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Published in Deccan Herald, Bangalore, September 26, 2001.
Songs of sorrow and hope
These last few days have been intense, emotional and overpowering. At
first, it seemed unreal, almost impossible to believe the vivid, raw images
of the catastrophe as it unfolded at the World Trade Center, the Pentagon
and in Pennsylvania. No one could do something like this; it was too terrible
to comprehend. But the tragedy is very real and dearly intimate. From
my window, I can see the gaping hole in the heart of Manhattan where the
twin towers used to stand. It looks more like a warzone than the center
of a metropolis. New York City is a city I knew well; now it almost seems
foreign to me with the collapse of those great buildings and the death
of thousands of men and women who fell with it.
My next-door neighbor, a woman I knew for fourteen years, is among the
missing from the WTC, and her husband is torn between pain-filled grief
and desperate hope for her survival. He is among the thousands who still
cling to hope, praying that somehow his wife is alive, away from the smoldering
rubble and shattered glass. He stands with the relatives and friends of
the missing who hold vigil on the streets of New York. They gather in
small groups, showing each other pictures of their beloved, sharing stories
and hoping that by some miracle their loved ones are only lost among the
injured, perhaps somewhere safe in a hospital. These people are not simply
white Americans, but are of all ethnicity and race, and they stand together
holding hands, strangers hugging and comforting each other.
The street corners close to what was the WTC are thick with these gatherings;
it is humanity reaching out for comfort in their fellow men. Some quietly,
others in tears, they have waited through the nights, watching the recovery
efforts and waiting endlessly for some news, any news that might bring
an end to this terrible chapter. When their legs give in, they sit down
by the street side, and as if inspired, someone starts to sing a sad melody.
One by one, with tears flowing, the rest join in. To me their music is
the purest statement of their dedication and love for the fallen souls,
and their gentle voices must surely resonate through the heap of rubble
of stone and steel. Gods must hear their cry, and the rest of humanity
must share their sorrow.
Abraham George, New York
The George Foundation
Rising From The Ashes
The smoke and dust are finally settling at ground zero where the World
Trade Center towers once stood. But the nation is unsettled, awash with
anxiety, sorrow, anger and determination. Something terrible happened
that fateful Tuesday and it is still difficult to comprehend. In an age
of incredible imagination, this kind of attack and destruction was the
realm of Hollywood and the fantastical images of the silver screen. Seeing
it before our eyes, in flesh and blood, brings us to the amorphous zones
of reality, of sorrow and grief. When the dust settles and the rubble
is cleared, many will be left with broken hearts filled with pain and
loneliness for those they have lost.
Each time I look across the Hudson River from my condo to where the twin
towers once stood, defining both New York City's grandeur and America's
economic success, I feel a terrible sense of sadness and loss. It is that
gaping hole in the heart of Manhattan where the island makes its turn
that brings all of us to the reality of what has occurred just a few days
back. For the past thirty years, I would pass through that familiar complex
on my way to the financial district. From my office on the twenty ninth
floor of the first tower, I had worked with companies there until the
bombing of 1993. It was my neighborhood, the place I knew more than any
other. For me, the towers were a symbol of man's ingenuity, perseverance,
and achievement. Sometimes I would stop on my way to the towers and look
up, straining my neck to see their magnificent heights often hidden within
the clouds, as though they were reaching for the heavens. But hardly did
I ever think of it as a marvel; I had taken it for granted and went about
my business there as if it was just my favorite street corner in the city.
Today, my past is no longer in my present, and what was preciously mine,
a part of my living, is robbed from me. New York is no longer the same,
and all of America is wounded. But the pain of this tragedy cannot break
our will and as a nation, our determination and hope is greater than before.
I know that from the ruins will soon rise another architectural wonder,
perhaps different from the original, but even more memorable -- a tribute
for all those innocent lives lost.
Like most other Americans of Indian origin, I too share my loyalty between
America and India. I try to look upon both nations from the knowledge
I have gained from my shared heritage. In this sad hour, I think of Americans
as a humane people who restored the devastated economies of even its worst
enemies after World War II, and who have since made similar efforts all
around the world to relieve poverty and misery. Most Americans cannot
understand why anyone would hate them so much, why anyone would bring
murder and destruction upon their brothers and sisters. There must be
some reason, they argued in their own minds, out of a self-inflicted sense
of guilt. Some of my close white American friends turned to me for an
explanation, blaming themselves for their financial success, and accepting
the shame of racial guilt at home and the human suffering of poverty abroad
as natural explanations as to why America must be hated so much. I try
to reason with them, pointing out that American historic imperfections
are not sufficient justifications for this evil. We are a people of big
hearts and great generosity, I told them, who value innocent human lives
everywhere, and we should never accept any such collective blame.
The outpouring of kindness and concern for those whose lives have been
directly affected by this tragedy has shown none of the class, gender
or racial distinctions that have often preoccupied society. People lined
up for hours in every city across America to donate blood, shipments of
packages containing clothing and food poured in from ordinary citizens,
and flowers and candles brightened up the doors in front of police and
fire stations. Each day, the roadside to the disaster site was filled
with citizens who cheered and encouraged the volunteers as they went to
work at ground zero. The nation is in mourning, you can see the sorrow
on the faces of her citizens in every walk of life, but beneath that there
is an unspoken resolve to set things right at home, and to make the necessary
sacrifice for a safer world.
In the initial days following the devastation, there was still hope that
the missing were trapped somewhere in the four levels below ground. On
the first day, my neighbor Roger whose wife Angela was missing from the
tower, spoke of all the possibilities for her escape. It was only a matter
of time before rescuers would reach her; maybe she was already safe in
a hospital. He would call her on her mobile phone and let it ring three
times and only three times so as to conserve the battery of her phone.
Roger would repeat the process every two hours, around the clock, to let
her know that help was on the way. To give her hope, to give himself hope.
He thought of ideas of how to find her; he wanted all the rescue work
to be stopped for two minutes so that everyone could call on their mobile
phones, and hear where the rings came from within the rubble. There was
no reply from her, but that didn't matter, as there were many explanations
he could think of for her lack of response, and I did not have the courage
to talk about other grim possibilities. Yesterday, after ten days, a police
car came by to see Roger and tell him the news that he dreaded; that there
was very little hope left of finding Angela. Silently, with tears flowing,
Roger handed over her toothbrush and comb for DNA testing, if and when
her body is found.
Only a month back, my son Vivek started college at New York University,
not too far from the World Trade Center. The first night following the
terror, he went from one hospital to another volunteering to help where
he could. Our phone rang at 2 am that night, and with my heart pounding
with fear, I took the handset to hear my son's voice. "Where are
you?" I screamed. "At the hospital," he responded, and
after a pause that seemed endless, he said, "I am looking for Angela.
There is a list here, but how do you spell her last name?" I replied
to him, and then told him how proud I was for what he was doing, and asked
him to be careful. I was afraid of what else could happen in the city
that night, but it didn't matter, and now it was his turn to help.
New Yorkers are known for being brash, and many visitors think of them
as a tough and uncaring people who have no time for others. I guess there
is something different about all of us in this big city; we really don't
have the time for small things. But on that day, there were many heroes
among the dead and the living in this disaster. By its very nature, true
heroism is the province of the few. Hundreds of firemen climbed up the
stairs through the thick smoke, moving from floor to floor toward the
top of the towers, urging people to hurry down, only to be among the last
to be left behind when it all collapsed. And there were ordinary citizens
who took the time to carry those who were too terrified and numb to even
walk and who continued to return to help even more. In their last desperate
seconds when confronted with death, many took those precious moments left
to call their loved ones. One man phoned his wife to tell her that he
loved her very much, and asked her not to be sad and to care for their
daughter. Another looked beyond his death, telling his beloved to make
the best of life and to be happy. "I don't think I'm going to get
out," one wrote in a final email to a companion, "You have been
really a good friend." A young woman called her boyfriend to tell
him that she hoped to somehow see him again, if not now, then some day.
Even in their own moments of anguish, the urge to comfort their loved
ones was no less evident among those "uncaring" people.
In the name of God, an unthinkable crime was committed on September 11th.
It was one of the bloodiest days on American soil. It will take us months,
if not years, to comprehend what has happened, and life will never be
the same again in America. It is easy to get lost in Manhattan, so say
many outsiders. For now we are lost, not in our sense of purpose, but
in our unbearable shared grief.
Abraham George, New York
The George Foundation
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