Remembering 2001

I was on an old Russian military post in Taszár, Hungary, converted for US forces. The Hungarians, thrilled to have the the US there as opposed to the former occupiers, had visions of EU membership dancing in their heads. Their open-armed welcome was to change after this day, that is, after we started the top secret missions on their post without their knowledge or consent, but we didn't know these things at the time.

I was in my office, working on some mundane task or other, when I heard my boss's voice barking down the hallway, "Sims! Female type! GET IN HERE!" (The ex and I worked in the same building for different companies in a largely military or former military population -- thus the designators: Sims, male type or female type. It sounds weird here, but seemed pretty normal there.)

My boss tended toward the urgent and dramatic, especially when up against deadlines, which we often were, so I didn't think much about it. "All right, all right, your Highness, don't get your panties in a bunch!"

You develop a thick skin and a quick tongue when you're the only female working among a large group of guys in a military environment.

He was standing in the middle of his office, staring at the tiny 13" TV he kept in there for news. It was, as always, tuned to AFN, the Armed Forces Network. He didn't look at me or say anything. I looked, saw the pictures of the first tower, smoke pouring out, heard the anxiety in the announcer's voice. I couldn't make sense of it.

At that time, an event like this wasn't a possibility in our minds. It is now, but not on that day.

The other guys started filling up the office. At first, everyone was talking.

What the fuck?

What the hell happened?

That was a plane? Did the pilot have a heart attack?

Something must've happened to the pilot.

Oh my God ... all those people ...

I have a cousin in Manhattan ...

Then it just got quiet. We just watched that tiny TV. I remember a lot of the scenes from the TV that day. It was horrifying, watching it from so far away, feeling very American and very connected to our country in those moments, yet feeling so separated, far away. Helpless.

It felt wrong somehow, to not be in-country, to be in some other country, safe, while this was happening. We were on a military base, our jobs were supposed to keep this kind of thing from happening. It was supposed to happen to those of us who had signed on for that risk, not civilians back home, working in some office building.

People started doing Internet searches, calling family in the States, trying to find out what the hell had happened. People started heading for the chow hall, for the big screen TVs. I'd never heard it so damned quiet in that chow hall. The kitchen sounds, the laughter, joking, clinking silverware, all gone. It was just the TV. Just the terrible images of people running, crying, afraid, everything covered with that white dust, shrouded in smoke.

People were crying too. Soldiers, civilians, Hungarians, didn't matter.

Watching the firefighters really got to me. We had US firefighters on post. My girlfriend and I were their hanging buddies. I dated one of them. They were all good guys. For some reason, that connection with "our guys" made it very hard to watch those firefighters in NY. I don't have the words to talk about their bravery, and don't want to try.



The real situation quickly became apparent. The second plane hit, the Pentagon was hit, Flight 93 crashed in Pennsylvania, those heroes taking the secret of that plane's mission with them.

I remember the post seemed to explode from shocked silence and tears to measured, deliberate activity. The Threat Con was raised. HumVees with the big M-60s on the roof rolling out to the gates, barricades put up. Soldiers running to their units, building security put in place. Flack vests put on, weapons pulled out of the weapons room.

This is not a drill.

The post was put on lockdown. No one in, no one out. The jets went up, screaming into the air. I remember listening in disbelief to the news anchor, soberly telling us that commercial flights in the US were grounded - the whole country. That jets were flying cover over US cities. American cities. We were safe, where we weren't necessarily supposed to be safe, but civilians back home had been attacked.

The kids were downtown at school. The ex and I were on lockdown. Fuck. He was a program manager and had to stay, had to keep communications up. I secured my area and ran to the gate. Yes, I know we're on Threat Con, I know we're on lockdown. My kids are in town. They're the only US kids not homeschooled, the only ones with a parent not at home right now. You know they can't be there by themselves; everyone knows they're American. Dude, you know me ... you know the kids ... you have to let me off post. Fuck protection, goddamn it, my kids are out there. You gonna assign a detail to protect them, Sergeant? Then let me the fuck off this post! Please ... what if it were your kids ...

They let me go. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. Actually, they told no one was authorized to leave post, and that they had to go check something in the logs, and would be back in exactly 30 seconds. Thank you. My car, thankfully, was off post, so I could just slip out.

I got the kids.

They had heard the jets, but hadn't heard what happened. Their classmates had asked them why the jets were up. I had a really hard time telling the kids. Driving through town, things looked normal. It was sunny. People in town were going about their business. It was surreal, after the TV, the emotions and action back on post. I was driving, stopping at the lights, making the turns, talking to the kids. I felt like I was screaming inside.



The Hungarians were wonderfully supportive. They would stop us on the street to profess their sorrow for that heinous act. But I think, in a way, September 11th was when some of our hosts first became vaguely disillusioned with our presence. I think it caused the first stirrings of doubt as to the cost of hosting the US military on that old Russian army post.

One occupier or another, there's always a cost.

I didn't know it that September 11th, but we would later invade Iraq. My kids would later tell me about their Hungarian classmates being scared shitless of our jets roaring low over town the day of the invasion. Their classmates, crying openly, would look to my kids that day, wanting answers. That day, people feared the town becoming a target; the quid pro quo of Hungary's freshly forged partnership with the United States.

That never happened, but other things had; secret activities on post leading up to that 2003 invasion, things put in motion two years earlier on the day we now call 9/11, at the hands of our government. Things began to change. People in the cafés looked at us differently. There was a resentment, a mistrust. Not of us personally, but of our government. Our motives as a whole. Way to leave a legacy, Dubya. The US eventually left the old post in Taszár. The ex took a job in Oman. The kids and I came back to the States. It wasn't the same. The world had changed that day in September, and our government used that day, the deaths and pain, they used it to further their cause.



Remembering that day brings back the horror of the scenes I saw only from the TV and computer. I was not in New York or DC or that field in Pennsylvania, I did not have a close friend or relative directly affected by one of the flights. I can't add anything to the lives of those folks who lost someone that day. All I know about is where I was, how I felt that day.

Most of us were not there, yet every one of us remembers exactly what we were doing, where we were. That shared memory, the knowledge that we all remember, it binds us. 9/11 ripped through the normal bullshit that separates us. On that day, I felt disconnected, yet very connected to every other American, the "folks back home", and to the people who were there. The ones who lived and died in Manhattan, in Pennsylvania, at the Pentagon that day. Though I did not know them, I remember them today.