the bombings. Now quickly calculate the distance between my house and the attacks, and think in London terms.
Satisfied? No? Good, because it gets much more personal than that. They didn't just hit geographically near my house. They hit some of the places that meant the most to me. Quick explanation following.
- Tavistock Square: I used to spend my Saturday nights in a uni residence (Connaught Hall, home of the Hawk, for the record) in Tavistock Square. I got drunk there, kissed there, had fun, made friends. I knew the goddamned square palm by palm. I could describe it centimeter by centimeter. It was the place I used to go to chill out. If I had to pick a bloody suqare in London, that would be it. Not only: they bombed one of the buses I used to take to go home from there. Bus route 30 was one of my routes.
- King's Cross/Russel Square: when I didn't take the bus they happily bombed to go to Tavistock Square, guess what I took? Yes: I took the Piccadilly line train. I'd jump onboard in King's Cross and get off in Russel Square. I used to take that very train and travel on it between those very two stations.
- Liverpool Street: Liverpool Street holds a special place in my heart. It was the first glimpse of London I had seen when I first arrived in the city. The station where I would arrive when coming back from Italy, and the one from which I'd depart from London. Lots of memories tied to it.
People start getting back to me. "I am fine, the bank is taking good care of us" says my flatmate. One by one, everyone answers. Everyone is fine.
If you ever wondered how it would feel to be in situations such as the ones I described above, don't try imagining. You would never manage and, trust me, you are better off not knowing.
For those of you who went through this shit, I know it hurts to the point of not wanting to admit it.
The next time something will happen (because it will happen again, sooner or later) I just want you to know this: you may feel alone, but make no mistake - you are not the only one desperately trying to make that goddamned international call.
