This issue, I’d like to take a break from the political arena. I feel the need to share my Boston Marathon experience.

The day started just fine. Clear skies and ideal weather conditions for a marathon. Off to the Boston Common, then to the great park in the middle of the city where runners board buses headed for the athlete’s village, near the departure line, 42 kilometres outside of Boston. The very logistics contribute to the Bostonian marathon’s unique characteristics. You can hear languages from all over the world there.

Photo by Aaron Tang, Flickr

The positive energy emanating from the village is indescribable. It’s a mixture of nervousness, expectation and intense joy at being part of one of the greatest sporting events in the world. The kilometre long walk that leads to the departure line looks like a collective communion made up of thousands of runners. Then comes the start signal and the initial anxiety converts to energy and makes us forget, for a moment at least, the 42.2 kilometres to the finish line.

The finish line is like an oasis at the end of a long trek through the desert. When it appears, it marks the final 400-metre stretch. And that’s it, the race is over. Usually a sense of exaltation ensues, lasting several hours, combined with a happy mix of fatigue and utter satisfaction.

But on April 15, someone transformed it all into a nightmare through an unspeakably cowardly act of violence. Even though as I write these lines no one has taken responsibility for the attack, it is clear that it was done with the intent to terrorize. Mission accomplished, I can say that much, at least in the short-term. That’s certainly what I experienced in the hour following the detonations.

At first, no one knew if the terrorists’ deadly detonations were over or just beginning. In the minutes following the explosions, law enforcement officers asked us to leave the marathon area and go back to our hotels, stating that more explosive devices might be elsewhere in the city.

I am not the type to be easily intimidated, but believe me, the 3 kilometres back to the hotel on foot, as public transport was shut down, seemed longer than the 42 kilometres I had just run.

Alas, this act of terrorism, because it is an act of terrorism we are talking about here, brutally ended the expectations of thousand of runners who could not complete the race. But this is nothing compared to the fate of the spectators who were savagely wounded or killed.

A major ingredient of this marathon, and one that makes its reputation, are the hundreds of thousands of cheering supporters along the course. They give courage to the runners when their legs want to call it quits. They are the spectators who hand out slices of oranges, glasses filled with ice cubes and damp towels to refresh you. These small gestures make all the difference.

This is why, once the details of the attack were released, I couldn’t help thinking about these very people who I saw and heard as I was running the last leg of the race. It is those people I saw and heard during the race who are on my mind.

The same goes for the blind runners, and those with other disabilities I saw aided by their guides. I know that most of them could not cross that mythic finish line and feel the intense joy after all the hardships of the race.

All this because somebody decided to settle a score with who knows who, or what, by attacking an entire population. We cannot let these despicable people win. Nothing can justify these actions. Any explanation is futile.

Translated by Monique Kroeger