Alexandra Bogdanovic's Blog: That's life... - Posts Tagged "nine-eleven"

Author's/blogger's note: Today we remember and pay tribute to those who perished in the terrorist attacks on the United States of America 13 years ago and in the aftermath. We are eternally grateful for those who survived, and grieve with those who suffered unimaginable loss.
The following is an excerpt from my memoir, Truth Be Told: Adam Becomes Audrey. In this particular chapter, I document my own experience as a journalist living and working in the New York City suburbs on 9/11.
I am sharing it not to call attention to myself, but to serve as yet another reminder that we must never forget. Never, ever forget.
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It happened on a Tuesday -- on a warm, sunny kind of early September morning when college students lobby for class on the quad, high school seniors contemplate skipping class altogether and adults are tempted to play hooky from work.
Doing that wasn’t an option for me. I got up, changed, worked out and, with a few minutes to relax, turned my attention to the television in my bedroom. There was nothing interesting on any of the home shopping channels, or on any of the other channels, for that matter. It was almost nine o’clock, and with limited options I turned to one of the morning news shows. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“A plane has just hit one of the World Trade Center buildings,” a tense news anchor reported.
As live footage of the smoking building rolled, another plane slammed into the second tower.
“Oh, my God!” I screamed. “What the hell is going on? Oh my God! No! Oh, no! Oh, no!”
I lunged for the phone and called my mom at work. “Do you have any idea what is going on?” I shouted when she finally answered. “Turn on the television, now! Two planes just hit the World Trade Center!”
American Airlines Flight 11, en route from Boston to Los Angeles, had slammed into the North Tower around 8:46 a.m. United Airlines Flight 175, also bound for L.A., barreled into the South Tower less than twenty minutes later. Smoke poured from the buildings. Firefighters and police continued to rush towards them to try to help the people trapped inside. Even as they did, some victims jumped to their deaths while panicked New Yorkers screamed in horror and disbelief.
Chaos reigned. At 9:37 a.m., another hijacked airliner -- American Airlines Flight 77-- hit the Pentagon. United Airlines Flight 93, a fourth hijacked jet destined to cause even more carnage in Washington, D.C., crashed in a Pennsylvania field at 10:03 a.m., after the passengers learned about the earlier incidents and fought back.
Then the Twin Towers fell.
Deeply shaken and unable to understand fully the magnitude of what had happened, I only knew I had to do my job. I went straight to the Rye Police Department. The atmosphere there was unbelievable. From the lobby, I could hear occasional radio chatter and news reports on the television near the front desk. Other than that, it was quiet -- too quiet.
My hands shook as I silently accepted the police log from a secretary and began to take notes. I leafed through the pages without seeing the words, knowing the contents paled in comparison to mass murder.
“You seem to be really affected by all this. Do you know anyone who works in the Towers?”
Startled, I looked up to find the Rye police commissioner, a former New York City cop, standing in a nearby doorway.
“No,” I replied.
But for the second time in less than two years, unexpected events shattered my sense of safety and security, turning my world upside down.
I knew one of Lisa’s best friends worked on Wall Street. Not all that long ago, Adam had worked for a federal government agency with offices in the heart of the Big Apple’s financial district. I thought his dad still worked somewhere in the five boroughs, and hoped it wasn’t anywhere near lower Manhattan.
Everyone’s fine, I kept telling myself. Everyone is fine.
Our phone didn’t stop ringing that night. Relatives around the world called to talk about the terrorist attacks and ask if we were okay. As much as I appreciated their concern, I quickly
tired of answering the same questions over and over again. After all, I still had unanswered questions of my own.
Between calls, I tried to reach Lisa out on the Island, but I couldn’t get through. I was just about to try again when the phone trilled for what seemed like the trillionth time. Without Caller ID, I had no idea who was on the line. I answered anyhow.
“Hi, Alex, it’s Adam.”
“Hi. I am so glad you called. Is your dad okay? Was he in the City?”
“Yes, he’s okay. It took him forever to get home, but he’s fine.”
“I can’t believe what happened,” I said. “I can’t believe it.”
“I know.”
“Look, I’d love to talk but I’ve got to try and get a hold of Lisa. I’ve been trying all day and haven’t gotten through.” “Okay, I understand,” Adam said. “Take care.”
“You too.”
Lisa finally called me a few hours later. Her friend who worked on Wall Street and her mom, who managed a Manhattan hotel, were both safe.
I went to bed finally knowing that all of my friends and their families were okay, but the world would never be the same.
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Until next time, "That's life..."

On Friday morning, I stood on a bluff overlooking Long Island Sound and watched a dedication ceremony for a 9/11 memorial.
A lone bag piper played Amazing Grace. The haunting notes of Taps echoed across the water. Family members read the names of the fallen. Bells tolled. Tears fell.
I was sad. And angry. I will always be angry about the terrorist attacks on my country on September 11, 2001.
What infuriates me more than anything is when politicians talk about that day. In sanctimonious and self-serving speeches, they tell us we must never forget what happened that day -- as if anyone could.
What disgusts me more than anything is that some people already have. According to news accounts, a group of American students surveyed admitted to having little to no idea why we were attacked that day.
What scares me more than anything is that in spite of the tragic loss of so many lives that day and in the years that followed, so many people still seem to take everything we have for granted.
Some of you may view this as an indictment of a specific politician or political party, but trust me, it isn't. If anything, it is a universal indictment.
It is an indictment of all leaders who fail to recognize the ongoing threats to everything we hold so dear.
It is an indictment of those that discourage critical, independent thinking.
It is an indictment of those who see no need to question authority.
It is an indictment of the students who are too ignorant, intimidated or afraid to question what they are taught.
It is an indictment of those in the media that report only one side of a story.
It is an indictment of educators, those in pop culture and those in the media who work to advance a specific agenda.
It is an indictment of the "polite police" who discourage frank discussion in the name of political correctness.
It is an indictment I am uniquely qualified to make. I am a first-generation American whose father fled prosecution and persecution of an oppressive regime.
As I write a book based on my father's life, I am more convinced than ever that freedom is the single most important gift anyone can have.
I am not alone.
In his essay on the Secret of Kosovo published in Landmarks in Serbian Culture and History in 1983, Marko S. Markovic wrote: "If there is no peace without freedom, there is no freedom without truth."
Bozidar Knezevic, the world-renowned Serbian Philosopher of history, also wrote: "Only in liberty does one learn to love and respect liberty as a vital necessity: only in freedom can one learn to use freedom, just as one can breathe only in the air. It is only free men and nations that know how to respect the liberty of others. As long as there are captive peoples, the free will be in danger."
Until next time, "That's life..."