When the Music Stopped

2005. The Year Everything Changed.

That was the epigraph you had given it in your journal. Little did we know then how significant it would become.

That final run of school seemed to fly by and drag at the same time, as we six-formers stood on the cusp of adulthood, excitedly reaching out for everything we thought we wanted from life. Leaving our childhood behind.

There was you—Leah, Jenny, Samira, Andy, Holly and me. I was the artistic one, you were the glue. Andy and Holly were the academic geniuses, and Samira and Jenny were destined for amazing careers in medicine. We all wanted to change the world in our own unique ways and we all had each other's backs. Yes, we'd call each other out on our shit—but we had each other’s backs, always.

We had got tickets for Glasto that year—our first. We were excited for The White Stripes and Coldplay (yes, I still remember the eye rolls and derision for liking them, even as they became one of the biggest bands in the world). This was our final hurrah—one last summer together before we went our separate ways to different universities across the country.

Early June that year had clear but cool weather. Perfect and what felt like a good omen for the rest of the year.

Worthy Farm was every bit as magical and whimsical as we'd always thought it would be, listening to Radio 1's coverage, flicking enthusiastically through NME, Rolling Stone, Q. Michael and Emily Eavis, deserve all the recognition they get for Glastonbury Festival, even if ticket sales have become a complicated problem in recent years.

It always had the most diverse line-up and 2005 was no different. With Brian Wilson playing a wonderful Legends slot, for us, it was the musical experience of a lifetime. That chorus of “God only knows what I’d be without you” took on an even greater meaning, didn’t it?

We were still finding dirt in unexpected places days later.

Remember that Saturday night after Coldplay? Samira was spiralling a little—too little sleep, too much cheap cider and vodka—Andy was laughing. You rubbed Worth Farm dirt on your face, claiming it had healing properties.

Then July 6 came.

The Olympics were coming to London. Despite the naysayers and complainers with their concerns about the cost to the city, there was elation. Even for just a brief moment. The Games hadn't been held in our capital since 1948. We felt ready and proud.

That elation and pride lasted less than 24 hours.

The next morning, on the Circle Line eastbound between Liverpool Street and Aldgate Station, a bomb ripped through a train carriage. Another detonated with devastation on a train between Edgware Road and Paddington. A third between King's Cross and Russell Square.

And then the final cog in the terrorists' plan was a bomb on the number 30 bus at Tavistock Square. Thirteen more lives were lost, bringing the total to 52 people killed and more than 700 injured.

Once those men made their last journeys—meeting up, boarding trains and a bus—the city, our summer, and our whole world was changed irrevocably.

You know, I still find it difficult to board a train or a bus, even now, twenty years later.

Samira. Poor Samira was never the same again. Her story was like so many others—Muslim, South Asian, Middle Eastern Londoners.

Grief on its own is hard enough. But when it's laced with fear, cultural shame, public suspicion, and internalised anxiety—it becomes a different beast entirely.

She stopped wearing her hijab outside, then stopped going outside.

We all felt that dip in the euphoria of the Olympic announcement to unease. The excitement faded. The girl who had sung We're Going to be Friends at the top of her lungs and offered campsite tea and biscuits to strangers at Glasto—faded too.

I miss her maddening positivity. Her generosity and how she brightened all our lives and anyone else she met.

London is a city of perseverance, for all its faults, a city of possibility. As a middle finger to the terrorists and their threat on the capital, the trains resumed and buses rolled on, as they had before tragedy struck. It was a city trying to act like it hadn't been mortally wounded at its core.

Within our group it was the same, wasn't it? I'm sure you remember walking around as if a nail hadn't been driven through our collective heart. From the outside, the city and our group looked fine.

Truthfully, though, how can you ever be "okay" or "normal" again after something so life-changing and safety-shattering happens?

It was a stark reminder to us all that we weren't. That standing so close to our allies—America—so proud and loud, we had painted a target.

Still, the city kept going. But the deaths of 52 people and the impact it had on over 700 injured and beyond, as you know, still overshadows London and our country—days after the 20-year anniversary.

Do you still have nightmares about Andy?

Not just his physical injuries, but what he saw and endured. I can still see his face as he described what happened—the ripped and torn flesh, the silence and screams. Why did he have to get the bus that day and that bus of all the buses he could have caught?

We said we'd always stay together and look out for each other, we never did. Life gets in the way and unless you're on the same trajectory as others, it's hard to stay with them. We were never as close as we were before 7/7. We drifted.

That was our experience, wasn't it, Leah?

I want to write about it all. Memorialise what happened—the macro and the micro Our experience.

I will only do it with your blessing. After all, you were Samira's fiercest supporter. Her most loyal friend.

I still miss her. I know deep down, we all do.

Let me know your thoughts on the project. Do you want the watercolour I painted of her at Glasto?

Love,

Diane

xxxx

~~~-~~~-~~~-~~~

My dear friend Diane.

I had mixed feelings when I received this letter from you after all this time.

I've tried to leave the past in the past—but the past had other plans.

It's not that I didn't want to hear from you. You, of all people, know how much I love you.

How much I missed you after that awful summer.

I was apprehensive about your idea. I originally felt it might be rather heartless. We were all affected by the bombings. We all suffered a collective trauma. Not just our friends group, but London and the country.

I'd forgotten, though, how sensitive you were. How well you understood all of us. Even back then. I was the glue, but you were the quietest of our group, and the one that knew us best.

Even before tragedy struck, you always seemed to have a handle on the innermost thoughts and feelings of our little unit.

So if anyone can tell the story of our experience, it's you.

We went back to Glasto this year. Did you know that, Diane? I know you were busy working. Andy, Jenny, Holly and I raised a glass to you and Samira. Weezer played Saturday night. Buddy Holly rang in my ears for days. We also saw Neil Young and the Chrome Hearts. Samira would've loved it. She always had an old soul.

My counsellor says I should work on my anger. On the hatred I can't leave behind after what happened. It's not that she thinks I'm wrong, she says, just that it might hold me back from healing.

I can't be okay with it or let it go. I can't be the glue. Not anymore.

People outside our group, just...upset me too damn much. I remember how Samira's yearbook had signatures from everyone. Many of ours had blank spaces, but not Samira. Every six-former had something kind or funny or grateful to say.

She was adored, Islam or not. Hijab or not. She was a shining light, that was...

And then those four bastards decided to go to war—not just with the West, but their own people too. They destroyed her. Our beautiful Samira.

And Diane, It makes it hard for me to not hate them. I hate what their hatred did to the best person I've ever known.

I know it impacted you too. We were both there that day. You remember that day, because how could you possibly forget it. Even in the shadow of the bombings, no one could.

It feels a little ridiculous and childish now, in hindsight, but I remember telling her—in the weeks that followed the bombings—that she should walk proudly. That she was a British Muslim. I didn't understand, though, what it cost her to carry that identity through those dark days.

Now I do.

Diane, everyone says I should learn to conquer hate with love.

But I can't. Not when I remember the haunting sight of her sleeping a sleep she never woke from.

I'm sorry Diane, I know we all carry the emptiness of her suicide, the grief. I'm not trying to make it all about mine.

But that is why I hold onto this anger. It's not a grudge. It's a boundary, a wall against those who choose hatred over love. The people who reduced our Samira to a statistic before she became another statistic.

So yes, Diane. You have my blessing.

I'd forgotten about the painting. I'd love to have it. You captured her spirit—and that ridiculous hat a camper gave her. She wore it like it was Milan Fashion Week.

Maybe we should get together. I know time and people move on, but I miss us. Samira would be heartbroken that we'd drifted so far apart.

Love,

Leah

xxxx

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: This is my first entry for The Summer That Wasn't Challenge as part of the Vocal+ SWS.

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