Warning: this post is self-centered, long, and only loosely related to 9/11. You’ll probably regret reading it.

Tuesday September 11, 2001, dawned temperate and nearly cloudless in the eastern United States. Millions of men and women readied themselves for work. Some make their way to the Twin Towers, the signature structures of the World Trade Center complex in New York City. Others went to Arlington, Virginia, to the Pentagon. Across the Potomac River, the United States Congress was back in session. At the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue, people began to line up for a White House tour. In Sarasota, Florida, President George W. Bush went for an early morning run.

For those heading to an airport, weather conditions could not have been better for a safe and pleasant journey. Among the travelers were Mohamed Atta and Abdul Aziz al Omari, who arrived at the airport in Portland, Maine.

So starts the 9/11 Commission Report which Elenita left for me to read while she went to her cousin’s.

Where was I September 11^th 2001? In Gwaldam, Kumaon, India in transit to Mundoli where we were beginning our second Himalayan trek; this time to the sacred lake of Rup Kund. On September 10^th I wrote a journal entry in Almora. It says:

I think that the greatest characteristic of this trip is that it gives me a foundation, a clearer idea of where I want to spend more time in future travels. Part of me regrets saying that – like this is simply a requisite introductory course one takes in order to enroll in the course he really wants to take. As though it makes it less real – a preparation of sorts. But the truth is that I have a whole lifetime ahead of me. And most likely a whole lifetime of traveling at that.

It’s funny because I am probably the American least worthy of reflecting on 9/11. I say that because I’ve never been a John Ritter fan and I didn’t even know the attacks took place until September 19^th arriving ragged and tattered into the holy city of Rishikesh from one of the most taxing treks I’ve ever done. Reading the 50 or so concerned, then frantic emails that built up in my inbox and watching the clips of the planes hitting, the bodies jumping, the towers crumbling … the reality of 9/11 quickly set in.

Dan Gilmor, in his book We the Media, says that 9/11 was not only a historical moment in diplomacy and foreign relations, but also – and less noticeably – in the way that history is made. Before the advent of the world-wide web, the 20^th century historical process was for the most part:

• Journalists write newspaper articles the day of the event
• Weeklies like Time and Newsweek write pieces with a “week in review” perspective.
• Professors and Intellectuals write academic papers and then books discussing events or eras in a historical context with theoretical references.
• Historians use all these references to capture a broad picture and preserve the past.

Then, less than a decade ago, the internet really starts to take hold and history is forever changed. Take 9/11. Twenty years from now when university professors are making their sweeping summations like they now do about the folly of the Vietnam War and the impact of the Cold War, they will have much more than newspaper clippings and newscasts spliced together on a DVD. They will also have these posts that everyday people like you and me are motivated to write on an almost daily basis. They will have emails, cell phone conversations, IM logs – infinite sources covering individual impacts.

That’s what this post was gonna be. My intention was to search for all bloggers who were in Manhattan and near the Pentagon on September 11, 2001 and take samples of their posts the day before, the day of, and the day after. I’m sure someone’s already done it. Or else it’ll be done soon. That’s the nature of the blogosphere – once an idea gets thrown out there, it’s done … at least once.

But instead this post is going to be a haphazard collection of my own documents – mostly emails and journal entries – leading up to and after the terrorists attacks.

On Friday, September 7th at 2:43 in the afternoon, Abogado wrote me an email:

It was really good to hear from him. Reading the email again for the first time since he sent it, I can’t believe he mentioned that Raman was in Prague - and at nearly the same time I was there. That was before Raman and I were really friends - now of course he is our official quote creator. And mascot.

Abogado did end up making it out to New Zealand with his girlfriend Anne where they spent a week with Emily and I terrorizing sheep and smuggling out endangered glowworms to China (used to cure impotence in the dark). I also maintained my undefeated ping pong status by beating Abogado 23 games to 0 playing with my left hand.

That night we stayed at a swanky place in one of Kumuon’s better known hill stations, Nainital. It was my birthday present to Emily. My journal the next evening reads:

This is incredible - we’re staying at Palace Belvedere - an old Maharaja Palace looking down on the lake (with her diamond-like reflecting lights) and throughout all the centuries-old hallways they are playing some real nice downbeat techno. It’s almost too much - like we’re on some Hollywood set, not in India.

The good news is that on Monday we’ll be able to get a cash advancement so we can go back out to the mountains and do another trek (Rup Kund) before going back down to Delhi and Bombay.

I remember talking with this Algerian-French kid about American literature. He said James Baldwin was the greatest American writer of all time. He said that Hollywood has never once made a movie that could compare with the best 100 French films.

We take the bus from Nainital to Almora and then from Almora to Mundoli. On September 10th, just before we start off on our trek, I write a mass email about the second busride:

So here I am sitting on this bus in the Indian Himalaya, solving all the
world’s mysteries, eating my masala flavored peanuts, and occasionally
(frequently, really) letting some stank ass bubbles of sulphuric nastiness
squeek out of my puttering little butt cheeks. It’s not nice. We’re talking
some some really bad gas here. You’d be laughing so hard if you heard the
indian youths sitting a few seats up and yelling excitedly in their 7-11
slurpee accents, “oh god, oh my god, give me oxygen” - and then all
sticking

their heads out the window trying to escape my inescapable superhuman
stench.

It’s uncanny. I just can’t/won’t stop farting.

And I won’t even own up to
‘em
either. No way … when everyone turns their heads trying to locate the
culprit, I just sit there with a bemused Mona Lisa look - too modest to
claim
such godly powers. Even three hours later when it was just me and Em walking

through town, I still wouldn’t plead guilty. (”no that wasn’t me,” I
scoffed, “are you kidding? I wish I could do that.”) I guess I pulled an OJ
Simpson of sorts.

Anyhoo, about the busride - and I’m telling you, this was one hell of a bus.

(Imagine your third grade school bus decorated by a Hindu Picasso on acid
and
then all the journeys through the Himalayas with livestock, and poultry, and

smelly bastards like myself, that is has to go through)

And the bus driver - the crazy Hindu son of a bitch who must have had some
sort
of manufacturer’s guarantee into Nirvana after this lifetime or there’s no
way
he would drive that way: 2 cm from the rocky outcrops on one side and and
then
2cm from a sheer dropping cliff on the other. All the meanwhile negotiating
through all the holy cows and honking just for the hell of it, for the
acoustic
aesteitics (there must be a word for that).

And then this little old Tibetan sage - at least 117 years old - jumping on
the
bus with his tiny little goat on a leach (but he’s carrying it real
football-
like under his armpit) as the bus already started going - he gains his
footing -
looks up and winks at me (I swear he did) and rubbing his goatee like the
sage
he is before selecting his seat, solving all the world’s mysteries just
like
me.

While the bus pulled over and we all marched out for our chai tea and our
samosas, that old Tibetan sage winked at me again, and me thinking this is
the
greatest thing in the world so I nudge Emily with my elbow and say, “hey,
did
you see that, wasn’t that the greatest thing in the world?” … but she just

replied with that raised eyebrow look that girls are so good at, saying, “I
swear to god, David, if I get back on that bus, I’m going to puke all over
your
lap.”

Whatever … I think she was just jealous ’cause she didn’t get winked at.

And while my little Tibetan friend - now 135 years old, I’m thoroughly
convinced - tackles a Himalayan portion of rice and lentils, I’m amazed and
giddy with excitement over my two ruppee (that’s less than five cents) cup
of
chai tea. The best chai tea you or your momma have ever had. So I say
outloud,
with that foolish American confidence, “two ruppees has never been spent
better
than on this cup of chai.” They all thought I was a crazy whiteboy before
that
anyway. Like anyday I would shave my head, start wearing a monk’s robe and
find
my cave. Then I tried to explain that a cup of chai tea would cost 150
ruppees
at Starbucks, and “furthermore my friends, don’t support starbucks if one
pops
up in your village” I wouldn’t be so surprised if one did.

Their reply (after a long silent pause): “Uh, the bus is leaving now.”

Anyhoo two. As I was saying - back on the bus I was solving all the world’s
mysteries while our suicidial driver negotiated the carsick invoking hairpin

mountain turns. Besides my rotten-egg ass, the pine trees were also
incredibly
fragrant. The sky was blue, as it most often is (exception being night or
when
you close your eyes - yes, that is very profound) and the clouds - at least
one
for sure - looked like puff the magic dragon. (many apologees if I got that
song stuck in your head, if you’re a fan of Peter, Paul and Mary, or if you
do
not like parenthetical statements.) If it wasn’t India, it coulda been
Colorado.

And I really did solve just about all the world’s mysteries on that one bus
ride. Except for one - could somebody please tell me why drivethru atm’s
have
braile? I won’t bore you with the great answers here, but the good news is
that
I will publish a book of all 116 of them and it will be on sale at Juanita’s

Burritos in Leucadia, California. Although, soon it will be renamed (after
me),
Papa Oso’s. And even though the book will only be on sale at this one
location,
it will (”unfathomably,” the newspapers will write) become an international
best-seller and when it does I will take you all out for Indian food.

That’s all really. I could tell you more like how when Em and I were
trekking,
we came across a village where Tupac was living with Elvis and Kurt Cobain
and
that they already have three albums together, one of which is acapella. Or I

could write you little haiku poems about 8000 meter peaks covered in Shiva’s

spermatoza, but I’ll behave, I’ll spare you, you’re welcome.

Lots of love,
Oso

The first person I hear back from is my dear, now lost, friend, Chris Werner. He proposes we meet up in Sweden. I can’t deal in an Ikea though and it doesn’t look likely.

Then on the morning of September 11th - still the night of the 10th in the States - Emily and I start our trek, up a steep hill from Mundoli and along a ridge where a small village looked out onto the white Himalaya. Towards the evening, another trekker arrived to the hut where we were staying - a Sikh who spoke fluent English and was excited for the opportunity to prove it. We played a game of chess where the son of a bitch actually cheated, taking two consecutive turns, and then off-handedly he mentioned to us that he heard something on the radio about a bomb going off at the World Trade Center in New York. I remembered the bomb that went off underneath the Twin Towers in 1993, leaving some structural damage, but not much else. I figured this was the same kinda deal. And I was still upset about the son of a bitch cheating in our game of chess.

On September 11th at 11 a.m. exactly, Glenn Reynolds wrote this, followed by posts just about every 15 to 30 minutes throughout the day and week that followed.

That afternoon Jason Kottke took a broad survey of 9/11 reporting/reflections in the blogosphere in this post.

Slashdot, of course, had a meaningful, emotional, and fiery thread of comments after this post by some guy named Timothy.

On September 12th Anil Dash wrote one sentence on his weblog: "
I wish so badly that I had someone to hold on to right now."

On September 12th, prominent San Fran blogger Meg Hourihan wrote this.

On September 13th Karen, who was then a Manhattan resident and now lives just a couple miles from me, who’s birthday it is today, who will be having lunch with Elenita tomorrow, wrote this.

I could go on listing more sources for hours, but it’s easy enough to do on your own by following links. What you will begin to see is the foundation of a new type of journalism where so many of us now get most of our information. Dan Gilmor in We the Media writes:

Also in California that day, a little known Afghan-American writer named Tamim Ansary sent an impassioned email to some friends. His message was in part cautionary, observing that while America might want to bomb it back to the Stone Age, as some talk show hosts were urging. The Asian nation, he argued, was already there. Ansary’s email circulated among a widening circle of friends and acquaintances. By September 14, it had appeared on a popular weblog and on Salon, a web magazine. Within days, Ansary’s words of anguish an caution had spread all over America.

When I read that passage of Gilmor’s book I remember feeling a sense of regret that in 2001 I wasn’t tied in at all to the online community and didn’t receive Ansary’s email. In 2001 I didn’t even know what a blog was. I didn’t even know what Google was. In fact, I clearly remember finally coming back to the United States in January of 2002 and thinking Google? What the hell is that? What the hell happened to Yahoo? I equated the internet to email, porn, and the occasional forum, but that was about it.

So you can imagine my surprise when last week, getting ready for this post, I was skimming through my old emails and found that on September 18^th Chris Werner had written me once again, this time a forward with Ansary’s impassioned editorial. I don’t think I even bothered to open it. It goes:

Written by an Afghani in the U.S.

I’ve been hearing a lot of talk about "bombing Afghanistan back to the Stone
Age." Ron Owens, on KGO Talk Radio today, allowed that this would mean
killing innocent people, people who had nothing to do with this atrocity, but "we’re at war, we have to accept collateral damage. What else can we do?"
Minutes later I heard some TV pundit discussing whether we "have the belly to
do what must be done." And I thought about the issues being raised especially
hard because I am from Afghanistan, and even though I’ve lived here for 35
years I’ve never lost track of what’s going on there. So I want to tell
anyone who will listen how it all looks from where I’m standing. I speak as one who deeply hates the Taliban and Osama Bin Laden. My hatred
comes from first hand experience. There is no doubt in my mind that these
people were responsible for the atrocity in New York. I agree that something
must be done about those monsters. But the Taliban and Ben Laden are not
Afghanistan. They’re not even the government of Afghanistan. The Taliban are
a cult of ignorant psychotics who took over Afghanistan in 1997. Bin Laden is
a political criminal with a plan. When you think Taliban, think Nazis. When
you think Bin Laden,think Hitler. And when you think "the people of
Afghanistan" think "the Jews in the concentration camps."

It’s not only that the Afghan people had nothing to do with this
atrocity. They were the first victims of the perpetrators. They would exult
if someone would come in there, take out the Taliban and clear out the rats
nest of international thugs holed up in their country.

Some say, why don’t the Afghans rise up and overthrow the Taliban? The answer
is, they’re starved, exhausted, hurt, incapacitated, suffering. A few years
ago, the United Nations estimated that there are 500,000 disabled orphans in
Afghanistan–a country with no economy, no food. There are millions of
widows. And the Taliban has been burying these
widows alive in mass graves. The soil is littered with land mines, the farms
were all destroyed by the Soviets. These are a few of the reasons why the
Afghan people have not overthrown the Taliban.

We come now to the question of "bombing Afghanistan back to the Stone Age".
Trouble is, that’s been done. The Soviets took care of it already. Make the
Afghans suffer? They’re already suffering. Level their houses? Done. Turn
their schools into piles of rubble? Done. Eradicate their hospitals? Done.
Destroy their infrastructure? Cut them off from medicine and health care? Too
late. Someone already did all that. New bombs would only stir the rubble of
earlier bombs. Would they at
least get the Taliban? Not likely. In today’s Afghanistan, only the Taliban
eat, only they have the means to move around. They’d slip away and hide.

Maybe the bombs would get some of those disabled orphans, they don’t move too
fast, they don’t even have wheelchairs. But flying over Kabul and dropping
bombs would not really be a strike against the criminals who did this
horrific thing. Actually it would only be making common cause with the
Taliban–by raping once again the people they’ve been raping all this time.

So what else is there? What can be done, then? Let me now speak with true
fear and trembling. The only way to get Bin Laden is to go in there with
ground troops. When people speak of "having the belly to do what needs to be
done" they’re thinking in terms of having the belly to kill as many as
needed. Having the belly to overcome any moral qualms about killing innocent
people. Let’s pull our heads out of the sand. What’s actually on the table is
Americans dying. And not just because some Americans would die fighting their
way through Afghanistan to Bin Laden’s hideout. It’s much bigger than that
folks.
Because to get any troops to Afghanistan, we’d have to go through Pakistan.
Would they let us? Not likely. The conquest of Pakistan would have to be
first. Will other Muslim nations just stand by? You see where I’m going.
We’re flirting
with a world war between Islam and the West.

And guess what: that’s Bin Laden’s program. That’s exactly what he wants.
That’s why he did this. Read his speeches and statements. It’s all right
there. He really believes Islam would beat the west. It might seem
ridiculous, but he figures if he can polarize the world into Islam and the
West, he’s got a billion soldiers. If the west wreaks a holocaust in those
lands, that’s a billion people withest would win, whatever that would mean,
but the war would last for years and millions would die, not just theirs but
ours. Who has the belly for that?
Unfortunately, Bin Laden does. Anyone else?

In Peace,

Tamim Ansary

Written just days after September 11th and Ansary had the foresight to put into words what International Relations pundits are only now admitting after the school massacre in Russia; that the spheres of influence are increasingly divided between Westernism and Fundamental Islam. That coming from an obscure Afghani-American whose views would have never been known were it not for the internet.

On September 13th around 2 p.m. Abogado sent an email out to me, Emily, his brother Joey and Joey’s then-girlfriend, Nicole. All four of us were traveling for extended periods.

My friends,

First let me say thanks for the e-mails…entertaining as always. I find
myself wondering how the last few days have struck you. I am sure that by
now you have seen the video of the events that will change the lives of our
generation. I don’t think that that is an overstatement, the feelings of the
people, even here in San Diego, are overwhelming, I have never seen anything
like it. Even through the anguish and pain there is quite the sense of unity
and one-ness. But everyone is shaken and the fear extends thousands of
miles. Today on my way to school (re-opened today) I noticed aircraft
carriers in defensive positions in the Pacific and F-18’s patroling the
skies overhead…a sobering sight that you never expect to see around here.

We have been shown pictures of Palestinians dancing in the streets after the
news that two American icons had been destoryed by our own airplanes. I have
no doubt that the sentiments expressed by a few ignorant people do not
represent the feeling of the world population, but it does frighten me. I
think often about your safety.

I woke up around 7am California time and turned on the television lierally
seconds before the second of the two World Trade Center buildings collapsed.
I know that you have all seen the video, I don’t know if you saw it as it
happened, but I can say that if it was a Hollywood movie I would not have
believed it, it shook me to my core. Not a person knew what to say, what to
feel, what to do. I sat there with a tear in my eye paralyzed, literally not
able to move. I have been to New York and I have stood atop the World Trade
Center just as many thousands of people did at 8:30 am on Tuesday September
12, 2001. Obviously it is beyond the power of language to describe what has
happened and beyond the power of human comprehension to understand it. As I
write this, and most likely as you read it, people are being pulled from the
wreckage…it is an impossible thing to comprehend.

The most amazing thing, really, to come of all this is the feeling of
solidarity and unity of the people around here. Everyone is dedicated to go
on with their lives and I want to convey that message to you. For much of
the last few days I have felt a sense of helplessness…not being able to do
anything. But really to go on with daily life is doing more than enough, it
shows our strength and represents our character. You should understand the
feelings of the people here, and I hope you can grasp that everything is,
and will be, fine.

The fact that this is the worst thing to ever happen to our country in our
lifetimes is, in a way, a blessing. You guys are seeing first hand the rest
of the world and you will witness the good and the bad. All I ask is that
you be as safe as possible and keep in mind that there are irrational and
almost inhuman forces out there. David…you already have seen this first
hand. But please be safe…and as always, have fun.

Not to drag this on anylonger than it has to be, but things like this make
you realize the importance of people in your lives, as well as the fragility
of that life. So go out and enjoy it, learn as much as possible and have a
good time. I hope to see you all in a few months in Australia…I think that
I can make it happen. Anyway, be safe, and much love to all of you. I miss
you and I hope to hear from you guys soon.

PEACE,

Kevin

Just a couple days later - probably around the 15th, when New Yorkers are trying to normalize their lives again - and Emily and I strike disaster. This is from a journal entry I wrote a week later in Hong Kong:

Still, we wanted to move on, but decided against going up to the lake Rup Kund - our original destination - and opted for a side trail along a ridge, unmarked in our book, but shown on a map we picked up on teh Pindari Trek. That decision was the fundamental error of the whole trek.

It was the classic circumstance of following a trail that begins well marked and then descends and descends, soon becoming a rocky foot path … and then no longer a footpath; merely some foot and hoof prints in the mud along with some beat down alpine grass.

Finally, at the point that we probably would have turned around, we came across a Tibetan man and his son weaving wool in a particularly random parcel of meadow. Asking for the city of Sutola, the man and his boy directed us towards a trail that led down into the thick growth of jungle. Again the trail consisted of hoof prints and flattened grass - mostly not even that - and descended so steeply that to go back up it with our heavy packs would have been suicide.

It was the thought of going back up that trail that convinced us - stupid detirmined fools we are - to continue going down deeper into the jungle when the trail no longer existed. My head was pounding, my throad and mouth parched, my tongue swollen with thirst, our bellies empty and out of food. (our reason for not going to Rup Kund) And then of course it started pouring down rain, not a single drop falling into my mouth. I mean monsoon pourind down rain. Even an hour later, when the actual rain stopped, the "jungle rain" continued to fall, soaking our packs and causing loose soil to erode under our feet, sending us down the steep hillside in hear pounding mini-landslides.

It only got worse from there, but I’ll save you the details. Suffice it to say that I really thought we were in serious trouble. So we did end up turning back, we did end up finding a trail, a real trail, and we even found some random hut - a ranger’s station occupied by a scared-shitless vagabond - late in the night. From my journal:

And finally, hours later - Milky Way shining brightly - we arrived at a house empty and deserted.

Or so we thought - I went around yelling to make sure no one was there and then went around examining all the rooms to find the best place to sleep. It turned out to be an old Forest Service rest house. When I kicked open one of the doors - sure now that we were the only ones - to a room, a barking yell answered back which scared the shit out of me.

To this day I think that friendly guy who invited us in was staying there uninvited himself. Not like we gae a shit - he was persistent that we stay with him in his smoky, but warm room. He laid out some rattan mats for us to sleep on. We laid out all our wet gear to dry. He cooked us chai and rice and dal and it was heaven.

Paradise.

Nirvana.

The next morning we truly felt as if we had been re-incarnated. To this day I never remember feeling so alive as that morning … counting every breath … thinking how good it feels to take a shit in the morning. Our friend - who was still acting like he never even knew white people existed - pointed us towards the nearest village and we happily dropped him a thousand rupees. He looked at it like it was the most money he’d ever seen in his life.

In my journal I note that on this trek I was reading Paolo Coelho’s Veronika Decides to Die which is largely about enjoying life when you are faced with death. I could relate to it so well those days when I really thought Emily and I had met our doom.

We still had a good three days of trekking ahead of us. Our bodies ached and our feet were blistered, but each village we passed was bigger and friendlier and nothing could take away the natural high that came from just being alive, being in nature. We agreed on huge stacks of banana pancakes as soon as we got to Rishikesh. And even T.G.I.F.’s (yes, there really is one) back in Delhi to celebrate our survival.

Then we got to Rishikesh and checked our email accounts. My account was full and as I read through the messages they became more and more urgent since a full week had passed without us writing anything about what would prove to be "our generation’s day." Our parents wanted us to leave India immediately - seeing images of Pakistanis on CNN, they figured we where surrounded by the same anti-American mobs everywhere we went.

But sadly, the only thing I kept hearing from Indians was, "see, that’s how Muslims are, they aren’t the same as you and me." Most of the emails my friends wrote me spoke of a new unity that could be felt all over America and a sense of purpose a sense of patriotism again. But I felt estranged from that synergy. Arriving into Delhi on a bus full of sticky sweat and containers of the Ganges’ holy water I wrote in my journal:

September 19, 2001 New Delhi, India

Trying to figure things out. Trying to put it all into perspective - not to make any stupid decisions including not making a decision.

I won’t go into any account of the September 11th happenings - they’ll forever be imprinted in our generation’s memories and published in the next generation’s history books.

I haven’t been emailing very many friends or family except to say that we’re safe because I think my detachment from the whole event would be seen as extreme unpatriotism.

Deaths just as cruel and much much more cruel happen all over the world all the time and rarely even make the media. And now people are arguing taht we need to blow the hell out of Afghanistan because a Saudi Arabian terrorist is living there. Over-simplification.

I know, but still, this does not need to turn into World War Three like it looks like it will. I can’t stand the American mentality that when the most popular kid on the playground takes a punch he has to show everyone who’s in charge by lashing back and creating fear amongst everyone.

What surprises me looking back on that old entry - three years ago - is that it still sums up a lot of what I feel about American foreign policy. Only now do I understand how liberal I am perceived in America because I feel that way.

Well, that’s about it. I can’t imagine that anyone is all the way down here reading this. But I’m glad I did it for my own sake … putting all these various sources together … remembering one week of one year that is sure to effect the rest of my life.