I read about it this morning—it's shocking, very, very sad, and so wrong! We try to make sense of evil, but we don't need to look far at all, not to other planets, not to some supernatural powers, not to some religious preachings. It's cold-blooded immorality, that's what it is. There is money at the bottom of it, which makes it very rational for me and too horrible. That poor girl and her family.
I'm sorry that you're feeling this fear today. It's the purpose of terror—to fill you in and keep you locked, restricted. I think I've mentioned that I still lived on London when the bombings happened. My train was a stop away from one of the targeted spots. I was on my way to work as usual when all of a sudden everything went dark. There was no message on the speakers, nothing for a while. I didn't think that much of it at first, because such breaks used to happen (some lines are very old), but as the pause grew to over fifteen-twenty second, and then stretched into a minute, I just knew something was wrong. Then the train driver appologized for the delay, after another few minutes the lights came on and we moved on...for me to arrive at my station fifteen minutes later to a number of scared messages and voicemails on my mobile from people checking on me. (No coverage underground.)
I couldn't even go back home that day; London was paralyzed. I stayed at a friend's house and that was a pretty grim dinner we had. On the next morning I got to the nearest Underground station. It was so, so eerie and quiet—and London quiet during a weekday is a scary place. I remember looking at the open carriage, waiting for the passengers. It was the first stop of the Jubilee Line, for which I had fondness because it took me to my college on Baker Street, to Regents Park, and to the heart of London. (A year later it was to become the line that took me to the place I think of home when I think of London and it remained my 'home' line until I left the country a few years later.) Because it was the first stop, the train just stood there, empty and silent, doors open. I thought it looked like home to me. I thought I had to get on that train, no matter how shaken I still was. It was like, "This is my life. This is MY train. This is OUR life here and these are OUR trains and this is London so fuck off you stupid, horrible people." I'll never forget how I stepped in and sat down, then welled up immediately. And God, the quiet. I think there was only one more person in my carriage.
Sorry for the long post! I just wanted to say that you have my sympathy and understanding about that feeling of fear. It lingered in London for years to come.:/
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I'm sorry that you're feeling this fear today. It's the purpose of terror—to fill you in and keep you locked, restricted. I think I've mentioned that I still lived on London when the bombings happened. My train was a stop away from one of the targeted spots. I was on my way to work as usual when all of a sudden everything went dark. There was no message on the speakers, nothing for a while. I didn't think that much of it at first, because such breaks used to happen (some lines are very old), but as the pause grew to over fifteen-twenty second, and then stretched into a minute, I just knew something was wrong. Then the train driver appologized for the delay, after another few minutes the lights came on and we moved on...for me to arrive at my station fifteen minutes later to a number of scared messages and voicemails on my mobile from people checking on me. (No coverage underground.)
I couldn't even go back home that day; London was paralyzed. I stayed at a friend's house and that was a pretty grim dinner we had. On the next morning I got to the nearest Underground station. It was so, so eerie and quiet—and London quiet during a weekday is a scary place. I remember looking at the open carriage, waiting for the passengers. It was the first stop of the Jubilee Line, for which I had fondness because it took me to my college on Baker Street, to Regents Park, and to the heart of London. (A year later it was to become the line that took me to the place I think of home when I think of London and it remained my 'home' line until I left the country a few years later.) Because it was the first stop, the train just stood there, empty and silent, doors open. I thought it looked like home to me. I thought I had to get on that train, no matter how shaken I still was. It was like, "This is my life. This is MY train. This is OUR life here and these are OUR trains and this is London so fuck off you stupid, horrible people." I'll never forget how I stepped in and sat down, then welled up immediately. And God, the quiet. I think there was only one more person in my carriage.
Sorry for the long post! I just wanted to say that you have my sympathy and understanding about that feeling of fear. It lingered in London for years to come.:/