Opening my laptop on Monday morning, I read the news on CNN, "Russian Authorities: Terrorist Bombing at Moscow Airport Kills 35." I hurriedly dial my husband, Drew's, mobile number in Moscow, hear his voice and breathe. Not that he had any reason to be at Domodedovo that afternoon, but my imagination didn't know that and proceeded to conjure up all kinds of possible scenarios.
"What about AAS families, staff, employees?" I ask.
"All accounted for, so far," the relief evident in his voice.
We had this same conversation 10 months ago. I was in Arkansas. He was in Russia. Two women blew themselves up along with 41 others at Lubyanka and Park Kultury metro stations.
As a writer, someone who searches for words, just the right words to express thoughts and feelings, I find my storehouse of words empty as I contemplate yet another terrorist attack. How many more times must the word, "Why?" pass our lips as we shake our heads at the pictures of dead bodies? How many more times must we repeat the worn-out words tragic, senseless, outrageous, horrific, desperate to voice our outrage?
The impact of the bombing doesn't fully touch me until I read stories of the victims.
- Ukrainian dramatist and poet, Anna Yablonskaya, age 29, arriving in Moscow to receive a prize for her play, "Pagans"; wife and mother of a 3-year-old-daughter.
- 39-year-old Gordon Cousland, property consultant from Britain, scheduled to marry this spring; father of a six-month-old daughter
-Kirill Bodrashov, 38, businessman based in London; his girlfriend, Elvira Muratova, seriously injured; father of their 1-year-old son.
Three of thirty-five, each with his or her own story, a life now randomly ended.
In my blog posting following the metro bombings last March, I wrote of riding the metro, often changing trains at Park Kultury, joining strangers as we journeyed. I wondered about the bombers, wondered about the humanity of one person to another, wondered about the violence against innocents. I repeat the final two paragraphs here, unable to dredge up more fitting words from my empty storehouse. I do, however, add one word to the ending.
"We become a community for minutes only, a chance collection of people, inhabiting a common space. The women bombers stepped into such a gathering of travelers and detonated their explosives, not knowing any of their victims. As I hopelessly try to understand this senseless violence, I can’t help but wonder whether the bombers, even briefly, glanced at the person sitting or standing beside them. Did they notice the face of the baby, the grandmother, the man by the door who might have reminded them of someone at home?
For the sake of a hopeful world, I like to think that the humanity of one person connecting with the humanity in another, would spark something, at least a momentary hesitation or questioning. The results of their deadly actions, however, perpetuate the harsh reality that history has taught us. . . it’s easier to kill strangers, whom we hate unseen, unknown."
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