I was in Rome when Paris happened… I wasn’t supposed to be in Rome. I was supposed to be in Paris. I decided a week or two earlier to go to a major national event with our study abroad student organization, Erasmus Student Network, in Rome instead. I’ll never forget that night in November, just as I have never forgotten that morning in September 2001. It was a unique experience, being on the same continent as two of the biggest modern terrorist attacks of our generation. The immediate reactions were striking and vastly different. Here’s my story…
It was my first time visiting the Eternal City; a dream of mine since I was a little kid. I was always a fan of the ancient Romans and their culture, the might of their empire, the breadth of their reach and its influence that can still be felt even today. So to walk through the city built by one of the greatest empires of all time? I was ecstatic.
I was traveling with ESN (European Student Network), also known as Erasmus (an organization I recommend ANYONE studying in Europe to get involved with). Our section was a large group, maybe 50 or more people, and a very diverse one. That particular weekend was the fall semester national event (Evento Nazionale) for all the ESN sections in Italy, meaning 3,000 of us had descended on this city to meet each other and party together.
The attacks occurred during our first evening in Rome. We had been traveling on a bus most of the day and when we arrived in the mid-afternoon, we immediately took a tour of the city. We had just settled into the hostel for the night when I received the first headline on my phone shortly after 10 p.m. I knew it was serious the instant I read it. I also knew that one of my very best friends on this trip, a fellow I lived with during my entire year in Milan, was from Paris. I knew his phone wasn’t working and he probably did not know what was going on yet. Then again, neither did I.
Was it really my place to tell him this?
Perhaps it was nothing at all or just the media playing on people’s fears to make a big story. By the time I had received 12 notifications within 15 minutes, however, I knew it wasn’t a joke and quietly pulled my friend aside. I tried not to overplay it, just simply showing him the headlines I had received and told him I wasn’t sure what was going on, but he might want to call his friends and family. He thanked me and did make a few calls before confirming what I was reading on the news. I opted not to tell any of my other friends what was going on. I did not want to sour the tone of the evening. Little did I know just how sour it would become…
For several hours, I forgot about what was unfolding in the City of Lights as we partied, entranced by the people and vibe of the Eternal City. It wasn’t until 1 a.m. that I even thought to check my phone. A quick scroll revealed I had over 50 notifications…by the morning it would be over 100. After a quick walk through of the club, I decided it was too crowded for my liking, so I opted to hang outside where a bunch of tables and chairs were set up. Many of my friends walked past and, eventually, a group of my French friends walked up. Among this group was a particularly distraught Parisian. He asked if I had heard about the events in Paris. I told him I had, but I knew nothing beyond the headlines and speculation. He plopped down in the chair next to me and did not leave it for the remainder of the night, and neither did I.
Some of our friends hung around, but eventually everyone either went inside or went off to do their own thing, only to be replaced by people who were filtering out of the club. Some of them had not heard the news, some of them had, but were either putting on a brave face or simply putting it out of their minds until the sun came up. But as the headlines kept coming in and the death toll kept climbing, my friend maintained his sadness and grief. I felt for him. I truly did. I was maybe seven or eight years old when 9/11 happened, but I remember it and its aftermath quite vividly, as I am sure so many do. I did my best to comfort and console him as we sat there until our bus arrived at four-thirty that morning.
As we boarded the bus, I sat with my Parisian roommate and our distraught friend. I remember they both said something that struck me dumb. “It’s over, France is finished.” Perhaps it was the shock of the immediate aftermath of this event, but I could not believe what they were saying. I remember the attitude in the US shortly after 9/11… it was not defeat… it was determination, perhaps even anger. They repeated this phrase several times and while I was dumbstruck, I held my tongue.
I remember that morning in 2001. We lived in Pennsylvania at the time, 20 minutes outside of Scranton. My two siblings and I were sitting downstairs around 8 a.m. getting ready for homeschooling lessons. My mother told us she was running upstairs to get ready before we would begin and so we waited. Fifteen minutes passed, then 30 minutes, and finally, after nearly an hour had passed, we could not hold out any longer. We went upstairs to see what was taking our mother so long.
I remember walking into her bedroom, the only sound that could be heard was a reporter talking on the tiny television. My mother was sitting on the side of her bed, mouth agape, hand softly covering it. I was too young to understand the repeating images I saw on the television of the planes slamming into the towers. I watched over and over again, thinking I was watching a movie on TV. I asked my mom when she would be ready to start lessons and she shushed me, gaze unbroken from the events on the screen. After some time the first tower fell, then the second. I remember the soft wail she let escape from her body as the first tower came crashing down. I remember her frantically calling my father, who was supposed to be traveling on a plane that day. He was traveling to Indiana and decided to drive at the last minute. One of many last minute decisions that saved lives that day.
I remember watching the news the day after. I don’t think any of the major stations reported on anything else that day or the day after that. I remember many of the people who spoke on the television were devastated, in shock, or showed fear or anger. That anger in the face of overwhelming devastation, that resilience, that perseverance, prevailed across the country in the aftermath, which is why that initial reaction in the aftermath of Paris was so striking to me. Perhaps a similar reaction occurred after 9/11. Perhaps I was too young to remember. I don’t know. Let’s go back to Rome…
My entire day after the attack was spent in Vatican City. I noticed the uptick in security instantly. Milan, the city I studied in, had been under threat from terrorists since before I arrived in September 2015. Seeing soldiers with automatic weapons in tourist areas was something I had grown accustomed to over the two months prior to this weekend, but the number around Vatican City the day after Paris made me feel uneasy. Once you entered Vatican City, though, aside from a few Swiss Guards, there was hardly any police or military presence at all. This was a total surprise to me, although when I thought about it afterwards, Vatican City is apparently well known for its security (even if they are not in plain sight).
The Sunday after the attack was bound to be a big day in Vatican City. I wanted to be there that particular morning to see the Pope speak in St. Peters Square (as he does on most Sundays). I was under no illusion as to the significance of the events that had transpired earlier in the weekend, and that having the opportunity to see one of the world’s foremost religious figureheads speak in the aftermath of those events would be a once in a lifetime experience.
The next morning, I got up with a friend of mine and departed for Vatican City. When we arrived at 10 a.m. we figured we were late and the square would be packed. To our surprise is was nearly empty, so we opted to go inside St. Peters to pass the time.
When we exited the church, what lay before us was truly a sight to behold and one that will live with me for the remainder of my days. What had been an empty square when we entered was packed with thousands of people upon our exit of St. Peters. They overflowed onto the front steps of St. Peters and I was convinced at one point the sea would overflow into the church itself. I couldn’t begin to guess the actual number of people there that day, but my best guess puts it far north of 6,000 people.
I managed to grab a spot along the wall on the left side of the square (if you are looking at the church) maybe 50 yards from the steps of the church. At high noon the church bells rang, and minutes later Pope Francis appeared on a balcony of a building from the right side of the square. As he began to speak, his voice echoed loudly from the audio system. Thousands of us stood in complete silence, some in awe, some looking for hope, some moved to tears. The feeling in the square was palpable but something I can’t quite put into words. I never studied Italian before I arrived in Italy, so I didn’t understand every word he said that day…but I didn’t need to. Even with the few words and sentences I was able to understand, I could sense the tone and feeling of the speech. It was kind of incredible that I could understand Pope Francis even though he was speaking a different language. He spoke of peace, condemned violence and sent thoughts and prayers to his flock. I am not religious by any means, but this experience was incredibly spiritual for me.
As the Pope’s final words rang out across the square, the people erupted. Some in tempered enthusiasm due to the seriousness of the moment and others in utter elation, perhaps because their spiritual leader had given them the guidance many were seeking in the aftermath of these attacks. I don’t know for sure. What I can tell you is that it was absolutely a once in a lifetime experience, one I know (or at the very least hope) will never be repeated but will remain with me for the remainder of my days.
