Nineteen years ago, it was a lovely sunny day in Moscow. In the afternoon, around 3 p.m., I was recovering from my dentist’s appointment (things didn’t go that well for me the day before, and since I wasn’t a huge believer in painkillers, the only option left to me was to go through my day in a semi-conscious state). Sasha, my first husband, did a little painting: we had put new wallpaper on the walls the week before, and now the main (and only) room needed slight adjustments here and there. I was about to join him when our phone rang. I picked it up: it was my Dad, and his voice sounded concerned. “Switch on your TV,” he said. “Now.” Then he rung off.
I was puzzled, but asked Sasha to put the TV on, so he did.
The last part is history.
It is oddly comforting to know that all the people who were in the same position as us all over the world were having the exact same feeling: we all looked at our screens, seeing two beautiful absolutely identical skyscrapers, but one of them had an ominous gaping hole somewhere closer to the top, and the other one remained untouched. Until it wasn’t: a small plane crashed into the second building a few minutes later, in front of our very eyes.
Sasha, and I, and millions of others all over the world, were asking the same question: what kind of an adventure movie was that? Or is it? Or what the hell is going on?
And then, there was one of the presenters on one of the Russian channels (they all were broadcasting the video with a black gaping hole in one tower and the plane smashing into the other one) who were trying to describe the actual news: “America is under terrorist attack,” he said. “There were lots of people inside the buildings. Also, there were other attacks, and Pentagon amongst them.”
I remember thinking: what if this is the end? I was 25, doing my PhD (with variable success), my husband was searching for a new job, we finally made our first friends in Moscow, where we had moved a year and a half ago. And is it all supposed to be over? Because, I thought, if “they” attacked NYC, “they” would be able to go elsewhere. I was young, egoistic and foolish, despite the mountain of books I’d read prior to that.
And then I was reminded of a friend of mine who was planning to visit NYC in relation to her new PhD programme: she was one of the most brilliant students from my course, and I admired her academic achievements. I sent her a quick e-mail, blessing the fact that I had home Internet already (it was not that common back in 2001, but thanks to my Dad, we had access). Thank God, she replied promptly, saying that she changed her plans and cancelled her NY visit at the very last moment. It made me happy.
But then there was evening and night, when we were glued to our screens. The number of casualties was staggering. The level of city destruction was devastating. I saw those chronicles from living hell—New Yorkers, covered in dust, emerged from the debris, and the firefighters alongside policemen tried to help each and every one.
That was another America—not that glossy country from the covers of magazines or the blockbuster movies, but the real America. And it was suffering. It was brutally wounded. To see it was painful and crushing.
America can be different. It’s a large country with a volatile history. But it’s also a country of immense lands, spectacular landscapes, delightful literature and Art Deco architecture, gorgeous music and, yes, amazing people. Her people are America’s most precious treasure. And I hope they will never again experience such horror as happened there 19 years ago. They deserve peace and happiness. Let those who perished, be at peace. And may those who have survived, be happy and well.
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