I attach below a version of a piece commissioned by the London Review of Books in the aftermath of 9-11 The editor spiked it and instead published a piece by one of his friends, who was reacting sensitively, of course, to events from 20 miles up the Hudson. It was, I suppose, good to see that friendship still counted for something!
In the light other recent memorable eye-witness reports, I can put my hand on my heart and swear that I did not see Trump downtown, neither being rescued nor rescuing. Nor did I expect to, since like most New Yorkers, I’ve always had very low estimates of his eleemosynary impulses. His modesty even then vied with his charity for being infinitesimally small.
In those days, I chalked up several other unPulitzered journalistic triumphs then. Before the Internet died after the burning Number Seven World Trade Center collapsed, taking downtown Manhattan’s telecoms with it, I saw a cable news report saying that. Giuliani was downtown, looking for his emergency headquarters.
The irony was at least as ferrous as Trump’s invocation of “American Steel,” in his latest fable of derring-do. Against the advice of all the relevant authorities Giuliani had put his HQ into no less than- number Seven World Trade Center on, as I remember the seventh Floor. To do so, he defied his own New York City planning regulations by claiming that the WTC complex, it was not really in the city – it belonged to the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey and was thus exempt from city regulations. Ironically, he also defied NY FD regulations by storing thousands of gallons of heating fuel and diesel in it to power and heat his bunker up there. It was of course totally irrelevant that the owner of the complex was a major donor to Rudy’s elections.
It was that burning fuel that melted the structural steel of Number 7 so it collapsed on to the Con Ed substation and sabotaged the adjacent telephone exchange. So “America’s Mayor” was implicated in blacking out the financial hub of world. As the Specials had sung, “over to you, Rudy.” I did occasional work for the Independent in London, and they said yes to the story I pitched.
Then after several hours of my racing to complete the article Independent spiked it. It was considered insensitive to run a story suggesting that New York’s current superhero had feet of merde.
That was in London, and the social pressure in the US was far stronger. It was what Orwell called thoughtcrime. Many people knew the facts of the story, but apart from myself and a few others such as as I remember, Pete Hamill, none dared resurrect it!
But the sound of coerced silence was to continue reverberating. We were trapped in our small apartment above the Paris Café, with no electricity for several weeks and we had to walk miles to get supplies. Bush and the Mayor, who was desperately trying to extend his soon-to-expire term “to deal with the emergency,” wanted Wall Street and Manhattan reopened and were issuing regular reports that the air quality downtown was fine. Then I had the call from a friend, who knew we were still down there.
He had worked for the EPA but was gagged by layers of NDAs and official secrets, “You know they report the air quality as safe – and back to normal…Well, what they are not reporting is that the dust, not least from the trucks excavating the site is toxic in more ways than they can measure. Don’t breathe if any of them pass you!”
Which brings us to the present, possibly thousands of dead New Yorkers who did breathe the dust later. This week Rudy called to exclude the current Mayor of New York, Zohran Mamdani, from the September 11 memorial. It was a gratuitous exercise in Islamophobia in itself, but Mamdani and John Stewart and the new City Hall confirmed what my informant had told me a quarter of a century ago, when they unearthed the hidden files showing that Rudy, and presumably the Bush administration knew all along, hat the dust was toxic and omnipresent. Thousands of lives were a price worth paying to get Wall Street back on the road.
The Day I did not see Trump or Giuliani
Got a Fag Mate?
I moved from midtown to lower Manhattan in late August 2001. South Street Sea Port seemed like home to someone who had left Liverpool twelve years before. Indeed, in some ways I had hardly left. The plaque on the esplanade mentioned that it built on rubble landfill from blitzed London that returning supply ships used as ballast. Those ships had in fact come from bombed Liverpool. I’d used it to illustrate my thesis that American civilian experience of war was vicarious and inaccurate compared with that of Europeans, even younger ones like me brought up playing in bomb sites and listening to tales of evacuations and bomb shelters from older family members.
I had developed a routine in the new apartment. A brisk cycle ride round the southern tip of the island, past Battery Park and up the new bike up the Hudson that begins by running through the dark valley between the World Trade Centre and the World Financial Centre. On the morning of September 11, I began my day as usual by checking my email as I swigged my first mug of tea, sitting, I must confess, in stark naked comfort.
The email brought several promising commissions, and so I decided to postpone my daily ride, even though the blue skies and equable temperature outside promised one of New York’s few sweet spots between its more customary extremes of frigidity and torridity. Instead, I began work on an article f on the underlying wobbliness of the American economy. It was for Punch, the venerable British humor magazine then in its faltering dotage, which had for many years seemed to only to be seen in doctors’ and dentists’ waiting rooms, where it was much appreciated for its admittedly excellent cartoons.
After the usual pause for meditation, I had just written “The” when I heard a loud bang. It sounded like a building collapse which was a not uncommon occurrence in the run-down area of the Seaport, so I ran to the window to look out. The fish porters from the Fulton market were standing in the square of Peck Slip staring up as if at the Second Coming. I pulled on clothes and ran down with a cell phone, recorder, binoculars and a camera. If this was indeed the second coming, it was the early stages, the arrival of Satan on Earth. The World Trade Centre’s north tower had an exit wound some three quarters of the way up, with flames erupting from the northeast corner, and thick black smoke framing the brightness.
“Look there’re people jumping” a woman shouted in anguish. As far as I could see, what she thought were people was in fact metal siding drifting downwards on the wind. However, my reassurance was premature: shortly afterwards, that’s just what people trapped in the upper floors began doing.
I began trying to call various newsrooms on my cell phone, to no avail. Either everyone else in Lower Manhattan was hitting their dial buttons at the same time, or I suspected, the antennae were on top of the Twin Towers.
I ran inside to call from my desk phone, but Canadian Broadcasting’s Toronto newsroom was already calling. Ducking between my fire escape platform and the phone, I began to tell them what was happening. The other tower exploding at a slightly lower level. Then the apocalyptic crash as it collapsed.
Up the East River Drive, the FDR. I could see along the shoreline as ambulances, fire trucks and police cars fought the rush hour traffic to get closer. Then the evacuees began to trudge by. I had seen refugees in war zones before, but to see endless columns of necktied office workers was a new experience. Most of them marched onwards stolidly without a backward glance, perhaps not realizing that this stretch of their route offered a direct view of the disaster they were fleeing.
On the Brooklyn Bridge, the marching files were silhouetted against the sky like a scene from an Eisenstein film. But then, even those who still stood transfixed in the square had no view. A white cloud, like Pliny’s description of Vesuvius spread from the tower. Heavy choking white ash which fell like snow over the area. By then, most of the rubberneckers had joined the majority marching out the city. A few optimistic ones tried to stop yellow cabs, which sensibly wanted nothing to do with them: just to get out.
In the square some young Indian women had lost their shoes in the rush and were bleeding from head wounds. My girlfriend invited them to wash off in the bathroom and phone relatives before setting off. A young African man, probably illegal since he did not want to give his name, waited anxiously. He’d been taking his three-year old son to pre-school and had lost him in the stampede. In one of the day’s happy stories, he found him, intact at the nearby hospital where some passerby had taken him. He stood in the square in front of us, hugging him thankfully and staring at the column of smoke that marked the site.
I’d been describing the scene from my fire escape for CBC in Toronto, who told me to stand by for ninety seconds for “local announcements.” As they did so, the second tower collapsed. It was the first time I lost my calm. I bellowed down the phone, cursing them and telling them what to do with their local announcements, but to no avail. I had to hold the line open as it was transferred from editor to editor, producer to producer, mostly ignoring the call waiting signals which represented the more successful attempts of friends and family to check on our safety. As the news spread, inward circuits were blocked as people across the world tried to do the same.
A second cloud headed across Manhattan, adding more white ash to the dust that drifted like snow across downtown. By now I was recounting the morning’s events for the BBC, while wrestling with an illustrative side issue. I had mentioned to another editor earlier that Mayor Rudy Giuliani had built his $16 million dollar command and control center for emergencies and disasters in the World Trade Centre. She commissioned an immediate piece.
I thought it was a potent metaphor for the inefficacy of expensive Star Wars defense systems against this type of attack and spent several hours alternating between radio interviews by phone and checking my memories. It was true. The “bunker,” widely derided as a grandiose folly when it was built, was indeed on the 23rd floor of number 7 WTC, already aflame and later to collapse.
I clicked the send button and as the call volume fell, the adrenalin aftershock set in. Coughing and hoarse with dust and talking, I decided I could take it no longer. I had to go to see what was happening closer to the scene.
The Pompeii parallels became more apt outside. On Fulton Street, the local deli’s display of flowers was shrouded in ash. A fish porter’s breakfast lay in its foil tray, similarly coated, and the little mobile hot dog stands stood abandoned, their bagels and buns buried in a drift of grey dust.
Smoke streamed across towards Brooklyn, and the emergency vehicles stirred up dust devils as if on a desert road as they sped through the police lines to the epicenter. Looking straight down Fulton St, I expected to see a stump, a pyramid of rubble. But who’d a thought the old towers had so little substance in them. It was clear that despite the column of smoke, there was nothing to be seen.
I could flee or carry on working. Firstly, I wanted to pay my debts to society, so we went to the downtown hospital to give blood. They were not accepting it, and what’s more, there was what I thought of as a “fee fo fi fum” warning out. The blood of Englishmen smelt of mad cow disease and was not acceptable.
So, brandishing a tape recorder, I approached Alex MacLain, a junior doctor at NYU hospital. She had been on duty forty hours, recalled just as she was leaving. She described an early rush of burn victims, “glove injuries,” she said, and explained. “Like one woman came in, and all the skin on her arm and shoulder came off.” Then there was a rush of impact injuries and fractures: followed by an ominous hiatus. She had come to the corner of Fulton St to see what was happening.
As we spoke, behind us I could see the lighthouse shaped Titanic monument. In front of us the world was ending in fire, not ice. Coughing despite the masks that the local hospital was distributing, I suddenly had a terrible thought. We were breathing people. There was no way that everyone could have escaped. This smoke, these ashes, were from a massive funeral pyre: the Windows on the World had become a peephole into Hell.
Blowing around in the ashes, the memories of the world’s life were flashing by in form of charred and chewed papers. Plans for environmental projects financed by Wall Street bonds, cheques for unimaginable numbers of zeroes, bunkering invoices from Pakistan, Japanese investment reports, and personnel files. I learned from a police deposition that a Ms Watkins earned $500 a day in a massage parlor, charging $40 for a hand job, $80 for oral sex and $150 for full sex. But it had done her little good since her pimp took the lot. Down by Wall St, in front of Federal Hall, where George Washington was proclaimed the first president, his statue overlooked his handiwork, his hair appropriately powdered like a Georgian wig for the first time in two centuries.
The NYPD working press pass says it entitles the bearer to cross police lines. It had never worked before, so I was not surprised to be greeted with customary brusqueness when I probed the police perimeter to get closer. I moved south and discovered a motley Dunkirk style line of tour boats and tugboats at Battery Park, waiting for evacuees. It was a weak link in the cordon and I sidled through.
On the Hudson side of Manhattan, the debris, smashed vehicles and even deeper ashes made for an even more apocalyptic scene. We were closer and the wind blew from the west into the fire, giving a clearer view of the firefighters trying to control the blaze in the surrounding buildings. Next to us, lines of hoses led from the fireboats which normally only seemed to provide water displays for the visiting cruise liners. Now they were pumping thousands of tons of Hudson water into the ruins.
I loaned my cell phone to several exhausted firemen, checking on children, wives and friends. Someone had forced open a local Deli, and they were helping themselves to water and snacks. Even though it was technically looting, no one took more than they needed, except one young man, who looked like a local resident. He helped himself to a pack of cigarettes, paused, and then took two more. Tobacco does that to a person, I thought, even as I wondered at an ash covered fireman who came out with a huge lit cheroot in his mouth. How much smoke can you take!
Another fireman came out of the store. Caked in dust and sweat, he was voraciously stuffing a banana into his mouth in between gulps of water. He looked around with a sort of pugnacious puzzlement at the ash, the debris, the mud, and the smoke. “Can you believe it?” he asked me, “I’m looking for a fucking garbage can!” He threw the peel at the ashes on the floor as if it were a demonstration against the lack of civilization in the neighborhood.
One of the firemen who had used my phone was telling me bitterly “you know, three hundred of guys got caught when they collapsed.” He then said. “I don’t wanna offend anyone, but we just gotta go in and nuke the whole fucking Middle East now.” It was timely reminder. It was early days, and no one had fingered the perpetrators, but somehow, I didn’t want to remind him of Timothy MacVeigh and the anti-Arab hysteria that the media had perpetrated before it had happened.
It was now eight hours from the first crash. I had enough local color and thought that I was in danger of degenerating from a reporter to a rubbernecker, so I decided to make my way back and file. I headed south only to meet a more than usually implacable police cordon on the Hudson River promenade, “Get on the boat, “they said. pointing to a tug whose bow was nudging the sea wall. “No thanks I said politely,” waving my press card. “You got no choice It’s dangerous.”
“I’m press- it’s my job to take risks. I’ve been in Beirut and Balkans. No one’s shooting at me here, I told him, again brandishing my NYPD -issued press card.
“Get on, or we put you on. We already put two of you guys on,” he said with “make my day” relish. The tug transported us to New Jersey and dropped us at a pier with large signs saying “Condemned structure. No trespassing.” I had no idea how to get back into Manhattan to file, or to wash or change for that matter.
The view from the boat was almost worth it. The Sun setting behind us was lighting up the intact windows of lower Manhattan as if they too were on fire, and tingeing the column of smoke with an appropriately bloody hue. All weekend I had been sailing on the Hudson from the Manhattan Yacht Club out of the North Cove in the shadow of the WTC. We had used the two towers as our navigation aids as we practiced tacking up and down the Harbour. Their absence was even more striking. And I remembered, so was that of my fellow crew member, a Brit I had met for the first time, who had just arrived and was working on the 25th floor of one of the towers. He only had an office number. Death moved from wholesale to personal.
In New Jersey, waiting on the pier were police, paramedics, Red Cross, waited for casualties. They had spent hours watching the pyre burn across the Hudson: they wanted desperately to help, but we were disappointments for their eleemosynary instincts, deportees more than evacuees. The lines of ambulances and doctors waiting on the other side, no casualties emerged, except as smoke.
Hours later, a train from New Jersey to midtown, and a long hike down the East River side brought us home. The police manned checkpoints on all the roads, but as so often in New York the bike paths and foot paths are invisible to drivers. The police overlooked the route along the esplanade, and it became my own personal route for several days. At home, the power was gone, so were the phone lines. And a week later they still were.
Downtown reminded me of divided Berlin or Beirut. To the North of the police perimeter, there were bright lights, shops, bars and restaurants open for teeming crowds. To the south the inhabitants stumbled about in the dark. If they trudged North to resupply, they were shaken down at innumerable checkpoints by a motley array of military and police uniforms. I suspect, despite rather than because of them, there was little of the looting or lawlessness that the stereotype of New York City would suggest. The only vehicles moving were official vehicles with flashing lights on top. Looking for light relief, I suggested,” Hey, if aliens were looking on, they’d think it was the lights made them move!”
At the end of the week, the Police commissioner reported that crime was way down. Even the criminal classes rose to the occasion. Radio reports dwelt on the few crimes. A man appropriated a fireman’s jacket; a retired warder stole some watches while someone else broke into Brooks Brothers. Brooks Brothers! Did he need a suit to start work on Monday? One thing was sure. He would pay some small part of the price for the absent perpetrators when the courts opened.
Our recently stocked refrigerator was thawing rapidly. On the first night, exhausted, dusty and thirsty I made an executive decision was made. There was a bottle of champagne in the fridge still cool. We knocked it back before it could warm and sank into fitful sleep, punctuated by long vigils at the window watching as the first convoys of armored cars and troops arrived along the FDR, and noting the absence of ambulances among the sporadic bursts of traffic.
We began an ironic tribute to Paris Zoo menu from the siege of 1870. A born-again carnivore with a cholesterol problem, I had stocked up on venison, buffalo burgers and ostrich loin. No fricassee of elephant trunk at the back of the freezer, but we ate our way through the rest.
Just around the corner, our problem was writ large, much larger in fact. There was no power for the Fulton Street fish market, where millions of dollar’s worth of fish waited in freezers without power. Never particularly sweet smelling, I quailed at the thought of their eventual exhumation.
Two days later, the police allowed in generators for them, and trucks to ship some out. I went down to check. “Is this fish being dumped or sol?” “It’s still in ice, it’s fine,” they told me, as I made a mental note to drop fish from my menu for a few weeks. In a way, it was a reassuring sign of the return of the commercial impulse. One bleak reminder of the shock of the tragedy was that no umbrella sellers appeared on the streets to sell their wares when the rain of dust fell. After two days, in China town, a storekeeper was selling visitors photo postcards of the explosions at 2 for three dollars. And, of course, there were flags, a dollar each.
The flags began to appear two days later. CBC wanted a series of interviews for their local stations, so I got up at 6 and went down to the river side so my cell phone could get a strong signal from across the East River in Brooklyn. Half an inch of rain had fallen, and more was bucketing down I shuddered at the thought of the murky slurry that the rescuers would be working in.
In the grey morning light, the low clouds obscured the smoke, and the rain even quelled the ubiquitous smell and dust. Under the shelter of the elevated highway, life had returned to normal. Elderly Chinese from nearby Chinatown did their exercises, and one solitary man brandished a sword in an intricate series of balletic movements. He did not pause as a column of a steel workers formed up in bright yellow waterproofs and hard hats with their union Local number written on the side. Led by a large stars and stripes they headed south into the inferno.
About a dozen homeless usually live in the vicinity and four of them who seemed to make a virtual family were inspired to mount their own surreal march. Pushing the one in a wheelchair, they paraded with a placard, “United We Stand, Divided We Fall. New York City/The World.” Pausing in between radio interviews, I asked “Why?” “Gotta a ciggy?” one replied in a London accent. “No, sorry!” I apologized as the phone rang, from, of all places, Iquiluit in Canada’s Nunavut.
I’ve never understood flag fetishism, but I could see why people would want to respond. Over the next few days, the flags proliferated, but in almost reverse proportion to the distance from what the news reports were calling Ground Zero. “Positive patriotism” is all too often sullied with Xenophobia, which is never an exact science. Maronite Churches were firebombed along with Sikh temples. Maronite and Sikh enthusiasm for Islam, let alone Islamic fundamentalism, has been historically someone tenuous, as anyone should know. But few voters in the world’s only superpower ever take time to study the world, which was perhaps precisely why I was standing in a disaster zone.
Another friend called, with semi light relief, but again with a dark side. His friend Mohammed worked in a restaurant where 11 of the 14 waiters were also called Mohamed. They used their colleges as names. “Hi Princeton! Hi Columbia!” He was earnestly seeking advice on how to change his name. Quickly
You could almost tell how foreign a storekeeper, or a yellow cab driver felt from how many flags they are flying or sticking like talismans on their doors and windows. And the more I spoke to people, I could see solid reasons for the fear. “Someone must be punished,” is a universal cry. I did a radio interview for the left-wing station Pacifica in California. The anchorman on the other side of the continent said, “We have to punish them.” Inhaling the smoke from what was after all a near miss for me personally, I asked, “How do you punish eighteen people who have just killed themselves? And if they had accomplices, can you trust the ideologues round this administration, the Cheneys and Rumsfeldts, to identify the real perpetrators rather than use the opportunity to hit at their own perverse enemies’ list?”
I could trust Powell, who knows that even gestures have their price, but the others worried me. Each day, the news brought more suggestions of right wing wish lists being tacked across the stable door after the Trojan horse had already exploded. More wire taps, tougher immigration, more defense spending, and calls for action, all the more ominous for being so nebulously targeted.
I had seen the best side of New York and America in the long lines of volunteers, the heroism of the rescuers, the donations of food, clothes, and money and the flood of resources available when the will was there. But the urge to do something could be as innocuous as standing on street corners with candles, or it could lead to applause for the incineration of other faraway cities of which they know or care little.
As Sunday drew on, Mayor Giuliani opened the way to Wall St. Back to normalcy. Radio advertisements told Americans that the way to show their patriotism was to show their support for American companies. “Buy Stock,” the broker harangued. I did a double take: it was genuine, not some subversive Dystopian parody. And within sniffing distance, an army of rescuers unwittingly risked their lives breathing the air as they used muscle power to sift the still smoldering ruins, looking with almost certain futility for survivors among the fthree thousand lives snuffed out in less than an hour on bright sunny morning in Manhattan.
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