Terrorist attacks in Madrid leave a study-abroad student dazed and confused.
By David Lindholm '05
Did he say something funny? I think so. Nod, laugh, I tell myself. Show him you understand.
"You have no idea what I just said, do you?" my friend asks.
"No," I'm forced to reply. "Not a clue."
After five weeks as an American student in Logroño, Spain, I had become quite accustomed to not understanding what was going on. Teachers patiently waited for answers to questions I didn't quite comprehend. Players on my soccer team routinely slowed down their speech and gave me an opening to get involved in conversation, before resuming the sprint that is their native Spanish tongue. Just the other night my flatmate, Óscar, invited me to his room so he could smoke while we continued our conversation. But I, thinking he had said that he was going to smoke and then return to finish our conversation, patiently waited for him to come back.
"You have to tell me if you don't understand what I'm saying," he said when he returned and explained his original invitation.
"Now you don't understand," I replied. "I thought I did know what you were saying!"
So you can imagine my utter confusion and terror on the Thursday morning in March when I turned on the television and saw a horrifying landscape—trains with gaping holes in their sides, blood-streaked people running and yelling, police and emergency workers looking as stunned as the injured victims—accompanied by a soundtrack I could barely understand.
Once I learned that my friends in Madrid were safe, my fear subsided, but my head continued to swirl. What's going on? Who did this? Why was this done? I learned that a friend was supposed to be on one of the targeted trains but opted at the last minute to take another route. Another friend was going to come to Madrid for spring break but cancelled his plans. I felt profoundly alone—even when I was surrounded by people—and I could barely hold a coherent thought. Fevered arguments rushed through my head: It could have been worse, 9/11 showed me that ... don't think that, don't diminish this tragedy ... everyone I know is safe ... but so many others died!
I was feeling the same way I had on that Tuesday, September 11, exactly two years and six months before: bewildered and exposed. I hadn't expected that kind of raw, exposed terror to follow me to Spain. I also felt alone: profoundly alone. Even in crowds I would be by myself, thinking about those questions, and wondering how all of this would affect the world, and how it would affect me.
My confusion had taken on a new dimension. While the language barrier was still significant enough to add to my feeling of discomfort and uncertainty, my confusion now originated in the unknown, not the uncertain.
One of the initial phrases I learned in my first Spanish class was no entiendo, meaning "I don't understand." These two words have served me well in Spain, but now I'm using no entiendo in a different way. I don't understand the actions of the terrorists. I don't understand what I should be feeling.
On March 12, people began to talk about attending manifestación. The literal English definition, manifestation, didn't make sense to me; so I asked Óscar what people were talking about. A rally, Óscar explained. People were going to gather in the city and walk somewhere, or something like that; I wasn't quite sure what he said. Later, I heard President Aznar mention manifestación on the news: apparently every Spanish city was going to have a manifestaciónthat Friday evening. All across Spain, people were going to gather in their city or town—and march.
That night, still a bit uncertain about what was going to happen, my friend Jeff and I walked out of my apartment and into the street. We were swept up by a stream of people all hurrying in the same direction. After about 10 minutes, we neared the center of the city. As we rounded a corner, our tributary of people flowed into Gran Via, Logroño's biggest street. There were people as far as I could see in every direction. Sidewalks, parking lanes, medians, and four driving lanes were filled with pedestrians; even when I climbed a small fence I couldn't see the edge of the crowd.
Many people held signs with phrases like No Al Terrorismo; others cradled pictures of the Spanish flag with a black ribbon in the middle, the symbol of the recent tragedy. The balconies overlooking the street were vacant. There were no observers that night, only participants.
We began to hear a faint sound, rhythmic clapping that seemed to beckon from the distance. Like an approaching storm, the noise grew louder and closer, until it washed over us, an electric wave of pulsing energy. It lasted only a few moments before continuing on its way. This was one of many reverent outpourings in Logroño that evening.
The crowd began to move forward, and we stepped aside as people surged past. After about 15 minutes, with no end to the throng in sight, we rejoined the masses. Over-whelmed with emotion, I was humbled into silence. It was raining now, and though I was thoroughly soaked, my mind was on other things, both philosophical and practical. We had done something extraordinary by gathering together in such magnitude, but that itself felt dangerous; what if a terrorist had decided to attack right then? And while I would like to say that seeing all those people together in respect for the dead and in defiance of terrorism renewed my faith in the human spirit (it may have, a little), a more cynical side of me couldn't help thinking: What did we hope to accomplish? As moving as the manifestación was, I knew the scenes of war and death would be waiting for me on the television when I returned to my apartment.
These thoughts bounced around my head as we followed the trail, down Gran Via, left onto Calle del General Vara de Rey, and around the corner onto Avenida de la Paz, before arriving at Logroño's city hall. At that moment, I didn't feel so alone; I almost felt like any other person in Logroño. We had all poured out into the street—everyone in the city, and more than 11 million people nationwide did the same, at 7:00 p.m. on Friday, March 12.
Yet as I stood there, engulfed by this mass of humanity, I couldn't reconcile such powerful demonstrations of love (manifestación) and hate (terrorism), conviction and confusion.
One thing I did know is that I was affected by the attacks, by the manifestación. With each passing day, I may gain a greater understanding of the Spanish language, but as for my understanding of the world around me? I still have to say "No entiendo."
David Lindholm '05 is an American Civilization major from Cornwall, Vermont.