Reflecting on 9/11: Campus during the attacks

It was 10:40 AM when the cryptic email arrived from a friend in the financial district: “Safe after the collapse of the towers….”

Sitting in the quiet of Lerner’s fourth floor computer lab, nearly empty at that hour, I found the message mysterious. Towers? Collapse? What was she talking about? I opened a web browser and typed in the address for the New York Times. No response. I tried again with NBC, ABC, and other news outlets and was blocked each time by what appeared to be overloaded data lines. Running out to Broadway, I scanned the street for another source of news. It was a glorious day bright with sunshine and just a hint of autumn chill in the air. The few passersby showed no sign of alarm and there were no other visible indications of danger.

I spotted a Con-Edison truck parked on the northbound side of Broadway at 115th street. The back door was open and cables ran from the cabin to a manhole, in which the top of a man’s helmeted head could be seen. A small portable radio perched on the truck’s bumper. I ran over just in time to hear an announcer read news headlines in a surreally calm voice: Planes had flown into the World Trade Center buildings earlier in the morning. Both towers had now collapsed. Reports from Washington brought word of a strike on the Pentagon and possibly the White House and Capitol. The contrast between the horror of what I was hearing and the tranquility of Morningside Heights could not have been starker.

Of all the events that day, the one that has stayed with me as much as the attack itself, is the peaceful expressions on the faces of those passersby whom I first encountered in my frantic search for news. In hindsight, they were enjoying the final moments of an era dating all the way back to 1776—the last time an enemy force struck New York City. (On the foundation blocks of Mathematics Hall, at 117th Street and Broadway, you can see a plaque commemorating a local battle from that event.) But at 10:45 that morning, the peace, which I myself had enjoyed until just ten minutes earlier, was a delusion. The blow had landed. The tsunami of news was en route. It had just reached me and it would come upon each of them within an hour—two at most. When it hit, perceptions of reality would never be the same. Or would they?

My sense is that core understandings of reality on campus have not actually changed that much in the years since 9/11. For several decades leading up to that day, Columbia defined itself as a haven for those dedicated to lofty human ideals of equality, justice and peace, a place from which rational, reflective truth was spoken to a harsh external world. If anything, the last decade has seen a doubling down on that narrative of the campus as the last haven of sanity in a world of war. But what if the events of September 11 foreshadowed the re-emergence of a more violent historical trend that overwhelms these ideals? How will we respond if another, more severe blow should land? The result might easily be bitter disillusionment and cynicism.

One helpful check against this outcome might be to step back, just a bit, from the binary narrative of a virtuous campus versus a corrupt world and make a frank admission that first, the obstacles to perfect peace and equality are severe; second, that policy makers face a limited range of options in confronting the multifaceted challenges before them; and third, that despite all our best efforts, conditions in the macro may well get worse in our lifetimes. Such an admission should not undermine idealism, but rather ground it in reality and lessen the likelihood of total disillusionment if future events do not conform to our best hopes. Along the way, it may also foster humility, patience and persistence in doing good in the face of disappointment—qualities worth possessing whatever the future holds.

If another blow should land close at hand, such a perspective would also help us respond not only with shock and anger, but with the calm, practical insight that should be the output of an institution like Columbia.

The author is a doctoral student in the history department of the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences.