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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