This year’s anniversary of 9/11 has been the toughest for me yet. Recalling living through that New York day, being in my flat nearby when it happened and seeing what I saw becomes harder as time passes. The older I get, the more I understand the significance of the event, and it lingers.
As I stood at the bottom of the West Side Highway looking up at the remaining North Tower, I experienced not one feeling but a barrage: shock: terror, confusion, disbelief, heartache, fear, adrenaline, anger, resilience and a desire to fight back. And a desperation to be of use. I wanted to hold my hands up to stop the tower from falling, or to fly up and grab the people at the windows.
Every year, a few days before 11 September, I start to feel heavy, as if all the energy has left my body. It’s a struggle to get up, to shower, to get to work, and, just like on that day 25 years ago, I have no thoughts whatsoever about food.
The TV begins to show unseen footage and documentaries. Usually, I can’t watch. But this year I felt compelled to watch the lot. I have no idea if it that was a good idea or a bad one, but I watched 5, Netflix, Nat Geo, the movie United 93 and anything else I could consume.
I just thought, this is the year. I have to watch it all. I have to remember. I have to pass it down before the feelings slip into history, and people don’t understand what it’s like to have been there, and 9/11 becomes just a thing that happened.
On the date, I gave myself a shake and decided to go to one of the memorials in London to lay some flowers, to try to acknowledge the day in a special place.
There are two in London where the 67 British victims are remembered. One is a memorial garden at Grosvenor Square, the other a sculpture made from pieces of the World Trade Centre at the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park. Andy Burnham was to go to the park to speak to victims’ families.
I got myself ready to head to Grosvenor Square. I looked in my wardrobe for the trainers I ran away in. I haven’t worn them since 9/11, and I keep them in a special cover. I didn’t feel it was right to wear them, but I wanted them with me, so I put them in my bag with the flowers. Heading down to Bond Street station I felt really slow and clouded. When I reached the square, lots of Londoners were eating lunch on benches nearby. The sunny weather was reminiscent of that day in New York City.
At the gate, I was met by a security guard. We chatted and he explained that the square was closed for the day, as there was to be a special ceremony for victims’ families. It was 12.30 and the ceremony was to begin later in the afternoon. Nobody was in the square other than a few chairs ready to be set up. It was a beautiful idea.
“Not wishing to intrude,” I said, “but could I go in just for a minute, just to lay flowers, then I’ll leave?”
I was choking back tears, it felt like I had been travelling for hours in leadened boots.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Come back in half an hour. The manager will be back from his lunch by then.”
I thanked him and walked up to the nearby Grosvenor Chapel, which I was surprised to find empty. Returning by way of South Audley Street, I saw that the security guard I had spoken to, with a few others, was now setting out the chairs. As I waited, hoping he would come over, an ashen-faced young girl arrived with flowers. We got talking, and she told me she was there representing her Nana, who lived in Bournemouth. The flowers were for her uncle, Richard Dawson, a 9/11 victim who had been at the World Trade Centre attending a technology conference.
She wanted to do the same as me – lay flowers and leave. I was surprised and saddened that neither she nor her Nana had been invited to either of the day’s ceremonies, which she said they had known nothing about.
We were joined at the gate by Peter Field and his wife. Peter, from London, had been in New York on 9/11 for a conference with 16 of his staff from the Risk Waters company, of which he was chairman and chief executive officer. They were there to attend the same conference as Richard Dawson on the North Tower’s 106th floor.
Peter had set off for the event a little later than his colleagues, having had to first call London for help with an email problem. The delay saved his life, but his sixteen staff were all trapped above the point of impact, and died. He had 16 white roses with him (you can read Peter’s own account of what happened here).
We all got talking and there was some tearing up as we shared experiences of what we had seen, the powerful smell, and the overwhelming feelings. Another woman arrived with flowers. She too was there to pay her respects. Others arrived at the gate for different reasons, and wondered why the square was shut. “Oh, is that today?” said one, looking at the ground. “I forgot all about it.”
We waited a further 20 minutes or so, now glued together by circumstance. I told my companions I had my trainers with me, and almost broke down at that point.
Someone involved with running the ceremony came over and explained that there was a strict invitation list, which meant we couldn’t be let in – even though I told her who those waiting with me were. But then someone else in authority said it would be all right. Another gate was opened for us and we walked up to the memorial garden together, a special little place with a carved stone, under which is buried a piece of the World Trade Centre. We all placed our flowers in silence. I was offered a hug and accepted, holding on tightly.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. As well as a ton of other emotions, I was feeling guilty.
In the hierarchy of grief, everyone else’s burden in that London square was so much heavier than mine. But I don’t know where else to go to put it.
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