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Experiences of 7/7

Reflections and Images

Debbie Hodge and Mark Fisher reflect on the bomb near CTE's office.

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It came out of the blue
The deafening searing pain
That tore through flesh and bone.
Blood flowed along the street
A shoe, a ladies bag
Covered in red metallic confetti.
Above it all the contorted mangled mess
That was the number 30.

On the pavement she lay
No legs, face covered
In tiny polystyrene balls
That when gently brushed aside
Revealed eyes of palest hue
That recognised love
Before the flickering light
Of earthly life was dimmed.

On a table he lay, the boy from far away
Who wanted to be warm, to journey home.
His shoulder torn with bone exposed
His spiky hair crowning a shattered head.
He clung to life and love,
Yet that was not enough.
In days to come he saw the light
And followed it.

And after the deafening blast
After the last ambulance
With sirens and flashing lights had left
The silence came.
And we who had seen the carnage
And the blood and the shoe and bag
Were left to hold ourselves and each other
Searching heart and mind for explanation.

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Yet there is no explanation
Why people died and lives were shattered
There is no way to reconcile hell on earth…
…except through the prism of hope.
That love will cast out fear,
And love shared on that day
With the living, dying and the dead
Brings to bear a greater hope.

And of the dead where are they now?
Not on cold stone pavement
Or stretcher table top,
But even more alive in paradise,
In all the colours of the rainbow
In joy, in love, in peace,
Where fear cannot choke nor pain prevail
For they now know the deepest greatest love of all...
………………… (And so do I)

©Debbie Hodge 7/7/2009



Sat at my desk in Tavistock Square sifting emails, as per the daily routine, a deep explosive sound and the rattling of recently opened windows turns my panicked attention to the world outside. The instant reaction is to think of a motor accident, but a number of things indicate something different. There is an eerie silence broken only by the pattering of dust and debris against the window. No car horns or agitated voices, just a stunned silence.

Looking out of the window I can see only the gardens in the Square in their summer colours, a vision of beauty and tranquillity, but an urgent and inquisitive look out of the office doors reveals something quite different - utter carnage. Mangled vehicles, including a bus without a roof, scattered across the roads amongst piles of debris. Some figures are beginning to move tentatively amongst it all, some don’t.

Shock and disbelief allow no space for the truth of what has happened.

Focus is given by six people who we take into our office, clothes and limbs lacerated and in much pain, but with no clearer idea of what has taken place. We do what we can and get one in a car to the hospital. A colleague with nursing experience goes to offer her assistance. We do not see her again for nine hours, during which the rest of us are confined to the office.

The day passes in a surreal way. The horrors of what has happened are with us as our visitors gradually unravel accounts of their experience, but the view remains of summer gardens. An eerily unusual silence surrounds and I am drawn to the door to glance at the unspeakable horrors which are just thirty feet away simply to prove it is there.

In between cups of tea and reassuring conversations it is the internet news channels that draw our attention – the slow, but only way of gathering what is going on. Cocooned, by police instruction, within familiar surrounds the reality of death and destruction comes quietly, in contrast to the bomb that has been its cause.

Bus passes bombing memorial

In time a memorial is fastened to the railings on Woburn Place, discreet but necessary. When the mental images of torn metal and bodies surface amid the ordinary of ongoing existence the instinct is to shut them away, but I know that it is right to remember. It seems wrong, somehow, that buses and people now pass the memorial without often a glance. I try to put it all in perspective. Fifteen lives are precious and personal tragedy amongst family and friends is multiplied, yet the scale of tragedy is eclipsed in too many other places. Elsewhere in Tavistock Square I often pass by a tree with a simple plaque that is memorial to the horrors of Hiroshima. Many years ago and many thousands of miles away, but many more lives lost in violence and demanding our memory in order that a momentum for peace might be maintained. I am glad to be reminded. There is also a large rough slab of stone that serves as memorial to conscientious objectors - “to all those who have established and maintain the right to refuse to kill – their foresight and courage give us hope”. I am challenged that my reaction to the utter violence witnessed on the street corner must not be further violence, but I must remember and do something to overcome it.

Mark Fisher 090615
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