FLASHBULB MOMENT

I was at the hairdresser's the day the world changed. Late as usual, I vaguely recall the radio mentioning a multitude of deaths and President Bush altering his itinerary. In typical Canadian fashion, I dismissed it as another mass murder south of the border. 'Must be a biggy this time, if W.'s changed his plans,' I smugly assumed.

Other than that, nothing. My thoughts were consumed with trying in vain to recall all the things I would inevitably forget to do before leaving Canada behind for a sixth month odyssey in Budapest. With no TV, only the non-stop ringing of mobiles - mine and other clients - we were sealed in a bubble. As news of the mounting attacks came through, we knew this would be a part of history; but a part of history the way the assassinations of Kennedy and Lennon are flashbulb moments in time. The events have become so ingrained into contemporary folklore that they have lost any connection to the real world. They have been reduced to mere relics of mass culture.

Yet as the shock slowly set in, September 11th was no longer just a story for the office waterhole.

Yes, it was exhilarating. The thrill of hearing that you were privy to a moment you'd tell your grandchildren about. There was even a sense of awe at the flawlessness with which the attacks were carried out. So smoothly, even a Hollywood blockbuster has never concocted so perfect a plot.

I can recall the joking fashion with which we'd look out the window checking to see if Bay Street - Canada's equivalent to Wall Street - was still standing. The banter back and forth as friends and relatives called in with updates. Hearing that for the first time in history, the longest undefended border in the free world was now closed indefinitely. The amusing and somewhat irritating newfound knowledge that I was not going to Budapest - was going nowhere for that matter, except back to my Toronto flat.

For those of us residing on the west coast of the Atlantic, September 11th very quickly ceased to be just another flashbulb moment in time. The memory of standing at the corner of Yonge and Bloor streets, my feet cemented to the ground, gaping in astonishment at the CTV News ticker billboard, will never leave me. Suspended in disbelief, watching the ill-fated planes crash over and over and over again. 'Why won't somebody just press pause???' Standing there with dozens upon dozens of others, discharged from evacuated offices, as a frantic continent tried to come to terms with the calamity of it all.

For a week, I waited along with thousands of others, caught in similar predicaments. During that week, everyone, absolutely everyone, had a story to tell. A friend's father, on his way to the World Trade Centre for a meeting with his American counterparts, forgot his laptop. As a result, he missed his flight and his 9am meeting. A neighbour's brother had, only the day before, postponed a meeting at the Twin Towers until the end of the week. The tales were numerous, the endings not always happy.

Having resided in Hungary for nearly two months now, what is most striking of all is the difference in reactions. The distinction is that here in Hungary, the attacks are recounted in a blasé manner - the way one talks of the horrific car crash they saw on the way to work; you see it, you tell the sensational story and then move on. The topic only crops back up when the papers fill with more sensational details. In Canada, the sorrow felt was not sympathy at another's misfortune, but an aching for our own loss. The reaction was the same as when a close family member has died suddenly and without just cause. You begin to feel the attack was directed at you. If you believe what you hear, the Eiffel Tower was targeted two years ago. This is what I think is failed to be noticed on this side of the world.

There is an absence of memorials, and condolence books. Walk past the American embassy and all you'll see is the guard. There are no cascading mounds of flowers, or handwritten notes pinned to the fence. The newspapers are largely devoid of personal commentaries and disbelief at how our world shattered that day. Instead, all I see are the "professional" analyses of the attack. The newswire reports are dry accounts on this-and-that-country's sending in of troops. There is no attempt to grapple with the problem of differentiating the terrorists' propaganda from the innocent Muslims who are made guilty by association. The Afghan refugees in Debrecen are only mentioned in a half-forgotten passing.

Perhaps geography is the decisive factor, and Hungarians are just too far removed, figuratively and literally, from the events. Kosovo only became real in Canadian minds with the arrival of the Kosovo refugees. And the image of an American boy, his lifeless body dragged through the streets of Somalia, chanting crowds lining to catch a glimpse of their victory, soon faded from memory.

Maybe in North America our shock comes from our naivety. In World War II, Europe saw its cities demolished on a scale unequalled by the attack on the Pentagon and World Trade Center. Until the September 11th attacks, Americans' most vivid act of war was Pearl Harbour, where the victims were mainly military personnel.

In Canada, there are no acts of war on national soil in living memory. In comparison to European history, the event seems inconsequential. The War of 1812 lasted two years, during which the Americans and British fought only one battle, the Battle of York (now Toronto), on Canadian soil. The city lost 62 of its soldiers and was under siege for a mere three days. Is September 11th our induction into the real world?

Whatever the reason, there is a notable difference in the reactions. We may share the same guilty admiration for the flawlessness of the crime, and we all have an infantile irritation that we will no longer be able to crisscross borders with the ease we once did. But the overpowering emotion that a third party has entered our home, broken up our marriage and yanked out the rug of trust from under us is missing.

November 2001
Caroline Konrad