What September 11 Means to Me

When the first plane hit the WTC, I was on the train on my way to work at a law firm in Chicago, reading my newspaper, blissfully unaware. Within two hours, I went from believing it was an accident to watching the second plane crash, and understanding something terrible was happening. A rumor that a plane had been hijacked out of Indianapolis and was headed northwest resulted in a massive evacuation of Chicago’s Loop. I remember stunned people standing silently waiting for trains and busses. My friend, Venessa, and I drove home together, trying to absorb what was happening. I remember several hours, frantic with worry about my stepdaughter, a student at NYU.

A few days later, after some reflection, I had another shock. I realized that I had regularly watched television reports of worldwide terrorism and its effects for years, and then, without much thought or reflection, flipped to another channel. I recognized that, while this attack was indeed a terrible event, it was the kind of thing that many of my brothers and sisters around the world lived with on a regular basis. Suddenly I understood that until 9/11, America had been very fortunate.

Because I am a pacifist, I believe that war, retaliation and killing are never options. Period. And, I found out, in a very personal way, how unpopular that belief was in the days and weeks following 9/11. I knew about my grandfather’s generation being imprisoned for refusing to fight during World War I; I knew about my father being unmercifully harassed in high school during World War II; I remembered a fellow college student being removed from class in handcuffs for his refusal to register during the Vietnam War. However, I had never personally experienced the disgust and disdain which followed my refusal to go along with the vengeful attitudes I saw after the shock of the attack wore off. One of my co-workers, a Japanese-American woman who had survived the horror of war, put a sign on her desk which said, “Reconciliation, not retaliation.” A co-worker ripped it to shreds, screaming that she was a traitor. A secretary who I considered a friend refused to speak to me for several months, explaining icily, “I know what Mennonites think.” An anti-war sticker was ripped off my computer monitor while my back was turned.

But my refusal to go along with the prevailing attitude had some positive, wonderful results. Many people asked about the sticker I displayed on my desk. I explained that I believed war and retaliation are never a solution. I proffered my belief that since God is the father of all humankind, that makes even the terrorists my brothers. I described my Palestinian neighbors who were too frightened to come out of their home for weeks after 9/11. I spoke about one of my husband’s doctors, an Arab-American with family in Baghdad. I learned that when people make a personal connection, when beliefs can be logically and rationally discussed, something wonderful happens: Ideas are introduced, blindly accepted public opinion is questioned and personal values are challenged.

What does 9/11 mean to me? It was, indeed, a terrible event, causing tremendous suffering for many people. For me, it was a chance to share with others, in a very real and personal way, the beliefs I have held since I was a little girl: War, and its unending circle of hatred, killing and retaliation, are always wrong. September 11 is a vivid reminder to me that as a Christian pacifist, I have the freedom to believe differently from the majority of Americans, and to do so, for the most part, without fear.