Entirely
Speechless
The attacks on the
World Trade Center buildings and the Pentagon on September 11th were
two moments in American history that have greatly defined the narrative of my
generation. I was only nine years old at the time, still naïve to the cruelties
that humans are capable of committing. It was unfathomable to me that a person
could crash a plane into a building full of other peoples’ mothers, brothers,
husbands, and children. Surely there was no justifiable motive to inflict that
kind of pain on another person. My young mind tried to process these events,
always coming up short of a definitive answer, a solid explanation, for these
acts of hatred against the only country I had ever known. With my family and
friends safe in their homes, I felt as though I had witnessed a horrible car
crash; driving by the scene of the accident you feel a wrench in your gut and
pangs of sympathy toward those involved, all the while knowing that you will
never truly understand their grief at the loss they have experienced.
After a tragedy,
people need someone to blame. While the terrorists that lead the attacks
against our country were all extremists, holding values that most of us will
never understand, many Americans struggled to separate them from people with
religious beliefs that differed from their own. All Muslims were now
categorized as terrorists, allowing innocent people to be persecuted for crimes
they did not commit. These unfair accusations shaped the way that Muslims were
viewed in our society, and the grief and turmoil from 9/11 made some wary of
the intentions of everyday citizens. Living in Colorado, I felt isolated from
the aftermath of the attacks, not really comprehending the devastation to the
city and citizens of New York. This event shaped many New Yorkers’ stories,
intricately weaving into the rhythms of their daily lives and their connections
to neighbors and friends. It wasn’t until I moved there at eighteen to attend
NYU that I began to realize the profound effect 9/11 continues to hold over the
city a decade after the tragedy.
One night during
the beginning of May of my freshman year, my friends and I sat in the hallway
of our dorm, avoiding thoughts of our upcoming finals through trivial
conversations. One of my hall-mates opened up his laptop, letting out a gasp
when he read a headline that Osama Bin Laden had been killed at the hands of
American Navy Seals. Every one of us paused for breath, scared to exhale
because of the uncertainty of the moment. This man, the mastermind behind the
attacks that killed thousands of innocent Americans, seemed more like a figment
of political rhetoric than a human capable of succumbing to the same fate as
every other person I had ever known. The heinous crimes he had committed divorced
him from my concept of reality, making his death seem impossible; how had it
taken over a decade to find this infamous man who, in the end, died a classified
death?
Although we all
had plenty of work to do, none of us could wrap our heads around this shocking
news. Not only had Bin Laden been killed, but we were living in the very city
that he had attacked, taking so many innocent lives. We learned that a rally
was being held at the World Trade Center grounds and felt that we should
participate in a memorial to those lost with the rest of New York. As we rode
the subway downtown, I couldn’t ignore the curiosity coursing through my body.
I didn’t know what to expect, growing up so far from the city that was so
strongly impacted by the events of 9/11. A strong sense of pride grew from the
courageous acts of the fire and police departments of New York, and the lives
of all New Yorkers were forever bound to both the horrific events but also the
heroism of that day.
As we emerged from
the subway station, I was struck by the sounds of celebration over the death of
Bin Laden. The excitement buzzed in the air, producing an almost electrical
current that fed the crowd that had formed around the World Trade Center site. The
scene that I encountered as we approached the crowd left me at a loss for words.
Everyone around me seemed almost manic, flushed with exhilaration about the
death of this man. It was instantly clear that many people were belligerently
drunk, as they shouted profanities and cursed him to the depths of hell. I had
expected that this gathering would be a kind of memorial for people to find
some relief that there was finally a bit of justice for the loved ones they had
lost. However, it felt more like a celebration of death than a remembrance of
those who had died a decade before. The rage that many New Yorkers had carried
with them, that had weighed them down, for years, bubbled to the surface,
spilling over with a violent fury. Instead of justice, people sought revenge. I
was uneasy in this crowd, instantly on edge. I wanted to understand the anger
they felt, so that I could comprehend the energy that crackled all around me.
As the crowd
cheered, I began to cry unexpectedly. Before this moment, I had never
celebrated the death of another human being. I couldn’t comprehend that people
were toasting the loss of life, even a life filled with such hatred and
destruction. As I surveyed the scene around me, I didn’t feel comfort. I didn’t
feel as though we were participating in a memorial, but rather an incensed mob
celebrating a bloody victory. While I realized fully that every person there
had a right to be angry, I didn’t agree that an eye for an eye could truly
bring closure. I turned to my best friend and asked quietly if we could leave.
Equally shaken, he quickly agreed. As we stood waiting for the train, I stared
at the tracks at a loss for any words to describe how I felt. The intensity and
confusion I experienced that night made speech powerless. When I arrived at my
dorm, my first instinct was to call my mom back home in Colorado. Just as I had
when I was young, I needed to hear her voice, hoping that that small comfort
would bring some coherency to my muddled thoughts. With my mom on the other
line, however, I was unable to verbalize any of the emotions that I was
experiencing. Words seemed underwhelming, and no amount of discussion could
make sense of the divide between my expectations and what had occurred. Even now,
over a year after Osama Bin Laden was killed, I struggle to flesh out the
conflict I experienced in a moment in my life so rare and unprecedented that I
was left entirely speechless.
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