9/11: Then and now

New York Historical Society, my favorite museum, features a beautiful, powerful film entitled “New York Story,” which illustrates that NYC has survived many crises over time, to remain an ever-evolving representation of modern civilization. Of these crises, 9/11 is the one that left a deep abyss, both literally and metaphorically, challenging NYC to its core. On a literal level, no other US city has suffered as violent a stealth attack as New York did on that day. On a metaphorical level, 9/11 was a cataclysmic blow, a shocking introduction to the new millennium, heralding that the world had fundamentally changed. Following are my eyewitness recollections of 9/11, and current reflections on its impact.

In 2001, I lived in Hoboken, NJ, directly across the Hudson River, with its panoramic view of Manhattan. Hoboken is a public transit hub, so my husband and I, who both worked in Newark, rode NJ Transit to work. I was to teach that afternoon, and left for work mid-morning. The otherwise perfect day – sunny, warm, breezy – was impaired by the din of helicopters and sirens filling the air. I assumed that a serious accident had occurred.

As I walked along the Hudson River walkway, I saw with my own eyes that one of the twin towers was shrouded in smoke and flames, and heard that a plane had crashed into it. I recalled my mother’s tale that once, by accident, a plane had struck the Empire State Building. Ah, I thought, it’s another plane striking another iconic building, by accident.

By then, hundreds of people had fled lower Manhattan using the PATH rail system, to then board NJ Transit to their homes. My train to work was packed with people who were dust-covered, hunched over, in shock. Their eyes indicated that they had witnessed hell. Almost no one spoke. The silence in the train car was in contrast to the din outside.

A dust-covered man sat near me. He whispered, with little emotion, that he had seen people jumping from the burning tower, jumping from dozens of floors up. That sight, along with the sound of their screams and the acrid scent of burning buildings and bodies, consumed him. My listening comforted him a bit.

I arrived on campus to learn that classes were cancelled. Entering the student center, a kind-looking student approached me.

“Ma’am, the second tower has been hit by a plane.”

“It can’t be!” I screamed aloud.

“Come,” he said, “it’s on TV. I’ll watch it with you.”

I viewed what he had described, and nearly fainted. We sat together in silence, having realized this was no accident.

Inbound trains to Hoboken were bypassing all stations, enabling 9/11’s living victims to return home quickly. There were no buses or taxis to be had. My husband and I were stranded, until a co-worker offered to drive us. It was a torturous journey of many hours. The world was broken.

I viewed the collapsed towers burning across the river, as well as on TV. It was a strange concurrence in my head. Was the scene real, or was it an orchestrated, special effect that I was watching on site, while it was also being broadcast?

Later that day, I went to a local hospital, to assist in any way possible. I was told:

“We’re expecting hundreds of injured people, as are all tri-state hospitals. Come back in a few hours. Bring towels, and sheets, they’ll be needed.”

I returned. No injured people had arrived. There was a mountain of donated supplies, to which mine were added. I was assigned to a triage center for hospital overflow, located in a nearby school.

It was now evening. The din, the stench, and the many broken souls roaming the streets were overwhelming. I was one of the broken souls.

The school auditorium contained dozens of beds. All were empty. I found the person in charge, another broken soul.We barely spoke, and barely gave eye contact.

“They’re not here yet,” he said.

“It’s getting so late . . .

It’s been so many hours . . .

(Silence)

They aren’t coming, are they?”

(Silence)

“They aren’t coming.”

There was more silence before I left. There was nothing more to say.

The injured never arrived. With few exceptions, the towers’ occupants made it out early, without serious physical injury; died in the inferno; or jumped to their death.

I walked to the Hudson River many nights, standing with dozens of people, staring at the smoldering ruins. Our shared reality was surreal, hellish. We spoke occasionally, saying that we “saw” the towers in the smolder, and would reinforce to each other that our minds had difficulty processing that they were gone. Bonding with these strangers was better than any therapy.

Fast forward to 2026, the 25th anniversary of 9/11. NYC, the proverbial phoenix that rises from the ashes, thrives yet again. The combination of emergency din and abject silence that characterized 9/11 is a distant memory. The city’s sound is of its intense, urban cacophony. 

The sacred ground of the twin towers houses the 9/11 Museum and the spectacular 9/11 Memorial Fountains, dedicated to those who died. Communities that lost citizens that day built memorials in their honor. Annual memorial services are held. The family and friends of the forever “missing” carry on, despite the holes in their lives.

I note that 9/11 is fading from the city’s collective consciousness. NYC’s children, young adults, and newer immigrants generally have neither a personal memory of, nor a connection to, 9/11. As government efforts to thwart large-scale terrorist attacks are effective, fear of a similar attack has been reduced, and we are seldom reminded of 9/11’s horror. And, several newer crises, most notably being the US epicenter of the COVID epidemic, have eclipsed 9/11. Last, our 21st Century, nanosecond attention span causes us to concentrate on the here and now. The past is blurred, shades of gray, with little sense of timeline. Which is both a blessing and a curse. 

“9/11: Then and Now” was previously published in New York: Great Cities (2026, Vol. 3), Pure Slush Publishing (Australia), Matt Potter (ed.), pp- 182-185).

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