I first heard the news over the radio. The fragmented words crackled as I waited at a red light on the eastern side of main street – the same spot the CBC kicks out on me each day. I heard the words one at a time, separately – gunman . . . parliament . . . shooting . . . soldier. I fiddled with the dial, turned up the volume, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then the light turned green.
The facts were jumbled and confused as the events played out. Most of us spent the day with Peter Mansbridge, keeping an eye or an ear on the news as we tried to be as productive as possible. They spoke of multiple shooters, of motorbikes, of rooftops. At that point, we were ready to believe whatever we were fed. The unbelievable had already proven to be true.
Inevitably, as they all do, that day came to a slow end. A nation rustled from their sheets on Thursday morning as if waking from a rough dream. We squinted and rubbed our eyes and struggled to remember the specific events, the validity of them. Did that really happen? Yes, it did. Yet still, we woke. Still, we readied for the day.
As the calendar rolled, we sorted the facts and we grieved. One scene in particular stands out in my mind, that of an average Canadian who visited the Cenotaph in Ottawa the next day, placed a wreath, and then found himself in front of a television camera. “I just wish we lived in a better world,” he said. Maybe it was the way he said it – from behind two wet eyes, his lips shaking, sincere. That one got me.
Then the story continued to unfold. An interview with one of the bystanders who came to the fallen soldier’s aid: “I told him he was loved,” she said with a broken voice. I hope Cpl. Nathan Cirillo was still there when she said that. I hope he heard those words.
And then we were told the story of the spineless gunman’s final moments. The way he coward behind a pillar, the Sergeant-at-Arms calmly poised against the other side. The thoughts that must have went through Kevin Vickers’ mind in that crucial instant, the overwhelming sense of duty and bravery, followed by – the way it’s been recounted – a feat of heroism that rivals anything that’s ever been produced in Hollywood.
These stories bring us hope amidst the darkness. I love this country. Not in contrast to the others, but because Canada is the name we’ve assigned to the land and the people that I have known throughout my life. I grew up in small-town Ontario, between the fruit orchards and the cornfields. I went to school in a diverse city where I had intellectual conversations with people whose ancestors hailed from every corner of this planet. I’ve lived in the Maritimes, where the people move slowly. I’ve felt the mist of the ocean, crashing against the shore, a hint of salt sticking to the sides of my mouth. And then the Prairies, where massive skies thump blue over endless landscapes, dotted by sturdy clouds.
From coast to coast, this country is as diverse as they come, yet still we band together as one. If only that sentiment could be stretched further, across borders and oceans. If only we could stop choosing teams based on different versions of a creator. If only we could stop waging wars against those who disagree. Yes, this could be a better world.
Are things different now? I don’t know. Only time will tell how this heinous act will shape the future. All we know is that tomorrow, the sun will probably rise over the various horizons of this country. What happens after that is up to us.
