While he traversed the congestion from W. 59th down toward Penn St, he shared with me his personal story of 9/11. His cab was directly in front of WTC2 and he watched the second plane impact the tower. Instinctively, he jumped from his cab, leaving everything behind, and started running north . . . not sure where he was going but driven instinctively to find home. He did–walking in the front door of his Brooklyn home at 2am after walking 36 miles. His wife thought he was dead; he could not sleep for a week. And, he was an Egyptian.

In the weeks that followed, when he was able to drive a cab again, he took a man home late one night, a man whose brother had died on 9/11. The man paid his fare and got out of the cab. But then he leaned into the open passenger side window and shouted, “Why did you have to kill my brother?” This American, this Egyptian cab driver, instinctively got out of his cab and ran . . . ran around the front of his car and embraced the man–his customer–a fellow American, and said he was so sorry. But while his name and skin may have telegraphed murderer to the man, he loved this man’s brother as any other American would love another, particularly during the painful period following the attack. They cried together and held each other. A New York 9/11 moment, perhaps.

I cried in the cab listening to this story and realized I had not been back to WTC since having lunch at Windows on the World in 1999. Somehow felt a little shameful about that and asked the driver to take me there. The train, my plane could wait.

Not sure what I was expecting–maybe horrible images or reminders of death like I had seen on CNN from the protection of my home 2500 miles away on the morning of 9/11/01. He dropped me at WTC PATH in a soft rain and I made my way over to the pictures, the memories, the sadness displayed on the exhibit walls. Maybe just 100 others there that night and, like me, many sauntered in silence to peer through the fencing surrounding the site. I entered almost a meditative state for a few minutes and stared out though the drizzle and light fog, made almost surreal by the glaring high intensity lights illuminating the nothingness, the void, the gaping rip in America’s soul. . .

Happy Birthday LHE.

While he traversed the congestion from W. 59th down toward Penn St, he shared with me his personal story of 9/11. His cab was directly in front of WTC2 and he watched the second plane impact the tower. Instinctively, he jumped from his cab, leaving everything behind, and started running north . . . not sure where he was going but driven instinctively to find home. He did–walking in the front door of his Brooklyn home at 2am after walking 36 miles. His wife thought he was dead; he could not sleep for a week. And, he was an Egyptian.

In the weeks that followed, when he was able to drive a cab again, he took a man home late one night, a man whose brother had died on 9/11. The man paid his fare and got out of the cab. But then he leaned into the open passenger side window and shouted, “Why did you have to kill my brother?” This American, this Egyptian cab driver, instinctively got out of his cab and ran . . . ran around the front of his car and embraced the man–his customer–a fellow American, and said he was so sorry. But while his name and skin may have telegraphed murderer to the man, he loved this man’s brother as any other American would love another, particularly during the painful period following the attack. They cried together and held each other. A New York 9/11 moment, perhaps.

I cried in the cab listening to this story and realized I had not been back to WTC since having lunch at Windows on the World in 1999. Somehow felt a little shameful about that and asked the driver to take me there. The train, my plane could wait.

Not sure what I was expecting–maybe horrible images or reminders of death like I had seen on CNN from the protection of my home 2500 miles away on the morning of 9/11/01. He dropped me at WTC PATH in a soft rain and I made my way over to the pictures, the memories, the sadness displayed on the exhibit walls. Maybe just 100 others there that night and, like me, many sauntered in silence to peer through the fencing surrounding the site. I entered almost a meditative state for a few minutes and stared out though the drizzle and light fog, made almost surreal by the glaring high intensity lights illuminating the nothingness, the void, the gaping rip in America’s soul. . .

Happy Birthday LHE.