American September.

American September is a time when, under the slogan „Back to School,” the annual routine resumes. At the same time, a lot is happening, and familiar faces return to schools, creating a joyful atmosphere filled with enthusiastic energy, unquenched by history. The beginning of the month in New York is usually sunny, with humidity dropping, allowing you to finally free yourself from air conditioning and sleep with the windows open. Tourist traffic in Manhattan decreases, and the city takes a fresh breath.

On average, August is the wettest month on the East Coast, which makes outdoor activities less appealing, and walking around Manhattan can be difficult. The island is built on rock, which, combined with the buildings, creates a micro-greenhouse effect. As a result, after sunset, the temperature often rises, and a wet fog envelops New York. Once, when asked by our European guests to visit one of the World Trade Center towers, I discovered there was little point in going there, as the top floor offered no visibility—just a sign that read „No Visibility.”

That’s why September, when most residents are in their starting positions and the weather is warm and mild, is a pleasant and friendly time. It couldn’t be otherwise, because since that day, this time has never been the same.

As someone who had a close call with the New York tragedy of September 11, 2001, I still consider myself lucky not to have been caught in the midst of it. That day, I was headed to lower Manhattan in the early morning hours, right where the attack occurred. At the last minute, just moments before the attack, I changed my mind, even after being stuck in traffic before the Lincoln Tunnel. I took the last exit in New Jersey to Weehawken. I simply gave up and turned around. A few minutes later, American Airlines Flight 11, traveling at 490 mph, crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

If I were religious, I could come up with a lot of fanciful theories here. But I’m not. That’s why I remember that the most important things for me that day were twofold: first, I was sleep-deprived and trying to figure out how to postpone my trip to Manhattan until the next day; second, while stuck in a traffic jam, I heard that the delay in the tunnel was slightly longer than normal (instead of the usual 30 minutes, it was 40). For an outsider, this may seem trivial, but for those of us commuting to Manhattan day after day, it was significant because those extra 10 minutes could quickly add up. After taking the last exit in New Jersey, all you could do was stand in the long concrete ramp of Interstate 495 and wait for the situation to improve. That’s why a miracle didn’t happen, and I watched the entire tragedy unfold from across the Hudson River. The WTC towers were on the western side of lower Manhattan (known to locals as the „Battery”), and the spectacle was no less dramatic and terrifying.

September 11, 2001, was sunny; there wasn’t a single cloud over Manhattan. I still remember that the main topics on the public forum that day were two: Wall Street and bases on Mars. Wall Street, because when would the stock market finally move? Bases on Mars—was it time for them, and could we afford them? In retrospect, this sounds grotesque, but those were our main concerns. They felt so far removed from what was about to happen that I deliberately wrote them down after the attack so I wouldn’t forget.

In 2001, mobile phones existed, but not smartphones. Mobile internet was still in its early stages, so radio and television were the primary channels of information. We, constantly moving around the New York metropolitan area, were equipped with communicators that had both cell phone and CB radio functions. Thanks to this, shortly after the first attack, I already knew what had happened and that it was, as they said, „presumably” a terrorist attack. It wasn’t obvious to everyone, though, because when I stopped at a roadside deli a few minutes later, some news anchor was still speculating about whether it was pilot error. Shortly thereafter, United Airlines Flight 175 crashed into the upper section (between floors 77 and 85) of the South Tower of the World Trade Center. There was no longer any doubt that this was a massive terrorist attack.

It’s strange, but right after the attacks, not much changed outside of Lower Manhattan. Most of the New York metropolitan area continued with its daily life; some simply tried to adjust their plans for getting to the city. New Yorkers, recalling the failed attack on the World Trade Center in 1993, did not yet grasp the seriousness of the situation. Slowly, however, tension grew, and reality became clearer. Shortly after the second attack, the FAA (Federal Aviation Administration) halted all flights to New York airports and soon closed the airspace over the entire metropolitan area and the country. The sky over New York fell silent. For those of us living here, accustomed to seeing 3-4 planes in the sky at any given moment, this was abnormal—like someone had suddenly turned off the lights. Later, for the first time in my life, I saw a display on the road leading to the city that looked like something out of a fantasy movie: „New York City Closed.”

During this time, our media was not always very helpful. Shortly afterward, we learned about the attack on the Pentagon, but some news outlets also reported eight more hijacked planes. This information turned out to be false, but its devastating effect on the already tense atmosphere was significant.

No one knew—except perhaps a few insiders—that the towers could collapse. TV and radio stations focused on the heroism of the firefighters and rescue workers. It is difficult to judge now, but there is no doubt that many of these individuals participated in the rescue efforts without hesitation, fully aware of the enormous risks involved. Many of them paid for this decision with their lives.

Recognizing my own helplessness in the face of such tragic events, I headed south. The CB radio was still working, so one of my colleagues asked if I could pick up someone stuck at Newark Airport along the way. As I pulled into the airport, I heard over the radio that the south tower of the WTC was collapsing. Shock and surprise washed over me. No one had warned us that this could happen, and yet there were still people in the skyscraper and firefighters in the tower. However, there was still hope that the north tower would hold. It had been hit first, and it was still standing. At the same time, we heard planes approaching. People waiting in the terminals panicked and ran outside; some fell, and others screamed. Two F-16 fighters flew low over the airport at high speed, making a semicircle toward Manhattan. Relief over us: these were not enemy planes.

Over the radio, we hear that a United Airlines plane has crashed in Pennsylvania. We still don’t know for sure how many more hijacked planes are in the air, so the news of potential threats hangs heavy in the atmosphere, filled with terror.

Across the river, the rising cloud of smoke and dust from the collapse of the south tower is clearly visible. At the same time, something in this chaos begins to accelerate. The radio reports that the north tower is also collapsing. The enormous cloud engulfs all of lower Manhattan.

Depression, sadness, resignation, helplessness. It feels as if someone has suddenly destroyed your house, poisoned the water, and set everything on fire. Why? There are no good questions and no good answers.

The situation is slowly coming under control. We now know where the president is and that there are no more hijacked planes above us. Fighter jets and military helicopters are in the air. Lower Manhattan is still burning. In the evening, people from the financial district are being transported to the area around Giants Stadium and from there to their homes. The counting of losses and the waiting for those who never returned from work begins.

September 11 does not end at midnight. Despite patriotic gestures from both the president and the firefighters and city services, the World Trade Center complex continues to burn for weeks. Smoke lingers for many days after the towers’ collapse, known to New Yorkers as the „Twin Towers.” Some refer to it as the „smell of death,” in memory of the over 3,000 victims who went missing during the attack. Others recall that during the construction of the WTC, building standards were different from today’s, and many toxic materials, including asbestos, were used in the complex.

Shock slowly gives way to amazement. People cannot comprehend the scale of hatred that, in its frenzy, sacrifices even its own life just to inflict pain and suffering on others. The consistency of action in this frenzy of destruction is equally incredible. It is hard to understand why those who often lack the energy and will to create bearable living conditions for themselves and their surroundings can show such determination to destroy and poison the lives of others.

Fifteen years later, the impressive One World Trade Center now stands where the WTC „twins” once stood. In our area, atop a nearby hill, a small monument in the shape of an American eagle has been erected to commemorate the victims of 9/11. The pier, where people gathered in the evenings to wait for their loved ones with lit candles, has become a well-known landmark for walks, socializing, and reflection. The anniversary is remembered, but not martyrized. The bitter lesson of the lethal power of fanaticism is also recalled, but no one here is fostering a spiral of resentment. September is warm again, schools are joyful, and life has returned.