Boston Redux
So here we are. The Boston Marathon bombers are dead or captured. We know no one else (allegedly) was involved. We also know there's a chance New York was next.
So why don't I feel resolved? Clearly, these two were amateurs (which I guessed from the start, because I suspect the bombs were both supposed to go off at the same time). But they were able to wreak havoc for four days, even shutting down a major city. I was alternately fascinated, repelled, and horrified at the brother in the boat, bleeding to death and probably sorry, so sorry, he had done this. (I don't know how he managed to climb out of the boat unaided, as the next photo we had was of him lying close to death on the ground with oxygen masks and medics all around).
And what of the mom and dad in Russia who could not believe their sons did this? "I know my son," the mother said of the older brother. How often have I said this about my own child? And yet, there are deep and dark places in all of us that no one can know.
Today Boylston Street opened up again and it's almost -- almost -- as if it never happened. During the moment of silence yesterday, cars drove by the memorial and many people hurried past those standing silently, more than one of them wiping their noses. Men did it with the backs of their hands.
And Marathon Day 2013 will go down in the history books as just another extremist attack, but this time they struck at our soft core. Only three died, and though many more were grievously injured, including Martin Richard's mom and sister, who lost her leg, this one to me seemed worse than 9/11. Maybe because of the children. Maybe because of the videos of the "white cap" man so nonchalantly stowing the backpack with the bomb on the ground where people were standing, children, who would be hurt or maimed. Or killed. And doing it anyway.
Coming so close after Newtown, it's a sickening fact that children are no longer considered untouchable by criminals.
The brothers supposedly did this for "religion," but I don't know of any God, Jehovah or Allah, who would condone, or appreciate, this.
So why don't I feel resolved? Clearly, these two were amateurs (which I guessed from the start, because I suspect the bombs were both supposed to go off at the same time). But they were able to wreak havoc for four days, even shutting down a major city. I was alternately fascinated, repelled, and horrified at the brother in the boat, bleeding to death and probably sorry, so sorry, he had done this. (I don't know how he managed to climb out of the boat unaided, as the next photo we had was of him lying close to death on the ground with oxygen masks and medics all around).
And what of the mom and dad in Russia who could not believe their sons did this? "I know my son," the mother said of the older brother. How often have I said this about my own child? And yet, there are deep and dark places in all of us that no one can know.
Today Boylston Street opened up again and it's almost -- almost -- as if it never happened. During the moment of silence yesterday, cars drove by the memorial and many people hurried past those standing silently, more than one of them wiping their noses. Men did it with the backs of their hands.
And Marathon Day 2013 will go down in the history books as just another extremist attack, but this time they struck at our soft core. Only three died, and though many more were grievously injured, including Martin Richard's mom and sister, who lost her leg, this one to me seemed worse than 9/11. Maybe because of the children. Maybe because of the videos of the "white cap" man so nonchalantly stowing the backpack with the bomb on the ground where people were standing, children, who would be hurt or maimed. Or killed. And doing it anyway.
Coming so close after Newtown, it's a sickening fact that children are no longer considered untouchable by criminals.
The brothers supposedly did this for "religion," but I don't know of any God, Jehovah or Allah, who would condone, or appreciate, this.
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