THE
RUIN
It
is a kingly thing…
…city…
—from “The Ruin,” c. 700 AD—the first
known poem in the English language—an anonymous ode to the
ruined, Roman city of Bath, found on two charred leaves of parchment.
For
the first two days after the bombing the weather stayed sunny
and warm. From where I live, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan,
there was still no physical evidence of the destruction. Then
last Thursday night the wind finally shifted, and an oily, burning
smell began to reach us, seeping in through our livingroom windows
like an evil sirocco.
Some
good friends of ours noticed that their infant daughter’s
nose and eyes were running, and they got in their car and drove
through the night, afraid that some kind of new, chemical weapon
had been unleashed upon us. They called us the next day from the
Berkshires, sounding abashed. It turned out that their daughter
was only getting a cold, they said apologetically, but we understood.
It
was not, after all, as if we were doing anything so valiant and
necessary here. The winds brought a new front of cold and rain
with them, and it was as if the autumn had arrived overnight,
finally catching up to the mood of the city. I went around town,
trying to volunteer to give blood, to do anything—hoping
simply to be able to haul away some of the seven-story mountain
of rubble that remains at the blast site.
(I
have always wondered at the pictures of cities from the Second
World War, reduced mainly to piles of rubble. Thinking, “How did
they ever clean it all up?” Now I know. They do it one bucket
at a time.)
Every
place I went to was already full up with volunteers and blood
donors. Down at the World Trade Center they were still hoping
to find people alive, deep in the labyrinth of train tunnels and
sub-basements that lay under the towers, and so most of the excavation
work was reserved for trained men, for rescue squads and construction
workers, and firemen.
The
firemen are an especially moving story. The worst, first estimates
were true, it seems. We have lost nearly 300, entombed in the
rubble, when the towers when they collapsed. Some companies were
almost entirely wiped out. Now the survivors work on, in their
black and yellow-striped coats, pulling furiously at the wreckage
before them. They refuse to be relieved, working on even after
their strength must surely be exhausted—after all hope must be
lost. Still hoping to find just one man alive.
For
better or worse, the firefighters have always been at the heart
of democracy in New York. Until 1865, all of the companies were
made up of volunteers, which used to roll their engine wagons
through the streets by hand. These soon became centers of popular
culture and folklore. The companies painted their wagons with
Indians, and Founding Fathers, and battles from the Revolution,
and Niagara Falls; dubbed them with nicknames like the Mohawk
Hose, or Old Honey Bee, or the Black Joke.
They were spirited and bumptious—fighting each other over the
fire hydrants, even starting the terrible draft riot of 1863 that
almost ruined the city. Yet at the same time, it was around the
fire companies that the city’s populist, political organizations
formed. New York was the first city in history to be truly run
by the people and at times they have made a hash of it, but they
have produced the sort of men and women who labor on so doggedly
now.
They
have also produced our mayor. This is Rudy Giuliani’s finest hour.
In the past he has often been a belligerent, even buffoonish figure.
Yet from the start of this crisis he has been superb. He has been
everywhere, striking the exact right note of muted sorrow, and
calm authority. He is obviously burdened by the devastation around
him, by all the death—but it never overwhelms him, or turns him
from his duty. I am reminded of something Edmund Morris wrote
about Teddy Roosevelt: “The
slightest rise in the barometer outside, and his turbulence smoothed
into a whirl of coordinated activity. Under maximum pressure,
Roosevelt was sunny, calm, and unnaturally clear.”
Giuliani’s
leadership stands out especially, I’m afraid, in contrast to that
offered by our president. We want to rally around George Bush,
but his performance has been erratic, to say the least. Darting
about the country in Air Force One, suddenly choking up on camera.
Reading meaningless, campaign-style speeches off the television
monitor. It took him three days just to get to the city, something
that angered many New Yorkers.
Worst
of all, Bush still seems concerned most of all with his own image.
His staff has already put out a wild story about a possible terrorist
“mole” in the White House, as a way to justify his early
reaction. Meanwhile his rhetoric has become steadily more shrill
and unconvincing. He promises to bring in Osama bin Laden “dead
or alive,” and to “rid the world of evildoers”—as if he were
some other comic book superhero.
The
reaction from the rest of official Washington has been almost
as disheartening. Even supposedly liberal congressmen and senators
rush to the microphones to say that we will have to give up some
of our civil liberties. They are egged on by the media itself—though
no one ever manages to say just which liberties we should give
up, or why. The intelligence services—trying to obfuscate their
colossal failure—are calling on the president to repeal a 1995
directive that forbade the CIA to hire known murderers and torturers
under most circumstances.
One
ray of hope from Washington is Colin Powell, the secretary of
state, who seems to have kept his head when all around him are
losing theirs. I have had the good fortune to meet Gen. Powell
in the past, and he seemed to be a singularly level-headed and
centered individual, generous and obviously devoted to his wife.
So far he has been shunted aside in Washington by leftover cold
warriors such as Donald Rumsfeld and Condoleeza Rice, but the
recent disaster might at last force the administration back to
the sort of international cooperation that Powell champions, and
that we need in this crisis.
I
hope so. The evidence seems to point clearly to bin Laden’s organization
now, and of course it must be dismantled. But I hope that our
response will be as careful and deliberate as possible. I have
always hated the habit of lobbing a missile or a few bombs in
the general direction of suspected terrorists, and after the events
of the last Tuesday I am more conscious than ever of how immoral
it is to inflict such punishment on innocent and defenseless people.
Of course, there will likely be some “collateral damage” (that
wonderful military term!) in any war. And there is always a trade-off.
The less we bomb the more we risk the lives of the young men and
women who defend us. There are no good choices here, but we must
not act simply out of blind vengeance.
Across the nation, there have been accounts of people harassing
and, in a couple instances, even killing Arab-Americans, and other
Asians. But there have been few such incidents here; this sort
of hysteria seems worse the farther one actually gets from New
York.
We
tend to be less demonstrative here in the city, in every way.
One of our senators called on everyone to fly an American flag
from their window, but few people actually have. There are more
flags out, but most of them are displayed by merchants or cab
drivers—many of them Arabic and Asian immigrants, eager to show
their patriotism.
Last
Friday night there was an attempt to organize candlelight vigils
around city. I went out to one that was held across the street,
in front of a church. Most of my neighbors and I stood there rather
sheepishly, holding our candles while a few people tried to lead
us in singing hymns and patriotic songs, and I was instantly reminded
of why I hate most group activities. These were the sort of people,
of course, who always feel everything much more deeply than anyone
else, and they even resorted to calling out the next line before
we sang it. When they got to “He’s Got the Whole World
in His Hands,” I quietly blew out my candle and went home.
There
was a better, more spontaneous gathering at the Firemen’s Memorial,
in Riverside Park, and afterwards everyone walked over to the
local fire station, just to show the men there how much we appreciated
their efforts. They put up a hand-printed sign, on cardboard,
thanking us in turn, and it was a much more genuine, and heartfelt
moment.
I think the image I will remember most from the hours right after
the bombing was a clip, shown over and over again, of a small
group of New Yorkers lining up to get in a bus a couple blocks
from the blast site. All of them were covered in ash—as was the
bus—and one or two were even bleeding, but they all stood patiently
in line, awaiting their turn. It was one of those small, countless
moments of urban accommodation, that go all but unnoticed most
of the time.
It strikes me that this is the sort of civilization that the Twin
Towers represented. Bin Laden, in contrast, saw them in an almost
cartoonish, childish sort of way—building-block skyscrapers, to
be knocked over by crashing toy planes into them. No doubt he
got the video images he craved, and many commentators will remark
about the irony of his using the West’s technology against itself.
Yet it seems to me that for all of his devotion to Islam, for
all of his efforts to destroy us, bin Laden’s problem is an essentially
Western, secular one: Too much money, and too little purpose.
His solution has been to cleave to the easiest, most simplistic
answer available.
This is not to say that Western society does not have its own,
considerable faults—or that we are not prone to our own simplifications.
Many Americans were sickened this week, for instance, when a pair
of far-right, fundamentalist televangelists, Jerry Falwell and
Pat Robertson, went on TV and agreed that the bombing could only
have happened because the transgressions of gays and lesbians,
abortionists, the American Civil Liberties Union, and other terrible
people caused God to lift “His protective curtain” from us.
Yet most of us who live in an urban society have learned better.
No doubt it took great physical courage for bin Laden’s holy warriors
to fly themselves into buildings. But we in the city can claim
an even greater courage just because we are free of such terrible
certainties. We face our enemies with no promise of Paradise,
no assurance that we are doing God’s will—but with all the inevitable,
humanizing ambiguity of modern life.
Today I went back down to the financial district for the first
time—a week after the crash, almost to the hour. Much of it is
still blocked off from the public, but to see it all in person—to
see the space where they used to be; the crumpled, trellis-like
facades that are the only remnants still left standing—is
much more shocking than it is on TV.
The nearby buildings were still covered with thick layers of ash.
There were National Guard troops and police everywhere, many of
them wearing surgical or even gas masks. The acrid, oily stench
I smelled through my window is stronger than ever—so strong that
I don’t know how people are able to work in the vicinity.
Yet there are plenty of them on the streets. They move about quietly,
unobtrusively. There are tourists as well, snapping pictures of
the devastation, but a somber, funereal aspect seems to have settled
over everyone.
No
one knows just what will happen. The New York Stock Exchange plunged
on Monday, and there is even talk that this will spell the end
of the financial district. Already, two major firms, American
Express and Lehman Brothers, are reported to have signed long-term
leases to move their offices out to New Jersey. Many other businesses
are supposedly eager to follow—afraid now that New York will become
a permanent target.
Well,
let them go then, if they are so afraid. It will hurt us for awhile,
but the city was around long before its stock exchanges, and it
will be around long after they have left. Our friends have returned
from Massachusetts, and we have heard from so many friends—not
least from Germany—making sure we are all right. It is much
appreciated. Mark the “x” upon my forehead, and drop whatever
is to come next right there. I’m not leaving.
© Copyright The Frankfurter Rundschau 2001
