I was a recent immigrant and newly wed when the terror attack on September the 11th happened.  We lived in Manhattan where both I and my husband worked. He was in finance and I at Columbia University. We had been married for a little over a year, I had lived in the US for three years.  We had just returned from an extended work and holiday trip to London. I still remember vividly how I felt that weekend as we returned to NYC. I felt like I was starting to find my footing in my new country.  NYC felt like home. I had reinvented my career and I was happy with my job at Columbia University. Life was pretty good. 

The next morning that sense of safety and of being at peace was shattered. 

We were lucky as we were not hurt in the attack. But just like 9/11 would change the United States forever, it had a huge impact on us. On me. One tangible evidence of this is our daughter, who returned to Manhattan, her place of birth, as a college student this fall. She is one of the post-nine-eleven-babies born within 18 months after the attack (population studies show that there was a “fertility response” to 9/11 in Manhattan). The traumatic experience of 9/11 prompted us to reassess our life and career plans and we decided that we wanted to start a family sooner.  Becoming parents subsequently influenced all our other decisions, in particular my career choices.  Significant life events tend to have that influence on our well made plans.

I stepped out of the subway car at 116th Street Columbia University station when the first plane hit WTC. I know this because I checked the station clock, making sure I was not running late. I remember this because as I walked into my south facing office on the 14th floor I heard my office phone ring.  I picked it up. My mother was on the line, calling from Finland and telling me she had heard on the news that a plane had hit WTC and was wondering if we were safe.  I did not believe her. She insisted, so I turned around and opened the window shades.  And I saw the huge plume of smoke from one of the towers down south on the horizon.   

We all know what happened next.  

The experience of living in Manhattan during these hours, days and months is hard to label. One word can not do it justice.  I remember most vividly the initial feeling of despair, of feeling lost, of having an enormous need to do something, to help, but feeling helpless.  But eventually we found our way, we who were stuck on the island that is the city that never sleeps. The city that now became eerily silent and empty. Once the thousands and thousands of commuters and city dwellers had found their way home. Mostly by foot, or driven by strangers who now became friends. 

That, together with the silence,  is the strongest memory I have. The one I will share with my grandchildren when I am an old lady.  The togetherness. The humanity. The generosity. The love and the grief shared. The posters of missing persons filling the sidewalks normally crowded by people. The music in the parks. Spontaneous gatherings where we sang together accompanied by a guitar or two.  Seeking solace. Together. Vowing to overcome and to be resilient. To rebuild and protect our city. 

There is enormous power in the human spirit and in community. We say that we should never forget 9/11. True. What we chose to remember is what matters. Let’s remember the togetherness and friendship we shared with strangers in our neighborhood and across the world those days and months, and allow us to be inspired (for lack of a better word) as individuals, as leaders and as a community to live and lead with a purpose, for a greater good beyond our own selfish pursuits.