Where Were You on That Day? What Is Your 9-11?
“Every generation has its Elvis.”
The sentiment expressed in this simple sentence was verbalized by a young white South African woman the moment we realized the impact that 9-11 would have on ours. As we stood staring open mouthed at our T.V in the board room late in the afternoon of September 11th 2001 watching the first of the towers burning and the horror of the events unfolding rendered us numb, many of us were unaware of the events leading up to the attack.
At the time I was working as a graphic designer for a marketing company that managed the brands of various food products, my functions included the designing of the packaging, advertising and sales aids. On that day I sat blissfully unaware, behind my computer working on the packaging design of new product designed to add instant ease and flavor to any pasta dish. The furthest thing on my mind was the politics of a world at war.
Until then I had seldom considered the events beyond our boarders. Apartheid had played such a powerful roll in the lives of South Africans of my generation that it had consumed our political awareness and left us with the opinion that the horrors of apartheid were unequaled but possibly by the events of the Jewish Holocaust or the Sub Saharan African genocide.
The world had been watching us and every decision we took, indeed every word spoken by our leaders was the focus of the world’s attention. Or so we believed. It was with shocking fear that we realized the world does not revolve around Nelson Mandela or the politics of Africa, it has bigger fish to fry.
The door burst open and our sales agent fell into the office yelling for us to put CNN on.
“Some idiot just flew his plane into the twin towers.”
We hadn’t heard yet that it had been an attack. It was, at that stage, an accident.
I continued to design an inane pack for pasta.
The phones continued to ring.
The agents continued to make deals.
The clock continued its ticking.
At some stage we learned it was an attack and our interest peaked. One by one we drifted into the boardroom and as the horror of the events slowly seeped into our apartheid saturated and indeed fatigued minds, we changed. All of us. In moments.
We stood in silence as we watched in disbelief as children lost parents and a confused and horror stricken city shook. Out of that silence, broken only by the reporters firing information and running commentary, Mandy spoke. “Every generation has its Elvis.” She said quietly. Her meaning was clear and I turned to face her. She continued to talk; explaining her meaning to those she believed had not understood her.
Wordlessly I left the boardroom, collected my belongings and left the office early. I worked very close to home and was there in minutes. The TV was off when I walked in through the front door of my parent’s granny cottage. My mother immediately asked what was wrong and I told her. We put the TV on and for the next few days did little else but watch the twin towers fall and fall and fall, over and over again.
The closest I had ever come to knowing an American was a teenage missionary worker who had come to Durban to work with the poor and homeless. I had never met a New Yorker and in 6 and half years since the attacks, had come no closer.
The day I got an MNF invitation on Facebook from a New Yorker, I off course noticed his country of origin and the city he was in but it meant little but to inform me of his place in the world. I accepted the invitation with little consideration and attempted no contact. There he sat on my friends list, silent. I never noticed a status update, I never viewed his profile page, and in fact I had totally forgotten his city of residence until a day I nearly, unintentionally, blew it.
I had booked to trek Mont Aux Sources and had posted photographs of the peak I intended to summit. I made a comment on the photograph describing how excited I was to climb it and how I believed it was Gods resting place immediately after creation.
For reasons I still do not completely understand he sent me a sticky and I thanked him. Within a day or two I got a message from him in my inbox. I had received so many inane and in fact irritating messages from men who had attempted cheap thrills that I very nearly dismissed it but for one small question at the end of a brief message. He had commented on my smile and I wondered how he could possibly, as my profile picture at the time was of an unsmiling woman that was me.
“Tell me about the seat of God?” he wrote.
“Tell me about your fantasies?”
“What are your vitals?”
“Awesome cleavage, can I touch?”
These were questions I was getting used to and that caused new friends to loose their friendship status. He asked none of them.
“Tell me about the seat of God?” was what he asked.
“Tell me about the seat of God?”
So I did. It was only then that I took notice of the city he was in. New York. Well then there is little wonder he doesn’t know what mountain I am referring to. Unless he has ever been to South Africa, Kilimanjaro will probably be the only African summit he would ever have heard of and even then in terms quite unromantic. It is only to Africans that Africa is so precious.
I have always loved Mont Aux Sources, but here was another reason to love her, she had instigated conversation between a random New Yorker and a barefoot African.
We have been corresponding for more than six months now and have become friends, but on the eve of the anniversary of what must have been a dreadful day in the life of this man, I am reminded that we have not spoken about the events of that day. It has been mentioned twice in brief terms but never discussed. I will never encourage conversation about it. Unless he mentions it and chooses to discuss it, I will allow him his 9-11 and I will keep mine, for though I am not a New Yorker and though I can’t possibly empathize with any New Yorker, I do have my 9-11.