Ten Years Later: A Personal Reflection on September 11, 2001
Tuesday morning September 11, 2001 I left our apartment to go to a doctor's appointment on 33rd street. In the rush of the morning, I left home knowing only that there was a fire in one of the Towers. My husband Mark was supposed to meet his cousin for lunch at the world Financial center just blocks from the WTC. By the time I arrived at my appointment, the NYC skyline had been forever altered, I had no idea as to the well-being of our four friends who worked in the Towers, or whether any of my congregants were at work there as well.
With no cell service, no subways or buses, I walked with thousands of New Yorkers to get to where I needed to be. In the sea of humanity I walked from 33rd to 69th street, less than 2 miles, but it felt like an eternity to get home. I stopped often to look behind me at the smoke filling the sky.
I stopped at the Red Cross building next to the synagogue, but I could not give blood since they only needed O-, but I registered as a clergy person ready to help in any way. I called members of the synagogue, everyone was accounted for. But one man lost his best friend, and another lost his sister — the one funeral I was presided over during those days.
Three of our four friends who worked in the Towers were not at work that day. We would learn that was the incredible good fortune for thousands of New Yorkers who were bringing their kids to the first day of school instead of being at work before 9 am. Had the terrorists boarded planes just an hour or two later, the numbers of the dead would have been many thousand more.
The best man at our wedding was unaccounted for, for close to five hours and we feared the worst. Already flyers with pictures of loved ones were plastered all over the city with pictures, vital stats, and where they worked at the WTC listed. Already people were being interviewed asking if anyone had seen their husband, father, sister, friend. We worried about Jon.
We finally got an email in the afternoon: “I am ok, got out, walked to my sister's in Brooklyn.” We later learned that when he emerged from the subway tunnel after descending 40 flights of stairs with his coworkers, he passed an engine from one of the planes on the street, and saw things he would not soon forget.
That night I participated in an interfaith prayer vigil and 2000 people filled the church. My colleagues told me how they had been going from hospital to hospital searching for news about a member of their synagogue. It turned out she was the sister of my congregant, who later that night I learned was missing.
My best friend from high school, a doctor at Beth Israel Hospital told me how she waited with her colleagues, scrubs on, gurneys and supplies at the ready for the wounded who never arrived.
On September 12, the executive director of the JCC called and asked if I would visit a bereaved Jewish family without s synagogue community. I met with a young woman, her 2 year old son playing nearby, her parents and in laws huddled in the kitchen. She was one of the many people who received a message: “There's a fire, I don't know what will happen, I love you.” I had no words for her, only a hug and “I'm so sorry.”
That night we opened our doors to a standing room only crowd of members, neighbors, passersby - Jews and non-Jews. All looking for solace, connection, the affirmation of life in the face of unspeakable grief. I remember the sound of the papers turning and remarking that it was like the thousands of pieces of paper that covered the downtown streets along with the ash and debris.
In between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I officiated at the funeral for Clarin Schwartz, a vivacious woman, daughter, sister, beloved aunt and friend. There were 500 people crowding the auditorium, all of us in various stages of our grief.
The night before Kol Nidre, I went down to Ground Zero with a group of rabbis and volunteers to help the rescue workers through St. Paul Church. The walls of the church were covered with letters, drawings made by kids from all over the country. There were boxes and boxes of relief supplies toothpaste, sweatshirts, toiletries—meant for the victims of the attacks, but used by the relief workers and firefighters who would work on “the pile” for weeks.
We first prayed together the words of Psalm 127: Yehi shalom b'heilech, shalva b'armonotayich, may there be peace within your walls, harmony inside your gates. Then, with hard hats and face masks, we walked into the site. There, the smoldering pile was larger than I ever imagined and we were only allowed so far. But suddenly, as I watched the firefighters as they went closer in, it struck me that the site where the towers once stood was like the kodesh kodashim--holy ground. The rescuers truly were like the kohanim of old—risking their very lives for the collective good.
It is all about saving our lives, in the end. How to save our own lives from pettiness and vanity, pretension and false securities; and if possible, how to literally save a life. For Judaism values human life above all else and in our experience 10 years ago, we saw countless examples of the ways the holiness of the ancient world found it's way into the contemporary landscape.
Natalie Angier in the New York Times wrote: “Altruism and heroism. If not for these twin radiant badges of our humanity, there would be no us, and we know it. And so, when their vile opposite threatened to choke us into submission, we rallied them in quantities so great we surprised even ourselves.
Whatever the ultimate origins of our instinctive capacity to reach beyond ourselves -- whether the indomitable spirit of America, or from some celestial source, or even, as some biologists might claim, the birthright and defining characteristic of the human species, there is no question that in those few weeks following the attacks, ordinary people did extraordinary things.”
On 9/11 so many of us gathered in our offices, with friends or family, or on street corners as we walked uptown, to watch the events unfold. We talked, we assessed, we even prayed, but mostly we were simply there for each other.
While flags flew all over America, and people rallied together over the airwaves, New Yorkers felt the attacks personally. It was in our backyard, where people went to work—and we were reminded of that every time the wind shifted and the smoke from ground zero was coming through our living room window.
And of course, what we did for ourselves, we did for others. We went to give blood and volunteered; we donated our clothing, brought sandwiches and coffee to the firefighters and rescue workers. Famous chefs cooked on the street near St. Paul's Church feeding the rescue workers and volunteers. We consoled our friends and taught our children.
There were no words really, but many connections—connections between victims and volunteers, people of different faiths, and people of different ethnicities and nationalities—connections that crossed boundaries.
Simply put, we saw then how much we need one another. We need connections that matter, that are heartfelt. We need to connect, or reconnect to our friends, our families, our neighbors, our communities. We also need to connect —or reconnect—to our past, our traditions, and our ideals. (Edward Hallowell)
During the days after 9/11, I felt that the air over New York had been saturated—not only with the smoke and ash—from the explosions, but with the prayers and dreams of thousands of people. It was hard to breathe. A yoga teacher of mine explained that it wasn't a surprise, for the diaphragm has more nerve endings than any other organ, and when fear, pain, and anger strike, the diaphragm hardens, creating that “knot in your stomach” and the “tightness in your chest.”
As we remember that day and those that followed tonight, we pause before the fragility of existence and the ever encroaching reality that the longer we live, the more likely we, and those we love, will be touched by pain, grief, and sadness. And yet, at the same time, we also affirm the stability of our existence. We renew our trust in the lives we have crafted for ourselves, and we recognize the gift of life itself.
The Psalmist says: “God, what are we that you have regard for us? What are we, that you are mindful of us? We are like a breath; our days are like a passing shadow; At sunrise we shoot up, renewed; At sunset we fade and whither. If only we were wise and could comprehend this…”
In the days and weeks that followed, New Yorkers and Americans emerged from the house of mourning into that first year following a loss—where everything you do for the first time brings afresh the loss and grief. Flags came back to full mast, air traffic resumed, sports teams resumed their normal schedules, The New Yorker had cartoons again, Mayor Guiliani told us to shop and see Broadway shows, and comedians dug deep to be able to make us laugh once again.
But there was a dull ache for many months—like a low grade fever you just can't shake. There was no separation between the house of mourning and the outside world, thereby nececittating the traditional Jewish custom of walking around the block at the conclusion of shiva. The flyers stayed up for weeks. At an apartment building across the street from us there was a shrine of flowers under a flyer that bore the name of a neighbor who was well known in the dog run of 86th Street. Every year later on September 11, the flyer would go up, and the images were fresh once again.
At the same time there was resolve. Resolve to find our way in this new world where contemporary innocence was over, American strength was threatened, and where terror was no longer something that happened “over there.”
Resolve not to be defeated by terrorism, which meant and still means living full and robust lives. It means seeing our existence as Americans as a part of, not separate from the tens of millions of people who suffer violence of all kinds all over the globe.
Resolve to see that community can be a source of redemption, for we know that we are neither the first nor the last to experience loss, and that belonging to a community means that those who have been afflicted are continually absorbed and enabled to endure, survive, and transcend.
Resolve to embrace the quiet comfort of ritual. I remember celebrating shabbat in the midst of this tragedy was a lesson in what we need to carry on: rest, love, breath, song, and prayer about what the world could be like, instead of what it is. I prayed then and continue to hope that we can resolve to find meaning beyond absurdity, as Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel taught.
In the ten years since 9/11 children have been born, people have died. Four thousand four hundred sixty-five American service men and women have died since start of the Iraq war and 1743 service men and women since the start of the Afgan war and related operations.
There have been earthquakes, and hurricanes, suicide bombings, war, unemployment, forclosures, scandals, celebrations, the first African American president, illness, recovery, revolution, great despair and great hope. Remembering, rebuilding, and renewing.
Ten years ago, at the memorial service at Yankee Stadium, the Rev. Calvin Butts of the Abbysinian Baptist Church in Harlem preached the words of Emma Lazarus: “We are tempest tossed, and we seek the lamp beside the golden door of freedom, democracy and justice.” He told us that we would get through this, and we did.
And yet, here we are a decade later. We are still trying to make sense of that day, and many since that have tested our sense of safety, trust, connection, and community. In many ways we have moved forward from this experience as it continues to remind us of the profound gift and challenge it is to be alive.
Like the Psalmist, Kiviti Adonai, kivta nafshi--My soul waits for God's presence. I am eager to know what the future will bring, but I know I, we, cannot control it all. What did my soul come here to do tonight? I feel the ground on which we are standing is holy, made so by our seeking, our tears, our anger, and our resolve to respond with actions that make the world a better place.
In a few weeks Jewish communities all over the world will hear the refrain of Avinu Malkenu:
Aseh imanu tzedakah vahesed--May we come to know justice and compassion.
May our commemoration of 9/11 take us beyond grief and mourning. May we be inspired by our search for meaning, by our enduring faith, and by the coming together of our nation.
Adonai oz l'amo yiten, Adonai yevarech et Amo bashalom. May we be strengthened and give strength, may we continue to seek Peace and pursue it.
Rabbi Yael Ridberg
Tuesday morning September 11, 2001 I left our apartment to go to a doctor's appointment on 33rd street. In the rush of the morning, I left home knowing only that there was a fire in one of the Towers. My husband Mark was supposed to meet his cousin for lunch at the world Financial center just blocks from the WTC. By the time I arrived at my appointment, the NYC skyline had been forever altered, I had no idea as to the well-being of our four friends who worked in the Towers, or whether any of my congregants were at work there as well.
With no cell service, no subways or buses, I walked with thousands of New Yorkers to get to where I needed to be. In the sea of humanity I walked from 33rd to 69th street, less than 2 miles, but it felt like an eternity to get home. I stopped often to look behind me at the smoke filling the sky.
I stopped at the Red Cross building next to the synagogue, but I could not give blood since they only needed O-, but I registered as a clergy person ready to help in any way. I called members of the synagogue, everyone was accounted for. But one man lost his best friend, and another lost his sister — the one funeral I was presided over during those days.
Three of our four friends who worked in the Towers were not at work that day. We would learn that was the incredible good fortune for thousands of New Yorkers who were bringing their kids to the first day of school instead of being at work before 9 am. Had the terrorists boarded planes just an hour or two later, the numbers of the dead would have been many thousand more.
The best man at our wedding was unaccounted for, for close to five hours and we feared the worst. Already flyers with pictures of loved ones were plastered all over the city with pictures, vital stats, and where they worked at the WTC listed. Already people were being interviewed asking if anyone had seen their husband, father, sister, friend. We worried about Jon.
We finally got an email in the afternoon: “I am ok, got out, walked to my sister's in Brooklyn.” We later learned that when he emerged from the subway tunnel after descending 40 flights of stairs with his coworkers, he passed an engine from one of the planes on the street, and saw things he would not soon forget.
That night I participated in an interfaith prayer vigil and 2000 people filled the church. My colleagues told me how they had been going from hospital to hospital searching for news about a member of their synagogue. It turned out she was the sister of my congregant, who later that night I learned was missing.
My best friend from high school, a doctor at Beth Israel Hospital told me how she waited with her colleagues, scrubs on, gurneys and supplies at the ready for the wounded who never arrived.
On September 12, the executive director of the JCC called and asked if I would visit a bereaved Jewish family without s synagogue community. I met with a young woman, her 2 year old son playing nearby, her parents and in laws huddled in the kitchen. She was one of the many people who received a message: “There's a fire, I don't know what will happen, I love you.” I had no words for her, only a hug and “I'm so sorry.”
That night we opened our doors to a standing room only crowd of members, neighbors, passersby - Jews and non-Jews. All looking for solace, connection, the affirmation of life in the face of unspeakable grief. I remember the sound of the papers turning and remarking that it was like the thousands of pieces of paper that covered the downtown streets along with the ash and debris.
In between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, I officiated at the funeral for Clarin Schwartz, a vivacious woman, daughter, sister, beloved aunt and friend. There were 500 people crowding the auditorium, all of us in various stages of our grief.
The night before Kol Nidre, I went down to Ground Zero with a group of rabbis and volunteers to help the rescue workers through St. Paul Church. The walls of the church were covered with letters, drawings made by kids from all over the country. There were boxes and boxes of relief supplies toothpaste, sweatshirts, toiletries—meant for the victims of the attacks, but used by the relief workers and firefighters who would work on “the pile” for weeks.
We first prayed together the words of Psalm 127: Yehi shalom b'heilech, shalva b'armonotayich, may there be peace within your walls, harmony inside your gates. Then, with hard hats and face masks, we walked into the site. There, the smoldering pile was larger than I ever imagined and we were only allowed so far. But suddenly, as I watched the firefighters as they went closer in, it struck me that the site where the towers once stood was like the kodesh kodashim--holy ground. The rescuers truly were like the kohanim of old—risking their very lives for the collective good.
It is all about saving our lives, in the end. How to save our own lives from pettiness and vanity, pretension and false securities; and if possible, how to literally save a life. For Judaism values human life above all else and in our experience 10 years ago, we saw countless examples of the ways the holiness of the ancient world found it's way into the contemporary landscape.
- The hundreds of New York firefighters, each laden with 70 to 100 pounds of lifesaving gear, who charged upward into the towers, never to be seen again.
- The passengers on Flight 93 who huddled together plotting resistance against their captors, an act that may explain why the plane crashes into an empty field.
- The tens of thousands of people across the nation who went to their local hospitals and blood banks, begging for the chance to give blood, something of themselves to the hearts of the wounded—and the heart of us all—beating against the void.
Natalie Angier in the New York Times wrote: “Altruism and heroism. If not for these twin radiant badges of our humanity, there would be no us, and we know it. And so, when their vile opposite threatened to choke us into submission, we rallied them in quantities so great we surprised even ourselves.
Whatever the ultimate origins of our instinctive capacity to reach beyond ourselves -- whether the indomitable spirit of America, or from some celestial source, or even, as some biologists might claim, the birthright and defining characteristic of the human species, there is no question that in those few weeks following the attacks, ordinary people did extraordinary things.”
On 9/11 so many of us gathered in our offices, with friends or family, or on street corners as we walked uptown, to watch the events unfold. We talked, we assessed, we even prayed, but mostly we were simply there for each other.
While flags flew all over America, and people rallied together over the airwaves, New Yorkers felt the attacks personally. It was in our backyard, where people went to work—and we were reminded of that every time the wind shifted and the smoke from ground zero was coming through our living room window.
And of course, what we did for ourselves, we did for others. We went to give blood and volunteered; we donated our clothing, brought sandwiches and coffee to the firefighters and rescue workers. Famous chefs cooked on the street near St. Paul's Church feeding the rescue workers and volunteers. We consoled our friends and taught our children.
There were no words really, but many connections—connections between victims and volunteers, people of different faiths, and people of different ethnicities and nationalities—connections that crossed boundaries.
Simply put, we saw then how much we need one another. We need connections that matter, that are heartfelt. We need to connect, or reconnect to our friends, our families, our neighbors, our communities. We also need to connect —or reconnect—to our past, our traditions, and our ideals. (Edward Hallowell)
During the days after 9/11, I felt that the air over New York had been saturated—not only with the smoke and ash—from the explosions, but with the prayers and dreams of thousands of people. It was hard to breathe. A yoga teacher of mine explained that it wasn't a surprise, for the diaphragm has more nerve endings than any other organ, and when fear, pain, and anger strike, the diaphragm hardens, creating that “knot in your stomach” and the “tightness in your chest.”
As we remember that day and those that followed tonight, we pause before the fragility of existence and the ever encroaching reality that the longer we live, the more likely we, and those we love, will be touched by pain, grief, and sadness. And yet, at the same time, we also affirm the stability of our existence. We renew our trust in the lives we have crafted for ourselves, and we recognize the gift of life itself.
The Psalmist says: “God, what are we that you have regard for us? What are we, that you are mindful of us? We are like a breath; our days are like a passing shadow; At sunrise we shoot up, renewed; At sunset we fade and whither. If only we were wise and could comprehend this…”
In the days and weeks that followed, New Yorkers and Americans emerged from the house of mourning into that first year following a loss—where everything you do for the first time brings afresh the loss and grief. Flags came back to full mast, air traffic resumed, sports teams resumed their normal schedules, The New Yorker had cartoons again, Mayor Guiliani told us to shop and see Broadway shows, and comedians dug deep to be able to make us laugh once again.
But there was a dull ache for many months—like a low grade fever you just can't shake. There was no separation between the house of mourning and the outside world, thereby nececittating the traditional Jewish custom of walking around the block at the conclusion of shiva. The flyers stayed up for weeks. At an apartment building across the street from us there was a shrine of flowers under a flyer that bore the name of a neighbor who was well known in the dog run of 86th Street. Every year later on September 11, the flyer would go up, and the images were fresh once again.
At the same time there was resolve. Resolve to find our way in this new world where contemporary innocence was over, American strength was threatened, and where terror was no longer something that happened “over there.”
Resolve not to be defeated by terrorism, which meant and still means living full and robust lives. It means seeing our existence as Americans as a part of, not separate from the tens of millions of people who suffer violence of all kinds all over the globe.
Resolve to see that community can be a source of redemption, for we know that we are neither the first nor the last to experience loss, and that belonging to a community means that those who have been afflicted are continually absorbed and enabled to endure, survive, and transcend.
Resolve to embrace the quiet comfort of ritual. I remember celebrating shabbat in the midst of this tragedy was a lesson in what we need to carry on: rest, love, breath, song, and prayer about what the world could be like, instead of what it is. I prayed then and continue to hope that we can resolve to find meaning beyond absurdity, as Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel taught.
In the ten years since 9/11 children have been born, people have died. Four thousand four hundred sixty-five American service men and women have died since start of the Iraq war and 1743 service men and women since the start of the Afgan war and related operations.
There have been earthquakes, and hurricanes, suicide bombings, war, unemployment, forclosures, scandals, celebrations, the first African American president, illness, recovery, revolution, great despair and great hope. Remembering, rebuilding, and renewing.
Ten years ago, at the memorial service at Yankee Stadium, the Rev. Calvin Butts of the Abbysinian Baptist Church in Harlem preached the words of Emma Lazarus: “We are tempest tossed, and we seek the lamp beside the golden door of freedom, democracy and justice.” He told us that we would get through this, and we did.
And yet, here we are a decade later. We are still trying to make sense of that day, and many since that have tested our sense of safety, trust, connection, and community. In many ways we have moved forward from this experience as it continues to remind us of the profound gift and challenge it is to be alive.
Like the Psalmist, Kiviti Adonai, kivta nafshi--My soul waits for God's presence. I am eager to know what the future will bring, but I know I, we, cannot control it all. What did my soul come here to do tonight? I feel the ground on which we are standing is holy, made so by our seeking, our tears, our anger, and our resolve to respond with actions that make the world a better place.
In a few weeks Jewish communities all over the world will hear the refrain of Avinu Malkenu:
Aseh imanu tzedakah vahesed--May we come to know justice and compassion.
May our commemoration of 9/11 take us beyond grief and mourning. May we be inspired by our search for meaning, by our enduring faith, and by the coming together of our nation.
Adonai oz l'amo yiten, Adonai yevarech et Amo bashalom. May we be strengthened and give strength, may we continue to seek Peace and pursue it.
Rabbi Yael Ridberg