We are no strangers to violence in the United States. Each week brings news of another domestic shooting, another life or two (or ten) taken away. When news hits of the most recent terrorist attack abroad, we make what we consider a reasonable effort. We skim the news article, share it on Facebook with a blurb about our “thoughts and prayers,” our disbelief, a sad emoji or any combination thereof. Are we expected to collapse every time tragedy whizzes by on our news feed? We are not emotionally capable of doing so. At least, I am not. We carry on, scroll past, numb to the pain, shock and horror that no longer has any meaning for us. We remove ourselves from the complex, devastating or uncomfortable. That is, until one of us is dragged under the icy water that is the threat of losing a loved one.
I had just returned home from work and I stopped on my way to my room, distracted by the TV, which, thanks to my stepfather, plays an endless loop of CNN. My eyes lighted on the work “attack” before I looked down at my phone. In my peripheral vision I saw the commotion displayed by the news cameras—a dark street, cars, figures darting around urgently. I disinterestedly skimmed a few Facebook statuses before I reached my best friend’s most recent post. I was eager to read it. An Italian university student, she was spending a few weeks in France for a language immersion program in the hopes of going on Erasmus in France next fall. She wrote in English:
“A camion just ran over people on the promenade in Nice.. not sure if it was a terrorist attack yet, but could be. I’M FINE anyway, i’m at home and i’m gonna stay here . My heart goes out to all the victims and people hurt”
I read it maybe ten times. I blinked rapidly, as if I could blink clarity into this moment of confusion. I spent a minute digesting this information. I had known she was in Nice, but I had not yet connected this news with what was flashing on the screen two feet away from where I stood. I pictured the scene. A truck ran off the road and hit a couple of people, I was certain. Forgetting about the time difference, I imagined this scene in daylight, which somehow gave the whole situation less of an appearance of danger in my mind. I opened my mouth to tell my mother what had happened and as my eyes passed over the television, I understood for the first time the gravity of the situation. “Nice,” it read. I stared at the video feed. The first thing I noticed was that it was nighttime. Of course it was.
My ignorance of the situation fell away in stages and, at this point, I still believed that Giulia had learned of this attack on the news like myself. I sent her a message immediately. She was scared, but unharmed (of course she was, I thought, she had not been there) and was waiting at her apartment until it was safe to leave. When she began to explain what had happened, I could only stare horrified at the brief messages appearing rapidly, one after the other. She had been on the promenade. She crossed the street just before the driver began shooting into the crowd, just before he intentionally drove off the road and through the crowd for over a mile.
She was lucky to be alive.
My evening was a sopping mess of tears and texts and CNN. She was physically well, but I could only imagine her state of mind, especially because she related little detail to me in the way of her emotions at the time. As the night went on and I, assured of my dear friend’s safety, began to calm down, I thought of those who did not cross the street that night. I thought of their loved ones who, unlike me, did not hear of the tragedy from one who had already reached safety. Why was I crying? I did not have to run for my life and hide in my apartment, hundreds of miles from home, until I was sure it was safe to leave. I did not have to wake up in my city in the aftermath of a brutal massacre that took more than 80 innocent lives. I thought about how I immediately internalized this event in a way that made me feel like a victim. Isn't that the epitome of American privilege? We're rather deft in making everything about us. We also have a knack for separating ourselves from the rest of the world. Every time I scrolled dismissively or let my detached sympathy fade after a day had passed, every one of those times that I kept fear and horror at a distance, someone else's best friend did not have that choice. I do not write this to incite shame. We are humans. We feel deeply. We also avoid feeling, if at all possible.
Giulia wrote about her experience more eloquently than I ever could. Unfortunately for non-Italian speakers, my translation would not do it justice. I happily report that she remained in Nice for the duration of her program and has now returned to Italy, safe and sound. I will never forget the day I was forced to imagine a world without a Giulia and I will always remember those who were forced to imagine such a world, then forced to live in it.
