Barcelona · August 2017
Nine years ago, I witnessed one of the most heartbreaking moments I have ever experienced in a public space: the terrorist attacks in Barcelona and Cambrils.
I wasn’t watching it unfold on television—I lived only a few streets away, right next to Barcelona’s main police station.
While buying milk for my coffee at the supermarket around the corner, we were suddenly told to run home and lock ourselves in.
Police cars raced past my apartment. Helicopters filled the sky. One of the terrorists, heavily armed, had reached my neighborhood. We were told to stay indoors.
The day after, I sat down and tried to make sense of what had happened.
I recently remembered the essay I wrote back then.
Reading it again today reminded me of this: some people might try to take us down—to destroy our warmheartedness, softness, empathy, and kindness. But if these qualities are firmly anchored in who we are, they will show themselves again. Always.
So, I here are these words exactly as they were written:
Their blood on my feet, our claps in my head
This was the first time terrorism became part of my own reality.
For quite some time, I had been looking at the world around me, shaking my head in disbelief.
I’m not even going to begin listing what shocks me most. I wouldn’t know where to start—or where to stop.
Yesterday, two cowardly attacks claimed the lives of fourteen people in Catalonia and left more than one hundred others injured. The deadliest attack took place in the beautiful city I had recently begun to call home: Barcelona.
I have friends all over the world—warm-hearted, kind and deeply compassionate human beings. If they happen to live somewhere where something terrible happened, I am the one asking: ‘are you ok?’
Yesterday, my phone never stopped ringing. Friends and family reached out, asking if I was okay. The truth was: I didn’t know. I was afraid. Confused. Still trying to grasp what had happened. Yet, wrapped in all your love, care and support, I also felt strangely strong and protected.
As the streets slowly filled with people again, I found myself doing what all of you had done for me first: reaching out to others. Hugging neighbours. Comforting strangers. Becoming part of the same chain of kindness that had first reached me. Reminding one another that love is stronger than hate.
Today I went to Plaça de Catalunya to participate in the minute of silence and afterwards, to walk down Las Ramblas, joining the “demonstration of peace”. The square was filled with people of all age and backgrounds. Every now and then, the words “No tinc por” (Catalan for “we are not afraid.”) echoed through the crowd.
Were we really not afraid, deep down inside? Or were we simply refusing to let fear become louder than our humanity?
Perhaps we were swallowing our fear because we still had something worth defending: resilience, unity and compassion.
After the minute of silence, the applause began—and carried on. With every single clap, that was joined by a spoken “No tinc por”, an incredible energy spread out. It felt as though all of us were lifted into the blue sky. The sun dried our tears and proved one thing: The beauty (Barcelona) is strong.
We started marching. Entering Las Ramblas, that feeling remained. In my thoughts, I thanked every single police officer for protecting us—not just today, but every day. I lit my first candle at the first spot where so many had already left flowers and teddy bears. People cried, embraced, and applauded. The energy was a mix of sorrow, trying to make sense of all of it, and hope. We made a stand against hate and showed our deep sympathy for the victims and their families. In my heart, I held not just the people here in Barcelona, but everyone affected by violence around the world.
I continued walking and joined the officials for a while, walking next to them. They were less protected than I thought, and I wondered what was going on in their minds and thoughts.
I clapped “No tinc por”.
For those who (well, hopefully) have never experienced something like this: Being surrounded by a crowd of people, clapping, chanting those words from the very bottom of their hearts—that’s when you feel empowered. With every step, every clap, every “No tinc por!” we grew louder. Stronger. Love will win over evil.
The atmosphere and my emotions could not change faster.
A small group of people on the street to my right caught my attention.
Only a few flowers, scattered, and some candles were to be seen. I left the demonstration, stopped to light another candle and send all my love to the victims. It was right then when I realised my surroundings. The buildings. With the blink of an eye, all the warmth and strength that I felt before disintegrated into a single emotion: inner pain. Pure. It hit me as if someone had taken my heart between their hands and squeezed it whilst clapping. The dead. The injured. The injustice. This could have been me. The day before, not long before the attacks, I had cycled down this very street.
I realized my left foot was standing in blood that hadn’t even dried yet. Wearing flip-flops, I felt as though it entered my body, as if I could feel their pain. I stepped aside, pushed my sunglasses up into my hair, tried to breathe. I watched. People stepped into the blood, took photos, moved on. Rage and helplessness filled me.
I tried to submerge myself again into the powerful wave of “no tinc por”. Did all the affirmations I know – yet my chest remained tight. Yesterday I was the one hugging people, now I would have simply loved to hug the Mosso (policeman) next to me. There was a rifle in between the both of us. The gun. Breathe. The pain. Breathe. My flipflop. Breathe. Legs shaking. Heart racing.
A red light hit my eye. A rolling camera, aimed straight at me. The cameraman seemed pleased to have found someone visibly falling apart. Beside him, an equally satisfied journalist planted his white sneakers directly in the blood. This blonde will do perfectly for the evening news. The lens zoomed in. A nod. The microphone shoved into my face. The first question asked. In silence, I pulled my sunglasses over my eyes, shielding what was left of my heart: Go film your own reflection.
I felt numb, as if I were in a bubble, walking back to my bike on autopilot. Read positive messages from friends trying to cheer me up. Their words reached my heart, yet not my smile. People were saying, “We cannot let them stop us from living our daily lives.” Well, we weren’t, not really. Obviously, we had decided not to hide in our apartments out of fear. And yet, we had stopped our daily lives. We were here, clapping, chanting, leaving candles and flowers. Standing shoulder to shoulder. Refusing to let terror decide who we were—or how we would treat one another. We were actively changing our daily routine because of what had happened yesterday—because of what happens far too often all over the world.
Can I go to the Fiesta de Gràcia tonight, knowing this tragedy just happened? My phone buzzed. As if a Barcelona friend could read my mind: “Fiesta de Gràcia is still on. Just to show ‘No tinc por.'”
Ha—it is already affecting me.
A few hours have passed between being on Las Ramblas and writing this down. Time spent being deeply hurt, wanting to throw up, scream, and hit one of those idiots really badly—and all of you know that I am usually more of a hugger. I had conversations with great friends, filled with love and empathy. I felt protected again, knowing I am not alone with my feelings, that I am understood. Right now, reflecting on what happened while sitting on a bench outside, there are two doves having sex right in front of me. Love is in the air.
What happened in Barcelona yesterday, and to me today, shook me deeply. I will forever carry that blood in the form of empathy, humanity, and kindness in my heart; I will forever feel the vibrations of “No tinc por” in my cells.
Because after all, no matter how broken this world sometimes feels, there are people in this world who still show that life is lovable.
Nine Years Later
Looking back today, I realise that what stayed with me wasn’t only the horror of that day.
It was the extraordinary humanity that followed.
The strangers who hugged each other.
The silence.
The applause.
The people who refused to let terrorists have the final word.
I had become part of something much bigger than myself: a community standing together against hate, united by compassion and hope.
The world still feels heavy at times.
Perhaps even heavier than it did back then.
The blood disappeared from the streets.
The sound of that clapping still lives in my heart.
If there is one thing it reminds me of, it is this:
We cannot undo what happened. But we can decide what we carry forward.
As for me, I choose this:
Empathy is never wasted.
Kindness is never weak.
Love is still the strongest force I know.