Ground Zero

A simple, chain-link fence speaks for the gaping crater in the middle of Manhattan.

It serves as both a makeshift museum of the remains of the World Trade Center buildings and protector of the rebuilding process. Black and white photographs situated along the fence chronicle New York’s history, the history of the World Trade Center, the terrorist attack, and plans to rebuild.

A few homemade memorials testify to what happened here, and the fence contains an honor roll of those who died. Just inside, two rusted support beams are fused in the shape of a cross and adorned with an American flag. Nearby buildings cast the site in looming shadows, their damaged hulls draped in mournful black veils while they await their own reconstruction.

Standing on the sidewalk, an elderly man plays “Amazing Grace” on his flute while a small group of spectators gathers around him. When he stops, a few seconds of uncomfortable silence settles down upon the group. “Play on, brother,” one man says.

Two years later, survivors are still resisting labels. I am walking down Houston Street where I meet a group of NYC firefighters having lunch in a shaded area. The names of their fallen comrades are listed on the door of the fire truck. A couple stops to ask if they can pose with the men, who cheerily oblige.

Someone refers to them as having become celebrities. Their smiles quickly fade into solemnity. “We’re not celebrities,” one of them says firmly.

Back at the site, a sign posted on the chain-link fence asks visitors to refrain from leaving flowers and letters here, but because people need a way to grieve they create a memorial from the fence itself.

“God Bless America, from the UK” is scrawled across the metal surface along with thousands of other messages written on poles, beams and walls, all dated. One such message quips, “Hey, Pat, we miss you. Yo, let us know if they have beer in heaven!”

But this is also a breeding ground for opportunists, who inevitably will capitalize on tragedy. Though the fence clearly asks vendors to stay away, a literal flea market of booths covered in cheap trinkets and books that scream “Tragedy!” lines the avenue, while surrounding shopkeepers still struggle with the economic effects of the towers’ collapse.

Ironically, a hatred of capitalism is one of the attitudes that brought the towers down, yet capitalism—like grass springing through cracks in pavement—will grow from anything.

Two years later, hope is the background of the rebuilding process. Polish-born architect Daniel Libeskind’s design for a 1776-foot tower was selected as the model for reconstruction. The new structure will be the tallest in the world. The model calls for leaving the base of the old WTC exposed, while including a garden at the top to symbolize life.

According to his design, each year on September 11^th light passing through the building’s entrance will cast no shadows between the hours of 8:46 a.m. when the attack began, and 10:28 a.m. when the second tower fell.

Some of my traveling companions question why I visited Ground Zero. I tell them it is because I want to create my own reality of a place where nearly 3,000 people died, of an event that touched even those of us safely nestled in the mountains. What I see is too much sky in a city full of skyscrapers, but a hole that now looks more manageable and more civilized than the smoke and rubble we remember.

On my way into Manhattan, I took a phone call from a friend stationed in Kuwait and preparing to mobilize to Baghdad. He is hoping to come home in the next few months, but isn’t sure. What happened here is one of the reasons for his being there, yet the fence can’t offer optimism about when he’ll be home, or an explanation of why those who orchestrated this atrocity haven’t been found.

Years later, NYC is still rebuilding, but ours is a country still suspended in the question of when it will finally be over.