Solemn anniversary today. Is there anyone who doesn’t remember where they were and what they were doing that day, seventeen short years ago, when death descended without warning from a clear blue sky?
The day began routinely enough. I was reading the newspaper and having coffee when my girlfriend of the time called to tell me that a small plane had just collided with one of the twin towers, and that I should turn on the television. The live picture, shimmery with distance, was zoomed in on the two famous structures. The one in the foreground had a giant jagged hole in it. Smoke poured from the gaping wound. “A Cessna didn’t do that,” I thought. Improbably, tiny figures could be seen moving amid the wreckage. One of them picked its way to the edge, paused briefly, and leaped into nothingness.
Suddenly United 175 came into view, banking sharply in its final, fatal approach. On impact, flames and debris exploded in all directions. And in that instant confusion gave way to a terrible clarity: This this was no accident.
There was stunned silence as, inconceivably, the South tower fell, it’s crowning antenna oddly askew, trailing smoke and dust as it collapsed in surreal slow motion. Minutes later the north tower followed. An icon of American enterprise, undoubtedly containing many lives, had simply disappeared. The sickening realization dawned that thousands had just died.
An unaccustomed silence settled over the land, and for a while life hung suspended. No contrails crossed the empty bright blue late-summer sky. Little business was conducted. Wherever people gathered they spoke in hushed tones. There was a general sense of disbelief mingled with foreboding, as though another shoe was surely poised to fall.
How they must have danced with joy at the sight of the toppled towers, hated symbol of the haughty American infidels. How they must have cheered to the thought of thousands of them dead, murdered in their very lairs, where they thought themselves safe. Not just murdered, but obliterated, shredded and ground into dust. Allah be praised!
How they must have howled with rage to learn that the soft, impudent apostates of United 93 had bade their loved ones a tearful goodbye and then gone grimly to work, ultimately wresting the doomed craft from their captives’ grasp at the cost of their own lives. And in so doing, unknowingly thwarting the master stroke, the grand finale, the coup de grace. For United 93 had been chosen to destroy that most hated of symbol of them all, the Capital.
They had no way of knowing it, and wouldn’t have believed it anyway such was their contempt, but before the dust had even cleared their fate was already sealed. Because for some, the sight of falling towers and smoking wreckage had a very different, quite powerful effect. From that moment of pure shock, rough men of sure purpose and unforgiving mien drew steely, lethal resolve.
In retrospect one war was right and proper, the other a tragic blunder, and in our haste to avenge the grievous injury, we made more enemies than we dispatched. Such is war.
Something like 911 was probably inevitable. For many of Islamist bent, the mere continued existence of the decadent, secular West and its chief avatar, the United States, was provocation enough. Years of perceived petty slights stoked a gathering rage that demanded satisfaction.
The architect of the attack, one Osama bin Laden, had long been on American radar. In many ways he made a most unlikely villain. Son of a Yemeni contractor who built a multi-billion dollar fortune serving the House of Saud, bin Laden was born to a life of extraordinary privelege. Shy and retiring from a young age, even as a grown man he exuded a fragile, almost delicate air in spite of being unusually tall.
His early life featured all the usual hedonistic indulgence of the idle super-rich. But a chance meeting with an early advocate of Salafism, an extremely ascetic branch of Islam, sparked a sense of purpose in the aimless and diffident bin Laden, and launched him irreversibly down the path of radicalization. In time, he came to nurture a profound, inconsolable sense of historical grievance. In his later life he spoke frequently of the “Tragedy of Andalusia,” a reference to the expulsion of the Moors by the Spanish in 1492, as though it had only recently happened. With a combination of deep pockets and hypnotic, low-key charisma, bin Laden gradually ascended the ranks of the shadowy jihadi underworld until he was its undisputed leader.
After a worldwide manhunt lasting a decade, bin Laden met death at the hands of American Special Forces in his compound on the outskirts of Abottabad, the West Point of Pakistan, where he had hidden in plain sight for years. In death, bin Laden was accorded the respect he would have never have granted his enemies. His body was washed, wrapped in a shroud, given proper last rites, and buried at sea in the dead of night, somewhere in the vastness of the Indian Ocean.
The attack’s symbolism was immediately obvious: United, American, nine-one-one, the Towers, the Capital. The White House was also supposed to be struck, but the pilot of American 77 came in too low and too fast and had to settle for his secondary target, the Pentagon, just across the river.
The attacks awakened a dormant delusional faction who, before the battered bodies were even cold, proclaimed loudly and insistently that “911 was an inside job.” Ignoring physics, chemistry, logic, and Everests of evidence, imputing powers of nearly supernatural scope, “truthers,” as they called themselves, blamed a malignant nexus of shadowy government forces and transnational operators for the crime, whose purpose they could never quite articulate. Years on, they snipe from the fringes, their ardor undiminished by time, an unwitting testimonial to the power of true belief uncorrupted by reason.
A poisonous aftermath lingers. Tens of thousands rushed to ground zero in the days after the attacks. Eschewing protective masks, with every breath they inhaled a toxic stew of particulates, chemicals and rotting flesh, planting the seeds of future exotic, deadly cancers. Thousands have already died, with many more undoubtedly to come.
In the conventional sense, of course, the enemy was utterly defeated. Two wars and countless black missions left their forces in ruins, their safe havens destroyed, their financial and communications networks wrecked. But because the war was always about ideology, not a contest for territory or resources, it could be argued that in some ways they have actually won. Because we are no longer as we were. They changed us, forever.
The inchoate fear the attack unleashed has never quite gone away. We have willingly surrendered many little freedoms we once took for granted. We live in a surveillance society and think it normal. We persist in a state of permanent war, the end nowhere in sight. With the threat of another attack ever-present, we can never let down our guard. We killed thousands of enemies but made tens of thousands more, at a cost of trillions.
Though we may rightfully hate them, in a way, we must also admire them: for their savage unwavering single-mindedness, for the brilliant, brutal simplicity of the plan and its nearly flawless execution, for its powerful symbolism. For the price of a handful of plane tickets they humbled their bitterest enemy, if only for a short while, and changed the course of history.
But somehow, even after all this time, it still feels as though the other shoe has yet to fall.