Here is a picture of what NYC is going through...It is all true.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This was written to me by a close friend who lives near the WTC, who has not yet been able to return home....
There is almost a feeling of guilt among the living, because it doesn't feel
right to be enjoying such lovely weather in the middle of such destruction
and national emergency. It is the end of summer and there is still warmth in
the air but also a slight pinch of autumn cool. It feels surreal to walk in
the sunny beautiful weather here right now; what a gorgeous day, yet at the
tip of the island there is a huge plume of smoke and thousands buried alive.
New York City has been totally transformed by this event.
The streets are full of emergency vehicles, FBI, national guard, police,
fire men, construction and telephone workers. Every few minutes an F16
fighter jet circles over the city on patrol. Large Navy helicopters thunder
overhead on the southern tip. Processions of police cars, FBI detectives,
motorcycles and special construction crews race southwards, sirens blaring.
Occaisionally, dust and debris covered rescue and police vehicles come north
as well. People stop on the streets and applaud when fire vehicles go by. A
large fire truck went by with a huge flag billowing above it, almost like a
parade float. Everyone is wearing the flag, either a pin, a ribbon or entire
flags on their clothes. Flags hang from the windows, from cars. Taxis and
shops, and in particular those owned by muslims and immigrants, are also
displaying the flag vigoriously, and in some cases one wonders if it is
because they are afraid of being targeted for revenge. Every TV and radio is
tuned to the news. Some people are buying supplies, others are out trying to
have a good time and forget for a while. There are many more people walking
around than usual, even for New York. Everyone is looking around in a
mixture of shock, awe, grief and fear. Every conversation is about the
disaster and the coming war. There are stories about miraculous escapes---I
have met many who were on the higher floors and somehow made it out, others
who survived simply because they were outside for a 10 minute smoke or a
coffee.
A few blocks from my apartment is the New York City Armory, where the
National Guard has set up a huge staging area for the relief efforts. Around
it are thousands of boxes of water and supplies for the rescuers. Hundreds
of people mob the area: the families and friends of those lost on their cell
phones seeking information, as well as curious onlookers and those simply
mourning the dead or watching the crowd itself. Tents full of international
TV crews and their equipment line the streets. Cables snake in gutters.
Police barricades and army troops try to keep order. Trucks with satellite
dishes and microwave antennas on them beam news stories around the world.
For several blocks around the walls of every building are lined with posters
by the families of the missing: thousands of xeroxes with color photos and
posters mixed with flowers that have been put there by those seeking
information, giving vital stats. There are wedding pictures, pictures of men
with their children, pictures of executives, firemen, police men,
secretaries, window washers, chefs, waiters, laborers, stock traders: all
sorts of people of all races and nationalities were lost in this tragedy. In
fact, the names and faces are more international than American. It was truly
an attack on the world, not just America.
Every bus stop, every telephone pole, the walls at St. Vincent's Hospital,
and other walls and store windows all over the city display the posters for
the missing---they are like gravestones, each one telling a story of a life,
a person, a family, a relationship. There are also impromptu memorials, with
candles and pictures and flowers on street corners, intersections, parks.
Little groups of people, passerbys, stop to think silently around them.
Every few blocks I see an anonymous woman crying alone, sitting in a cafe,
standing in a doorway looking south. People walk holding hands or putting
their arms around each other, happy just to have each other, appreciating
the simple things in life. The entire city is a shrine for the dead. It is
strange to have such horror right here in the greatest city on earth, it is
equally strange to suddenly see such a strong sense of community appear here
in this usually-cynical in insular city not known for its friendliness. Now
not only are strangers speaking to one another like old friends, they are
helping each other without reservations and everyone has the eyes of
compassion. It seems that this city has been brought closer together by what
happened. There is also a new energy of nationalism and patriotism that I've
never experienced in my life, and certainly not among my generation of
dot-com liberal 30-somethings. In a paradoxical way this attack has made the
fabric of this city, and this country, far stronger than it has ever been in
my lifetime. Instead of weakening us it has had an opposite effect.
At the same time, people are terrified, stressed out, disgusted, and the
anger, anxiety and sadness is only starting to hit some. A friend who has
been volunteering day and night at the Armory for 3 days suddenly called me
this morning and finally broke down on the phone; she had been the picture
of strength the whole time and only now, 6 days later has she finally
succumbed to the exhaustion and the stress. Others sit in cafes and
restaurants frantically discussing the scenario, wondering what is really
going on behind the scenes and what will happen when we respond, and after.
People are making contingency plans, where to go, how to escape further
trouble.
For the last few days it has felt strange to be a New Yorker; the World
Trade towers were a fixture and a symbol of this city, and of the new world
economy. Without them the island of Manhattan feels different, lighter---but
not in a good way---but rather like it is missing something essential, a
part of our collective body. There is an acrid burning smell, like burnt
toast, in the air. People are quiet, thoughtful. This was once a happy,
carefree city, a city where everyone I knew had started an Internet company
and made a fortune, a city where people thought more about what they were
going to invest in or what they were going to wear out on friday night than
about what was going on in the rest of the world. It was a city that was
concerned mainly with money, fashion, culture, sex, fame, success, and
power---I am not saying that these are good things to be focused on, I am
simply saying that this was not a city that was concerned with fear,
tragedy, or loss. It was a city where we built things and never thought
about destruction or disaster. It was a place where it felt good to be
alive, where people had big dreams and big ideas and big offices, a place
where there was infinite potential to achieve one's goals, a place where
fortunes could be made and lost and easily made again. It was a place of
dealmaking and privelage, an island of wealth, an oasis of opportunity, and
also a maze of fun, nightlife, commerce and excitement. And it was a
multi-cultural place where people felt good immersed in the masses, the
multi-ethnic, multi-national sea of humanity---not a city where people
looked at each other with suspicion and dread. This was a city where going
out on the town was a joy, not a place where people wandered the streets
looking desperately for any news of their loved ones. Now the city feels so
different: it is a war zone. It is a casualty. It is a graveyard. These are
feelings that we have never felt about this place or in this place and it is
now a very different city to be sure.
The giant billow of smoke from the wreckage glows at night, illuminated by
the lights of the rescue effort, and rises into the sunny blue sky by day,
obscuring the tops of the other buildings like mountain peaks in the clouds.
You can see it from everywhere. And there is a strange gap in the skyline,
like missing teeth, teeth that have been punched out. Whenever I look south
I remember those unbelievable moments on tuesday morning when I woke up and
looked out my window to see the first tower on fire, then minutes later the
second tower exploding. Like everyone else who was here, I just couldn't
believe it was happening: it was like a bad dream, I actually wished I was
still asleep, but I wasn't. It was impossible to imagine even as it took
place before my eyes. There was nothing to do but stand there openmouthed,
riveted to the South. I remember the intense orange color of the flames
coming from windows in the buildings, the thick smoke pouring from the
gaping holes where the planes went in. It just didn't look the same on TV:
the size and the colors were so much more real from here on the ground. And
then the collapse and the enormous mile-high cloud of smoke above, and the
millions of people walking uptown past my apartment to get away, people
covered in dust from head to toe, trucks bashed in and covered in ash and
debris. It was unreal, it was shocking. The scale of the disaster could only
really be understood if you saw it yourself.
Like so many others who live here and love this city, whenever I face south
now I can't help thinking about all the people who died down there under a
billion tons of rubble, and the many who are possibly still alive in the
buried underground mall complex and subway tunnels that the rescuers still
cannot reach, and in air pockets or crushed vehicles, starving, thirsty,
clinging to survival in the dark somewhere, not knowing what happened, not
knowing if anyone is coming to rescue them. I also can't help thinking about
where the world is headed now, the tragedies and struggles that lie ahead
for all of us. Many choices are being made now---by each of us, and by our
governments---that will set the course of our lives and those of millions or
even billions of others around the world for decades to come. Perhaps now,
more than at any time in the past decades, our destiny hangs in the balance.
In what may the last few weeks of relative peace for a long time, autumn is
coming slowly to New York and the last traces of summer linger for a while.
It really feels like the end of an era, the end of an innocence. In Arab
countries people face east when they pray. In New York City, we pray when we
face south.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This was written to me by a close friend who lives near the WTC, who has not yet been able to return home....
There is almost a feeling of guilt among the living, because it doesn't feel
right to be enjoying such lovely weather in the middle of such destruction
and national emergency. It is the end of summer and there is still warmth in
the air but also a slight pinch of autumn cool. It feels surreal to walk in
the sunny beautiful weather here right now; what a gorgeous day, yet at the
tip of the island there is a huge plume of smoke and thousands buried alive.
New York City has been totally transformed by this event.
The streets are full of emergency vehicles, FBI, national guard, police,
fire men, construction and telephone workers. Every few minutes an F16
fighter jet circles over the city on patrol. Large Navy helicopters thunder
overhead on the southern tip. Processions of police cars, FBI detectives,
motorcycles and special construction crews race southwards, sirens blaring.
Occaisionally, dust and debris covered rescue and police vehicles come north
as well. People stop on the streets and applaud when fire vehicles go by. A
large fire truck went by with a huge flag billowing above it, almost like a
parade float. Everyone is wearing the flag, either a pin, a ribbon or entire
flags on their clothes. Flags hang from the windows, from cars. Taxis and
shops, and in particular those owned by muslims and immigrants, are also
displaying the flag vigoriously, and in some cases one wonders if it is
because they are afraid of being targeted for revenge. Every TV and radio is
tuned to the news. Some people are buying supplies, others are out trying to
have a good time and forget for a while. There are many more people walking
around than usual, even for New York. Everyone is looking around in a
mixture of shock, awe, grief and fear. Every conversation is about the
disaster and the coming war. There are stories about miraculous escapes---I
have met many who were on the higher floors and somehow made it out, others
who survived simply because they were outside for a 10 minute smoke or a
coffee.
A few blocks from my apartment is the New York City Armory, where the
National Guard has set up a huge staging area for the relief efforts. Around
it are thousands of boxes of water and supplies for the rescuers. Hundreds
of people mob the area: the families and friends of those lost on their cell
phones seeking information, as well as curious onlookers and those simply
mourning the dead or watching the crowd itself. Tents full of international
TV crews and their equipment line the streets. Cables snake in gutters.
Police barricades and army troops try to keep order. Trucks with satellite
dishes and microwave antennas on them beam news stories around the world.
For several blocks around the walls of every building are lined with posters
by the families of the missing: thousands of xeroxes with color photos and
posters mixed with flowers that have been put there by those seeking
information, giving vital stats. There are wedding pictures, pictures of men
with their children, pictures of executives, firemen, police men,
secretaries, window washers, chefs, waiters, laborers, stock traders: all
sorts of people of all races and nationalities were lost in this tragedy. In
fact, the names and faces are more international than American. It was truly
an attack on the world, not just America.
Every bus stop, every telephone pole, the walls at St. Vincent's Hospital,
and other walls and store windows all over the city display the posters for
the missing---they are like gravestones, each one telling a story of a life,
a person, a family, a relationship. There are also impromptu memorials, with
candles and pictures and flowers on street corners, intersections, parks.
Little groups of people, passerbys, stop to think silently around them.
Every few blocks I see an anonymous woman crying alone, sitting in a cafe,
standing in a doorway looking south. People walk holding hands or putting
their arms around each other, happy just to have each other, appreciating
the simple things in life. The entire city is a shrine for the dead. It is
strange to have such horror right here in the greatest city on earth, it is
equally strange to suddenly see such a strong sense of community appear here
in this usually-cynical in insular city not known for its friendliness. Now
not only are strangers speaking to one another like old friends, they are
helping each other without reservations and everyone has the eyes of
compassion. It seems that this city has been brought closer together by what
happened. There is also a new energy of nationalism and patriotism that I've
never experienced in my life, and certainly not among my generation of
dot-com liberal 30-somethings. In a paradoxical way this attack has made the
fabric of this city, and this country, far stronger than it has ever been in
my lifetime. Instead of weakening us it has had an opposite effect.
At the same time, people are terrified, stressed out, disgusted, and the
anger, anxiety and sadness is only starting to hit some. A friend who has
been volunteering day and night at the Armory for 3 days suddenly called me
this morning and finally broke down on the phone; she had been the picture
of strength the whole time and only now, 6 days later has she finally
succumbed to the exhaustion and the stress. Others sit in cafes and
restaurants frantically discussing the scenario, wondering what is really
going on behind the scenes and what will happen when we respond, and after.
People are making contingency plans, where to go, how to escape further
trouble.
For the last few days it has felt strange to be a New Yorker; the World
Trade towers were a fixture and a symbol of this city, and of the new world
economy. Without them the island of Manhattan feels different, lighter---but
not in a good way---but rather like it is missing something essential, a
part of our collective body. There is an acrid burning smell, like burnt
toast, in the air. People are quiet, thoughtful. This was once a happy,
carefree city, a city where everyone I knew had started an Internet company
and made a fortune, a city where people thought more about what they were
going to invest in or what they were going to wear out on friday night than
about what was going on in the rest of the world. It was a city that was
concerned mainly with money, fashion, culture, sex, fame, success, and
power---I am not saying that these are good things to be focused on, I am
simply saying that this was not a city that was concerned with fear,
tragedy, or loss. It was a city where we built things and never thought
about destruction or disaster. It was a place where it felt good to be
alive, where people had big dreams and big ideas and big offices, a place
where there was infinite potential to achieve one's goals, a place where
fortunes could be made and lost and easily made again. It was a place of
dealmaking and privelage, an island of wealth, an oasis of opportunity, and
also a maze of fun, nightlife, commerce and excitement. And it was a
multi-cultural place where people felt good immersed in the masses, the
multi-ethnic, multi-national sea of humanity---not a city where people
looked at each other with suspicion and dread. This was a city where going
out on the town was a joy, not a place where people wandered the streets
looking desperately for any news of their loved ones. Now the city feels so
different: it is a war zone. It is a casualty. It is a graveyard. These are
feelings that we have never felt about this place or in this place and it is
now a very different city to be sure.
The giant billow of smoke from the wreckage glows at night, illuminated by
the lights of the rescue effort, and rises into the sunny blue sky by day,
obscuring the tops of the other buildings like mountain peaks in the clouds.
You can see it from everywhere. And there is a strange gap in the skyline,
like missing teeth, teeth that have been punched out. Whenever I look south
I remember those unbelievable moments on tuesday morning when I woke up and
looked out my window to see the first tower on fire, then minutes later the
second tower exploding. Like everyone else who was here, I just couldn't
believe it was happening: it was like a bad dream, I actually wished I was
still asleep, but I wasn't. It was impossible to imagine even as it took
place before my eyes. There was nothing to do but stand there openmouthed,
riveted to the South. I remember the intense orange color of the flames
coming from windows in the buildings, the thick smoke pouring from the
gaping holes where the planes went in. It just didn't look the same on TV:
the size and the colors were so much more real from here on the ground. And
then the collapse and the enormous mile-high cloud of smoke above, and the
millions of people walking uptown past my apartment to get away, people
covered in dust from head to toe, trucks bashed in and covered in ash and
debris. It was unreal, it was shocking. The scale of the disaster could only
really be understood if you saw it yourself.
Like so many others who live here and love this city, whenever I face south
now I can't help thinking about all the people who died down there under a
billion tons of rubble, and the many who are possibly still alive in the
buried underground mall complex and subway tunnels that the rescuers still
cannot reach, and in air pockets or crushed vehicles, starving, thirsty,
clinging to survival in the dark somewhere, not knowing what happened, not
knowing if anyone is coming to rescue them. I also can't help thinking about
where the world is headed now, the tragedies and struggles that lie ahead
for all of us. Many choices are being made now---by each of us, and by our
governments---that will set the course of our lives and those of millions or
even billions of others around the world for decades to come. Perhaps now,
more than at any time in the past decades, our destiny hangs in the balance.
In what may the last few weeks of relative peace for a long time, autumn is
coming slowly to New York and the last traces of summer linger for a while.
It really feels like the end of an era, the end of an innocence. In Arab
countries people face east when they pray. In New York City, we pray when we
face south.
