In the hours after the September 11 attacks, I was furious. I wanted revenge — and if the pursuit of that resulted in some measure of justice, so be it. But justice was not the first thing on my mind.
We still don’t know who was responsible for the attacks in Boston, but it strikes a sickly familiar chord. Only this time around I feel more sadness than anger. (And I don’t feel like writing about writing or communications or related topics this morning.)
Maybe it’s because I’m older. Maybe because after more than a decade of this we are all just war-weary. I am, at least. Some still seem caught up in fury — I’m not sure where they get the energy for that particular emotion.
We declared and waged a war on terror, and so much violence has occurred as a result. We’ve achieved justice in some cases and sometimes we’ve committed grievous errors. I’m saddened by it all.
So much blood has been spilled, and yet relatively little on our own shores — and most of that by our own hand and for reasons that have nothing to do with politics.
I (and others, I’m sure) expected a lot more violence here. In the months after September 11, I just assumed we were relegated to a life where shopping mall, hotel and restaurant bombings would be a sad, inevitable part of our daily life. That never happened and I still can’t quite believe it. (Though, of course, random gun violence has become a part of the fabric.)
So for that reason I wasn’t shocked by yesterday’s bombing. It was still terrible to see, especially in mesmerizing and endless television replay. And I’m saddened, of course — for the people, for the city of Boston, for our country.
But I’m not fearful and I’m not angry. Whoever was behind this, whether domestic or foreign, will be revealed and maybe caught. Justice, or the satisfaction that’s supposed to come with it, will probably be elusive as always.
And we will all move on and carry on and we will be all right.