One student's reactions to March 11 living in Spain

After a tear-filled morning full of nauseating images flashing across my TV screen here in Spain, I can't take the suffering anymore. It's March 11, 2004, exactly two and a half years after a similar day in a similar country somewhere on the other side of this world, and I've escaped momentarily into a small bedroom offered up to me for the year by my host family here in Madrid. I turn on my computer and pop on a CD to drown out the sirens echoing in my head. What is happening to us, I wonder, and R.E.M. responds. "It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine." -- Such timing they have.

Another terrorist bloodbath. Simultaneous explosions. Various coordinated points of attack. Carnage. Devastation. Disbelief. Another breakfast served with a side of tragedy. More murder to digest.

The TV flashes images of dazed victims on the sidewalks. Bloodied bodies lying face down under sheets. Debris blown yards away by the blasts. Scattered limbs. Neighbors run with water, bandages. They throw blankets from their balconies. There is hugging, weeping. Confusion reigns.

The phone lines are down. Ambulances can't get through the streets. We only have the TV.

At 8:30 a.m. the first estimates are for 20 or 30 "muertos," but the numbers are rising like the sun in the sky. By 11 a.m. the news is broadcasting 60, 75? With many more seriously wounded. By 13:00 they're saying over 100 dead. But that's soon 134, 138, and climbing.

We hear that ETA terrorists have planted multiple bombs on trains at the Atocha, Santa Eugenia, and El Pozo stations. They_ve targeted cars on the line going south out of the center of Madrid towards Alcala de Henares. The first explosion occurs at 7:35 a.m., rush hour. There are others. The police find more explosives in abandoned backpacks at the scene and immediately explode these at a safe distance. All of the news stations are broadcasting the same witness testimonies. Explosions. Screaming. People throwing themselves to the floor. Train parts flying into the air. The doors are blown off their hinges. Shouting. Running.

Bodies are pulled from the rubble. A pregnant woman is rescued but in critical condition. A surviving seven month old baby is found alone in a train wagon. Nearby, a father is still waiting to hear from his daughter. He fears the worst.

People rush to donate blood. The hospitals are inundated with victims, donors, family members hoping for news. People are asked to go back to their houses, to stay off their cell phones. Transportation is strained. Victims should walk to hospitals or take cabs if they are able. Cars are lined up to get out of the city.

More people are gathering in the city center. They are demonstrating for peace in Puerta del Sol. "Basta Ya," they shout, "Enough already!" The 11 of March has been declared the Day for Victims of Terrorism in Europe. Party leaders are giving political speeches. "We will never negotiate with terrorists."

ETA members in prison are said to be cheering at the news of all this destruction.

Now we hear 186 dead. Over 1,000 wounded.

But I feel fine.

I'm thinking... at least my family doesn't live in this city... at least it wasn't the hour when Tufts-in-Madrid students would normally be taking the trains to school... at least friends living nearby weren't injured in the blasts, even if their houses did shake... at least anyone I know wouldn't have been going south out of those stations... at least it wasn't another airplane... at least the numbers aren't in the thousands... At least, at least...At least it wasn't like Sept. 11. At least it wasn't one of us. I feel fine. I feel fine. Really...

Only I don't.

Because it was. It was one of us. It was all of us. And it's all of us again.

I'm tired of excuses and "at leasts". There is no justifying the acts of monsters. And there's no ignoring, no escaping, or forgetting.

Two and a half years later, I've crossed an ocean and moved my world to another continent, but it's really not that different. It's still the same scary, chaotic world.

It's old news now that single murders no longer make the front page. But now, we've started thinking in triple digits. 186 in Madrid is at least not 3,000 in New York -- and at least that's not the originally estimated 10,000. We're growing harder and harder to impress.

Today, amidst all the chaos and terror dominating my television, the most disturbing image was the calmness out my bedroom window.

In my neighborhood, people are out taking their dogs for strolls, delivery trucks are pulling up with barrels of beer for the upcoming weekend, restaurants are readying for the mid-day meal.

We say we have to go on living our normal lives. But normal is different these days. The world has changed. Or, at least... we've changed within it. And that's just not the kind of fine I want to feel.

Erika Langer is a junior majoring in international relations.