Searching through the Rubble

By Christine Cordi

September 11, 2001. The dark clouds engulf us all. As countless rescue workers, search dogs, then cadaver dogs comb through the 1.2 million tons of rubble left where two proud towers once stood, many of us survivors are also left searching.

We feel our way through a kaleidoscope of hellish sounds and unthinkable images. We search through a maze of emotions, values, and memories. Now, days after the attack, a perpetual tape still plays somewhere in the back of our minds: jetliners make their way towards the twin towers, set against an innocent blue sky, followed by an enormous orange flash, then by screams, concrete rain, collapse and death.

In the first horrific hours many of us thought, please let there be survivors. Surely the California earthquake dogs being flown to New York would find life somewhere underneath the rubble. Hope turned to despair. The first TV shots from a distance had shown the impersonal dark window stripes of the standing towers, but in succeeding days we peered through a still lens. Just minutes before the collapse, the windows above the impacted floors were alive and lined with condemned people looking for escape, but finding none.

We were assaulted by the unfathomable as the cataclysm wreaked havoc and the ground became unstable beneath us. Of kind and gentle eyes masking an absolutely evil mind. Of the endless courage of firefighters and policemen who gave their lives in droves. Of unadulterated hate towards all of us in this country. Of the guts of the mighty Pentagon slit open, its people charred as they worked. Of everyday looking people in business suits somersaulting off a hundred stories. Of nations and economies depressed and a populace still reeling. Of a New York mayor becoming the source of solace and hope for an ailing and terrorized city, whereas days before he had been viewed by some as mean spirited. Of a strong and resolute President leading a people, many of whom had previously derided him. Of a unified instead of a bickering Congress. Of Wall Street traders, stunned and showing values diametrically opposed to the "greed is good" god many had single-mindedly pursued.

We still hear the voices of the dead as they were uttered on voicemails, broadcast by television to all of us, then on to space and all eternity. We close our eyes and still see their faces in pictures lining the Armory wall in New York, or clutched by the shaking hands of searching relatives. We hear the words of one victim’s wife who between tears was holding fast to the ideas that this happened for a reason, for some good had to come out of so much loss of life and destruction. I am not wise enough to know if that could ever be the case. Whether this crucible will make us better and stronger and more compassionate. Whether many of us spoiled, selfish couch potatoes will actually re-prioritize our values for more than a week. Whether we will exert ourselves to give back to our communities and our nation.

But there are glimmers of hope. Hope beneath the rubble. Told in countless stories of heroes dead and alive, and shown in the outpouring of emotion and aid towards victims’ families. That people helped people during the darkest hours of the calamity. Regular citizens saved lives of others while jeopardizing their own. That many saw what we have in common outweighs our differences, that we are all brothers. That loved ones and friends are what really matters. That all of us in this country must practice its principles of justice and caring for the downtrodden both here and abroad. That we must not be afraid to fight for what we hold dear.

This column is dedicated to the victims who lost their lives on September 11, 2001 and to those who loved them.