For Pan Am Flight 103 families, healing comes from within
Carole Johnson was recently relaxing by herself, doing a crossword puzzle in her car, when her eyes met clue No. 93: “Erstwhile global airline.”
Answer: Pan Am
The reminders are unavoidable. They come when the clock hits 2:03 p.m. and 1:03 p.m., and every holiday season. They come in the security line at the airport and when a plane’s wheels take off from the tarmac. They came on 9/11. And they come at times least expected.
Dec. 21 marks 30 years since Johnson’s daughter, Beth Ann, was killed in the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. All 259 people on board, including 35 Syracuse University students, and 11 people on the ground in Lockerbie were killed. More United States civilians died in the bombing than in any other terrorist attack before 9/11.
As time passes, the grieving process doesn’t end. The pain of loss endures. For families of the victims, the last 30 years have been about making sense of the tragedy, supporting one another and getting by in the same way they have for three decades: banding together.
“Every time we meet, we say, ‘I wish I had never met you,’” said Aphrodite Tsairis, whose daughter, Alexia, was killed in the bombing. “Given the facts now, it became a good thing we met. We give one another security and safety, comfort and power.”
Suse Lowenstein, mother of Alexander
On Dec. 21, 1988, Suse Lowenstein was working in her studio on a sculpture of her son, Alexander. She got a phone call. A friend asked her when Alexander would be home from a study abroad trip and what flight he was on. When Suse told her that he was on Flight 103, the friend screamed: “Haven’t you heard? It exploded over Scotland.” Suse grabbed her stomach amid a cascade of emotions. Alexander was 21.
When his father Peter came home from work, Alexander’s parents fell in each other’s arms.
(From left) Lucas, Peter, Suse and Alexander Lowenstein. Courtesy of Suse Lowenstein
Suse is not mired in the past. She has pressed on with a palpable devotion to family, friends and self. In a group of life-sized figures entitled “Dark Elegy,” Suse depicted the bare emotion women felt the moment they learned of the deaths of people they loved.
Thirty years later, Suse, 74, honors her son’s spirit as she steps in her studio. Alexander boarded the plane with a bright red jacket, which was discovered in Lockerbie. Suse wears it every time she walks into her studio.
“You never shake it. It’s always with you,” she said. “I chose very early on to embrace Alexander’s death and what surrounds it. I made it mine and went out and lived with it. There’s no getting away from it. Frankly, I don’t want to.”
Two weeks before Alexander’s flight home, Suse flew to London to spend time with him. She took him to Germany to meet her parents, without knowing she’d never see him again. On a recent anniversary of the tragedy, Suse posted to Facebook a picture of Alexander when he was young. She wrote “What could have been!?”
She said his death put a twist in her life: She doesn’t get upset as easily as she used to, and she dislikes fewer people. For years, she said she went to bed with a pain in her heart.
Alexander loved to surf near their home in Montauk, New York, on Long Island, his mother said. Courtesy of Suse Lowenstein
Suse and her husband Peter, who died in May, both knew how to fly planes. For years, she has heard a loud whining sound from the sky — planes going to and from nearby LaGuardia Airport and John F. Kennedy International Airport. They are among the daily reminders of the tragedy.
“In a way, the worst thing that possibly could have happened to me has happened,” Suse said. “So I chose to live to the fullest. I felt I didn’t have much of a choice, unless I kill myself, but I won’t give the Libyans that satisfaction.”
In a letter Suse penned 19 years ago, she wrote “Never ever hold back your love, because you just never know.”
Kara Weipz, sister of Richard Monetti
Early spring meant the start of the Philadelphia Phillies season. And Opening Day meant no school for the Monetti family. Eileen Monetti drove her children, Kara and her older brother Richard from their South Jersey home to Veterans Stadium. She called the school and told them her children had dentist appointments. Richard loved the Phillies and idolized former Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Ron Jaworski.
This year the Eagles won the Super Bowl, and Kara went to an event Jaworski attended. “(Richard) would have really loved to experience those things this year,” Kara said.
Richard, a victim of the bombing, would have turned 50 on Sept. 11 this year. Kara said her big brother looked forward to experiencing life after college. He wrote in journals, enjoyed music and liked the movies “Airplane!” and “Animal House.”
Richard Monetti loved movies like “Animal House” and “Airplane!” and looked forward to life after college, his sister said. Courtesy of Kara Weipz
Kara was 15 years old when he died. Because Richard was her only sibling, she formed friendships with other people who had lost their siblings in the bombing.
She is president of Victims of Pan Am Flight 103, Inc., a group of family members and friends of those who died in the bombing. The group was created to sustain public memory, ensure the airline industry maintains and improves safety measures and allow affected loved ones to support one another.
Kara said she “shielded” her children, who are 18, 14 and 12, because “I didn’t want them growing up scared.” But she doesn’t sit at home feeling sorry for herself. She doesn’t dwell on the tragedy. She doesn’t bury it, either.
“For me, a lot of moving on was coming to the realization that honoring my brother didn’t mean living a life for him,” she said. “It meant living my life, doing what made me happy, while still honoring him.”
Kara, who owns a nursery school in Mount Laurel, New Jersey, said she learned it’s OK to be sad. Seemingly at random, she understands she may feel upset, angry or overwhelmed. “It’s all normal,” she said.
The years have passed, and the pain, though less raw, is still present. There is no end to love. The loss will stay with her. She said she hasn’t stopped hurting or feeling an emptiness associated with the loss, but her life goes on.
On 9/11, what would have been Richard’s 33rd birthday, Kara remembered babysitting two toddlers. She didn’t feel déjà vu, though she recalled the fear she felt 13 years prior.
“In an instant I could be back in 1988,” said Kara, who will speak in Richard’s honor on Friday at Arlington National Cemetery, during the Pan Am Flight 103 30th Anniversary Memorial.
Aphrodite Tsairis, mother of Alexia
Alexia loved to take photographs. She wanted to be a photojournalist, snapping pictures of people and situations worldwide. Since she got her hands on her first camera as a ninth-grader, she fell in love with the craft. She’d spend hours in her family’s darkroom developing film. After graduating from SU, she planned to take photos in Nicaragua, which was raged by a civil war.
Alexia’s Nikon camera didn’t survive the Dec. 21 bombing, nor did the photographs she had with her. To carry on her spirit, Alexia’s mother, Aphrodite, and father, Peter, met with her professor David Sutherland. They wanted to do something for Alexia. They agreed on a photography organization, the Alexia Foundation for World Peace and Cultural Understanding. Alexia’s dream of combating social injustice through photojournalism would live on in a foundation in her name.
Alexia Tsairis (left), with her father, Peter (center) and her mother, Aphrodite (right). Courtesy of Aphrodite Tsairis
“We needed the healing aspect of the foundation,” said Aphrodite, whose foundation has awarded over $1.5 million to more than 100 scholars. “There weren’t many people in our sphere who understood the magnitude of what we were going through. So you have to absorb your loss and accept it.”
Getting through every year is not necessarily about letting go of the past. On Alexia’s birthday, July 6, they visit a photo exhibit. For dinner, Aphrodite cooks her daughter’s favorite meal: stuffed tomatoes and peppers with pineapple cake for dessert.
To cope, Aphrodite immersed herself in what happened. A local librarian asked her to stop renewing books on terrorism. A few years after the tragedy, one of her daughters noticed there weren’t terrorism books on her night table, a sign she’d begun to heal.
Alexia’s mother often thinks of this photo of her daughter overlooking Rinchnach, Germany with her camera in her hands. Courtesy of Aphrodite Tsairis
Aphrodite thinks of a lasting image of Alexia, where her daughter is overlooking Rinchnach, Germany. The picture represents not just a moment in time, but time stopped. It’s a picture of Alexia, camera strapped to her.
“There’s never going to be anything to replace that hole in my heart,” Aphrodite said.