By Rolf J. Poehler
(December 28, 2001)
At last, the day has arrived. After a period of studies in Michigan, we will allow ourselves a week’s vacation in New York. My wife and I have been looking forward to this event for twenty-eight years. In the summer of 1973, we came to the United States for studies. The grandiose silhouette of the Manhattan skyline, dipped in the delicate colors of the morning sun, was an unforgettable sight as the France spit out her passengers on land after a five-day ocean passage. Driven by the searing July heat, we fled the city without visiting even the most prominent sights: the Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State Building, and of course the brand new World Trade Center, whose lofty towers, impressive with their straight and simple lines, jutted unsurpassed more than 400 meters into the sky.
It’s about an hour until we leave for the airport, but first I quickly return the laptop that a colleague at Andrews University has lent me. Upon entering the Theological Seminary, I hear the news that has shaken and horrified the whole world that day. What I hear sounds so surreal and absurd that it takes quite some time until I can believe it. I first begin to grasp the monstrosity of the event when confronted with the palpable pictures of the apocalyptic inferno on TV. For the rest of the day we are in a daze. In the evening, we take part in a prayer service at Pioneer Memorial Church that is broadcast live via satellite. The organ strikes up the chords of the hymn that will often be heard in days to come: "O God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come.…" Afterward, Pastor Dwight Nelson tells us, "I almost had them sing ’A mighty fortress is our God.’" He is surprised to see us still in Berrien Springs: "I thought you were already in New York!"
Today, we actually wanted to be in Manhattan to get an eyeful of the "Big Apple," as New Yorkers call their city, from the vista platform atop the World Trade Center. Ninety-seven elevators serve each of the two towers day after day, bringing ten thousands of employees and additional thousands of tourists to every one of the 110 floors in this vibrant microcosm. The view is breathtaking from the top. Those who work here have the great metropolis quite literally at their feet, and the Statue of Liberty, formerly greeted by throngs of immigrants, appears as a dwarf. But the pleasant dream of a land of unlimited possibilities has become a nightmare. What was only creepy fiction in the movie Independence Day is now brutal reality. Where yesterday fifty thousand people went about their work, today lie thousands of dead, buried under smoking ruins. Where would we both be now, had we flown to New York a day earlier?
Because the national air traffic system is completely paralyzed, our original destination remains unreachable. Instead, we drive to Chicago for a museum tour in the second largest city in the United States. No less impressive than in Manhattan, the skyline here is dominated by the Sears Tower, surpassing even the imposing twins of the New York World Trade Center in height. Somehow, the massive skyscrapers appear fragile today. Strangely, we felt completely safe just a week ago, riding the elevator to the roof and enjoying the breathtaking panorama. Now it seems as if the building is standing on feet of clay. In my mind’s eye, I see airplanes jetting into the building, bringing it to a collapse. Has not yesterday’s catastrophe revealed how threatened and vulnerable everything we humans build really is? The suicidal attackers consciously chose as their targets the most impressive symbols of the political, economic, and military power of the Western world, as if they wanted to say: "Behold, we have destroyed your temples, deprived your gods of their power, and caused your very foundations to collapse."
Last evening, as we watched the play of colors in the Buckingham Fountain on Lake Shore Drive in Chicago and the city’s skyscrapers donned their nightly gown of light, we heard airplanes in the darkness, apparently taking stranded tourists to their destinations. Is there perhaps still a chance that we can make it to New York before we must, as planned, set out from there on our homeward journey? Our accommodations are still available, and our hosts will certainly provide us with many comforts. At the ticket counter the airline personnel nurture our hopes: the first flights to New York have been permitted for Friday afternoon. Spontaneously, we make reservations. We’ll be there tomorrow evening, if everything goes right, and can spend the weekend in New York City. How are the people there dealing with this awful catastrophe, one that has struck to the heart of their city, even of the whole country? Even though we don’t know them personally, we want to stand beside them, to take part in their pain and grief and feel their perseverance and endurance.
How do people react in such extreme situations? Nothing comparable has occurred within my lifetime. The postwar generation has been confronted with such horror scenarios only in films or the stories of those who survived the blanket bombings of Dresden or the dreadfulness of Hiroshima. Would something similar—or even something worse—occur again in our times? Will those be proven right who see September 11, 2001, as the real beginning of the twenty-first century? Does this terror attack forebode coming disasters, as the sinking of the Titanic in 1912 foreshadowed the global catastrophes of the twentieth century? What does the future hold? The worst times of all history? The best? Or perhaps both? With such uncertain future prospects, how can you live—or believe, hope, love?
(to be continued) 
EMAIL THIS ARTICLE
|
