Elmo grinned cheekily, his cheerful red face plastered permanently on the front of the little suitcase. You’d half expect him to spring to life and start to liven up the glum, depressing corridors at the security checkpoint.
The boy whose hand loosely held onto the suitcase was not so cheerful. He heaved, gasping with great effort for breath as a stream of tears trickled down his cheeks. His arm strangled the neck of a worn, brown teddy bear, who too had a permanent smile on its face which seemed to mock the downturned lips of the little boy. Right beside him, his mother’s eyes were red and moist, and she inadvertently looked away to wipe tears that threatened to trickle down. Through the glass window was (what is most likely) the father, standing there in the empty concourse with shoulders hanging and heavy with sadness.
“All objects on the belt!” the TSA woman bellowed. She sounded like a vendor hawking her wares at a market, except her voice was monotonous and penetrating. “Take out everything in your pockets. Paper, pens, coins, mobile phones. NO EXCEPTIONS!” Passengers in front of me scrambled to clear their pockets and strip. Footwear were also removed, even sandals and flip-flops had x-rayed through the belly of Rapiscan. At the command of the security officer, a confused elderly man walked back and forth, back and forth through the metal detectors, looking frail and frightened. “KEEP MOVING DOWN! Place your gels and liquids in the see-through pouch. NO EXCEPTIONS!” The boy, still grief stricken, sighed and heaved some more. Elmo and the teddy bear kept on smiling.
Overhead, the bursting roar of jet engines temporarily silenced everything else. To some, it is the sound of freedom; to others the sound of awe and terror. One day after the ninth anniversary of September 11, the airspace around New York is on heightened alert, and every so often fighter jets seemed to be doing fly-bys around Newark Liberty. In the distance, sunk against the dull, overcast sky was the blurry grey skyline of Manhattan. The Empire State Building looked strikingly lonely without the two iconic towers.
Little planes crawled on the tarmac, as others all too happily hurtled down the runway and skywards. Almost a decade on, the airport continues to be centre stage for all the drama, tears and fears. Flying has turned from every boy (and girl)’s dream to a nightmarish nuisance, and everyone is subject to suspicion, if not to the all-seeing and privacy-invading menace of the full body scanner. Perhaps we could do with Elmo springing to life and lightening up the mood with his big grin and infectious chuckle.
But, no doubt, in no time he would be tackled to the ground, frisked and hauled away in handcuffs
Right next to a big corn field, I watched my cousin play football (sorry, soccer) with his schoolmates. A group of hawks with wide-spread wings rode the warming air currents and circled above us. Dark, dark silhouettes against the blue, blue clear sky, with movements as agile as kites, yet radiating an aura of awe almost as majestic as America’s proud and bold national bird. Dry corn stalks shivered shyly, their shabby heads hung low, their bodies swayed in sync with the wind like a silent crowd in mourning. Saturday, nine twelve in the morning on September eleven.
It’s the start of the school term, and the first week of friendly games. Bright faced boys and girls in colourful football jerseys ran after the ball as parents cheered on and coaches directed and encouraged the little players. I watched them run and kick around, and smiled at those moments of frustration when some kid misses the goal. Frustration that quickly evaporates and is replaced by laughter and big grins. To them, at this stage in the game, at this stage in life, it’s all just (literally) good sports and a game. No swearing, no pushing, no foul play or playacting. At least not yet.
Moments earlier, I watched part of the solemn commemoration ceremony in New York. The mayor spoke of the disbelief and hurt as those two towers tumbled to the ground, killing thousands of innocent people and traumatising to the core the psyche and security of a great nation. Disbelief and hurt that till this day lingers on in the hearts and minds of the victims and their families, and lingers on in the long military campaigns far, far away from Ground Zero. Though maybe nobody will be burning any Qur’ans today, the controversy surrounding the building of a mosque has brewed and veiled the run-up to the ninth anniversary of September 11. Perhaps it is a sign after all these years, distrust and animosity towards Muslims in general is still resonating with parts of the American population.
Back to smalltown New Jersey, back to the soccer field that is parched and almost yellow from the recent drought. The final whistle blows, and the score is 5-3. Red-faced and panting, with sweat dripping down their cheeks and the backs of their T-shirts patched with moisture, the little boys and girls high-five and pat one another on the shoulders. Exactly nine years ago, in the time that the game began and finished, three more planes crashed, thousands more perished, the Twin Towers burned and collapsed. And a president finished reading a book about a goat that consumed everything in its way.
“That’s good eatin’,” he said. Not for the first time, and no doubt not for the last. It’s soon hunting season, and the gentle-looking middle aged man spoke proudly of his adventures hunting animals in the wild. Geese, turkey, boars, pheasants. “Them rabbits. They’re small and bony, but they’re good eatin’ too.” I stared out at the dense forest all around us, and imagined those furry little creatures roaming wild and free.
The man began to lament increasing sightings of black bears in the neighbourhood, and his voice lightened as he mentioned how the state had recently lifted the ban on bear hunting. Black bear hunting. The killing of ferocious creatures that can weigh up to a couple of hundred pounds, and that can maul you with their baseball glove sized paws and rip you to bits, because they love to shift through garbage. Local bins have locks to prevent bears from snooping and feeding off leftovers.
“And just a few weeks ago further north, a policeman came home after his night shift. He heard some noise at the back of his house, and he walked to take a look. He was startled by a black bear, and the bear was startled by him. Good thing he had his rifle, and he shot the bear a couple of times. Otherwise, he would have been good as gone.” There was a snide comment about how soft animal rights groups are, which I didn’t fully catch. All I wondered was what they did with the remains of the unfortunate bear, which on that fateful night unknowingly had (or was about to have) its last supper. Perhaps its head is now glued on a wooden plaque and nailed on the wall of someone’s living room. Fittingly ironic, on the radio was a talk show host, whose high-pitched rhetoric feverishly attacked the environmental agenda spearheaded by menacing leftists and soft-headed liberals.
On a small lake, a couple of Canadians floated leisurely with their long black necks outstretched. Through the closed car window I could hear their muffled but somewhat familiar call. Familiar because, like me, they too have come down here from the True North. Though, I’m only here for a temporary visit, whereas many of them have flown here, and decided to become permanent residents. I watched them, their graceful movements resembled little boats bobbing on the gentle surface of the lake, and admired their brown down.
“Them geese are pests. Make so much noise and nuisance, and they’re overpopulated.” Canadians geese are considered a threat to flight safety. In fact, US Airways flight1549 crashed in the Hudson because both its engines sucked in them pesky Canadians shortly after take off. The loud-beaked babble are also considered a public health hazard because of the fasces they shed on roofs, park lawns and people’s heads. To tackle the ‘plague’, New York City mayor Bloomberg has recently resorted to somewhat extreme measures to cut down the number of Canadian Geese to a more manageable proportions. Geese are being rounded up, taken into vans with cages in the back. And gassed. No doubt, they’ll be good eatin’ too.
Maybe I am one of them soft-headed liberals and pansy environmentalists who cares much too much about the birds and the bees, and the geese and bears. I don’t live in the countryside, and I don’t come from a background where almost every moving creature can be crudely summed up as “good eatin’”. I certainly don’t have to think about bears breaking down my kitchen door as I’m making apple pie (though living in the suburbs, leaving my door open can often invite the unwelcome smell of skunk perfume in). And I don’t have a family or dependants who I must guard against ferocious creatures of the wild.
But weren’t these creatures, however wild and savage, here first before we started building houses and communities right in their traditional habitats, before we chased them away and/or (for some) hunted them to (near) extinction? Aren’t there more anim-ane ways to control the population of a particular species? Once again, I am amazed by the ability of human beings to play ‘god’ and the controller of nature and populations just to accommodate our own needs and desires.
I woke up with a terrible headache, sat on the bed momentarily and stared into blank space. The dream was too intense, too real, or so it seemed. More real than real life, more real than what I had experienced.
Dad was in bed, obviously in pain, obviously suffering, obviously dying. His face was contorted in agony, with tears running down his cheeks. I held onto his hands, embraced his whole body and tried very, very hard not to cry, not to make things even more difficult for him. But it was hard not to cry, and I could see my own tears drip down and soak his clothes.
I don't remember what was said, if anything. All I can recall is the sadness, the utter and oppressive sadness that hung in the air. A dense, thick feeling of unwillingness to let go, unpreparedness to leave as if there were unfinished business that needed tending to. I felt the warmth of his body, his bony fingers, and looked into his deep, dark eyes...
The tires hummed lowly together with the mechanical sounds of the bike chain that spun at my feet's command. The wind blew on my face, and the fabric of my shorts and T-shirt waved like a flying flag. Overhead, colossus, white cloud formations floated softly across a blue sky, at times greying suddenly as if with old age and spelling signs of the inevitable fall of rain. There was a change in the wind, I could feel it, I could smell it. A change in the wind that was blowing away the intense heat and humidity of summer, a change in the wind that brought with it the gentle cool and colours of autumn.
Together with five others, I cycled some 80 kilometres northward along the route of the old railway track that led into the heart of the Laurentians. Dozens of others biked too, but on a shorter route through the many parks and green spaces of Montreal. A ride for charity, to raise money and awareness about legal aid for vulnerable and disadvantaged refugees and immigrants new to the country. The Dean of McGill’s Law Faculty was present, as was a former Minister of Justice, to kick start the event with speeches and applauses. We were reminded of the great cause we were about to embark on, and how as proud members of the student body and future lawyers, we are continuing the legacy of the activist of Dugald Christie to emphasise the importance of access to justice for all. Later I would learn from the organisers of the charity ride that despite the lofty speeching and involvement of a number of professors, financial support for the event from the faculty was sadly minimal.
The long, long journey took us through picturesque towns, fields and forests. With the occasional breaks and energy boosts from granola bars, it was relatively easy to bike the route, as most of the journey was along paved and marked cyclepaths of la Route Verte, which criss-crosses this region of Quebec. Even so, at times the weather was not so cooperative, and its rapid mood swings reminded me of the indecisive and at times treacherous weather back in Europe.
Speed, direction and destination were all mine to control, and once again like so often when I am on my bike I felt that sense of freedom that can be so liberating for the body and mind. As I pedalled, a leaf fell and clung momentarily onto my arm. Its fringes were yellowing and crisp, and suddenly a gust of wind sent it flying off again. On the trail behind me, among its fallen brothers and sisters that were sent moving by the breeze of a bike speeding past, I tried to find which leaf I just that brief moment with. More and more leaves are bound to drift and fall as the winds blow stronger and nights become colder, and colder.
When I look back, I realise how with determination and a destination, you can really strive to accomplish what originally may seem like an impossible feat. In the back of my mind, the motivational speeches that reminded us all of the great cause of cycling for justice, cycling for the underprivileged, echoed and hurried me on. With their branches like upturned arms, the trees that lined the path seemed to cheer like a crowd of bystanders. The rustling sound of silvery green leaves was like muffled applauses, waving me forward. If only writing my thesis were so easy.
Later at night, a group of us stayed at a cabin owned and run by the McGill Outdoor Club. The cabin is fully equipped, with enough bunk space for eighty people. The walls are decorated with signs and rusty saws used by lumberjacks to fall trees. With dusty novels and boardgames, old copies of the National Geographic dating from the eighties, and even the remains of a puffer fish, a very ‘studenty’ feel hung in the air. Nearby is a river and lakes nestled between unspoiled forests in the mountains, and in the winter it is a great starting point for cross-country skiing and the quintessentially Canadian activity of snowshoeing.
Some volunteered to cook, others did the eating and merrymaking. After a feast of lentil soup and rice with vegetable stir-fry, we sat down together outside around an open fire and shared the battles with the elements and distance we had endured earlier during the day.
The talented ones played lonesome sounds with their guitars and sang melancholic country songs about love and longing. I quietly watched the fire, mesmerised by its sounds and movements. Sounds and movements that seemed to soothe and distract from the muscle aches and agonising moments during the long bike ride when I felt like giving up. Occasionally, I held out my hands to feel its warmth and affection, and once and twice I exploited it to grill marshmallows that seemed to softly melt away in my mouth. Through quiet conversation, and at times moments of quiet silence, we bonded over the smell of wood burning and the sweet scent and taste of oven baked brownies.
The flames tossed their long heads in a wild, unpredictable dance above the burning wood. At times little sparks would fly off, fly and drift freely like fireflies. Fireflies that eventually faded and died. The fire cracked, its voice a mixture between the sound of twigs breaking beneath your feet as you gently tread on the forest floor and the sound of dripping rain.
Against the chill of the night and a faint drizzle, a flickering glow of orange and warmth was cast on our faces. Together we huddled around the fire, attracted by the vigour of life and gentle smell that sprang up from the burning wood. Together we made a vow to raise money for people we have never met but whose lives and wellbeing was what brought us all from different levels of study and from different origins and countries together. And there is a sense of warmth and joy in that, which lingers on and on like the scented smell of burning wood around a campfire.
