September 16 –October 4, 2001
ESSAY: Thoughts From One of New York's Adopted Sons in the Wake of the World Trade Center Destruction
By Arun Kristian Das
Though I am not a native New Yorker, I like to think of myself as one. I have lived here most of my life–20 of my 28 years on this Earth ('75-'85, '91-present). My parents are foreigners–one Czech, one Indian–and when growing up, my sister and I often struggled with the question of national and even racial identity.
Over the years it became clear to me that nowhere in the world felt quite like home the way America does. In many ways New York City raised me, and I spent formative years here during childhood and college. Those days on my college campus on the Upper West Side cemented in me a "New York State of Mind" (to borrow the words of Billy Joel).
May 9, 1997, was one of my proudest days. In front of federal officials, shoulder to shoulder with other teary-eyed immigrants, and with my companion, Wendi, smiling and looking on from the back of the room, I raised my right hand and took an oath of allegiance to this country. It was a turning point in my life, as is this one. I spent my adolescence in Europe during a period ('85-'91) when terrorism was a real threat. Italian military policemen, the Carabinieri, armed with Berretta submachine guns often patrolled my high school campus, where an ex-Israeli Army officer was head of security.
I know that danger and fear paled in comparison to what children experience in countless countries torn apart by true crises–be it civil war, ethnic strife, or famine. Nevertheless, in our relative safety and life of privilege, my classmates and I attended school with apprehension.
But never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the insanity and horror of September 11 in New York. I have no words to truly describe how I feel.
I offer only this perhaps self-centered thought: I grew up in a forty-story apartment building on East 25th Street. Every day I could see the Twin Towers from my bedroom window on the top floor. As a child, I thought of the World Trade Center as constant as any other landmark building in the city (such as the Pan Am, Empire State, and Chrysler–all visible from my apartment) and as immovable as Central Park itself.
As an adult, I have come to see New York in a different light, appreciating it for its art, culture, opportunity, and, most of all, diversity. Sharing this city with my companion–experiencing its sights and cuisine and discovering its neighborhoods and people–I've come to appreciate what a great place this is to live and work. It's a place both maddening and rewarding.
Now, from the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, just a few blocks from our home, Wendi and I look up at the Wall Street skyline across the East River and those grand, immovable towers are simply gone, as if they were never there.
Instead, we see a sickening, dirty blond cloud rising above a dusty tomb to thousands of human beings.
I ponder this: If the estimates of the fatalities at the World Trade Center, at the Pentagon, and in Pennsylvania are correct–that perhaps 6,000 or more have died–I realize that is roughly one-tenth the number of Americans killed in Vietnam.
All it took was one morning and 19 maniacs with box cutters.
To everyone who has lost friends or loved ones, we grieve with you. ###