On September 11 2001
2893 men, women and
children
perished in a terrorist
attack
on the World Trade
Centre
in New York City.
Today I stand at the memorial
site
with a survivor.
He relives his story step-by-step
from the first shudder
on the 68th
floor of the first tower
where he worked
staying to do his job
until an alarm finally
sounded
releasing him to his
fate
on the stairwell
with hundreds of
others
all making their way
down
as brave souls in
uniforms raced up.
He says that retelling
his story
doesn’t affect him
but as he journeys
back
he paces distractedly,
his voice trembles,
his eyes search his
memory,
tears flow –
his and ours.
He takes us there with
him on that day
as he tries to flee
the building
only to be turned back
from the plaza
because burning people
are jumping from the
top floors
landing at the wearied
feet
of the responder crews
below.
We are with him as he
reaches out
to help a moaning lady
who begs him
not to touch her
rubbery melting skin.
We are with him as he
searches
for friends he cannot
find.
We are with him as he
follows a light
wondering if maybe he’s
dead
and finds help instead
asking, ‘why me?’
We are with him
step by painful step
as he journeys through the horror
of his memories.
as he journeys through the horror
of his memories.
.
Post
Script:
I wrote this poem in 2013 during a guided tour of the 9/11 memorial, which was still
under construction at the time. Since 9/11, millions of innocent people around
the world have been killed in both terrorist attacks and the war on terror
leaving behind scarred and traumatised survivors. In some
countries a whole generation of children will carry the trauma of war and
terror for all their lifetimes. It is so senseless. Civilization does not seem
to heed the lessons of history. I am reminded of the African proverb, ‘When
elephants fight it is the grass that suffers.’
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