Due to the publishing schedule of the Catholic Star Herald, this column will appear after the 23rd anniversary of 9/11. However, given the catastrophic results for our nation that 9/11 caused, reflecting on it can and should go on all the time, not just at the anniversary.
Having lived in south Manhattan within proximity of the former Twin Towers, my experience of 9/11 remains vivid in my memory and enmeshed in my heart, despite the passage of 23 years. Two concerns I have are that schools, at all levels – grammar, high, college – educate students not only in what happened on that infamous day, but the reasons such terror and destruction were visited on our country; and that with the passage of time, we do not forget that war, murder and destruction took place in our own country. 9/11 is the dawning of the Age of Terrorism.
One of the scenes in the drama “Come from Away,” written by Irene Sankoff and David Hein, brilliantly captures the disastrous spiritual effects experienced by nearly 7,000 passengers whose planes were forced to land in Gander, Newfoundland. I have seen it twice, and on each occasion, I was emotionally moved as the cast sang the prayer of Saint Francis, “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,” and members of the audience wept. The spiritual effects of 9/11 continue to affect many in our nation and in the world.
Twenty-three years ago on that Tuesday morning, having rushed out of Mass onto the street, I stood beside an elderly Cabrini Sister, both of us staring in disbelief at the burning upper floors of the tower of steel that loomed over our neighborhood. Then, within a few minutes, we witnessed a plane fly into the second tower. The cries and shrieks of those on Henry Street still resound in me. Grabbing my hand, Sister said, “Monsignor, this is war.” So very correct was she. And the war continues.
We were joined by other Cabrini Sisters and went to the roof of the convent, a four-story building, for a “better look.” To our horror, we could see people jumping off the high floors of the two burning buildings. “God be good to them.” “Jesus, have mercy.” “Eternal rest grant unto them.” These were the prayers we voiced. As we waited, stupefied by such horror, building #2 collapsed and, shortly after, so did building #1. Dark clouds that resembled an atomic explosion rose up in the blue sky. The world came tumbling down, and darkness filled not only south Manhattan, but everywhere in our country.
Into action our group sprang, setting up chairs on the sidewalk outside the church across from which is an entrance to a New York subway that feeds uptown, all the way to Queens, and southbound, all the way to the ends of Brooklyn. We knew people would board trains to get out of south Manhattan. They did. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds, like zombies, covered with ash and soot dressed in disheveled business clothes. Remember, they had gone to work that morning. Some never returned home; others were never found. The intense fire burned for 100 days. The smell in October and November was worse than in September.
As people came up the avenue, they needed their eyes washed, their ears cleaned, to use a bathroom, to drink water and make a phone call. Very few mobile phones were available in those days. We had five landlines between the convent and the rectory. Intense calls were made to loved ones. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” was endlessly repeated through tears. Some of our visitors sat silently in the church; others were hysterical. One of the Cabrini Sisters was a nurse who put her psychological training into practice to assist those who experienced intense emotional trauma. All were in a state of shock.
Our temporary “emergency room” services continued for a couple of hours until no more survivors came up the street. Our Catholic schoolchildren were dismissed early that morning and got safely home; some of the children in the public school, located across the street from the rectory, remained in the school building, comforted by dedicated teachers and administrators. It was not until later that evening that their parents were able to return to the neighborhood. Around 3 p.m., two priests from Saint Peter’s Church, located one block from the towers, arrived at the rectory and stayed for a week. That evening around 6 p.m. building #7, at the side of the towers, collapsed. That was the end for us for phone service, internet and television reception until mid-January 2002.
The following morning, 9/12, when I walked outside to open the church for Mass and saw the United States Army encamped on the blocks around the church, I was startled. We were located in the lockdown zone, and that situation remained in place for months. Each time you left the zone, it was necessary to bring identification to return. Many of our young Asian neighbors never returned, as they lacked proper identification.
There is still a deep sadness in my soul despite the passing of 23 years. The words of the Lenten hymn, “Stabat Mater,” sung at the Stations of the Cross come to mind: “Is there one who would not weep over whelmed in misery so deep.” 9/11 looks to faith for understanding and comfort.
However, as we witnessed the terrible evil of 9/11, we also witnessed incredible goodness and bravery on the part of office workers who delayed their own escape to assist a co-worker; those who rushed to the site to help. As those steel buildings – symbols of America’s strength and power in the world of trade, commerce and finance – turned to dust before our eyes, eventually I realized where our true strength and power lie: in the generosity, self-sacrifice and compassion of people.
Yes, life goes on, but not as before. Who says, you get over these things. Time moves on but the never forgetting and the remembering must continue. Annually, on the anniversary of 9/11, I am terribly saddened both by remembering the events of that day and being aware that since then the spiraling prevalence and chaos in our American society of hatred, prejudice and ignorance has resulted. A hole was left in the heart of our nation that day, which still calls out to God for healing and action.
Most Reverend Dennis J. Sullivan, D.D.
Bishop of Camden