We have become pawns in a battle that never seems to end
As news of the attack rolled in, I felt connected to the parents inside the Manchester arena
One memorable night in 1997, along with hordes of others, I took my two children, aged 10 and 12, to a No Doubt concert at Maple Leaf Gardens. The peak moment came when lead singer Gwen Stefani, powerkicking her way across the stage, sang her anthem to girl power, with its major kickass moment: “Now I want all you sweet sexy girls to sing after me, “F--- you, I’m a girl.”
To my alarmed amusement, my daughter stood on her seat, singing deliriously, while my son was rocking out so much during the whole concert that I lightly held on to the bottom of his sweat soaked T-shirt, afraid he was going to tumble down the aisle stairs. Finally we filed out, most kids as spiritually spent, I later wrote, as if they had been at a religious revival.
Sure there was swearing and mild sensuality — it was a rock concert — but there was also unbelievable exuberance, soaring voices and a collective sense of joy. My kids went to bed happy, enveloped, or at least the youngest was, by stuffed animals and dreams of what was up to then, one of “the best nights” ever in their sweet, safe lives. That was 20 years ago: before 9/11, before Facebook, before our awareness of increased threat levels, jihadists, homegrown terrorists, and before most parents understood that they — or infinitely worse, their children — could become, in a terrible instant, “soft targets” for terrorism.
I thought of our benign concert moment when news of the Manchester suicide bombing hit, and with dread began to absorb news reports of another empowering concert — pink balloons, a bubble gum spirit and sly sensuality — of pop singer Ariana Grande and its deadly aftermath when at the end of the concert, the bomber blew himself up at the exit of one of the U.K.’s largest venues.
As news rolled in of the dead — 22 — and the wounded — 59 — the panic and speculation, the looping videos capturing the mayhem, and the rising fear, the just starting wails of worry and grief, I felt an instant connection with the parents who were in the arena that night with their kids or standing outside confidently expecting them to materialize. Or waiting in vain at home.
Parents go a long way these days to give their kids these heady cultural experiences.
And as the New York Times pointed out, at least seven parents died, including a Polish couple Angelika and Marcin Klis, living in York, who had driven their two daughters to the concert and were killed when they went there to pick them up afterward. The girls were safe, the Polish foreign minister told the Times; and two women friends, identified by the Manchester Evening News as Alison Howe and Lisa Lees, who had come to collect their 15-year-old girls. Again, the daughters were safe, but their mothers lost forever.
The youngest victim was Saffie Rose Roussos, 8, her face splashed across screens and British newspapers with headlines like “Now they kill our little girls,” and “The slaughter of Ariana innocents.”
While the very reasonable point was made that because Ariana Grande’s fan base is mainly young girls and women, they — and all that her pop feminism stood for — had been a target, I grew a little uncomfortable with the “pinking” up of the tragedy, knowing there were dads and boys and men in there too, all out for a good time, or all in for helping their children have one. Let’s not forget anyone.
The diverse city of Manchester so far has been magnificent in spirit, in expressions of kindness and vows of unity in the immediate aftermath of this attack.
But grief takes a while to settle in the system and anger burns slowly.
This didn’t have to happen. Subsequent multiple arrests and the rolling up of jihadi networks doesn’t bring back one of these kids, parents or loved ones.
Of course, children and parents the world over have been dealing with the deadly effects of war and terrorism for a long time. No pink balloons there. Think of a boatload of migrant children drowning as their parents try to get them to a better life, of schoolgirls kidnapped, boys turned into warped soldiers and girls raped, maimed and denied their rights.
None of this is new: major gatherings of people out to enjoy themselves — whether at a pop concert in Manchester, a promenade in Nice, or a Brussels airport — are catnip to terrorists, a deadly efficient way of making their hideously useless point.
Ever since I saw Come From Away, the much lauded Canadian musical now on Broadway about the heartwarming response of the residents of Gander, Newfoundland, to thousands of pas- sengers stranded there in the wake of the 9/11 bombings, a line spoken onstage by the “mayor” has reverberated in my head: “Tonight we honour what was lost but we also commemorate what was found.”
Surveying the last two decades I’m well aware of all we’ve lost. Many people who were directly in the line of fire insist that what we’ve found is a growing tolerance and unity and strength in the face of extremism and terrorism.
But each event diminishes us too, makes us understand we’re become pawns in a battle that never ends.
Despite expressions of determination and of unity, of major world monuments lighting up or going dark to show solidarity, of police forces working hard to try to stay a step ahead of these monstrous acts against humanity, I’m just not sure anymore we’ve “found” anything that in any way equals the value of what we’ve lost. Judith Timson writes weekly about cultural, social and political issues. You can reach her at judith.timson@sympatico.ca and follow her on Twitter @judithtimson.