Devastation... Utter Devastation

It’s just before 11am and I can smell the debris; I’m looking at the devastation. The spot I am looking at is where the twin towers - the World Trade Center of the world - should be. “The sky is painted black,” said Billy; “Pandemonium,” added Suet Yee. Billy and Suet Yee are two of the friends accompanying me in an attempt to find people in need of help. Indeed. It was like a nuclear winter in Downtown New York, September 11, 2001. We got quite close to ground zero; just about close enough to see the everlasting memory of two giant finger-like spikes protruding from the ground. They were charred black, reminding me of my grandfather’s well-used fireplace: differences exist however; major differences. Time was the biggest degeneration on the fireplace, while the twin towers had fallen in seconds.

Even though we were fixed upon it for only a minute or two (it seemed longer at the time), the image of that structure hasn’t let go of me since. Chased away by cops in fear that a bomb was in the vicinity only added to my state of mind. To say I was scared from the moment I saw those planes hit would be the same as saying the sun shines in the desert - sometimes: understatement of the century!

Earlier in the morning I walked passed a redundant looking dustbin: “Bomb,” I thought. What the hell is that about? Why should I walk past the most harmless object and think such things. This is what the twin towers tragedy has done to New Yorkers; and I am not even a New Yorker! You become all too aware of your surroundings: fearful of inanimate objects; untrusting of mere strangers; and utterly stunned by the scenes you are engulfed within.

As we walked to my friend's apartment we became disillusioned, so much so that we forgot our way back. As we stood regrouping our thoughts I ran my finger along the side of a van, gathering fragments of dust that were once part of the World Trade Center. My thoughts ran circles around themselves in their shocking state, producing wild images that I could be holding human particles. Quickly, abruptly, I dropped my hand’s contents: I could easily have been holding terrorists' body remains. My imagination took over, “They're all over the ground” – even in death they created fear. How ironic.

The thing is, there are so many still alive: free, and there are people who know where. Fear shows limited signs of relent.

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