"In spite of outreach programs and vigils, something has changed forever. Unlike my idyllic childhood where we were told that our neighbors were our extended family, that there is so much goodness in the world, today we look at each other with fear and suspicion, hatred and antipathy. My thoughts today are darkened too - by the realization that somewhere at ground zero lies buried the innocence of America. "

I recently watched an anthology of short films - the much talked about 9”11’01. Eleven directors from different ethnicities were invited to give their take on the events of September 11, 2001 in short stories on screen. Each segment lasted 11 minutes, 9 seconds and one frame. None of the directors knew what the other one was making, and the mix of viewpoints and stories made for rather interesting viewing. 

Mira Nair, director of “Monsoon Wedding” and the newly released “Vanity Fair”, was one of those invited to contribute. Married to a Muslim, she said to me that she had decided unless she found a worthwhile story to tell, she had no desire to be a part of the project. She found what she was looking for - the true story of a Pakistani American woman whose son was missing in the aftermath of the destruction of the WTC towers. Insinuations flew that the Muslim young man might have been a terrorist. As the mother frantically tried to find her missing son, she had to simultaneously suffer the hostility around her. Suspicious FBI agents insensitively questioned her family. Whispering neighbors spread gossip to the tabloids and press. After six months of sheer agony, her son’s body was finally discovered amongst the ruins of the towers. It turned out that he, as a trained paramedic, had died heroically trying to save lives. An American flag draped his coffin at the funeral. Mira said she was afraid of the world she was raising her son in, and deeply hurt by racial profiling. 
I think back to that sunny September morning in 2001 that was darkened forever by visions of hurtling debris swirling around people jumping to their deaths as a stunned world stood and watched. I remember sitting in Atlanta, calling contacts, trying to put together a story for publication and talking to people from the big apple - physicians tearfully recalling the emergency measures, the pain and suffering they valiantly tried to alleviate; stories of relatives, of friends lost in the flames and the rubble; a brother who had arrived from India to do a project; a young pregnant wife anxiously waiting to hear from her husband-he never called, didn’t return. I heard stories of the doomed men and women on the floors of the twin towers hosting the employees of the two companies Morgan Stanley and Cantor Fitzgerald. These poor souls frantically placed calls on their blackberries and cell phones - initially for help, then to bravely say goodbye to their loved ones. I heard firsthand reports from two people who had been in the WTC towers when the planes struck and managed to escape. There were several near misses brought on by simple twists of fate. One man stayed back because his son threw a tantrum. The boy wanted his father to put him on the school bus, thereby forcing the father to catch a later bus. This seemingly insignificant delay saved his life. One Sikh gentleman guffawed at my phone call as I sought to interview his relatives. His cell phone number had somehow found its way into the Indian consulate’s list of the dead. “I am in Chicago Kavta ji,” he said sweetly mispronouncing my name in his Punjabi accent, “Nowhere near the twin towers! But thank you for inquiring about my good health. Please be my guest when you visit Chicago!’ This was the only comic relief in days of grief, confusion and emotional exhaustion that followed.

My friend Deepak Raghavan, the co-founder of Manhattan Associates who I had to simultaneously interview for his take on the dot.com bust, made the mistake of asking me the natural courteous opening question – “How are you?” In my reply, poor Deepak was ambushed verbally by all the frustration, anger and exhaustion I felt at the destruction, at hearing story after story of tragedy and loss. He put me on a telephonic couch so to speak and played “Dear Abby”, until I found my balance back to do his interview. I think he was very very careful in asking me how I was after that, and only when he had a lot of time to kill! It still makes me angry when I read revelations from the 9/11 inquiry commissions stating that the catastrophe could have been avoided. 

In spite of outreach programs and vigils, something has changed forever. Unlike my idyllic childhood where we were told that our neighbors were our extended family, that there is so much goodness in the world, today we look at each other with fear and suspicion, hatred and antipathy. My thoughts today are darkened too - by the realization that somewhere at ground zero lies buried the innocence of America. 

It has been a life altering 3 years, both for America and its multitude of people. Many have paid a heavy price for the sins of others. It has been a torturous road for those simply having the last name “Khan”. The barbs have been no less for those who wear their culture on their sleeve – those women with hijabs, those turbaned Sikhs who have been mistaken for members of Osama Bin Laden’s Al Qaida terrorist organization. It seems as though the anger and bitterness following 9-11 has given way to fear. This, in turn, has dulled America’s intellect and allowed ignorance to breed. It is frustrating when mainstream America cannot or will not take the time to seek out the truth about the diversity within her borders. 

The third anniversary of September 11 was here, and though we remain relentlessly at “yellow” and “orange alert” across the nation, apathy is slowly setting in. Memories don’t go away like people do. They linger on forever steadfast and resolute. It is my prayer for the sake of memories of loved ones lost that, unlike the past, we use religion to unite hearts and souls, to reach out and join hands, and make this world safe for our loved ones and future generations.