I will be looking at many photos of Boston today. I know many of my journo friends will do the same as we try to apply our usual workday logic to something without logic.
In Sydney we awoke to learn of another terrorist carnage on US soil and we all thought of 9/11.
What makes someone else wake up, roll out of bed and think: On today’s agenda, I’m going to bomb innocent people celebrating as they complete a marathon, kill some of those clapping and cheering and so swiftly ruin many lives, too many to ever get a total number on.
So it’s a renewed panic and obsession with safety as we absorb why a happy and proud marathon crowd had to be punctured with such brutality.
I moved to NYC with my family four years after the attacks on the WTC and Pentagon but you could still taste it in the air – the fear, the suspicion.
We’d flown out of the UK and two days later, London was embroiled in the suicide bombs of 7/7 so terrorism was now a factor in everyday life.
Sure the locals in our neighbourhood of Tribeca were warm and accommodating to our London/Aussie ways but they were still hurting. I expected nothing less. We felt honoured to be living there. We also visited Boston, seduced by its old school asthetic, pride and charm.
“Thanks for moving into this part of New York”, they’d say back in Manhattan, slap on the back and big smiles forthcoming. As if we’d choose to live anywhere else.
The bartender across the street from us pulled open a box and showed me a picture of the engine from one of the doomed WTC planes. It was on the sidewalk. “Look that’s here”, he said, pointing to the path where it lay next to our building.
On some levels, this is what Bostonians will now face, piecing together their neighbourhood, measuring it against the effect of 4/15. They cannot receive too much love and support right now from all of us.