9/11 Recall
By Sehr H.
Nebraska, US

I was in eleventh grade, and had managed to be a little early to my first class of the day. I breathed a sigh of relief as I sat at 7:55am, on time for once, in my chair with violin in hand. The orchestra conductor had just raised her hands to start the rehearsal, when another professor burst into our practice room. Noone thought anything of it, until we realized she was crying hysterically, pink in the face. Confused and concerned looks were exchanged. Noone knew what had happened, but our ignorance was short lived.
She hurried to the television, scrambling through channels to get to the news. The orchestra watched as unremarkable footage of the twin towers rolled. I didn’t understand the significance until I saw a plane fly straight into the building and explode into flames.
Shock. Complete and utter mind-numbing shock. I could not comprehend the event to which I’d just borne witness. To my further horror, before my feeble mind could catch up to reality, moments later another plane followed suite almost like deja vous. There was a deafening silence in the room, a sense of surreality permeated the premise. Scenes like these were supposed to happen on the big screen, not in headline news. But this was REAL.
The most vivid mental image I have of that day is of the man and woman who clutched each other’s hands, looked one last time at their fate, and leapt to their deaths. I cannot imagine the emotions they must have felt, standing there, on that ledge. Below them, they must have seen the tiny cars resembling ants as they looked down from such height. Above them, as they looked to their Creator for some strength, they must have seen flames billowing from the floors above. Did those two people know each other? Or were they complete strangers, who had reached out to one another while at death’s door, facing the unknown together, finding strength in the knowledge they were not alone. Tears welled in my eyes as I saw them, tiny specs on the footage, drop from the heights to the cruel concrete below.
After finding out that the culprits responsible for the devastation were Muslim, I felt personally responsible. I knew society had just encountered a new horizon, the beginning of increasing resentment towards Muslims. I had to do something. But what?
That same day I took an empty milk jug to my remaining classes. Before class started, I asked the professor to allow me to say a few words. I gave a short apology in all of my classes about the incident. I apologized for the actions of but a handful of cowards who would smear the reputation of Islam. My predominantly Caucasian peers were understandably apprehensive. I was fortunate because my voice fell upon untainted ears. These people knew me, who I was and what I stood for. If I as a Muslim stood before them, they would know we Muslims were hardworking and caring individuals.
My heart yearned to comfort them, to help them make sense of the madness but I too was at a loss.

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Editor: Akhtar M. Faruqui
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