Mistaken Identity

Like many Americans, I was not familiar with the Sikh faith until this past week’s horrible tragedy. I had erroneously assumed this group was part of another faith, and I was amazed at my own ignorance. I wonder if the shooter even knew who he was attacking, or if he just assumed he knew. I am guessing the latter is true.

I have been heartened to see the outpouring of support from across the world, and I so hope that for many people like me, we learned a little something. 

One of the most indelible images from 9/11 came that very day, later in the afternoon. I realized that my colleagues and I were stuck in Colorado for a business event, and it was unclear when the airports would reopen. We all just wanted to get home as soon as possible, to be close to our loved ones. I called a local rental car agency and began working on getting a few cars reserved so we could all pile in and start the drive home to California the next day.

I made the reservation and drove over to the rental location and it was a madhouse. The lines were out the door, and people were in various states of grief and shock, some talking non-stop, others in a confused silence. I waited in line, first out in the parking lot, and then slowly, I was in the doorway, making my way through the stanchioned area behind other worried travelers.

The first thing I noticed upon walking in the door was one of the rental agents. He was taller than the others and wearing a turban. My first instinct was that this was NOT the place for him to be at this time. I assumed he was Muslim, and although I knew that didn’t mean he was connected to what had happened, or even that he agreed or condoned the horrific acts, it just seemed to me that it was not the best idea for him to be there given the strong emotions so soon after the tragedy.

I now know from what I have read in the past week that he was almost certainly of the Sikh faith, not Muslim.

As I got closer to the counter, though, I noticed that he was crying. Not just a few tears, but barely able to compose himself. His face was wet with tears, and every now and then, he would stop in the middle of typing in information or printing out invoices to just let himself sob and release the obvious pain he was feeling. I had been trying to keep myself together all day, and at that moment, I broke. I started crying right there. That image of that moment has always been in my mind when I think about that day. As I got even closer, I could hear the way he was speaking to everyone, in such a gentle, caring tone, telling them not to worry about where or when they would return the cars, just to get home, or wherever they needed to be, safely.

As I read and learned more about the Sikh faith this week, everything lined up with this man I remembered. Here is a description of the “heart” of the Sikh faith: devotion to one God, who requires us to uphold equality between women and men and all peoples, and perform seva, service to our community as an expression of our faith.

I mean, honestly, how beautiful is that? How simple and gracious and beautiful.

As I hold the families affected by the shooting in my thoughts and heart, I wish for so many things. 

I wish people would try harder to understand and accept than to judge and hate.

I wish that no one had to fear going to a movie theater or a religious service for any reason.

I wish for the children of the world right now to become the generation that finally gets all of this right.

Big wishes, and probably clouded, optimistic hopes that won’t ever completely come true.

For now, I hope everyone reading this post will read this beautiful piece by Valarie Kaur that touched my heart as I read it yesterday. Click here to read Today, We are All American Sikhs.

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In Their Own Words: The Voices of 9/11

There is no more profound or fitting way to remember 9/11 than in the voices of those who lost someone. While I watched footage of September 11, 2001 this morning, I got teary as I saw the first then the second tower fall to the ground. It broke my heart all over again. But to think of the people who had loved ones in those towers, loved ones who didn't make it out...to think of the panic, pain, and worry--and ten years of grief--is unimaginable. No one can know unless they went through that pain, and no one can tell their stories except the people who lived them.

I have always been a huge fan of StoryCorps. In remembrance of 9/11, the team behind StoryCorps has been capturing the stories and words of those affected by 9/11. Take a few moments and listen this morning, and be sure and tell those you love what they mean to you today--and every day.

A side note to the first story below that is so tragically sad: Beverly Eckert died in the crash of Continental Flight 3407 on February 12, 2009.

To hear more stories, click here.

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What I Remember: 9/11 and the Days After

It is hard to believe that it has been ten years since the terrorist attacks of 9/11. At the same time, it does seem so far away- a lifetime ago since it happened. Every year on this anniversary, I am touched by new stories I hadn’t heard before—stories of heroism and loss that haunt me. I count my blessings that I was far away from the cities affected that day, and that even though I traveled constantly for business, I wasn’t on a plane that particular morning, though I had been the day before.

We all have our stories of where we were that day, and mine is not spectacular or even relevant in the scope of things. I was in Colorado hosting an event for the company I worked for at the time. I had overslept that morning- which was so unlike me for anything to do with an event or my work. It is still the only morning I ever overslept while I was on the road for work—for anything. It was an odd, rushed start to the day, and as I dashed out of my hotel room a few minutes before 7am, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a red banner was floating along the bottom of the television screen with large letters. I had the sound muted, and thought it was some random weather warning. I was more worried about getting downstairs to make sure the meeting room was set up properly.

Once I got downstairs, I walked through the lobby area and a crowd was in front of a large television set. Before I saw the screen, I could feel something was wrong in the room. I saw some of my coworkers standing in the crowd, and then finally, I saw the screen—saw what was happening. I came downstairs just as the second plane hit. Before I realized it, I was peppering a stranger with questions—a man in a business suit. He looked ashen—and as he told me what he had seen and heard so far, he teared up. I looked for the two women working with me on the event and found them steps away, watching another television outside of our conference room.

The next hour was a blur of phone calls- checking on my friends who traveled extensively, as I did. Making sure everyone was safe. Calling my parents to let them know I was fine. I remember walking outside as I thought of the people who worked in The Windows on the World Restaurant at the top of the North Tower- people I had just worked with a few months prior while in New York. We hosted a reception in the restaurant—and I remembered the view, so beautiful, so far away from the bustling city below. I remembered the kindness of the catering manager and the waiter for our event who made me laugh. I wondered if they were there, if they were OK. I remembered that we stayed in the Marriott hotel adjacent to the tower. All of it was gone. I felt sick.

We had been scheduled to fly out the next day, but instead, we headed to the nearest rental car location outside of the airport. We found it—crowded and overrun with panicked travelers- rented two cars, and I spent the afternoon trying to map our trip back to California—back home for all of us. I don’t think I will ever have another day in my life so surreal, so suspended...encountering so many strangers in tears or seeing truly terrified expressions of people I didn’t know and watching as other strangers comforted them.

The drive home was eerie—almost silent. We listened to NPR all the way home, hearing the voices of survivors and loved ones who had lost their sons, daughters, husbands, siblings—their unedited words raw with grief. It was sobering and terrifying. I just wanted to get back to my bed, my books, my cats…and the safety of my home.

I have read several blog posts in the last few days, talking about how in the days after the attacks, the feeling of unity was so strong—the abundance of overpowering acts of kindness that occurred between strangers could barely be measured. I remember that feeling.

I remember going to the grocery store the day after I got home and encountering several neighbors in my apartment complex on the way to my car. We spoke smiled, stopped and talked. This was an apartment complex full of business people like myself, and this had rarely ever happened. We were all taking account of each other, genuinely caring when saying hello.

At the grocery store, people were careful turning corners, apologizing profusely for bumping into one another. And while this may seem small—these little, meaningful encounters were so powerful. There was such a feeling of shared grief. Kindness was the knee-jerk reaction for everyone. It was contagious and beautiful.

I knew that we, as a country, had been changed in some fundamental way. Back then, I believed that we were going to continue this path of kindness and togetherness. I never expected nirvana or for the intensity in those first days to last, but I did believe that we might view neighbors and strangers differently, seeing unity before differences. Perhaps I was more naïve than I thought possible.

We have changed as a country. I believe the most clear and evident change is that we don’t feel safe, we don’t see ourselves as immune from the “far away” violence in other countries where we once believed that this sort of thing took place. Now, we are one of those places where things like this do happen. That is a huge shift in thinking, a huge shift in living.

The other change makes me so sad. The thing that I loved most about what I saw in the days after 9/11 was such an acceptance of everyone, kindness without question. Although all of us held anger for the people who had carried out these attacks, a small group of Americans immediately thought to hate a religion, a people, a group that they believed that these terrorists belonged to. And then the group that hated started to grow. And then the group THEY hated started to grow. It started to become all encompassing—the hatred and fear. We stopped looking beside us in compassion, but some people suspected their neighbors, coworkers and friends as being a part of who we hated, who we feared, who we found guilty.

I wanted the people who were responsible punished—even dead. But I did not want to see our country become a beacon of hatred, judgment, or paranoid vengeance. I wanted to feel safe, but not at the cost of our souls.

I guess I am still naïve. I wish so badly to feel the kindness in those days after the attacks. Actually, if I am wishing for things…I want to turn back time and take back the loss, the pain, the attacks themselves. But since that isn’t possible, I try and wish for things I still think somehow are possible. I don’t want to believe that it takes bombs, death, and hatred to make us reach out to our neighbors, old friends, and strangers when we see them in need, or just see a moment of pain cross someone’s face that is so deep--and even though we don’t know how to heal that kind of pain—we reach out and say, I am here, I understand.

I am as guilty as anyone. I am not the same as I was in those days after the attacks. I try to be each day, but I am not. I am not quite as compassionate, quite as reticent to judge.

Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of so much loss, so much pain, so much uncertainty. Almost 3,000 people died that day. For their family, friends, and loved ones, nothing will take away that pain. We can write beautiful words about the loved ones they lost, we can honor them with ceremonies, we can speak their names. But, what better legacy than kindness? What better way to remember a day often attributed to hate than to counter with boundless compassion?

I know it is naïve, and ridiculously optimistic. I know that even I won’t live every day that way. I know that someone in the mall parking lot will annoy me endlessly for some small infraction. But I hope that tomorrow as I count my blessings, I can remember everything we have lost since that day, everything I have been here to enjoy. I hope that I can remember to be a little kinder, a little more accepting. I know I will try.

And I hope, even in some small way, that effort is contagious.

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Man in the Red Bandanna

The narration for this video begins with these words: "What would you do in the last hour of your life? Where would you be? Who would remember?"

Welles Crowther's last hour was spent rescuing people in the South Tower of the World Trade Center, ten years ago on September 11, 2001. An equities trader on the South Tower's 104th floor, Crowther helped dozens of people to safety on September 11. Their stories of his efforts, his compassion, and his strength have left behind a beautiful legacy for a man who lived an honorable life, and died a hero.

His body was found in March 2002, alongside several firefighters and emergency workers in a suspected command post in the South Tower lobby.

Welles' mother received one final phone call from her son on September 11, soon after United Airlines Flight 175 struck the South Tower. He called to let her know he was OK. After that, she and her husband never heard from him again, and had it not been for a a New York Times article, they might never have known how Welles spent his last hour.

He spent that last hour saving lives, selflessly risking his own life and safety. His story is beautifully told in this video. Take a few moments and watch this video today, and pay tribute to a young man who died as he lived...with honor.

Read more about Welles Crowther, his heroism and his legacy:

CNN: America Remembers: Welles Crowther

The Crowther Trust

Welles Remy Crowther Red Bandanna Run

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The Celebrated Death of Osama bin Laden

Late Sunday night, my husband and I had just gone to bed, and as I usually do, I checked my Blackberry one last time for the night. My twitter feed was exploding with the news that Osama bin Laden had been killed. Quickly, my husband and I were both awake and flipping through news channels on TV.

I became emotional as I watched a crowd form in front of the White House, growing larger and larger by the moment, waving American flags, and then spontaneously breaking into song—The Star Spangled Banner. I was almost immediately taken back to the days right after 9/11, when there was such a feeling of unity and patriotic pride among everyone in the US—the likes of which I had never known. Seeing people come together from all areas, all backgrounds, tourists and residents alike, I felt that sense of pride again.

I also watched as Facebook became the way for people to share and find out about bin Laden’s death. Friends shared articles with the latest details, clips of the president’s speech, and their happiness that bin Laden was gone. Dead. Our Navy Seals immediately became heroes.

Many of my friends also said they struggled and felt uncomfortable celebrating someone’s death, even someone as horrible as bin Laden.

I must say that a tiny part of me felt that, too. It is so foreign to me to think about celebrating anyone’s death, no matter who it is. Death is always a time of sadness, not a reason for celebration.

But this one time, I would make an exception. Mostly, I feel that the families who lost loved ones in the attacks of 9/11 have earned the right to celebrate if they want to. It does not make them bad or immoral to do so. The way they lost their loved ones was so cruel, so senseless, so unimaginably horrible, that whatever brings them peace or closure is appropriate.

And while I might not have been in the streets waving a flag, I do have to say, in my heart, I celebrated. I celebrated that an evil man was put to death, and I especially celebrated that in his last moments, he knew it was the US forces that would take his life. I celebrated the end of an era for al-Qaeda. I know that this will not end their organization, but it certainly will change things for them. I celebrated that our military, who for years now have been fighting neverending battles in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other areas, could feel some sense of victory after mixed messages they must get all the time through the media and through the political agendas that often chart their course.

I am troubled to see some of the politics playing out now—conspiracy theories already abound, and I heard today that there were questions about whether the killing of bin Laden was legal. There have also been concerns over the initial report that bin Laden was armed when he was killed, and now it has been clarified that he was not.

After the Bush administration sent the message out loud and clear that he was wanted DEAD or ALIVE…I don’t think criticism makes any sense. And I promise you this, as much as I hated Bush’s politics and most of his actions in office, no matter who the president was that brought an end to bin Laden’s life, I would have celebrated just as I have now.

I could care less if bin Laden was armed when he died. If we had simply taken him into custody, he would have almost gained more power, somehow behind the scenes still running things, and gaining more of a following every day through the anger of the leader of al-Qaeda held captive.

This is a man who spewed hatred for most of his life- and most of it directed in the United States’ direction. He was not just the mastermind of 9/11, but of countless other deadly operations the world over. The world is a better place without him in it.

This week as columnists, bloggers, and my own friends have asked if we should be celebrating the death of bin Laden, I wondered if his death had happened quicker—closer to the 9/11 tragedy—would we still be questioning whether or not it was ok to celebrate? With the horrible images of that day in our heads, when we were not so far away from the terror and chaos…would the reaction have been any different?

Maybe. Maybe not. Because we are human. We are compassionate people. We don’t want to be on the same level as these killers who celebrated the death of Americans after 9/11. But we needn’t worry; we are light years away from that kind of soul-less existence.

All of us will always remember the morning of September 11th- where we were when we found out that our nation was under attack. I was in Denver, at a country club, hosting a golf event for my company. I will never, ever forget watching those images on the television, the surreal moments that looked like a horror movie on the screen. I will never forget the pain and fear I felt—like we were at the mercy of an evil force—and there was nothing much anyone could do. I will never forget the long drive back to my home in California, sharing a rental car with two co workers, most of the ride silent as we tried to make sense of what was happening. I could not believe that every airport in the nation was shut down. The magnitude of it all was astounding.

At that time in my career, I traveled so much for business, and I could not get the people on those planes out of my mind. I woke up at night with nightmares of being on one of those planes. I watched every news cast I could, seeing their faces, and crying for their families.

Just a few months before, I had been in New York for another business trip, and we actually had hosted an event at the restaurant on the top floors of the north tower, Windows on the World. I remember vividly standing in the restaurant as the staff put the finishing touches on our reception before our guests arrived. I stood in front of one of the huge windows and looked out over the bustling city that looked so peaceful and small from high above in that tower. And now, all that was gone.

When I think of the terror that the people in both towers went through, and the people on the planes—how they suffered… I don’t have any guilt at all celebrating the death of the monster who brought all that about.

His death was too peaceful.

His life was too long.

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Eight Years

David Filipov looks for a picture of his father, Al Filipov, at the Tribute WTC Visitor Center in New York City. The center is run by the September 11th Families Association as a museum and memorial to the victims and history of the World Trade Center and the 9/11/2001 attacks. Filipov's father was on American Airlines Flight 11, the first plane flown into the towers. (Scott Lewis)

I have struggled to find words to write here today. So, I have decided to let one of my favorite photo sites, The Big Picture, do the talking for me.

It is hard to believe it has been eight years.

Please check out their moving tribute here.

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