I remember watching the second plane hit on TV. It was a terrible day that I will never forget.
This year, I visited two friends of mine who had emigrated to live and work in New York. I went to the Twin Towers memorial. I already knew that the attacks had robbed thousands of people of their loved ones and caused untold pain. What I didn't know about was the courage and hope that showed forth in the people of New York on that day and in the days that followed. Fire-fighters going in again and again to save as many as they could. Running up and down forty floors for as long as it took to help the wounded, until they lost their own lives in the towers' collapse. People bringing food and medical aid to the attack site, some of them driving thousands of miles across America to be there. People working for months to unearth bodies from the rubble and identify them to bring closure to loved ones and allow decent burial. People refusing to be broken by the attack, affirming that New York would be stronger than ever before. I was in tears nearly the whole time I was in that memorial. I'm in tears now, remembering. At first, the tears were sorrowful, but by the time I was even half way through they were tears of awe at the sacrifice and bravery of the people of New York, of America. They did not let themselves be defeated by evil. They proved themselves greater than that.