F OCUS - American Foreign Service Association

REFLECTIONS
Recalling Lockerbie
BY MITCHELL COHN
Last December marked the 20th
anniversary of the downing of
Pan Am 103 in Lockerbie, Scotland.
Because I kept no diaries and
took no photographs, I have only impressionistic
memories of the scene.
But they are still vivid even now.
I remember observing on my first
visit to Lockerbie, as one of several
junior officers who would play a part,
that the houses appeared to have been
sliced at the very angle of the giant
plane’s path to earth.
From outside one of the houses I
could see a mantle clock, no doubt still
keeping time that the occupants no
longer had. And I heard the story of a
boy who had been playing with friends
down the street, thus avoiding the fate
of the rest of his family.
Tents had been set up to enable
forensic doctors to work on identification.
Each time I signed another “Report
of Death of an American Citizen
Abroad,” I tried to imagine something
of the life of the person and silently
honor him or her. What struck me
most powerfully was how young many
of the victims were.
I remember speaking on the phone
with families in the U.S. during that
first period. Many begged for information
— “Where was he found?”
“What was she wearing?” — confirmation
of the horrible news that had been
conveyed to them. I recall heading out
to find a local stationery store, where I
bought out the stock of those wonderful
“ordnance maps” showing the area
in detail. When I could learn precisely
Day after day I
sorted through items,
my fingers growing
so numb I could
barely move them.
where a victim had been located, I
would mark it on the map and send it
to the U.S.
Later, when the Scottish police
began to release personal effects, I
took regular trips from Edinburgh to
Lockerbie, where a sorting facility had
been set up in a concrete building that,
despite a monstrous heater in the center,
never felt warm. Day after day I
sorted through items, my fingers growing
so numb I could barely move them.
The victims were, for the most part,
returning for the Christmas holidays, so
I was prepared to see the heartbreaking
remnants of gifts and stuffed toys.
Wildly contorted metal suitcases conveyed
the power of the impact, but at
the same time there were items that
had miraculously survived: beautifully
folded clothing and an improbably intact
bottle of white wine.
I recall the resilience of the women
of Lockerbie. Though they had lost 11
of their own, they put in long hours
sorting, washing, drying and cleaning
the effects, or cooking hearty fare for
those of us working there.
And, of course, there were more
calls, day in and day out, night after
night. Though our little core of staff
provided as much personal support to
the American families as we could, it
never felt adequate.
Afterward, I remember feeling that
I had absorbed so much sadness, often
in cold and darkness. I asked for time
to decompress, but could be spared for
only one day. Instead of a direct train
to London, I decided to detour to the
Lake District, where some of my favorite
poets had lived, and where I
hoped my spirits could revive.
At Lake Grasmere, perhaps the
most picturesque spot in Great Britain,
signs of spring had started to appear:
sparkling sun, bright green grass, innumerable
white clouds. There, on a
gently sloping hillside, I wept.
Images, conversations, interactions
and procedures all ran through my
mind. But nothing really answered the
question of “Why?” As the sun went
down, I arose, dried my tears, picked
up my bag and headed back to town,
the bus station and London.
Lockerbie would be lodged inside
me, forever. ■
Mitchell Cohn, a Foreign Service officer
since 1985, is currently a cultural
affairs officer in Rabat. Previous assignments
include Mexico City, London,
Istanbul, Jakarta, Tunis and
Washington, D.C.
This is excerpted from a longer piece
solicited by the State Department’s Bureau
of Consular Affairs in honor of the
Lockerbie victims’ families.
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