The weather was surprisingly balmy in London that day. Bundles of thick
clouds scudded across the skies above the National and the Tate Modern on
the South Bank, but on the other side of the river, the sun, perched in a
gash of blue, painted the leaves of the new trees and the grass in the
squares a lush green.
Four elderly gents sat on a wooden bench in Berkeley Square, their eyes
closed to the sun's pleasant warmth, though they occasionally watched the
toddlers perking along next to their mothers. One of the small-fry, who was
just learning how to walk, gripped the handle of his pram. A blue-haired
old woman smiled sweetly at the sight, when suddenly something cast a
shadow over her. She looked up and saw a young man pulling something out of
his coat and smiling at her before everything went dark.
The explosion set off by the suicide bomber was so powerful that the
entire glass facade of the nearby building shattered and crashed slowly to
the ground, releasing a white storm of documents that floated gently down
into the smoking ruins. Even the rescue crews could barely recognize the
place. But who could have imagined that this would only be the prologue?
Even as dozens of ambulances sped toward Mayfair, the city was shaken by
a tremendous blast from the direction of Covent Garden: A blue van that was
parked in the Strand, next to Bush House, exploded at 3 P.M., killing and
wounding dozens of passengers on a double-decker bus and setting off
tremors in the headquarters of the BBC's World Service. Radio listeners
around the world heard the thunderous explosion in real time during the
world news hour, just as the announcer was speaking about "the cycle of
violence in the Middle East in the wake of yesterday evening's attack, when
15 Israelis were purportedly killed in what Israel calls `terrorism.'"
Reporters from Sky News, broadcasting direct from the streets of London,
could barely find the words to express the depth of their shock and horror
at this pointless mass murder of dozens of innocent civilians: "It's
murder! Nothing but insane sadistic Nazi murder!" one reporter exclaimed,
holding up with repulsion nails and screws with which the terrorists had
packed the bomb in order to magnify the killing. "It wasn't a nightingale
that sang in Berkeley Square yesterday," The Independent lamented the next
day in a paraphrase of the old song, "it was the Devil himself."
Still, the celebrated English stiff upper lip was maintained at least
until the next evening, when two terrorists (or "fighters," as they were
described by French television) blew themselves up within a short time of
each other: one in the midst of the crowd in the foyer of the Gielgud
Theater, the other in a packed Chinese restaurant in Soho. Dozens of people
were killed in the two blasts. The West End emptied out in a jiff and
resembled a ghost town in the flickering yellow lights. The wails of the
ambulances and the rescue vehicles "transformed the metropolis into one
vast scream," as The Guardian put it the next day. The entire front page of
The Mirror was taken up with the word "M-A-S-S-A-C-R-E!" while the Sun
demanded "R-E-V-E-N-G-E!"
The cameras of Sky News, broadcasting live from Downing Street,
accidentally captured an embarrassing spectacle, which was edited out in
reruns: The prime minister's wife, Cherie Blair, her hair messed and
wearing a rumpled housecoat, was seen through the partially open door
pounding on the chest of a bodyguard and screaming hysterically, "My
children! Where are my children! Tell me they're all right! Do something!
Anything!! Why doesn't someone wipe out these stinking murderers already!!"
But the prime minister himself appeared shortly afterward, cool and
composed as usual, albeit a bit pale, and announced that he was convening
the cabinet in an emergency session and placing the army on full alert.
Five Islamic organizations and a non-group calling itself "Saxon
Scalpers" claimed responsibility for the attacks and threatened that they
were just the beginning. However, government and army spokesmen asserted
that those directly to blame for the attacks were Saddam Hussein, Osama bin
Laden, a fanatic sect from East Timor and three individuals with a "Middle
Eastern appearance" from Earl's Court. That same night, large commando
forces raided Earl's Court, on which a strict curfew had been imposed by a
special emergency order. Tough paratroopers set up roadblocks on Cromwell
Road (the pleas of a pregnant Indian woman to let her through were
rebuffed), conducted house-to-house searches and carried out mass arrests.
The public showed understanding for the unconventional measures: "All
the laws of civilization and the Magna Carta are null and void in the face
of bastard murderers who are capable of massacring innocent theatergoers,"
declared the actress and politician Glenda Jackson in an impromptu
interview next to the tube station in Hampstead.
Londoners no longer ventured out of their homes, living off home
deliveries of pizza and spending their time watching commercials and travel
shows on television. But after the suicide bombing of schoolchildren at
Paddington Station and a second explosion that targeted the rescue forces,
the stiff upper lip grew flaccid, and cool and collected gave way to hot
and bothered.
Speaking on the BBC, a part-military analyst and part-spokesman stated
that the Royal Air Force was ready to go into action and that an operation
was being contemplated against East Timor or other islands in the
Indonesian archipelago.
Why there, of all places? A spokesman for Whitehall explained: "The
authorities have definite proof of ideological support for the terrorist
attacks on the part of Timorese - or Asian, at all events - terrorists." He
declined to elaborate. In the militant atmosphere, no one bothered to ask
what the proof consisted of. Reporters wanted to know if and when an attack
would be mounted on the Yemenite village where candies were distributed and
people were seen dancing on rooftops after the attacks. "Although we have
no interest in entering Asia, we have no choice but to do what must be
done," the spokesman stated. "This is a kind of rolling operation against
whomever we run into."
French President Jacques Chirac expressed his country's condolences to
the families of the victims, but protested vigorously against the "blow to
freedom of movement and expression" at Earl's Court. He also warned against
rash military operations that would only lead to an escalation of the
violence. Nevertheless, on the very day he spoke, British bombers "attacked
targets" in a number of villages or islands (the armed forces were vague
about this and closed East Asia to reporters). A well-populated orphanage
was hit accidentally, but Foreign Secretary Jack Straw rejected the
criticism from Europe, stating, "I express regret, but what can you do:
When you chop down trees, chips fly."
Straw reacted furiously to the warning issued by the Swedish foreign
minister about possible war crimes: "I would suggest to these Scandinavian
bleeding hearts not to preach to us. We'll see how those Vikings behave
when their Uppsala is sent flying into space by terrorist bombs."
The BBC announcers lost a bit of their famous imperial calm, especially
after the major attack at Shepherd's Bush, not far from the television
studios. Tim Sebastian, who made mincemeat out of the French ambassador on
his "Hard Talk" interview program, could barely restrain himself:
- "What are you saying, then? That we have no right to defend ourselves
against murderous terrorism?"
- "What you call terrorism," the ambassador corrected him.
The veins on the balding brow of the interviewer seemed about to burst:
"What do you mean - `What we call terrorism'? What is it if not terrorism?
What should we call it? Kohlrabi? Carbuncle? What do you suggest we call
it, when our people are being massacred day after day?!"
- "Attacks," the ambassador replied coolly, lighting up a Gitane with a
gilded lighter. "Ostensible attacks by supposed militants."
For a moment it looked as though Sebastian was about to strangle his
guest.
- "I want to make it clear," the ambassador continued. "My government
and I deplore the cycle of violence and the harm done to civilians on both
sides. But if I may be permitted: I personally feel compassion for those
who saw fit to carry out the suicide bombings. How did Voltaire put it?
`Although I ....'"
- "You can stuff Voltaire up your ass, frog!" the veteran BBC
correspondent burst out and lunged at the ambassador's throat as the screen
went dark to the sound of screams and gasps.
The first explosion in Paris occurred at the least expected time and
place: on Sunday afternoon, next to the merry-go-round in Luxembourg
Garden, not far from the puppet theater, when the place was crowded with
children and with people playing petanque. The players had removed their
jackets and hung them on hangers, rolled up their sleeves and were rolling
iron balls across the ground. One charming mademoiselle, clad in tight
jeans, bent over and with a graceful gesture of the hand, sent a slow but
accurate ball toward the others - but just then, the whole park was sent
hurtling into the air by the force of the tremendous bomb that went off
next to the merry-go-round. The skies seemed to darken, and immediately
afterward, the survivors were deluged by a downpour of blood, dirt, bits of
clothing and scorched body parts.
For a moment - more precisely, for eight seconds - a bizarre silence
descended on the scene, which was broken only by the beating wings of
frightened pigeons that took off in a large cloud, and by the car alarms
that were triggered by the shock wave. Eight seconds of eerie silence -
before the horrific screams, the groans of the wounded and the endless
sirens of the firefighters, police and ambulances that pierced the placid
Sunday afternoon until evening.
A Parisian intellectual, participating in a television discussion later
in the day, spoke of "the eight seconds of catastrophic quiet that followed
the grim reaper's brandishing of the scythe. The assassin. The butcher."
Who could have imagined that the "eight seconds of catastrophic quiet"
would become a nearly everyday occurrence in Paris and other French cities?
A series of explosions and warnings about suicide bombers - Islamic,
Senegalese, Timorese, Algerians and just plain anarchists who seemed to
have entered a murderous trance - turned the streets of the cities into a
maelstrom of blasts, horror, security checks, wailing sirens, flickering
blue lights and roadblocks.
The attacks accumulated into a kind of nightmarish routine: the pair of
suicide bombers at Flore and Deux Magots; the bomber in the floating boat
restaurant; the attack on the line of people in front of Victor Hugo House
by the Place des Vosges; the woman suicide bomber in the Samaritaine
department store; the car bomb at Ste-Chapelle that destroyed the marvelous
stained-glass windows that had survived all the vicissitudes of history and
were lost forever in an instant of barbarity.
Who can remember all the attacks? Who can keep track of all the
funerals?
The face of President Chirac in his speech to the nation said it all:
"This is a war for our homes. Mirabeaux said that Paris is a mysterious
sphinx. Today that wounded sphinx calls to us: Revenge! Revenge! Revenge!"
That same evening, a French bomber joined the British forces in
carpet-bombing somewhere in Asia, though it had to return to base due to a
technical hitch. A spokesman for the Elysee Palace said that the president
and the government were not ruling out the possible use of tactical nuclear
arms: "It is very simple. It is them - or us. It's either a few goat turds
in some desert country - or the foie gras and the Beaujolais and the Pont
Alexandre."
Even Emanuel Halperin was seen to lift an eyebrow. The French embassy
sent an angry protest to Israeli Television for biased and one-sided
reporting.
from Ha'aretz, Sunday, June 30, 2002 (Tamuz 20, 5762).