“A day that lives in infamy.” “Let’s roll.” “Tora, Tora, Tora.” “Geronimo E-KIA.” These phrases may seem unrelated at first glance, and some might consider them clichés in our popular culture. However, I respectfully disagree. They all evoke memories of that unforgettable day, September 11, 2001, commonly known as “9/11.”
It was a day that jolted and immobilized the most powerful nation on Earth, akin to our generation’s Pearl Harbor. Just as with Pearl Harbor, the impact of that day continues to resonate, even a decade later, affecting ordinary citizens and, most profoundly, the victims and their families. Without 9/11, there might not have been an Afghan War, and Saddam Hussein might still be alive and well in his opulent palaces. Terms such as “IED” and “drones” might never have become part of our everyday vocabulary. But, as they say, hindsight is always 20/20.
As we commemorate the tenth anniversary, I would like to reflect on that tragic day as my personal acknowledgment and tribute to the innocent lives lost.
September 11, 2001, began like any other Tuesday for me. I had recently completed my fellowship training in Minnesota and had just started working as an attending nephrologist at McLaren Hospital in Flint, Michigan. I had taken the job because my wife, Aye, was doing her residency at the same hospital. The previous two years had been challenging, as we had lived 800 miles apart. Landing this job was a relief, even though it later proved to be a poor fit and eventually led to my resignation in 2003.
Our daughter, Hannah, had not yet been born, and we had just purchased our first home in the Flint suburb of Grand Blanc. We were excited to leave behind a decade of apartment living. The stock market crash associated with the dot-com bubble, which had begun in 2000, had not yet hit rock bottom, but it did not concern us much because we had minimal investments in the market at the time. With my attending physician’s salary, we looked forward to a life without having to pinch every penny.
We spent our days perusing furniture catalogs for our new home and learning homeowner terminology, such as the difference between “sod” and “hydroseeding.” Bill Clinton had vacated the presidency nine months earlier, and there was even talk of rewriting the Constitution to allow an entertaining president to run for a third term. Jay Leno had exhausted his supply of presidential jokes, as the newcomer, George W. Bush, had proven to be relatively drama-free thus far.
I had not yet developed my passion for tennis, and I could not even recall the winner of that year’s U.S. Open, which had concluded a few days earlier in New York City. Tennis would not enter my life until 2003, when I took lessons and joined a club.
Life seemed simpler back then.
Around 9:00 a.m., I finished my morning rounds with the inpatients and headed to the outpatient dialysis unit across the road to see the dialysis patients. Strangely, there were not many staff members on the treatment floor. I later learned that most of them had gathered around the television in the staff lounge, watching live news footage.
The screen showed smoke billowing from one of the World Trade Center towers in New York City. The newscaster reported that a plane had struck the north tower a few minutes earlier. Most of us, myself included, initially assumed it was a small commuter plane or some other unfortunate aviation accident. None of us had any idea of the tragic events that would unfold over the next few hours.
I assumed that the New York City Fire Department would quickly extinguish the fire within a few hours. I tried to reassure the staff, mentioning that I had lived in that part of the city and was familiar with the area. I hoped it would not turn out to be as devastating as the bombing several years earlier.
I had lived in New York City from 1993 to 1996 while completing my medical residency. For one year, I lived in lower Manhattan, near Gramercy Park. I was an intern at Cabrini Hospital and lived across the street in a subsidized apartment. The Twin Towers of the World Trade Center were about twenty blocks away, and Manhattan’s Chinatown, which we frequented, was about five blocks from my apartment.
During the next two years, I moved to the Bronx to be closer to my next hospital, Albert Einstein College of Medicine–Jacobi Hospital. Nevertheless, I considered Manhattan my stomping ground. We did not own a car and always used the subway, passing by the PATH World Trade Center station many times.
The World Trade Center had been bombed in February 1993 by a car bomb parked in the underground garage. I had not yet arrived in the United States at the time, having come to the country only in July 1993.
On that fateful morning of 9/11, it seemed that I had escaped once more—or so I thought. Little did I know that, although I could not physically feel it at that moment, the effects of the World Trade Center’s destruction would eventually ripple through all of us in one way or another.
In the end, it appeared that I had not escaped after all.
I was about to leave the lounge and return to the treatment area to begin my rounds when someone suddenly screamed, “What the heck is going on?” Another plane had just struck the other tower. This time, the impact was captured on video, and television stations replayed the horrifying footage repeatedly: the plane approaching the building and then crashing into it.
Suddenly, the possibility of a terrorist attack entered everyone’s mind.
I could not tear myself away from the television for the next two or three hours. The situation grew increasingly chaotic, and the fire and smoke intensified. Still, many of us clung to the hope that the fires could somehow be extinguished.
But the situation began to look increasingly dire.
People started jumping from the upper floors of the burning towers as the fires worsened. These horrifying scenes were captured on camera and broadcast around the world. It was a chilling sight.
A few minutes later, news broke that a third plane had crashed into the Pentagon. The Federal Aviation Administration had grounded all flights in the nation’s airspace. Nobody knew how many more planes had been hijacked in the skies. NORAD had taken control, and fighter jets were scrambled.
A fourth plane appeared to have turned around over Ohio and was reportedly heading toward Washington, D.C.
What would happen next?
How many targets had been planned? Who was behind these coordinated and devastating attacks?
Meanwhile, the scenes in lower Manhattan were deteriorating by the minute. Unbelievably, one of the World Trade Center towers collapsed. The collapse was captured in slow motion on camera. A dust cloud resembling an atomic mushroom billowed outward, and people fled for their lives, many of them covered from head to toe in dust.
These were the fortunate ones—the ones who could run.
How many could not escape?
It was reminiscent of scenes from apocalyptic end-of-the-world movies, except that this was unfolding in real life.
Half an hour later, the remaining tower collapsed, creating an even larger dust cloud and obliterating Manhattan’s iconic skyline. The entire nation was in shock. It felt like a declaration of war against us.
But by whom?
The uncertainty revived an unease I had not felt in a long time—a feeling I had experienced during the fateful months of August and September 1988 in Burma. During that period, we did not know what each day would bring. Effective governance seemed to have vanished, leaving us to fend for ourselves. We felt helpless. On that day, 9/11, I experienced that same sense of vulnerability.
How extensive were these attacks? Was our town the next target? Where was the President? Was he safe and alive?
It appeared that fear had paralyzed America.
In the hours that followed, news reports began to shed more light on the situation, revealing a clearer picture. The terrorists had meticulously planned their attacks, selecting transcontinental flights that were close to takeoff so that the planes would still be carrying large amounts of unused jet fuel when they struck their targets. The resulting infernos produced catastrophic structural damage to the Twin Towers.
Despite structural improvements made following the 1993 bombing, the towers ultimately could not withstand the consequences of the crashes and ensuing fires. Many New York City firefighters, including entire battalions, perished while responding to the disaster, unaware of the danger they faced and the enormity of the rescue mission they were undertaking.
How could they have known?
At our hospital, disaster drills were immediately initiated. The emergency department was placed on high alert for any potential disaster scenario, and key personnel, including trauma surgeons, operating-room staff, and emergency responders, were placed on standby for immediate deployment.
By evening, weariness was etched on the faces of everyone I encountered.
That evening, Aye and I returned home and made sure we had stocked up on batteries, water, and other emergency supplies, reminiscent of our experiences in Burma in 1988. Then we remained glued to the television throughout the night.
In addition to fear, anger welled up within me.
I was not yet a U.S. citizen; at the time, one generally had to wait a minimum of five years after obtaining a green card before applying for citizenship. Nevertheless, I felt as if my home had been invaded and my country violated.
Why and how could anyone dare to commit such acts?
Thousands of innocent civilians had lost their lives within a matter of hours; on streets I had walked before. It was in my backyard. It was my home. We needed to respond with force—an eye for an eye—if only we could identify and locate our enemy.
In the days that followed, American flags flew at half-staff everywhere, including in the front yards of many ordinary citizens. I remember purchasing and placing a sign in my own front yard that read, “Proud to Be an American.”
When the dust finally settled, both literally and figuratively, images of the once-majestic World Trade Center towers, now hollowed out and destroyed, appeared in newspapers and magazines. The scenes resembled something out of a nuclear winter.
The New York Stock Exchange, just a few blocks from the World Trade Center, closed for several days. The stock markets continued to plummet. It took about a week for the nation to begin feeling that an immediate threat was no longer imminent. Yet it would take months, and even years, for any semblance of normalcy to return, especially for New Yorkers.
Today, ten years later, the images of that day remain vivid in my mind’s eye.
For someone like our daughter, Hannah, who was born in 2002, 9/11 does not hold the same significance. But I have made sure she understands that there were children her age who lost their parents that day.
I am not knowledgeable enough to draw definitive conclusions about whether the country is better or worse off because of 9/11. Did it lead us down the wrong path, turning us into warmongers or pushing us toward financial ruin? I may never know.
However, one thing is certain: innocence was lost for many Americans on that day, and more than ever, I wanted to become one of them. To those who lost their lives or their loved ones that day, I want to say once again:
You may be gone, but you are never forgotten.
“Geronimo E-KIA” did arrive, albeit a little later than we had hoped.
May your troubled souls rest in peace.
The White House and NSC staff watching live as Operation Neptune Spear ( SEAL’s Operation to catch/kill Bin Laden) unfolded in May 2011.