Too Close to Home - Literally.

We've all heard about the tragic shooting that took place at Dawson College earlier this week. The college is one block from my office so we were in the middle of all the chaos that day. My colleague was in the connecting mall to Dawson when the shooting started. She managed to get back to the office before things got worse but sadly, on her way back, she saw one of the victims that was shot outside the building. The police back up had just been ordered and the cops that were there couldn't get to the victim until they knew where the line of fire was. When my coworker got back to the office, she was shaking and could hardly tell us what was going on. Then the convoy of police cars, news trucks and ambulances rolled through right in front of our windows.

The first reports were terrifying - multiple shooters, one of which was reported to have escaped through the metro and into Westmount Square - directly in front of our building. Our boss heard the news as he drove in from Toronto. He told us to lock the doors. 30 minutes later, police are at our door telling us we're on lockdown until further notice. We're promised that our building is secure and the safest place to be right now. There were thousands of panicked people in the streets - we were better off inside.

They finally let us go at 4:30 and we had to walk home because the area was totally cut off and no buses, cabs or subways were running around here. I walked my colleague home first - she just started with us less than two weeks ago and is a former Dawson student herself. As we shared my umbrella home, she turned to me and said "I know we don't know each other very well but I haven't been able to stop shaking since this morning, do you mind?" and she linked her arm in mine for support, warmth and some sense of friendship.

Today, I was trying to make my way through the mass amount of media coverage. My mouth dropped when I read that the shooter attended and graduated from my highschool (class of 1998, I was 1992 so there was no cross over), my heart skipped a beat when I read on and learned that he also attended my elementary school. I picked up the phone to call my mom when I read that he lived in my home town, 5 minutes from my parent's house. My mom drove by his family's home just to see what was going on around there. Naturally, the lawn and sidewalk are covered with reporters waiting for his parents to release a statement. The house is solemn and dark. I read that his parents haven't left the house in three days.

I feel horrible for them. They are Indian immigrants - obviously oblivious to their son's online diary of anger, terror and violence. They spoiled him. He was 25 years old, unemployed and living in their basement plotting his bloodbath right under their roof and they had no idea. Now, they are faced with having to accept the fact that their son is a killer. They need to face the parents of the children that he killed and injured. They need to give answers to society that they don't have. They need to mourn the loss of their eldest son.

When I look at these gun-toting kids, I can't help but think that years before they came to this, they were somebody's babies. Someone woke up every two hours to feed them. Changed their diapers, wiped their bums and noses. Made cakes for their birthday parties, bought them presents. What the hell goes wrong? I'm sure Kimveer Gill's parents will be asking themselves that question forever.