The Towers of Grief

Today I set aside a few minutes for the firefighters, police officers, first responders all, whose lives were given, as well as the civilians, whose lives were taken, on that day of infamy eleven years ago. The grief that day was tangible as though a thickness in the atmosphere shrouded all our affairs.

I got out of bed early that morning… it was one of my days off as a cab driver. I turned on the TV... the first reports came over my set. I watched in detached fascination and horror as various pictures of the airliner crashing into the first tower were revealed. I remember it at first as just another tragedy broadcast in the morning news before the shock settled in… some terrible accident far away and remote… images on the screen... before it hit me what actually happened. The first images of people fleeing the building were aired and suddenly I was appalled.

The second tower was another story… I realized then it was a terrorist attack… the odds of two airliners sequentially hitting the towers was too coincidental to be anything else. By then the first responders had shown up. I saw them rushing towards the tragedy to assist those who were escaping. This fact alone awed me… and the first tower collapsed… through the dust firefighters, police officers and first responders still busied themselves with the remaining building and I prayed it wouldn’t collapse too. When it came down I realized that the men and women who serve and protect us every day earned my respect no matter how badly or oppressively they do their normal routines. When duty called their training kicked in that day.

Thirdly I let myself grieve with the millions who watched helplessly as I did… people jumping to sure death from the buildings… people helping each other on the ground… people doing the best they could under horrible circumstances. A candle-light vigil was held that evening at the courthouse. I brought my candle and I stood in silence but that silence was sorely disrespected when someone took to a megaphone asking people to come to express themselves. It was then that conspiracies and political agendas were first hatched. I walked away… I’d paid my respects and I’d learned something so very valuable I have to pass it on … there is no room in the Heart of Compassion to exploit normal passions. Grief is not to be… is not to be… politicized.

Most importantly, I saw another spirit more powerful working as I drove the cab for about a week afterwards. First of all… there were no calls for the usual parties. The fares were most courteous and kind. The grief expressed itself in an amazing respect for each other… fares and driver alike. I even had an Iranian and two Arabs as a fare who expressed their sorrow… it was a heartfelt communion I will never forget. We were stunned for a week or so and the world was “One” that day.

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