There are certain events in life that will forever be associated with where you were and what you were doing: the assassination of JFK, the San Francisco Earthquake, the beginning of World War III. Events so intense they freeze the moment like a photograph, like a story writ, galvanized by unnatural speed and the impact of heavy metal.

I was reaching for an iced latte from a buoyant young woman in a Heathrow coffee kiosk as a friend of hers asked, "Have you heard about the planes that crashed into the World Trade Center?" I looked him uncertainly in the eye. "No, what on earth happened?"

He knew no more, was really sketchy on the details. I paid for my coffee, thanked him for the information and set out in search of more concrete news. The flight attendants I queried said they weren't making any announcements about the incident to keep the possibility of panic to a minimum. Great. "But you can probably see it on the TV in the bar at the terminal's end." I had been sleepless for over a day of travel and was hoping to regroup before finding the gate from which to board the British Airways flight to Pakistan. I decided to find the bar first.

After fifteen minutes of the most horrific television I'd ever seen, alone in a foreign airport, I searched my mind for some sort of grip, a toehold, a teeny ledge with an answer on it. Finding nothing but slippery surface, I called the American Embassy. A man said that "informally" he would advise me not to go to Pakistan at this time. I called a friend in Berkeley for a second opinion and found myself babbling into his indifferent answering machine. The first opinion became enough.

Since I'd already checked my bags, I hurried to the gate where almost only Muslim-looking people were sitting around, calmly waiting to board. I told one of the airline employees that I didn't want to take this flight, could my bag be pulled? She was very understanding when she heard my American accent, and told me where I could pick it up in an hour's time.

It took two hours to find both of my bags, the other one having been on a later United flight from SFO, now bound independently for Pakistan. Most flights were cancelled out of Heathrow and there were people and baggage everywhere, people with red-rimmed eyes, frustrated, weary, sad people. I was one of them. It was one foot in front of the other. I stood for a solemn moment and looked around; the line for hotel recommendations was hopelessly long. I found my list of addresses; who did I know in London? Bika Reed. I had met her in Egypt six years ago, stayed with her transiting through London one night, might she be at home? Yes, and there was no hesitation in her voice when I explained the situation. Of course I could stay with her.

That was nearly a week ago. We mostly watched the BBC news, walked around her neighborhood a bit, ate out a couple of times, and talked and talked and talked about this unbelievable and disastrous event. I was extremely jet-lagged and thrown off center by the implications of this heinous act of terrorism. As the human stories were told, the sense of loss became more real to me: the loss of human lives, the loss of freedom and the almost-cliched-by-now loss of innocence of the American people.

Without going into a long political rant, we Americans have long lived in a bubble of arrogance and ignorance; the feedback I get from many people is that it's about time Americans existed in the same world everyone else does. No one applauds the loss of life, but they do applaud the wake-up call.

I am personally sad for the Arabs who will now be maligned by fearful Americans generalizing the actions of a few insane men onto the entire Muslim people. I know that fear myself, however, and for some reason I must stand and face it. So instead of traveling to a ridiculously dangerous Muslim country like Pakistan, where I was headed for a month of blissful shopping (Peshawar), gorgeous mountain hiking (the Karakorum Highway), and a short hop into China (Kashgar), and instead of choosing a hedonistic month in Hindu India with my Italian friend, Dava, I have opted to get back on the horse in Tunisia, a seemingly neutral, slightly familiar, not crazily dangerous Muslim country. I feel that this is the right thing to do (even though Goa shimmers in the back of my mind like a mirage, a lotus-eater, a beckoning finger of smoke).

I sit now at my friend Monia's desk, the call to prayer softly shaking the glass in her bedroom window, and feel like I could be in for a very rich month of travel in this small and fascinating country. My mood is subdued, however, by the very real threat of war if George Bush does what he says he will do, subdued by the heaviness of being an American in a Muslim country, and a little subdued by the sore throat that snagged me yesterday. I have no idea what will happen, but it is here in Tunisia I'll be for the next month or so.

I offer prayers for all of us and I hope you are well. Please write if you can, as I'd love a reality check now that it changes so fast. I'm afraid to come home. I send my love, Zena

    London Dispatch 12/16/96        DISPATCH HOME