I’ve already read several 9/11 accounts around the blogosphere this morning, and thought I’d chime in to the many of us remembering. (It’s also the 4-year anniversary of meeting my husband, so it’s a little bittersweet.)
I was living in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia with my family. As junior in high school, I went down to eat breakfast and found my mom glued to CNN.
It was 8:30am on September 12th (8:30pm in NYC) – a full 12 hours after it had happened.
“The World Trade Center got hit. The towers fell,” my mom told me without taking her eyes off the television.
I’d never heard of the World Trade Center in the US before – the only WTC I knew of was a mall in Bangkok. Noticing my blank look, my mom explained, “This is a huge deal. This is something that will go down in history. People will remember this forever.”
I watched CNN with her until I had to catch the bus to school.
As I walked down the road, I remember thinking, “Is this it? Is the world going to end now?” There was an intense moment of perspective for me, as a 16-year-old: How could I be stupid as to ever worry about silly things like my clothes and hair?
We got to school and my principal called an assembly. An American, he teared up as he explained what had happened. We’d have class, we could talk to the counselors, we should pray for the people, he said.
It was sinking in – even half a world away, that this was a big deal.
Going to an international school – where only 15% of the students were American, and living in a predominantly Muslim country during the processing and aftermath of the September 11th attacks was one of the most unique experiences I’ll ever have.
My friends and family were wrought with worry and fear – was I okay in a Muslim country!? As an American!?
Slowly, Islam started to gain more attention in the US. It started to gain more fear in the US. Surrounded by practicing Muslims, I didn’t understand. What was so scary?
I went back to Ohio in September for an aunt’s wedding. I visited my old high school, and my French teacher, whom I’d adored, told a joke. A joke about Muslims. A joke that equated “Muslim” with “terrorist”.
My heart broke in disappointment and anger rose up in my throat. I couldn’t believe it was socially acceptable to tell a joke like that.
I learned a lot from that time. A whole lot. My worldview expanded, I gained perspective, and grew.
It changed me.
The attack was terrible. The loss of individuals was awful. I can’t even fathom how scary it would be.
Sometimes, though, it makes me sad that we’re so outraged by loss when it happens to our people, but dismissive when it happens to others. I don’t know why this is. I don’t want to minimize the horror of September 11th, but I want to tell you a little story.
Three years later, I was in Malaysia again for Christmas visiting my family.
A tsunami with the same energy as 23,000 Hiroshima-type atomic bombs rocked South and Southeast Asia.
Over 150,000 people died. One hundred and fifty thousand.
Back in the LA airport, a stewardess asked why the flag was at half-mast. Her friend replied it was for the tsunami.
“Well, that’s stupid.”
My face got hot with anger and I started to shake a little. How could 150 thousand people dying be a stupid thing to mourn? Is it because they’re from developing nations? Are they not as valuable? Is it because they’re not American? WHY? I wanted to ask her.
But I didn’t. I swallowed my anger and prayed that others were more compassionate than her.
Leave a Reply