
Four years ago I was on a train that blew up.
When I heard the explosion it didn’t sound any different from the sounds a tube train normally makes. The sound of grinding metal and the carriage shakes aren’t unusual; but this got out of hand quite quickly.
A second shake was accompanied by a woman’s scream and then everything lurched. The train was trying to emergency stop but the bomb, directly or indirectly, seemed to have blown the train off the tracks; we therefore road over the debris of the explosion attempting to stop.
I remember feeling it as wheel after wheel hit an obstruction with almighty bangs. Every boom threw the carriages in the air and every landing threw up impenetrable black soot; a wall so thick that I could see it coming to hit me like a wave.
I winced in those final micro seconds of a crash. This was probably going to hurt.
We all ended up lying on the floor, choking for air and sipping that strange inch of clearer stuff that rests underneath a cloud of smoke and soot. I could hear a range of sounds. The fire suppression system was stating the obvious with a beeping alarm. People were coughing / choking and others were pounding on doors and windows trying to break them and breathe.
I could hear people sobbing quietly, scared and confused too, but what of me? My emotions were mixed. There was a part of me that felt like a caged wild animal. It felt like the tunnel had caved in and there was no escape. At that point it felt like death. That feeling you get in your stomach when a loved one dies. You know the inevitability and that you can’t turn back time. Somehow your body is trying to will back what you’d lost.
That’s a hard feeling to deal with, and for me the only way to cope with such a feeling is to do something about it. I crawled down the carriage to the interconnecting door. I needed air and I needed escape. When I looked up, I saw a very simple thing. A small gap between the two carriages and another over the roof; although barely twelve inches, it felt like a space I could crawl through and be my escape.
A funny thing happened after that. I didn’t worry, panic or care about the situation anymore. That simple piece of information was enough to switch my brain into its rational state and deal with everything.
The rest of what happened on that day has been clearly documented. Shortly after getting out I blogged a series of pieces that went global; my website shot up into the 60k most popular in the world and every media outlet tried to dive on the story. I stonewalled radio / TV and entertained written journalists in the vain hope of getting my point across on terrorism. Some material I wrote is now used for training victim councillors, which is at least a positive.
On that day though, all I thought about was everyone’s safety, fire and making sure I didn’t make a bad situation worse. In appraisal there was little I did to either help or hinder. Nothing I could do; although years on, even now, my brain constantly rationalises that day and whether I could do more than I did. The one little thing of help was me finding air for my carriage and allowing people to breathe again. It was so little, it was all so helpless and what happened, all so worthless.
My brain can’t do anything but echo it over and over again. Flipping between scenarios and outcomes. Choices and decisions.
To this day I still see the faces of two men who we helped off the train. Both didn’t have a single piece of visible flesh left on their faces; torn from the blast all that was left was thick red blood. They held their shirts as dressings over bigger bleeds. Turning they said to us, “Is it bad?” What could you answer? “No, you’ll be fine.”
It left me with a sense of leaving a place where people were dying, that emergency services couldn’t get their head around the problem and that, as someone involved, no-one would take me seriously when trying to communicate. It’s all quite disheartening; the mix between doing what you’re told for the greater good and needing to do more.
So I look at the good I saw on the day and the humour instead. The humanity of the shocked passengers on next train I took out of Paddington immediately afterwards. They’d pieced together what had happened from my phone calls and immediately leapt in to offer whatever help they could. Or how I quipped with my fellow tube dwellers when trapped, that it was a maintenance failure in the train, and how could Britain ever host the Olympics we’d won the bid for the day before?
You’d have thought such an event would have changed my life but I’m sorry to say that in the end it really hasn’t. My view on life remains as it always has; where ever there’s inhumanity you’ll find humanity. From horror you’ll find compassion. I certainly believe that as I bump into people through life.
Indeed my view of blogging, the internet and more importantly social networking is the crux of how such horrors are undermined and become worthless. The point of a few crazy people or even the statistical anonymity and tragedy of death is lost over time; a sad but important truth.
What really counts is change; how to keep the humanity without that horror. I think social networking provides this key. It gives us the communication routes to understand other points of view, or rant and be corrected, or change our own view of the world. In a way, this is the how we remove violence and oppression from the world; not through regulation, laws and legislation.
I’ve thought hard about how to express those thoughts within a simple phrase; an echo for the planet to repeat. What I came up with I think is succinct enough to express everything I’ve written and believe. If anything makes a difference it’s this:
World Peace. World Communication. World Wide Web.
:J