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Wendy Hope works in an office with a magnificent view, from which she sees things great and small. And sometimes, even historic, heart-breaking.
“To me, this is a window on Ottawa.”
We’re eyeing the full sweep of the National War Memorial from the fourth floor of the Central Chambers, at 46 Elgin St., suite 400. Everyone knows this building, of red brick and stone, with the giant bay windows, stacked, with grey trim.
Hope is a vice-president at the Canadian Life and Health Insurance Association. She has her own office, with a desk, computer and one of those tall, nameless, sullen plants in the corner.
A year ago Thursday, just before 10 a.m., she was on a conference call, listening intently, when she was interrupted. “They knocked on my door and said ‘something terrible is happening outside’.”
She looked out. By the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, she saw a man lying down, being attended to. She reached for a pair of binoculars on a nearby shelf.
“You could see them working on him,” she said Tuesday. “You look at these things and then you realize, I really shouldn’t have looked, to be honest.”
But it was early moments in the tragedy, and much was unknown. “His face was drained. I looked at him and thought, ‘This young man is not going to make it.’”
The young man did not make it. He was Cpl. Nathan Cirillo, 24, a ceremonial sentry and young father. As he fought for his life, the core of the city went into lockdown, and the occupants of 46 Elgin stood and watched.
Philip Gordon, 55, was in the next office, which has a similarly grand view of the plaza. He is a government and international relations analyst. He heard before he saw.
“I was sitting at my desk and just heard pops that sounded different than the usual construction noise,” he said, joining us in Hope’s office.
“I got up after, I recollect, the third one, and saw the guy with the rifle in his arms, up in the air.”
In an office next to Gordon’s — they’re all the same size, with the same giant bay window — worked a man named Anthony Zobl, 35, an economist who has since left the firm. He saw even more.
“I looked out the window and saw a shooter, a man dressed all in black with a kerchief over his nose and mouth and something over his head as well, holding a rifle and shooting an honour guard in front of the cenotaph point-blank, twice,” Zobl told The Canadian Press a year ago.
“It looked like the honour guard was trying to reach for the barrel of the gun. The honour guard dropped to the ground and the shooter kind of raised his arms in triumph holding the rifle.”
46 Elgin bore witness that day, the iconic windows acting as giant eyes. Much has it seen. It was built in 1890-93, long before the War Memorial was there, and is now a National Historic Site. Kings and queens have set eyes on it, princes and presidents, old soldiers and babies, Will and Kate.
Bearing witness: hasn’t the whole city done as much in the last 12 months?
In the early hours, we saw the grainy photo of Michael Zehaf-Bibeau, the half-hidden, spooky-eyed gunman. In the early weeks, we saw the video of him running, the car he weirdly abandoned. We saw the panic on the Hill. We saw the ease with which he burst into the Centre Block. We saw his message, very nearly his last words, on a cell phone. We saw Cirillo’s last living moments, in Citizen photos, not a month ago. We saw and heard, tearfully, from his desperate rescuers.
We were witness, really, to our own vulnerability. Imagine, so many have said, if he’d had accomplices, or if he’d been armed with grenades, or if he’d had an elaborate plan?
Well, he didn’t. Individually, we react to trauma differently. I know of a man who has not worked a day since this happened. But, in community, people together are resilient, whole cities especially so.
The sentries are back at the war memorial. Parliament is not yet an armed fortress. People freely criss-cross this same plaza day and night, lounge on benches under leafy trees, point to the monument’s crown, the figures of winged peace and liberty.
Hope, for one, is glad the sentries came back, this time protected by two police officers.
“I don’t think you run away from something like that,” she said. “You need to re-establish that this is what this place is all about.”
Hope and Gordon are reminded of the shooting every time they look out and see the police guards, see the sentries in their polished boots. They will certainly be reminded today.
“It was bit disturbing for a while but we don’t dwell on it,” said Hope.
True. We don’t dwell on it, we dwell in it; we bear witness, look away, put faith the best place we can — in this very city, in tomorrow.
To contact Kelly Egan, please call 613-726-5896 or email kegan@ottawacitizen.com
Twitter.com/kellyegancolumn
查看原文...
“To me, this is a window on Ottawa.”
We’re eyeing the full sweep of the National War Memorial from the fourth floor of the Central Chambers, at 46 Elgin St., suite 400. Everyone knows this building, of red brick and stone, with the giant bay windows, stacked, with grey trim.
Hope is a vice-president at the Canadian Life and Health Insurance Association. She has her own office, with a desk, computer and one of those tall, nameless, sullen plants in the corner.
A year ago Thursday, just before 10 a.m., she was on a conference call, listening intently, when she was interrupted. “They knocked on my door and said ‘something terrible is happening outside’.”
She looked out. By the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, she saw a man lying down, being attended to. She reached for a pair of binoculars on a nearby shelf.
“You could see them working on him,” she said Tuesday. “You look at these things and then you realize, I really shouldn’t have looked, to be honest.”
But it was early moments in the tragedy, and much was unknown. “His face was drained. I looked at him and thought, ‘This young man is not going to make it.’”
The young man did not make it. He was Cpl. Nathan Cirillo, 24, a ceremonial sentry and young father. As he fought for his life, the core of the city went into lockdown, and the occupants of 46 Elgin stood and watched.
Philip Gordon, 55, was in the next office, which has a similarly grand view of the plaza. He is a government and international relations analyst. He heard before he saw.
“I was sitting at my desk and just heard pops that sounded different than the usual construction noise,” he said, joining us in Hope’s office.
“I got up after, I recollect, the third one, and saw the guy with the rifle in his arms, up in the air.”
In an office next to Gordon’s — they’re all the same size, with the same giant bay window — worked a man named Anthony Zobl, 35, an economist who has since left the firm. He saw even more.
“I looked out the window and saw a shooter, a man dressed all in black with a kerchief over his nose and mouth and something over his head as well, holding a rifle and shooting an honour guard in front of the cenotaph point-blank, twice,” Zobl told The Canadian Press a year ago.
“It looked like the honour guard was trying to reach for the barrel of the gun. The honour guard dropped to the ground and the shooter kind of raised his arms in triumph holding the rifle.”
46 Elgin bore witness that day, the iconic windows acting as giant eyes. Much has it seen. It was built in 1890-93, long before the War Memorial was there, and is now a National Historic Site. Kings and queens have set eyes on it, princes and presidents, old soldiers and babies, Will and Kate.
Bearing witness: hasn’t the whole city done as much in the last 12 months?
In the early hours, we saw the grainy photo of Michael Zehaf-Bibeau, the half-hidden, spooky-eyed gunman. In the early weeks, we saw the video of him running, the car he weirdly abandoned. We saw the panic on the Hill. We saw the ease with which he burst into the Centre Block. We saw his message, very nearly his last words, on a cell phone. We saw Cirillo’s last living moments, in Citizen photos, not a month ago. We saw and heard, tearfully, from his desperate rescuers.
We were witness, really, to our own vulnerability. Imagine, so many have said, if he’d had accomplices, or if he’d been armed with grenades, or if he’d had an elaborate plan?
Well, he didn’t. Individually, we react to trauma differently. I know of a man who has not worked a day since this happened. But, in community, people together are resilient, whole cities especially so.
The sentries are back at the war memorial. Parliament is not yet an armed fortress. People freely criss-cross this same plaza day and night, lounge on benches under leafy trees, point to the monument’s crown, the figures of winged peace and liberty.
Hope, for one, is glad the sentries came back, this time protected by two police officers.
“I don’t think you run away from something like that,” she said. “You need to re-establish that this is what this place is all about.”
Hope and Gordon are reminded of the shooting every time they look out and see the police guards, see the sentries in their polished boots. They will certainly be reminded today.
“It was bit disturbing for a while but we don’t dwell on it,” said Hope.
True. We don’t dwell on it, we dwell in it; we bear witness, look away, put faith the best place we can — in this very city, in tomorrow.
To contact Kelly Egan, please call 613-726-5896 or email kegan@ottawacitizen.com
Twitter.com/kellyegancolumn
查看原文...
