Issue No. 603
Living
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12 - 18 September 2002 Issue No. 603 Living |
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 | Recommend this page | ||
Mood Swings: The day the music died
It has been a year now, and 11 September has become a mark in history, an event that people talk about in terms of before and after, and where they were when it all happened. I was in the subway station, on my way to work, and had no idea of what was causing the delays and chaos in the stops that followed. Only when I surfaced at 50th Street, heading to my office at the Time & Life Building, did a woman turn to me on the street and say, in great distress, that a second plane had just hit the towers. I was not even aware of the first. I ran to the office, and strait to the TV in the office of the director, to watch in disbelief the horror unfolding. This can't be happening -- not here. What will happen next? The images replayed endlessly, the horror and disbelief repeated over and over again. As the giant towers collapsed right in front of our eyes, we crumbled.
After being glued to the news for a couple of days, I walked out of the office, aimless, sad and frustrated, mad at something or someone I don't know.
But, mostly I felt helpless. I walked towards downtown trying to get as close to the scene as possible. Walking is a great thing to do when you do not know how to handle all the emotions bundled up inside. So I walked and walked, and walked, but alas no relief.
Twice turned down for donating blood, and for trying to offer help in any way I could, I still wanted to get as close to ground zero as possible. So I stopped at the barricade on West Side Highway, and there I joined a group of people who, like me, were frustrated at having no outlet for their emotions and their desire to help. In a very American way, we did something very simple. We stood at the blockade and cheered all the rescue workers, firemen, policemen, and other volunteers as they were driven out of the disaster site at the end of long grueling shifts. We applauded as they passed, showering them with cheers, and admiration. It was almost as if we were giving them the unused energy that was trapped inside each of us. And they opened their arms and received it graciously.
I looked and looked through the smoke and dust -- yes, the twin towers were gone. The island ended, but you know it was not right; something was not right with that scene. Something major was missing. It was like waking up after an amputation, the severed limb still under the bandages. I could feel it, and sense its numb pain. But even now I still cannot comprehend the magnitude of what has happened.
New York is a special place for me. Yes, because it is New York, but also for another, more personal reason. New York is the first place I chose to live in at will. I wanted to be here and be "a part of it". It's a choice you don't have with your city of birth, or where your job takes you, or where your love is. For me there was no other reason than New York itself. And it has become my love, where my job is, and my home, where I feel most comfortable. My being here is the culmination of a long flirtation with this city, and the true beginning of my individuality.
As I walked away from the scene, into the car deserted streets of the west village, I was snapped back to reality by a man's voice, pointing to the middle of the street and saying, "it's like a snow day with no snow." There was only ash and debris.
All along a stream of songs, mostly tunes about New York, by Simon and Garfunkel, and fragments of lyrics had been going through my head -- "they all come to look for America". I stopped in the middle of Washington Square, and looked at the people around the fountain, their heads bowed to the silence that filled the place at sunset. They looked like an Edward Hopper painting. I said to myself, this is "The Day The Music Died". I looked back towards where the towers once were, and I just had to say it: "Bye, Bye miss American pie". I sang it to the falling towers, and to a lifestyle that was as beautiful as the day the towers crumbled.
My sense of frustration and helplessness heightened, and I wanted to shake my fist at something I couldn't see. At this time, it was not the lyrics of Paul Simon or Don McLean that came to mind but strangely and appropriately enough the words of Winston Churchill: "We will defend our Island, and we shall never surrender." Silence and darkness fell on the city and me, introducing another night of uncertainty and sadness.
No, I did not go to the twin towers regularly. But like most New Yorkers I have looked at them daily and oriented myself by them when lost downtown, had the occasional drink on top, at the Windows Of the World restaurant with the out-of-towners.
But more than anything else, seeing the towers from miles away, when I was on a bus or train, meant that I was homeward bound.
* This week's contributor is an Egyptian expatriate living in New York.
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