Remember, Remember the 5th of November…
Like many of you reading this, I sat glued to the screen yesterday. Westminster was under attack. When I turned on the television my initial thought was my son. I calmly dialed his father’s number and when he didn’t respond to the call, anxiety dug its nails in a little harder. I dialed my boy’s number and thankfully he picked up, sleepy even though it was the afternoon. My son works with his father, a Westminster licensed ice-cream seller. Thankful to the weather and the season not having fully started yet…
Relief flooded through me like there was no tomorrow.
For some, this senseless act of terrorism has taken away their tomorrows.
For those that surrounded their lives, tomorrow will never be the same again.
As I sit tapping, the gloom in the air of London blows all around. Currently I’m house/cat sitting, in Hainaut, Outer London – for my mum, who is in America with her siblings, this will probably be the last time that all five of them are together. Thanks to media I was able to reassure her, all was ok
The truth is, all is not ok.
Watching ‘This Morning’ my heart went out to those the media had selected to share their story. I cried for the American lady who was on her way to pray in Westminster Cathedral. For the man who insisted he is not a hero after he had given the CPR to the Police Officer, one of four who lost his life to a terrorist. I listened to his only lifeline as he described the injuries, how he dealt with the dying man, following everything by protocol and that not being enough. The unassuming man, believing anyone else would have done the same.
My thoughts catapulted back to almost 25 years ago. Sixteen days to go to be exact, when I found myself in the same position, caught up in the destruction of the Baltic Exchange Bombing. The feeling of what to do.
The scene like something out of a movie, only you’re there living the worst nightmare imaginable.
Cries for help!
The sound of Sirens coming from every direction.
People running like headless chickens.
My darkest memory, a young man running towards me, whilst I stood rooted to the spot, 5 months pregnant in Middlesex Street. My initial thought was my baby and as I looked up from my small bump, this frantic man was the first thing I saw. Blood was streaming down his face like prison bars. His screams for help were piercing above all of the commotion surrounding us. He kept on running, running, screaming straight past me, he could not stop.
Blinded by his own blood, he just couldn’t stop running.
There is no fight against terrorism.
It is not a war.
How can random attacks on innocent people be fought against?
When nobody seems to know what the fighting is about.