The horrors of September 11, 2001 are impossible to erase. Nineteen terrorists committed heinous crimes, taking the lives of almost 3,000 innocent Americans.
The events left an indelible mark on all who lived through them. Just hearing ‘9/11’ brings back a flood of nightmarish, emotionally draining memories:
On my way to work that morning, stuck in downtown Washington traffic at a traffic light, I noticed a woman in the car next to me signalling. As I rolled down my window, she shouted, “Did you hear the news?!”
“No,” I replied, noting that my car radio was broken.
“A plane just crashed into the World Trade Centre,” she yelled. “My father works in that building.” Then the light changed and she moved on.
I never saw her again but will never forget the abject horror on her face.
Arriving at my office, everyone was watching television as the second plane hit.
I was stunned and transfixed by the images: planes slicing through the walls of the World Trade Centre, people jumping from buildings, and finally, later on, the two towers collapsing into a pile and disappearing forever.
It was almost too much to bear.
The frightened face of that woman at the light was soon joined by hundreds of others – those running from the collapsing towers and those pushing their way in the opposite direction seeking news of loved ones trapped in the inferno.
I was numb and only shaken from this trance-like state of watching and grieving by other events, some of which were more personal.
One of my daughters lived near the Pentagon, which we learned had also been hit by the terrorists.
After a few frantic calls, I was relieved to hear from her.
Because my office was just two blocks from the White House, she’d been concerned for my safety and was trying to reach me as well.
Midday, the local police arrived announcing that as a precaution our building was being evacuated.
I pleaded with them to let us stay. Our office was being flooded with calls from Arab Americans across the country frightened by the first signs of an anti-Arab backlash. The police were amazingly supportive.
They evacuated the rest of our building, but allowed us to remain so we could continue our work, and assigned two police cars to protect us.
Throughout the day and those that followed, we responded to frantic calls from our community and watched the continuing horror unfolding in New York City.
I was asked by the US Commission on Civil Rights to present on hate crimes committed against Arabs and Muslims, and those thought to be Arab or Muslim. We catalogued hundreds from across the country, noting that a number of the death threats and messages of hate were directed at us, some personally: “Jim, you towelhead. Death to every Arab. We’ll slit your throat and kill your children.”
It was profoundly unsettling.
Like other Americans, we were pained by what had been inflicted on our country and people and needed to mourn.
But we were pulled away from our grieving and forced to look over our shoulders. Those who struck out against us with hate were telling us in effect: “You are not part of us.” It compounded the pain.
But gradually, the tide began to shift. The work we’d done for two decades, to empower our community and tell our story, bore fruit. I was appearing daily on every TV network.
The Ad Council of America produced an anti-hate newspaper and television commercial for us that was seen by tens of millions.
The US Senate passed legislation condemning anti-Arab and anti-Muslim hate.
A coalition of major civil rights groups and religious organisations sponsored a rally in support of our community.
It was gratifying, and exhausting, and contributed to the emotions and numbness that defined those days.
While much more could be said, I felt it was important to capture at least some of what we experienced 25 years ago, especially as almost one-half of today’s Americans were either not yet born or old enough to remember, or hadn’t yet arrived as immigrants.
For them, and for those of us who lived through those days, it remains important to remember.