September 11th 2001 has already gone down in history as a day that shocked much of the world. Much has been written and said about the events of that day and the days that followed. It seems perhaps futile to write anything more about what Americans now call “9|11.”
In the days that followed those horrific acts of terrorism I chose not to write anything about what had happened. Like so many people I was lost for words to express my horror and sadness. I felt that anything I wrote would simply come out as words bathed in emotion and an anger at an unseen enemy.
A year later and I am still not sure that anything I write on the subject would be worth reading. I wasn’t there, I didn’t know anyone there, I knew no-one personally affected. So my connection is distant to say the least.
I feel like I don’t have the right to feel grief and sadness over what happened in New York, Washington DC and Pennsylvania. I don’t want to be seen as one of those people who becomes dramatically inconsolable when someone they hardly knew dies. Most of what I felt and still feel about what happened has been hidden away, so that people don’t think that I am somehow trying to gain attention from someone’s else’s tragedy. Perhaps this is how most of the ‘unaffected’ were affected.
For weeks after September 11th 2001 I had terrible nightmares involving hijacked planes and buildings. I often woke up in the middle of the night and simply failed to settle again. I would hear a jet go over head and do what I think many did in the immediate aftermath, look to see where it was and what it was doing. I live in the flight path of Liverpool airport and… [Click here to continue reading this article at ‘Meanwhile’]