When I look out the windows of the school I work at, I see a quiet part of town, a residential area just outside of the city.
I see a part of town that is busy in the mornings and evenings with students and businessmen commuting to and from school and work on foot and by bike.
I see a part of town that, except for the laughter of children coming from schools and the soft voices of mothers drifting through the air, is generally quiet.
I see a place where, for the most part, nothing out of the ordinary ever happens.
May 7, 3:00 P.M.:
A seven-year-old girl is saying goodbye to friends at a train crossing. She is turning to walk down the slightly narrow street that leads to her house. The sky is blue and her house is just out of sight, slightly more than 300 meters ahead of her.
The muffled sound of a train can be heard in the distance, coming down the tracks that parallel her street.
Sometimes unthinkable things happen.
When I first came to this school in April, it was so vibrant. The students were brimming with energy. The teachers were positive and upbeat. The hallways and classrooms were full of life and laughter.
May 7, 4:20 P.M.:
A phone is ringing at a school. A girl’s mother is calling to say that her daughter hasn’t arrived home yet.
Sometimes, on ordinary days, the world as we know it changes forever.
When I look out the windows of the school where I work, the front windows that overlook the school parking lot and the school’s main entrance, I see media vans and news cameras waiting on the other side of the street, just beyond the school’s front gate. I see police officers standing guard and patrolling the school grounds. I see a hoard of parents standing in the parking lot. They have come to walk their children home.
May 7, 5:00 P.M.:
A girl’s mother is calling the police. School officials have informed her that her daughter is no longer at school.
Sometimes the things that we find unfathomable are much nearer to us than we can imagine.
When I come to this school now, it is still vibrant. The students are still brimming with energy. The teachers are still positive and upbeat. The hallways and classrooms are still full of life and laughter. But something isn’t quite the same.
There are strange phone calls flooding the main office. There are investigators in the hallways. There are school counselors that weren’t here before. There is a slight undertone of chaos, a perceivable sense of weariness, a shaky atmosphere of uncertainty.
May 7, 7:30 P.M.:
Police officers are looking for a seven-year old girl who hasn’t come home from school yet.
Sometimes things that aren’t supposed to happen do.
When I look out the back windows of the school, the ones that look out over the tiled roofs of houses in the direction where it happened, reality seems to divide. There are two schools. There are two sets of windows. There are two sets of possibilities. There are two sets of me.
May 7, 10:19 P.M.:
Across the street from a girl’s house, a commuter train is approaching a small station. The night is dark and the tracks are clear.
Sometimes bad things are hiding in plain sight.
When I come to this school now, its vibrancy is both baffling and comforting. On the one hand, I wonder, How can the students be so energetic at a time like this? How can the teachers and parents laugh and smile?
On the other hand, I am reassured and think, Thank God they can.
May 7, 10:29 P.M.:
100 meters from a girl’s house, a train conductor on another train sees a body lying across the train tracks. It is in front of the train that he is driving. He throws on the brakes. But it’s too late.
Sometimes the things we hardly notice, the minutiae of a day, end up haunting us.
When I look out the windows of the school I work at, I see a quiet part of town, a residential area just outside of the city. I see a part of town that is busy in the mornings and evenings with students and businessmen commuting to and from school and work on foot and by bike. I see a part of town that, except for the laughter of children coming from schools and the soft voices of mothers drifting through the air, is generally quiet. I see a place where, for the most part, nothing out of the ordinary happens.
May 7, 11:00 P.M.:
100 meters from a girl’s house, police are examining the scene of an accident. But there are a number of peculiarities that they find suspicious.
Sometimes the questions we have only produce answers and reasons that we can’t understand.
When I come to this school now, I see children, many of them smiling and carrying on as if nothing had ever happened.
I see teachers and faculty working hard, doing what they have to do.
I see reporters, police officers, and parents whose numbers are decreasing little by little everyday.
I see the slightness and fragility of students’ necks, which is something that I had never noticed before.
I see a set of hands that aren’t actually there, squeezing the life out of little bodies.
I see a panic come over everyone in the office whenever there is a phone call that asks about a student’s whereabouts.