American September.

In New York, September marks the return to routine under the familiar slogan „Back to School.” It’s a time of renewed activity, as familiar faces reappear in schools, bringing with them a joyful atmosphere and vibrant energy untouched by the weight of history. In New York, the month typically begins with sunny skies and lower humidity, offering a welcome break from air conditioning and the chance to sleep with the windows open. Tourist crowds in Manhattan begin to thin, and the city seems to breathe a little easier.

On average, August is the wettest month on the East Coast, making outdoor activities less enjoyable and walking around Manhattan quite difficult. The island is built on bedrock, and when combined with the dense cluster of buildings, it creates a micro-greenhouse effect. As a result, temperatures often rise even after sunset, and a humid fog settles over New York. I remember once, when our European guests asked to visit one of the World Trade Center towers, we found there was little point—at the top floor, visibility was zero. A simple sign read: „No Visibility.”

That’s why September, when most residents have returned to their routines and the weather turns warm and mild, feels especially pleasant and welcoming. And yet, since that day, this time of year has never felt quite the same.

As someone who narrowly avoided the tragedy of September 11, 2001, I still consider myself incredibly lucky not to have been caught in the middle of it. That morning, I was headed to Lower Manhattan—right to the area where the attack took place. At the last minute, just before the first plane hit, I changed my mind. Even after getting stuck in traffic near the Lincoln Tunnel, I took the final exit in New Jersey, in Weehawken. I simply gave up and turned around. Just 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 might have come up with some divine explanation. But I’m not. What I do remember is that two things shaped my decision that day: first, I was exhausted and trying to find an excuse to postpone my trip to Manhattan until the following day; second, while stuck in traffic, I heard that the Lincoln Tunnel delay was slightly longer than usual—40 minutes instead of the typical 30. That may seem trivial to an outsider, but for those of us who commuted into Manhattan daily, those extra 10 minutes often made a big difference.

Once you passed the last exit in New Jersey, you were stuck on the long concrete ramp of Interstate 495 with nowhere to go but forward. That day, I chose to turn off just in time. It wasn’t a miracle. It was fatigue, frustration, and timing. I ended up watching the entire tragedy unfold from across the Hudson River. The Twin Towers, located on the western edge of Lower Manhattan—known to locals as the Battery—were clearly visible, and the scene was no less dramatic or horrifying from a distance.

September 11, 2001, was a clear, sunny day—there wasn’t a single cloud over Manhattan. I still remember the main topics on public forums that morning: Wall Street and bases on Mars. Wall Street, because people were wondering when the stock market would finally move. Bases on Mars—was it time to build them, and could we afford it? In hindsight, it all sounds grotesque, but those were our primary concerns. They felt so far removed from what was about to unfold that I made a point of writing them down after the attacks, just so I wouldn’t forget.

Back in 2001, mobile phones were common, but smartphones didn’t exist yet. Mobile internet was in its infancy, so radio and television were still the main sources of breaking news. We, constantly on the move around the New York metropolitan area, carried multi-function communicators—devices with both cell phone and CB radio capabilities. Because of that, I knew within minutes of the first impact that something had happened—and that it was, as they said, „presumably” a terrorist attack.

Not everyone realized it right away, though. When I stopped at a roadside deli just a few minutes later, a news anchor was still speculating whether it might have been pilot error. But soon after, United Airlines Flight 175 crashed into the upper floors of the South Tower of the World Trade Center—between the 77th and 85th floors. At that moment, there was no longer any doubt: this was a massive terrorist attack.

It’s strange, but in the immediate aftermath of the attacks, not much changed outside of Lower Manhattan. Most of the New York metropolitan area carried on with daily life; people simply adjusted their plans for getting into the city. Many New Yorkers—recalling the failed 1993 World Trade Center bombing—had not yet grasped the full gravity of the situation.

Gradually, though, the tension mounted, and reality began to sink in. Shortly after the second plane hit, the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) halted all inbound flights to New York airports and soon after shut down the airspace over the entire metropolitan area—and eventually, the entire country. The sky over New York went silent. For those of us who lived here, used to seeing three or four planes in the sky at any given moment, it was surreal—like someone had suddenly turned off the lights.

Later that day, for the first time in my life, I saw something on the road into the city that looked like it belonged in a dystopian film: “New York City Closed”.

No one knew—or perhaps only a few insiders did—that the towers could collapse. Television and radio stations were focused on the heroism of firefighters and rescue workers. It’s hard to judge in hindsight, but there’s no doubt that many of them rushed in without hesitation, fully aware of the enormous risks. Many paid for that bravery with their lives.

Feeling helpless in the face of such overwhelming tragedy, I headed south. The CB radio was still active, and one of my colleagues asked if I could pick up someone stranded at Newark Airport. As I pulled into the airport, I heard over the radio that the South Tower of the World Trade Center had collapsed. I was stunned. Shock and disbelief washed over me. No one had warned us that this was even a possibility—and yet, there were still people in the building. Firefighters were still inside.

Despite everything, there was still hope that the North Tower might hold. It had been struck first, but it was still standing. Just then, we heard the sound of approaching aircraft. Panic broke out in the terminals—people screamed and ran outside, some stumbling and falling in the chaos. Then we saw them: two F-16 fighter jets, flying low and fast over the airport, banking in a wide arc toward Manhattan. Relief washed 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 how many more hijacked planes might be in the air, and the uncertainty is suffocating. The atmosphere is thick with fear, tension, and unanswered questions.

Across the river, we can clearly see the massive cloud of smoke and dust rising from where the South Tower once stood. But even in the chaos, things are still escalating. The radio crackles again—the North Tower is collapsing. A second enormous cloud billows upward, swallowing all of Lower Manhattan in a choking gray fog.

Depression. Sadness. Resignation. Helplessness. It feels as if someone has suddenly destroyed your home, poisoned your water, and set everything around you 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 it’s confirmed that there are no more hijacked planes in the air. Fighter jets and military helicopters patrol the skies. Lower Manhattan is still burning. That evening, people from the financial district are transported to the area around Giants Stadium, and from there, back to their homes. The long process begins—counting the losses and waiting for those who never returned from work.

September 11 doesn’t end at midnight. Despite the patriotic gestures from the President, the firefighters, and city services, the World Trade Center complex continues to burn for weeks. Smoke lingers in the air for days after the collapse of the towers—known to New Yorkers simply as the „Twin Towers.”

Some call it the „smell of death,” in memory of the almost 3,000 lives lost in the attacks. Others recall that when the World Trade Center was built, construction standards were different than today’s, and many toxic materials—including asbestos—were used throughout the complex.

Shock slowly gives way to disbelief. People struggle to comprehend the depth of hatred that, in its frenzy, is willing to sacrifice even its own life just to cause pain and suffering to others. Equally staggering is the calculated precision behind such destruction. It’s hard to grasp how those who often lack the energy or will to create even modest comfort in their own lives can show such relentless determination to destroy and poison the lives of others.

Fifteen years later, the impressive One World Trade Center now rises where the Twin Towers once stood. In our area, on a nearby hill, a small monument shaped like an American eagle has been erected to honor the victims of 9/11. The pier—where people once gathered in the evenings, waiting with candles for loved ones who never returned—has become a familiar place for walks, conversation, and quiet reflection.

The anniversary is remembered, but not turned into martyrdom. The bitter lesson of fanaticism’s deadly power is not forgotten—but neither is it used to fuel resentment. September is warm again, schools are filled with laughter, and life has returned.