{"id":40,"date":"2013-09-11T09:30:08","date_gmt":"2013-09-11T13:30:08","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/diaryofthedesert.wordpress.com\/?p=40"},"modified":"2013-11-16T01:45:08","modified_gmt":"2013-11-16T06:45:08","slug":"on-911","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.diaryofthedesert.com\/?p=40","title":{"rendered":"On 9\/11"},"content":{"rendered":"

Note: this has been published elsewhere at other times. It’s definitely mine, and it’s pretty much a true story.<\/em><\/p>\n

It is hot, and I am tired. I am the kind of tired I get when I have to pack \u2013 the frustrated, anxious tired. Tired of having to think, make decisions, process, plan. It has been a very long week, fraught with social tension. The weight of my leaving hangs over me at all times like a gloomy raincloud, every bit as likely to burst into rainy tears at any moment.<\/p>\n

Keep going, I encourage myself. Pack a little more. If you can focus for thirty more minutes, you can take a break. If you can focus, you can sit for half an hour and watch \u201cThe Bold and the Beautiful.\u201d<\/p>\n

This is a real motivation. It\u2019s not so much that I\u2019m addicted to the daily soaps, and I\u2019ve never watched this particular show before moving here. But it is broadcast every weekday on Israeli television, and the local ladies never miss an episode. It disturbs me that the machinations of the powerful LA fashion world are equated with typical American life, but in watching, I share a powerful common bond with my neighbors. And today, the distraction is welcome.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

At 4:30, I pour myself some juice and throw myself on my couch, flipping the television on and idly cycling through all six stations before settling on Israel 2.<\/p>\n

What greets me there isn\u2019t unusual, although it is unwelcome. Shaky hand-held camera footage of a building in flames. Smoke. A male voice droning on and on in Hebrew. I am jaded \u2013 and so, so tired \u2013 and I roll my eyes. Water in the background, I note\u2026 a bomb in Haifa? It doesn\u2019t look like Tel Aviv. I\u2019m not really paying attention. I am frustrated that the reward I promised myself has been thwarted by violence. I\u2019m frustrated that there is so much violence. I am petulant. I want my soaps.<\/p>\n

Then I notice that the droning Hebrew voice is droning over something. And that something sounds familiar. A voice from before, from a long time ago, from\u2026 is thatKatie Couric<\/em>?<\/p>\n

Katie has dyed her hair since I\u2019ve been gone, but that\u2019s hardly the most important thing, why is Katie Couric reporting on a bomb in \u2013<\/p>\n

Oh god.<\/p>\n

Oh god, oh god, oh god.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s\u00a0New York<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\"National_Park_Service_9-11_Statue_of_Liberty_and_WTC\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014-<\/p>\n

The thing about an event like that day\u2019s is that it doesn\u2019t matter how involved you are. I am nowhere near New York. I am not particularly worried about any close loved ones. I am safe, warm, well-fed, sheltered\u2026 and terrified. Everything has changed, from what was before to a total unknown.\u00a0What is going on? What comes next?<\/em><\/p>\n

Katie says there are rumors of other planes\u2026 the Pentagon\u2026 untold dead\u2026 untold hijacked vessels\u2026 I have had enough. I grab my backpack, a little money, and head for the bus stop. It isn\u2019t my first choice. I never\u00a0leave<\/em>\u00a0my village just as the sun is setting. It will mean paying for a taxi home, in the dark, the idea of which is objectionable for several reasons. But it doesn\u2019t matter. In this moment, more than anything else, I need the connectivity of the internet.<\/p>\n

\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014-<\/p>\n

I stand waiting by the Post Office. The main street is almost deserted; most people are home, relaxing after a hot day, preparing for the evening meal. Many of them, I imagine, are glued to their own television sets. I am optimistic that the buses are still running, but can only hope that all the bus drivers haven\u2019t been distracted.<\/p>\n

Finally Abu Saif\u2019s bus rounds the corner. His bus is my favorite, and has never before failed to cheer me up \u2013 clean, new, brightly painted, decorated with cheerful good-luck charms and prayer beads. And Abu Saif never lets the young men treat me disrespectfully. But today I hardly care which bus it is; I just want to get to Irbid.<\/p>\n

I board the bus and sit, shaking, staring straight ahead. Abu Saif looks at me out of the corner of his eye and says something to another bearded gentleman behind him. That gentleman turns to me and says, seriously: “You\u2026 New York? Family?”<\/p>\n

“No, no, thank God,” I say.<\/p>\n

“Alhumdulilah<\/em>,” the stranger and Abu Saif agree. “Ya haram<\/em>. It is a profound shame.”<\/p>\n

When I disembark in the city, Abu Saif won\u2019t take my money. “Not today,” he says.<\/p>\n

I start to cry.<\/p>\n

\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014-<\/p>\n

By the time I reach the internet caf\u00e9, the first tower has fallen; the second falls shortly thereafter. The normally chaotic back room is silent. Nearly every monitor displays CNN. Every eye follows me as I sit. After a few minutes, the caf\u00e9 attendant brings me a juice I haven\u2019t ordered, and in polite, collegiate English, asks if everybody I know is okay.<\/p>\n

“I think so,” I say.<\/p>\n

“Thank God, thank God,” the room intones. “Ya haram<\/em>. It is a profound shame.”<\/p>\n

\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014<\/p>\n

My parents are missing, and I am grateful for the assistance of a travel agent friend, who locates their plane and tells me they\u2019ve been stranded in Amsterdam. I\u2019m sure they won\u2019t have a fabulous time as refugees, but there is no cause to worry that they are in danger. My friends in New York are all present and accounted for. And it is a gorgeous night: breathtaking, intense, perfumed \u2013 the kind of night that always makes monotheism easy to understand and believe. Of course God speaks to people here, in nights like these. Sometimes God speaks of joyful things. Tonight, amid the beauty, God speaks only of sorrow.<\/p>\n

I thank the cab driver, who has barely even made eye contact with me. This is unusual, for cab drivers. I suspect he\u2019s been listening to the radio. As I get out of the car, he says, “God bless your country.\u00a0Ya haram<\/em>.”<\/p>\n

\"800px-Wtc-2004-memorial\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014-<\/p>\n

My apartment is dark and cool as I enter. The juice is there, where I left it; the pasta I\u2019d planned for dinner; the sewing I\u2019d meant to enjoy during my siesta. Everything the same. Nothing the same.<\/p>\n

I have barely closed the metal door behind me when I hear a timid knock. I open the window in the door and see Noor, the youngest of my landlord\u2019s nine children. “Mama wants you,” she says. “They\u2019re on the roof.”<\/p>\n

I follow Noor up two flights of stairs and find the family gathered at the west side of the roof. Abu Jameel is in the center, plastic chair tipped back and leaning against the roof-edge, steaming cup of tea balanced precariously on the cinderblocks, surrounded by children and grandchildren.<\/p>\n

I sit in a chair vacated for me by a younger person, as propriety demands, and another child hands me a glass of minty tea and a plate of grapes. After the same brief exchange assuring everybody that my family is safe \u2013 thank God, thank God \u2013 I sit in silence. I usually sit in silence at these things. They speak of family business, in colloquial words, and most of it is completely beyond me. But tonight feels different, somehow.<\/p>\n

Finally, Abu Jameel tips his chair forward and leans towards me soberly.<\/p>\n

“The people who did this are not Muslims,” he says, without preamble.<\/p>\n

“We don\u2019t\u00a0know<\/em>\u00a0who did this,” I begin, “But it certainly looks like –”<\/p>\n

“No, no,” Abu Jameel interrupts, waving his hand. “I know they\u00a0say<\/em>\u00a0they\u2019re Muslims. They are\u00a0not<\/em>\u00a0Muslims.” He nods definitively. It is clear that nothing more will be said on this subject.<\/p>\n

I nod, too. I understand what he means. But he isn\u2019t quite done.<\/p>\n

“I think maybe it\u2019s a good time,” he says. “You are about to leave us; you are going home, and people will ask you about us. I think God sent you here, so you could know us. You know me. You know my boys. You know we are good men. You know my wife, my daughters, are good women. You know the people of this village are simple, good farmers who love America. This is why God has brought you here. You will go back to America and tell them about the people of our village.\u00a0Ya haram<\/em>.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Note: this has been published elsewhere at other times. It’s definitely mine, and it’s pretty much a true story. It is hot, and I am tired. I am the kind of tired I get when I have to pack \u2013 the frustrated, anxious tired. Tired of having to think, make decisions, process, plan. It has … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “On 9\/11”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":42,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[2,4,6,9,10],"class_list":["post-40","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-2","tag-arabic","tag-jordan","tag-peace-corps","tag-travel"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.diaryofthedesert.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/40","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.diaryofthedesert.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.diaryofthedesert.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.diaryofthedesert.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.diaryofthedesert.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=40"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/www.diaryofthedesert.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/40\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":282,"href":"https:\/\/www.diaryofthedesert.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/40\/revisions\/282"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.diaryofthedesert.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/42"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.diaryofthedesert.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=40"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.diaryofthedesert.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=40"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.diaryofthedesert.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=40"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}