Schiphol airport, less than a week after the unthinkable

I apologize in advance for not being able to take pictures there. For not doing my "Schiphol" check in on Facebook. Schiphol was not what it usually is. My daughter and I have been there numerous times, and we love it - usually.
Schiphol today was different. There was no cheerfulness like usually. But today, the lump in my throat grew more and more from the minute we drove into the railway station underneath the airport. It grew when I purchased the flowers to lay down at Departure Hall 3. It grew while we went there, to that sea of flowers. The store clerk asked if it was a gift or... She didn't say anything more. As we went there, I could see in the faces of other people that they were fighting the same emotions. It was eerily silent there today. Not the Schiphol we know and love. Schiphol is a micro cosmos of mourning at this point. You catch yourself thinking what the passengers of MH17 did... Did they walk where we walk now? Did they go to Starbucks? You see every corner of Schiphol with different eyes than before. Through the eyes of those who were so close to death without being aware of it. I didn't even know anybody of those who were on that flight. And still, the lump in my throat grew with every step. Did they use this escalator?

As we arrived at the sea of flowers, the lump in my throat was so big I couldn't even talk anymore and my eyes were watering. I didn't know anybody of them, but I'm a mother. I can't imagine how hard it must be to lose your child like this. Or any loved one.

We laid down the flowers and almost escaped Schiphol. The horror was too close here. Too intensive. Schiphol these days is not for the faint at heart. And still, I'm glad we went. Glad we paid our respects to those people who died in the crash. That's all we can do. In times like this, maybe all we can do is to show that we're humans. That we care. That we haven't grown numb to events like this. Maybe that's what it's all about.