The check-in marking her safe popped up some time after the WhatsApp commotion, the Twitter barrage and the hurried substantiation in The New York Times’ reader update.
And I thought about how I hadn’t expected her to be there since she had left three times in the past ten years and the last time, when we were still together, she said she was never going back.
And I sent her a perfectly appropriate “you okay?” but she had blocked my read receipts so there was nothing to do except wait for a reply. And that gave me an excuse to settle in for a lengthy vigil as the story percolated through the information distributaries.
And I lost sight of her as the world observed that ritual conversion of voyeurism into exhibitionism, parrying forwarded messages out of blind habit to one and all in the clearing house of concern. And waves of anxiety crashed on the shore while signal and noise argued to be the first off the boat. And I involved myself in the pageantry because authorship is the best form of control.
And I risked a few minutes of news television to take a swig out of the vitriol ration I had admeasured in this year’s resolutions – and which she would have approved of – but there was the same fuzzy and meagre footage on a dizzying loop on every channel, each scrambling towards a righteous vantage point to avoid talking about the banality of the violence and evil.
And I went deeper for more texture on the back alley chat boards and in my politically segregated messenger groups. And a few of them looked up from the animus of the cockfighting and asked after her. And upon their questioning I felt that perverse pride of being personally connected and having a stronger claim at outrage.
And relying on the untruthful Tripadvisor pictures of the resort we had escaped to together and careening repeatedly through my favourite memory on Google Street View I could not summon the right emotion. And it grew more pathetic as the internet slowed and the data eventually cached on the drive from which I had recently deleted all our photos.
And the afternoon papers just about caught a late scoop about the identity of one of the bombers and of his relation to a locally-settled immigrant family of eight. And they all plead innocent disbelief. And the people she was most afraid of said a mother knows.
And there were hasty fundraisers trying to get in ahead of empathy fatigue. And all of them included the same vague promises of promoting peace in the region. And over lunch, the cashier at the kebab restaurant hunched over his radio and gave me a nervous look which had something of a terminal sadness in it.
And the school kids who usually smiled at us while walking home couldn’t understand how the world of the adults had been hushed up by a game of online tag. And the Pope said the typically sober and sensible thing. And there were no gaffes in the President’s daily tweet.
And the markets held onto their breeches and shrugged off the sudden weight soaking the bottom of their well-hedged trouser cuffs. And some thought it an act of charity to bulk-buy goods of that geographic indication.
And in my bedroom later that night I silenced the alerts but the erratic buzz of the battery was like an uncomfortable massage. And the breathers between episodes gave me just enough time to duck into the bathroom and play refresh the body count. And the dread thrill of the early trajectory flattened as the injured stayed alive.
And the headlines the next day were satisfyingly bold. And we were all inoculated by the editor’s sage opinion.
And our airport reopened with extra security. And I half expected her mother to call and remind me to take the big car and get there early. And the one-way flights full of panicked tourists and privileged locals carried in their hastily packed bags a validation of the tactics deployed. And they spread the embers of audacity and fear far asunder.
And I didn’t hear from her at all. Not on the days after and not into the typically quick normalisation which followed.
And I felt something worse than indignity at this petty extension of her total withdrawal. And it was as if she were so far gone as to doubt my compassion. And when her local friends didn’t respond to my group email with the disarmingly clever title ‘Ceasefire’ I knew it must be survivor guilt.
And so I didn’t talk of her then and changed the subject when my girlfriend of three relationships removed finally brought her up.
And I honestly didn’t think about her again until the next holiday season, when I received an ad for cheap flights to revisit my memories in the City of Smiles. And I wondered if she got it too.
And a year without incident seemed time enough to heal. And I got confused but she would have explained to me how Easter was on two entirely different dates over one consecutive year.
And when I went back to her feed on the actual anniversary of the event, I saw that her profile had been turned into a memorial page because, of course she had rushed back to help and had gotten caught in that second blast.
And the algorithm hadn’t fed me any of the condolence notes.
And I didn’t know whether it was too late to offer a tear emoji so I chose the heart.
And no one had thought to quarrel with the label “Marked Safe”.
And despite knowing her password I left it to fade because she hadn’t put it up there for me.
Note: This piece was conceived after the Easter 2019 bomb attacks in Sri Lanka. The intent is to talk about the way we process tragedy on the online commons and how we seek to insulate ourselves with information. Although the circumstances are vastly different, we are all currently involved in a similar format profusion as we confront the global crisis of Covid19. To paraphrase from that wonderful client pitch in the TV show, Mad Men [and our behaviour online does often resemble a manic-compulsive Slidemaster show], “the carousel projector is a wheel we keep turning to take us back to a place where we can feel safe and loved“. Be well, take care and know that you are.