I SAW a bag at one of the bus stops. Like any other normal person, as I would imagine any normal Icelandic person would be, I thought about picking it up and handing it over to the only bus running the route. Maybe, the person who left that bag behind will see it on the dashboard and rejoice at not having lost it at all.
There is one problem.
I saw that bag. I wanted to do what was right. My brain had all the logic laid out. Yet, my body just did not follow through. Pavlov's classical conditioning kicked in with a vengeance. Like his dogs who salivated at the sound of a ringing bell, my body froze and prepared for flight. To me, an unattended bag was a ringing bell equated with a ticking bomb. Like a trained dog, I scrunched my body in to minimize surface area [potential damage from an explosion] and fearfully snuck looks at the bag while waiting for the bus. "This is Iceland," my brain kept saying. "You are being an idiot for thinking terrorists will want to bomb a lava field. There is absolutely no political reason to inject fear into an already resilient population." My body refused to do what my mind was willing it to.
You see, I was born and lived in a place where three million people shared space in what we call a small city. Our capital had 8 million living in an even smaller space and 7107 islands [on high tide] home to more than oh..maybe 20 million souls. Tack on a history redolent with brutal colonial experiences [350 years in the Spanish convent and 50 years of Hollywood] PLUS the recent "war" on global terrorism of which my country was an unwilling sideshow since many of these suicide bombers supposedly trained in the predominantly Islamic southern Philippines, makes for a volatile formula that teaches residents survival skills. Not picking up an unattended bag in a bus stop is one of them.
In the same way that when I got lost at the Reykjavik harbor at around 10 in the evening [took the wrong bus and tried to walk around looking for another bus stop], I frantically called a friend. although my friend is Lebanese, he had lived in the area a few months back and tried his best to reassure and calm me down with talk about how safe Reykjavik's harbor is at night. I wasn't born yesterday you know. All over the world, harbors are NEVER safe places to be in at night! My friend would not let up, so I rang another friend instead. She is Chinese, a woman and understood perfectly what I meant. In less than 5 minutes, she had driven to where I was.
I also marvel at how easy it is to shake the safety equilibrium of Icelanders. Where else in the world can an ordinary citizen's murder make it to the front page? In the Philippines, if you are not rich or in possession of a distinguished family name a murder never gets to the front page...maybe page six.
It will take me awhile I know, to get used to this "being safe more than anywhere else" thing. In a country where everyone practically know each other or at least finds some connection with what is momentarily a complete stranger, it is easy to feel safe. This is something I envy in Icelanders. I just hope that this continues on for the duration of my stay. Still, I am not Pollyanna. My doors stay locked and always, I walk with eyes straight ahead and one hand on mace.
There is one problem.
I saw that bag. I wanted to do what was right. My brain had all the logic laid out. Yet, my body just did not follow through. Pavlov's classical conditioning kicked in with a vengeance. Like his dogs who salivated at the sound of a ringing bell, my body froze and prepared for flight. To me, an unattended bag was a ringing bell equated with a ticking bomb. Like a trained dog, I scrunched my body in to minimize surface area [potential damage from an explosion] and fearfully snuck looks at the bag while waiting for the bus. "This is Iceland," my brain kept saying. "You are being an idiot for thinking terrorists will want to bomb a lava field. There is absolutely no political reason to inject fear into an already resilient population." My body refused to do what my mind was willing it to.
You see, I was born and lived in a place where three million people shared space in what we call a small city. Our capital had 8 million living in an even smaller space and 7107 islands [on high tide] home to more than oh..maybe 20 million souls. Tack on a history redolent with brutal colonial experiences [350 years in the Spanish convent and 50 years of Hollywood] PLUS the recent "war" on global terrorism of which my country was an unwilling sideshow since many of these suicide bombers supposedly trained in the predominantly Islamic southern Philippines, makes for a volatile formula that teaches residents survival skills. Not picking up an unattended bag in a bus stop is one of them.
In the same way that when I got lost at the Reykjavik harbor at around 10 in the evening [took the wrong bus and tried to walk around looking for another bus stop], I frantically called a friend. although my friend is Lebanese, he had lived in the area a few months back and tried his best to reassure and calm me down with talk about how safe Reykjavik's harbor is at night. I wasn't born yesterday you know. All over the world, harbors are NEVER safe places to be in at night! My friend would not let up, so I rang another friend instead. She is Chinese, a woman and understood perfectly what I meant. In less than 5 minutes, she had driven to where I was.
I also marvel at how easy it is to shake the safety equilibrium of Icelanders. Where else in the world can an ordinary citizen's murder make it to the front page? In the Philippines, if you are not rich or in possession of a distinguished family name a murder never gets to the front page...maybe page six.
It will take me awhile I know, to get used to this "being safe more than anywhere else" thing. In a country where everyone practically know each other or at least finds some connection with what is momentarily a complete stranger, it is easy to feel safe. This is something I envy in Icelanders. I just hope that this continues on for the duration of my stay. Still, I am not Pollyanna. My doors stay locked and always, I walk with eyes straight ahead and one hand on mace.
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