It is not just America but the world remembers the horror of September 11, 2001 when terrorist thugs hijacked four planes—two of them sliced through the World Trade Center in New York, one commercial jet crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania when a small group of passengers over powered the hijackers but in vain and the last crashed into the Pentagon in Virginia. About 3000 people perished that day but thousands of kith and kin still shudder at the thought of that fateful day, now come to be simply known as 9/11.
Memories to the families of those fell to the cruel hand of terrorism is simply painful. There is simply no way of describing or even imagining the hurt of a loved one, be it a father, mother, brother, sister, husband, wife or just a friend. As a journalist I remember 9/11 differently: on a routine assignment to the United Nations from Washington, getting ready in my hotel at downtown Manhattan and when all hell broke loose. For the next several days the job of a scribe may have been round the clock, but also of an eerie feeling that life was not going to be the same in New York, or for that matter elsewhere in the United States.