I witnessed the magnitude of bin Laden’s evil. On 9/11 I stood in the street watching the north tower burn; running for my life when the second plane hit the south tower. I saw people die that day. There were moments when I thought I might die as well. My life was irreparably changed because of him.
When the news of his death became public I sat in my apartment in downtown Lancaster watching the television; my hand to my mouth, becoming aware I was holding my breath. Seeing all the people gathering at Ground Zero, I felt so alone. I imagined there was a collective sense of unity among them, remembering what we felt, collectively, as a city on 9/11. There was no Ground Zero for me to go to here.
So I sat on my couch; anxious. Anxious because everything about 9/11 was coming at me in full force. And anxious over what the retaliation would be.
The next day, and those following, I was numb; detached from emotion. Throughout the week I kept thinking "why aren't I feeling anything?"
And then six days later I went to my weekly therapy session. The moment I sat down all those feelings I questioned not having came pouring out and I started sobbing.
I was crying because the memories of 9/11 were as vivid as if it had just happened. I was crying, once again, for all the lives that were lost that day; my grief as raw as it was the weeks and months after 9/11. I was crying for the world that was taken from us that day. The world where we thought we were safe. And I was crying for what was taken from me on 9/11; my enthusiasm for life; replaced with a broken spirit and interminable sadness.
I cried because I'm glad he's dead and justice had been served; so they said. But, for me, the justice was too quick. His life ended too easily; too quickly. But what would have been more just? A public hanging? Have him stand before every single one of us who were there that morning along with those who lost a family member, friend or colleague that day? And then what? Stone him? I cried because no matter what we might do to make him suffer it wouldn't be enough. I cried because even the most horrible punishment imaginable would still not be sufficient when compared to what he did. I cried because I have never felt this much hatred towards someone. And I cry because even my hate doesn't fully express all that is inside me when I think of that man.
I cried because I'm scared. Because I know this war on terror isn't over by any means. I'm afraid for what will happen next. I fear for the city I love and am no longer living in. I fear it'll happen somewhere else; where we might least expect it. And when it does happen I know I will have to once again relive my memories of 9/11.
I cried because, for me, nothing has changed. I will still have to live every day of the rest of my life with the memories. He's dead and I'm glad. But his death won't heal me. And I know that someone else will take his place so I imagine that, at least for the rest of my life, I will live in fear of "what's next". I cry because I know that's what they want. I cry because we haven’t won. Not yet. And I fear we might never.
When the news of his death became public I sat in my apartment in downtown Lancaster watching the television; my hand to my mouth, becoming aware I was holding my breath. Seeing all the people gathering at Ground Zero, I felt so alone. I imagined there was a collective sense of unity among them, remembering what we felt, collectively, as a city on 9/11. There was no Ground Zero for me to go to here.
So I sat on my couch; anxious. Anxious because everything about 9/11 was coming at me in full force. And anxious over what the retaliation would be.
The next day, and those following, I was numb; detached from emotion. Throughout the week I kept thinking "why aren't I feeling anything?"
And then six days later I went to my weekly therapy session. The moment I sat down all those feelings I questioned not having came pouring out and I started sobbing.
I was crying because the memories of 9/11 were as vivid as if it had just happened. I was crying, once again, for all the lives that were lost that day; my grief as raw as it was the weeks and months after 9/11. I was crying for the world that was taken from us that day. The world where we thought we were safe. And I was crying for what was taken from me on 9/11; my enthusiasm for life; replaced with a broken spirit and interminable sadness.
I cried because I'm glad he's dead and justice had been served; so they said. But, for me, the justice was too quick. His life ended too easily; too quickly. But what would have been more just? A public hanging? Have him stand before every single one of us who were there that morning along with those who lost a family member, friend or colleague that day? And then what? Stone him? I cried because no matter what we might do to make him suffer it wouldn't be enough. I cried because even the most horrible punishment imaginable would still not be sufficient when compared to what he did. I cried because I have never felt this much hatred towards someone. And I cry because even my hate doesn't fully express all that is inside me when I think of that man.
I cried because I'm scared. Because I know this war on terror isn't over by any means. I'm afraid for what will happen next. I fear for the city I love and am no longer living in. I fear it'll happen somewhere else; where we might least expect it. And when it does happen I know I will have to once again relive my memories of 9/11.
I cried because, for me, nothing has changed. I will still have to live every day of the rest of my life with the memories. He's dead and I'm glad. But his death won't heal me. And I know that someone else will take his place so I imagine that, at least for the rest of my life, I will live in fear of "what's next". I cry because I know that's what they want. I cry because we haven’t won. Not yet. And I fear we might never.