Last Friday, March 22, we learned that a concert hall in the suburbs of Moscow had become the scene of a terrorist attack. That same day, the Memories section of Facebook asked me to re-share a photo of a carbonara pasta dish published by a friend in 2016, and on which my name was “tagged”. I didn’t need Meta to remember precisely the anniversary of this carbonara as its smell and flavors are still very present in my mind and my heart, and they will probably always be.
What is the connection between my favorite pasta dish and Moscow? An attack, precisely.
At the time these lines were written, the death toll from the Moscow attack stood at 139, making this sordid event one of the deadliest committed on European soil and in Russia claimed by the jihadist group Islamist State. The four alleged attackers were remanded in custody before their trial. Even if President Vladimir Putin seems to want to link this deadly act to Ukraine, everything suggests that the terrorists come from Central Asia.
This tragedy puts the terrorist threat back on the agenda throughout Europe. We can see the concern of many of its leaders, particularly Emmanuel Macron, less than four months before the Olympic Games are held in Paris. I felt the tremors all the way to Montreal. I have told my story several times and in different forums, but in summary, I survived the suicide attacks that occurred on March 22, 2016 at Zaventem airport, Belgium.
During a tragic event like this, it is the International Red Cross that takes care of the survivors. In this case, most of the people were foreigners and were in the terminal lobby to catch a plane that would take them home. It was my case, I was finishing a tour and I couldn’t wait to see my lover and my children. After long hours of waiting, I found myself in an airplane garage where Red Cross personnel were waiting for us. I don’t know the exact ins and outs of the procedure, but we had to give our names and if we wanted, we could leave the premises by signing a waiver. That’s what I did.
Because life is sometimes good, I was incredibly lucky to be in a country where I had lots of friends. Two of them came to pick me up at a small station where the buses chartered for the occasion had dropped us off. Arriving at their apartment in Schaerbeek, a pretty residential area of Brussels, I took a bath and ate a little.
I slowly came to my senses. I was collapsing intermittently. I felt the blast of the bomb on my legs again. Each time, my knees gave out and I squatted for a few seconds, then stood up.
One of my hosts said to me: “Hey, wouldn’t we call some friends to eat together and savor how lucky we are to be alive?” » I found the idea absolutely relevant and delightful. At the end of the afternoon, friends started to arrive, with some food and a few beers (I was in Belgium after all). We found ourselves, 14 old friends and a little girl of about 2 years old, upset, shaken, dismayed, but above all united.
The decision was quickly made that we would eat a carbonara. Some had to go out to do some shopping. While they were out hunting for bacon and spaghetti, disturbing sirens began to sound throughout the neighborhood. When they returned, although relieved to see them return, we continued to keep watch on the balcony to try to understand the sudden agitation that had taken over the neighboring streets. Police and army vehicles crisscrossed the quadrangle, a helicopter circled above the block. By reading the news on social networks — at that time, when there was still quality information — we learned that the terrorists’ hideout was a few steps from us. The area would therefore be closed off for a few hours.
One of my friends then shouted: “Long live the Happy Bunker!” » She had just baptized our friends’ apartment like this. He would be our Happy Refuge (free translation) for the rest of the evening.
I will never forget the atmosphere of this place, where sadness and desolation rubbed shoulders with the profound joy of being together and being able to watch over each other.
Friendship is one of the most wonderful gifts that life can give us. There will never be a word strong enough to describe how lucky I was that evening to be so well surrounded. To my friends who cooked the famous carbonara and the sweet chocolate mousse, to those who took care of the procedures with the consulate, to those who made jokes or laughed at mine, to those who offered to drive me to Paris the next day so I could take a flight to Montreal: to all these people, I say thank you for being in my life.
In marking the eighth anniversary of this disturbing event, I can only hope that the survivors of the Moscow attacks are also lucky enough to have friends watching over them. Friends who, by gently placing a hand on their back, will relieve them for a few moments of the weight of pain and fear.