Op-Ed: An American’s account of the Brussels attack

I’ve lived in Brussels for 3-and-a-half months — I’ve figured out how to jiggle the sticky lock on my apartment door, navigated through an ever-changing sidewalk maze of canine excrement and acquainted myself with a certain orange chair in a nearby coffee shop.

My neighborhood is quaint and quiet. The streets spill over with schoolchildren speeding ahead of straggling parents and the windows of my bedroom open out onto an elementary school playground — they’re lucky students, as recess appears to be perpetual. I am comfortable in what has so quickly become home, with all its little intricacies and annoyances.

—

Tuesday, March 22, was a leisurely morning — I woke up a contented kind of too late, let my arms fall into a well-worn flannel and arrived at my tram stop with a bag full of books, just for fun. I had finished my assignments early and finally set aside time for a few recreational chapters.

I heard the news upon arriving at my usual cafe. I had just hooked up to the Wi-Fi before the flood began — program chats poured into my inbox, staff messages swamped Facebook while FaceTime blinked with 12 missed calls. The airport had been hit, Maalbeek metro station followed. Texts flew in from local friends and advisers: we should avoid public buildings and large crowds, stay in our apartments if at home or in class if at university.

In these first muddled moments, I experienced my only moment of fear.

I was alone, an American, 40 minutes from my apartment with little information and only conversational French. Did I go back? How? My metro line had been bombed out, opting for the tram now seemed unwise and a walk would be far and solitary. Should I stay? With whom? Some patrons had left lattes full and foamy. Newspapers sat unfolded, jilted on couch cushions and hanging from table corners. Other patrons lingered, leaning halfheartedly against armchairs, suspended in my same disoriented limbo.

The memory of this moment is silent —  it plays in semi-slow motion as I linger between identities — a Belgian resident, traveling via demolished metro lines and assaulted airports, and an American outsider, a kind of habitue for a five-month measure.

Both identities human, susceptible to fear, frustration and grief.

—

The day progressed and smoke began to dissipate — my university had been evacuated, security levels raised to the highest level and residents asked to stay inside.

I had walked home from my cafe, past earsplitting ambulances and military vehicles moving with enough momentum to appear in flight. I wandered past taped-off train stations through congested cobblestone. I waved to packs of friends as they evacuated university, offered each other apartment space and last night’s leftovers.

I spent the remainder of the day in my apartment — finished a book, drank six cups of tea, tried to access the saturated phone lines. Email updates poured in endlessly, telling me to listen to program advisers and avoid American news. If you hadn’t already been frightened, you would be after reading it — reporters were frantic to the point of theatrics, sensational and lacking in factual information.

Belgian news, offered only in French and Dutch, was translated and sent via English-speaking staff to offer realistic, levelheaded updates.

Despite the lockdown, my apartment was peaceful, an even-tempered atmosphere with a somber riptide.

Outside my apartment, life for Belgians didn’t slow. Recess remained deafening, the screams a blend of endearing and irksome. Friends told me of trips for chocolate milk and cigarettes — the most mundane cravings quenched without apprehension. The city, it seemed, wouldn’t stop for savagery.

—

The following morning felt a little like “Groundhog Day” — like I might’ve been the only one who had registered the attacks. Families meandered through sidewalks, suits turned into office buildings, coffee carts sat on street corners — just like always.

Hadn’t these people read the news? Danger, Will Robinson, danger! Avoidance, apparently, was not the Belgian way. People appeared unfazed, steadfast in their resistance to fear and fury.

—

A museum of memorials blanketed downtown streets.

While the city’s circadian rhythm carried on, De Brouckère — the tribute location — offered a place to lament. The hurt sat quietly in mourning alongside anger and affection, nestled between tri-colored flags and crayon-coated cards, melting into candle wax. 

My visit left me at a loss: stuck somewhere between heartbreak for a newfound home and guilt for claiming what might not be mine. I am not Belgian — these were not my people, my parents or my peers, and yet the city had carved out a home my chest. Brussels had stolen my heart silently, slowly and then entirely. 

—

Several days later, friends shipped out for spring break and I made my way to Paris for a family visit.

I planned on traveling via train and left myself two hours at the station to make it through security, although advisers recommended four for airport visits.

I did as told, dragging an aunt and cousin into Brussels-South, the station at the heart of the city, well before departure.

“We’ll need to be checked before we head inside,” I said, “and they’ll go through luggage — the line is supposed to be endless. Better safe than sorry.”

We made it to our station in 30 minutes — even after a 15-minute wait at an information center and a full ticket refund for a family member who had fallen ill.

I was shocked — frightened — by the lack of surveillance.

I felt unsafe, vulnerable. No one had noticed my entrance into the station, never mind checked my bag, questioned my travel plans or asked me to remove metal objects before a security screening.

In fact, my arrival into Paris offered a glimpse at a far more meddlesome process: Passengers were required to send bags through an X-ray belt, remove jackets and provide identification and ticket information. Where had this been in Brussels, a city so recently and traumatically affected by anarchic violence conducted via station infiltration?

—

I am comforted by Belgian resilience, by their perseverance and strength in the face of such adversity. And somehow, still, I am troubled by the ease with which they relapse into what seems to be naïve trust and ineffective habits.   

I am perplexed, faintly discouraged. Regardless, I revere a city whose skin glistens with grit in the face of such grotesque events.

—

Savagery saw the most beautiful side of Belgium — singular, steadfast, roaring with resilience, standing around a potter’s wheel with a new piece of porcelain.

Emily Bogen is studying English Literature, English Writing and Secondary Education. She is not a member of The Pitt news, and has submitted this as an Op-Ed

Write to Emily at ebb17@pitt.edu.