NEW YORK — It was my day off. I was sleeping in after a late night, curled up in my antique bed with the window blinds drawn tight. Even though I live just a few buildings from the World Trade Center (WTC) site, I’m not sure I heard the first plane crash. The second crash startled me awake, but it sounded like a giant thunderstorm echoing down the canyon of what were New York’s tallest buildings. I rolled over, pulled the covers up, and went back to sleep— until….
Until I heard the most horrific roar imaginable wash over me and yank me out of bed. I jerked open the window blinds and stared in confusion out my 11th story window at what should have been a view of the south Trade tower. But what I saw was nothing, a black nothingness that is burned into my memory and my nightmares. The blackness rushed toward me, shaking my building and my mind. The only light came from red embers shooting through this animated madness. My mind ran through hundreds of scenarios in a split second. What was this monster engulfing my building, my life? Its roar sounded as if it came from the bowels of the earth.
Voices! I heard voices in my hallway. Two neighbors told me, “The World Trade Center just fell on our building!” They left and I turned back to my apartment where the lights were flickering and my phone was ringing. I answered simply, “I’m OK.” It was my friend from Arizona. “I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later.” I hung up and zoomed around my apartment.
“Go South. Go Quickly.”
I started chanting Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo (Nichiren Buddhism) and gathered my things. I gently but quickly nudged my 14-year-old cat, Fuji, into his carrying case.
While he cried, I continued grabbing. I threw a bottle of water and some cat food into a big bag, tossed in a radio, flipped in my cell phone and charger, and other quick essentials. When Fuji and I got to the bottom of the stairs, a fireman who was covered in thick, gray ash, directed us out of the building. “Go south,” he said. “Go quickly.” I was still chanting, silently now, trying to summon more courage than I have ever needed.
With about 50 others, I walked quickly down West Street. All around was a smoky white and gray ash. It covered everything: people, fire engines, the street. We hurried, kicking up the clouds of dust with every step.
Suddenly another loud noise! Everyone looked back toward the WTC. Nothing. A minute later another horrific noise swept over us. We looked back again and saw the cause. A huge debris cloud was growing higher and higher above our heads. It was spilling over, rolling down the street in a strange, slow motion movement. But it was not slow. It was barreling toward us.
“Run!”
I crawled over the green, wooden benches that line the perimeter and just stood there, gasping for breath. From my right I heard someone say, “In here!” A man and woman were standing just inside a small men’s bathroom. We closed the windows, shut the door and waited. Everything outside turned ashen. Three men stumbled in, white from head to toe, coughing and spitting. We all listened to the news reports coming from my radio of the madness outside.When the debris cloud settled enough, we left and some of us headed for the Staten Island Ferry and off Manhattan. I tried to call my mother in Florida. No luck, but I reached my brother in Dallas to tell him I was alive. At that moment he knew more than I. He, like the world, was watching the terror unfold on television, and as he heard my voice he began crying.
One woman dirty with ash, her long brown hair tangled and tossed, sat before me. I looked at her bare, dusty feet, missing shoes lost somewhere in the tower. She explained with a weak voice how she worked on the 20th floor of one of the towers. It took more than 20 minutes to reach the lobby and the horror it held. Bodies, body parts, fire, smoke, chaos everywhere. Her words lived through me as I phoned them in to my company’s radio network and our audience – which hopefully included her family and friends in Hackensack, New Jersey.
A young Turkish woman, who lived a few buildings from me, told of her troubles of calling her sister in midtown Manhattan. Phones worked one minute and not the next. Reached one area of country or city, but not others. She was finally able to reach her parents half a world away in Istanbul. They called New York to tell their other daughter the needed news, her sister was alive.
Endless stories flowed from those around me, but tears for the most part, did not. Shock kept them trapped inside our bodies, at least for the moment.
My Neighborhood Burns
Nichiren Daishonin’s Buddhism teaches that all the treasures of the Universe are not worth a single human life, and if we are to solve the serious problems confronting humankind, we must first acknowledge the inherent dignity of each life.Deep sorrow filled my soul for the thousands I knew must have died. I grew angry with the perpetrators. How could someone be so evil, so misguided to believe this was necessary?
No Access After the Attack
Nearly 3,000 people died in the September 11 terrorist attacks. Those people are gone, but I am still here. I therefore believe I have a responsibility to live a meaningful life, to make every day count.
September 11 changed everything. I am trying to summon up the wisdom to deal with all this, to turn this poison into medicine. As a Buddhist, I know there is a reason for everything, and I know it is no accident that I lived so close to what was the World Trade Center.
I believe the survivors must use this tragedy to unify the world, to speak loudly and sincerely for peace, to seek justice for the thousands of victims – but not retribution, and to stamp out the evil of terrorism with education. After all, the terrorists were not born hating us. They were taught that.
The terrorist attack was a wake-up call for me. It rattled me out of my sleep and reawakened me to my mission to lead a meaningful and happy life. I hope it will be a wake-up call for the world as well.
Originally published: October 2001, World Tribune
