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Five years ago This Time, These TimesBy Rick Horowitz [NOTE TO
READERS "This Time, These Times" was written on the first morning after
the 9/11 attacks, five years ago. It captures both the horror of the
immediate moment and much of what was to come in the days and months
that followed. It holds up pretty well, and I think it's worth a second
look. Thanks. R.H.] What we'll do, what we always do when this kind of thing happens (this kind of thing never happens), is focus on the voices in the rubble.
We'll focus on the voices of the fortunate few to keep from having to acknowledge, if only for a moment, how many, many voices have been stilled forever. What we'll do, what we always do when this kind of thing happens, is pinch ourselves awake and realize to our horror that we've already been awake, that this nightmare is not a nightmare. What we'll do, what we always do when this kind of thing happens, is grab up every scrap of information we can find. We'll roam the channels, spin the dial, looking for the latest news, keeping a vigil. When we can't take any more, we'll turn away. Then we'll turn back. We'll have the worst of the images memorized -- the plane slicing into the tower like a hot knife through butter, like a dagger through the soul. Blood-orange flames billowing against a pure blue sky. A tower collapsing on itself. A dust cloud chasing innocents through the streets. A tower collapsing on itself. Images memorized, and unshakable. This kind of thing never happens. What we'll do, what we always do when this kind of thing happens, is call the ones who matter to us, the ones who might have been there. We'll make sure they were someplace else, plead with them to keep their distance, worry ourselves sick over those we can't reach right away. We'll breathe again when finally we make contact. We'll hear their accounts -- a sudden evacuation by ferry from the tip of Manhattan, an urban Dunkirk -- and we'll pass the word along so that others can breathe again, too. What we'll do, what we always do when this kind of thing happens, is ponder the unknowns. Four planes were hijacked, we'll remember, and three shattered their targets; the fourth went down in the woods of Pennsylvania. We'll wonder about that fourth plane, about its intended destination, about the mix of happenstance or heroism or who-knows-what-else that brought it down short of its deadly goal. We'll be ashamed of ourselves for even considering the fate of that fourth plane a good thing. Then we'll consider the alternatives. Then we'll wonder how we ever came to be performing such a balancing act. What we'll do, what we always do when this kind of thing happens, is lament our loss of innocence. There was a world once, we'll tell ourselves, where the hazards were smaller, and clearer, when the daily precautions were less pervasive, and less essential. There was a world once where the rules were clear, and confidence was possible. We'll grieve at the passing of that world. We'll rail at those who have brought it to an end, at the cowardice and monstrousness of those who have made us fear -- and made us hate. What we'll do,
what we'll somehow have to do when this kind of thing happens (this
kind of thing never happens), is make them pay for it. September 12, 2001
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Rick Horowitz
