By now we all know what happened in Boston on the Marathon Monday – the images and videos, the bystanders and the first brave souls who ran to help the injured victims, and once again, the utterly senseless tragedy of those who had to die so young. Perhaps no one escaped the irony that a historical sporting event known to celebrate the endurance of the human body and spirit was now going to be marred by amputees and a crushing sense of fear.
I received Facebook updates from friends and family who were supporting marathon runners: “We were close but we are OK.” “We are walking home, hoping this is over.” And amid all the media frenzy which kicked in soon after the incident and speculation about which terrorist group this could be, if they were Muslim or not, my memories returned to the days when I first arrived in the United States.
I came to “Beantown” back in August 2001 as a student at Boston University. A month later the aftermath of 9/11 played out in front of me – the suspicious looks on the T because I was of a certain ethnicity; the long-winded discussions on Islam with my agnostic roommate from Pakistan; and of course, the outrageous perversion of a country going to war. My cultural impressions at the time stemmed from a mixed belief that Americans were both enlightened and yet ignorant; friendly and yet wary. While I had discourses in the classroom about Kashmir, the Middle East, and how other parts of the world had been experiencing conflict and terrorism for decades, outside the classroom it was a different story.
Boston was the clichéd melting pot of immigrant diversity within its storied world-class universities. And yet there was a historical precedent of not-so-subtle class and race divisions lining its streets. In my 10 months living in the Brookline neighbourhood and around the BU campus, I never experienced racism. My orbit encompassed college, friends, family, and the occasional rude behaviour from a salesperson. My only immigrant problem was keeping a legal visa status. Perhaps this was the same problem that made it easy for the Indian American community to work hard and thrive – there were many who worked in the storied colleges, in the storied public institutions and built private enterprises, as well as lived in some of the more storied neighbourhoods in the area. Indians had assimilated right down to suffering through the long, hard New England winters.
After graduating from BU, I moved to Washington, DC, another transitional city for migrants and immigrants alike. But in my over decade-long stay it was only in the past year I joined the other hordes of Americans to start running. Why running? I had always admired runners – the sheer act of wearing a pair of shoes and using your body to propel yourself looked like a feat in itself – and yet I could not bring myself to do it. But in a country full of endless possibilities and where all you need is a good idea to get rich quick – running was the answer to all my personal demons – Should I? Can I? Will I? All my doubts dissolved the instant I put on a pair of shoes, and stopped succumbing to brief bouts of fitness and fad diets.
Just a week before the Boston Marathon I ran my own little marathon –- a 10-mile race which coursed through the heart of the American capital –- celebrating the advent of spring with the cherry blossom trees and the historic monuments surrounding it. A welter of thoughts raced through my mind, the most overwhelming being whether I was going to actually finish it. During the race, there was a moment where I almost thought of giving up. I was at the back of the pack with some others when a middle-aged couple cheered: “We would never dream of doing this. We don’t plan on running ever in our lives. But you are doing it and that is amazing. Please keep going!” There were so many strangers like this, supporting and encouraging with slogans, cups of water and funny signs. This was Classic Americana. I smiled and kept going.
So this was what I felt like for 10 excruciating miles. Just imagine a marathon runner – novice or veteran – they will probably experience many more gut wrenching emotions during the course of their 26-mile run. I felt for all the bystanders, supporters and runners at the finish line as the explosions happened. But I also felt for those who had worked so hard for this day. They had to give up, thanks to this horrible and cowardly act. Those who were so strong in body and spirit were being forced to stop. A runner friend told me, “Of course personal safety is more important than the finish line. Yet, of all the days to feel unsafe…”
As usual, the platitudes have come pouring in from those who say, “the Boston Marathon will return next year,” and “Boston is strong and ready.” But no one is compelled to believe this more than the runners themselves. There will surely be amputee runners in future Boston Marathons, but return they will – because this is America at its best, and the art of possibility.
(Shilpa Banerji is a communications consultant for a multi-lateral aid agency based in Washington, DC.)
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