Reflections on London and Paris, From London Pt. 9 (First Photo by Thibault Camus/AP, Second Photo by Oliver Dixon)
2/12/15 I’m sick of not sleeping. I’m sick of stressing myself into a corner, defenseless to my own racing thoughts. I hate the kind of person, the kind of version of myself, that school turns me into: and I hate that not even London can stop her from making an appearance most days. I guess I thought leaving the country to study abroad, I might be able to escape that – but I guess I thought wrong. Being here for three months has challenged me in more ways than just being homesick or confused by drivers on the “wrong” side of the road: it’s challenged my emotions, my strength and drive to pursue my education. And in the short time I’ve been here, I’ve lived through and experienced the complete horror that came with the ever-growing threat of ISIS. On the 13th of November, several coordinated terrorist attacks occurred across different parts of Paris, France. After all was said and done, the Islamic State would publicly claim responsibility for the attacks that came to claim the lives of 130 innocent people. I remember sitting in the kitchen of my flat, staring at my phone in complete disbelief as news brief after news brief alerted my phone. I was the first of my friends to know, and had to tell them all what had happened. I could barely manage the words “there’s been a terrorist attack in Paris”. It still didn’t seem real.
I was so, so scared for my life the day after the attacks. I was scared to leave my flat in Harrow. I was scared to ride the tube. I was scared to go into Central London. What scared me most, though, was not just the stomach churning, heart-breaking acts of terrorism themselves, but the specificity of the attacks. Just days before I left the states, I saw one of my favorite bands in concert in Tucson: Eagles of Death Metal. If I’d decided to go to Paris that weekend, I would have been at the Bataclan that night. Why wouldn’t I have been? I was just like all the people that had been at the show that night – only looking for a fun night with good music. I already knew how fantastic the band was live – what would have held me back from being in the audience when the gunman stormed the doors? Nothing but my own sheer laziness in not scheduling my pre-planned, hopeful weekend-trip to Paris that never happened.
This fear has not been replaced, so to speak, but only accompanied by a rapidly increasing desire to go home and be with my family.
In the wake of these feelings of fear, total sadness, shock and frustration, amidst other academic-related issues with the University itself, I was soon faced with making the difficult decision to withdrawal from the upcoming spring term and cut my time here short. Five months short. I feel defeated, as though I have failed in some way. I feel ashamed and embarrassed in my decision, but at the same time so relieved that I cut myself some slack and decided enough was enough: maybe I wasn’t quite cut-out for this year-long study abroad thing. Not after what happened in Paris. Maybe the timing wasn’t quite right.
