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Bataclan, Paris, France.
Zaventem, Belgium.
Manchester Arena, UK.
Christchurch, New Zealand.
It's happened often this decade: a brainwashed madman picks up a firearm and shoots people like fish in a barrel. Sometimes it happens close to home, sometimes a bit further away. But it never happens in your city. Right?
On the 18th of March, I get on the bus at 7.39 am. I'm annoyed. I usually catch the 7.22 on Mondays, but the bus drivers are striking and this is only the second bus passing through town today. I'm going to be late for my 9 am lecture at Utrecht University.
After 20 horrible minutes on an overcrowded bus, I get off at the subway station to catch the B-line to the train station. I'll be able to get on a train to Utrecht at 8.15 am. Then I see that the subway personnel is on strike too: the next subway won't leave for another 17 minutes. I think about my options, my two Monday lectures, the 4.5-hour break between them. Then I do something I normally wouldn't do: I turn around and go home.
It never happens in your city. After all, your city doesn't even make the news often. If it does, it's because the local football club is doing well, or because the university has won another award. Sometimes there's an article about chaos at the busy Central Station. Your city is doing quite well. Good things happen there.
"There's been a shooting in Utrecht," mom tells me, her eyes fixed on the screen of her phone. We're having a coffee at the kitchen table. I desperately need it; I've been working non-stop since my failed attempt at going to my morning lecture.
"Oh," I say, not too surprised. I'm used to Rotterdam, where shots are fired every now and then. "Where?"
"24 October Square," mom says as she looks the address up on Google Maps. "Is that close to university?"
"No. Uni is here." I point at the screen. "Quite far away actually."
Mom puts her phone down. "Maybe you should call grandma."
"Why?"
"She'll get worried when she hears about this."
"You think?" I know mom is right. Grandma does worry a lot about me whenever something like this happens. "Okay, I'll give her a call."
When the news breaks, you don't think much of it. Of course it's awful, but your city is still a big city. Shootings sadly happen. You just hope this incident wasn't inspired by Christchurch. More news trickles in. The situation is more serious than it first seemed. The shooter gets away. People are dying in the streets. The T-word gets thrown around: was it an act of terrorism? Do we have a terrorist attack on our hands?
My phone starts going crazy. My grandparents and dad have been called. They were very calm when I told them I was safe at home - that was before news outlets reported that the shooter is still on the loose. Now, everyone is worried. Classmates are checking up on each other in group chats. I get messages from the UK, Belgium, and of course Utrecht. My friends tell me how lucky I am that the strikes kept me from going to university today. Still, I'll have to go there today: I have an assignment to hand in during my afternoon lecture. I don't want to go though. I don't feel safe. I feel sick.
I text a friend who's in lockdown in a university building to tell her that I'll be coming over.
"Like fuck you are," she texts back. "You're staying home. I'll fight them if they penalize you for not handing a hard copy in while there's a shooter on the loose."
She's right. Of course she is. I'm staying home. I send my teacher a quick e-mail explaining the situation. Then I go back to what's most important now: texting everyone who's near and dear to me.
You sit down on the couch, phone in hand, and turn the tv on. You text your family and friends.
"Are you safe?"
"Where are you at?"
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Don't worry about me, I'm home."
Some reply immediately. Others, those who don't live or study in your city, bombard you with questions. A few haven't heard the news yet. You put your phone down a million times, only to pick it up the next second in hopes of seeing a reply from that one friend who hasn't answered yet.
Mom's skin is showing red patches. She says I have them too. We don't know what to do with ourselves. I guess we are in shock. We try to understand what's going on in Utrecht, but news comes slowly and half of it turns out to be false within 10 minutes of its being shared. The police are searching for a red Renault Clio. The license plate numbers are shared in a university group chat. The shooter is expected to head towards campus. Utrecht University officially closes its doors.
You slowly lose touch with reality. You're just sitting there on the couch, watching an endless loop of the Prime Minister saying that the situation is unsettling, that he's going to a crisis meeting. You see anti-terror units burst into houses, police officers pulling their weapons near a bank. There's talk of shots fired near mosques, multiple shooters, shouts of Allahuakbar. You just want it to stop. You become numb to the sight of the dead body under a white sheet next to the tram in which it happened. It's vehicle number 5014. You wonder if you'll find yourself on board number 5014 in the near distant future. You wonder what the shooter's motive was. You want to know more. You want to know less. You break.
Just before I can start crying, I get off the couch. One death has been confirmed, there are possibly as many as nine wounded. The city is in lockdown. I've been watching the news for four hours. I can't take it anymore.
"Mom, shall we sow some seeds?"
I just want to do something productive. Something positive. The seeds for our vegetable patch need to be sown anyway.
Mom and I fill tiny pots with soil. The tv is on in the background. We hear that the suspected shooter has been identified, but not found. We focus on our deeds. With every seed I sow, with every new life I plant, I think of the victims of the shooting. This is how I commemorate them.
You try to get away from it. You try to do something else. It doesn't work. You can turn the tv off, but your mind is still there, in the chaos of your city. You look out of the window and fail to understand how everything outside seems so normal. You ignore the news for a while, but you still worry about your friends in lockdown. You try to distract yourself. Nothing works.
At 6 pm I watch the news once more. Nothing has happened, nothing has changed. I see the deserted streets of Utrecht's city center. I hear my university's name. Sadness washes over me again. Then, in the middle of the news bulletin, the reporter is interrupted: the suspect has been arrested!
I sigh with relief until my lungs hurt. My friends can safely go home. We'll finally know what exactly happened.
As I go to sleep on the 18th of March, the suspect's motives are still unclear. Three deaths have been confirmed. I am still in shock. I don't fully understand what's happened, but I soon will. The shooting had characteristics of a terrorist attack, but the nature of the shooting hasn't been confirmed yet. It's a dark, dark say for my city, my people, my country.
It never happens in your city. Until it does.