Endings & Beginnings (Non-Fiction)

In exactly nine hours from now, I’ll be on my way to Christchurch International Airport.

Well, we like to call it an International Airport but I’ve seen airports in other countries and this one doesn’t really cut it. It’s nice and all the rest of it, but international? No. Not even close. The domestic and international parts are located in the same building and before 15th March 2019, you didn’t even have to pass through security in order to board and fly on a domestic flight.

Christchurch, New Zealand. My hometown. A place that most of the world hadn’t heard of until a few weeks ago, when a deranged and cruel man with a gun took it upon himself to rob 50 people of their lives, rob untold people of their loved ones, and rob a country of its innocence.

I have to admit that I haven’t been back to town since the shooting. I was only a couple of blocks away from the mosque at the time, stuck in a traffic jam that shouldn’t have been there, when a guy in a car in the next lane started yelling. I wound down the window to see what he wanted ’cos that’s what you do in my hometown. “Hey, there’s been a shooting. Turn off here. The roads are blocked up ahead. Can you let me in?”

“A shooting? Are you sure?” We don’t have shootings in New Zealand. Guns are for hunting game. Even our police are unarmed. Or they were.

“Can you let me in? No point in trying to stay on this road now.” The man in the next car looked panicky, scared. I knew at once that even if all of this was in his head, I wanted to help him out.

“Sure. Go right ahead.” I held back as the traffice inched forward, engine idling, as he slipped into my lane and indicated to turn his car left at the next intersection. My son, back from teaching overseas and staying with me for a few weeks, leaned over from the passenger seat and turned up the car radio as we listened in horror and disbelief.

Someone with a gun has just run into a mosque and started shooting at innocent people. Loyal worshippers in the act of prayer.

"No. This is Christchurch. This is New Zealand. Someone has the wrong end of the stick. Stuff like this doesn't happen here." I wanted to change to another radio station and find something newsworthy, something to listen to other than this rubbishy rubbish.

"Sssshhh." My son batted my hand away from the knob and turned the radio volume up another notch. "Turn off here, Mum. Follow that guy. We need to get out of town."

It took a long to get home, back to my quiet little house by a peaceful, empty beach, located just twenty minutes from the CBD on a good day. We stopped for petrol and the woman behind the counter was pale and trembling, numb with shock, barely able to ring up the till when I passed her the money. We slow-crawled past two primary schools as crowds of anxious parents huddled outside, way past the time the 3 o'clock Friday bell tolled its song of freedom. Every school in the city was in lockdown and they would remain that way until 7pm.

My son was all over the internet by the time we arrived home. Footage of the shooting, the name of the gun man, and other details were available without anyone hardly needing to look for them. The television had rolling coverage, my phone was blowing up, and my Facebook feed kept on scrolling in differing variegated shades of anger, sorrow, outrage, and incredulity.

Stuff like this doesn't happen here. New Zealand is a safe, friendly country. People come here to escape the awfulness they've suffered in other countries.

How dare he.

Hours ticked by. The six degrees of separation kicked in (we've always called it three degrees of separation in New Zealand). Everyone knew someone who was affected; they had worked with the husband, had lunch with the wife, or had bought a present for the child. Or, they lived next to mosque and opened their doors for the injured, or heard the gunshots, or they worked at the hospital, or they had been one of the first responders.

This was personal.

Perhaps it was intended this way. That man was not 'one of us'. He wasn't a New Zealander. A New Zealander would never do such a thing.

The world awoke to the horror and the world immediately responded. The attention was loud, outraged, and constant. Sometimes it felt like too much. We're not big on blowing our own trumpets and saying 'hey, look at me' in Christchurch, New Zealand.

We've seen tragedy before. Our city is still recovering from the 2010-2011 earthquakes that leveled our town. Nerve endings are still exposed or at the very least thinly glossed over. This tragedy has opened old wounds and reminded us all that they're still raw. In reality, the healing had only just begun.

I’ll take the long way when I drive out to the airport tonight so I don’t have to drive anywhere near town. I'm hoping to avoid the sorrow that still clings like a misty, grey shroud over the city but I might be kidding myself.

So, yeah. I’m leaving my country in a few hours and I'm still not sure how I feel about that. I have to turn up super early at Christchurch International Airport due to the increased security measures and I’m bound for America, a place that is unfortunately reknown for such tragedies.

My writing, my true lifetime passion, won me a ticket on that plane. I should be jubilant but I’m in two minds as to whether I should be going, especially as I’m travelling alone.

However, I’m reminding myself now that I’m from Christchurch. I’m a true Cantabarian and we’ve got this. We don’t back down.

Kia kaha.

I’ll be back.