Ten years ago

I was keen not to be another ‘ten years ago on 9/11, I was’ today, as I firmly believe sorting out future problems rather than becoming obsessed with the past. There’s no doubt that 9/11 was a tragedy, not just in terms of human lives, but in the wedge it drove in misunderstanding between west and east, polarising extreme views and deafening the moderate, midway viewpoint.

In many ways I think personal stories of the day are, at best, self-indulgent and, at worst, create a individualistic shadow that eclipses the bigger picture of why things like this happen and how we can prevent them happening in the future.

However, being a fallible, narcissistic human being, I can’t help but use the opportunity for some introspection.

Ten years ago, I was 18 years old and lovelorn. I’d broken up with my first serious boyfriend of 2 years and was trying to come to terms with my first real heartbreak. I still had the keys to his apartment and was around there collecting some of my stuff.

I was hoping to find him there, but the place was empty. I called him to ask where he was - “Brixton, he said, but turn on the television!’. I did as he said just in time to see the 2nd plane going in.

As the 2nd tower exploded, a realisation hit me. He was in Brixton with a girl who had been chasing him for a year. Less than 2 weeks after we’d broken up. My head started spinning. At the same time as my emotional world was collapsing, the real world was also collapsing.

I sat staring at the screen while British TV started hypothesising that London was next, and saying that Canary Wharf was being evacuated. It was too much for me and I ran out onto the street.

Walking along the King’s Road, I saw few other people and only a couple of cars. Buses stood still at their stops. I walked with tears streaming down my face, which didn’t seem out of place at the time. I was the only person walking. Others stood whispering in huddles or crowded around radios or TVs.

I walked all the way home to Shepherd’s Bush. I didn’t even know what I was crying about - the end of the world or the end of my world.

Ten years later, I’m in Afghanistan. I didn’t even really know what Afghanistan was ten years ago, apart from some vague ideas about burkas and mistreated of women. And, once again I’m heartbroken (I won’t go into details this time), but I’m much more able to deal with it than the teenager I was then.

Afghans generally have little idea of 9/11. At best, they express sympathy for the people killed, but remind you that thousands more Afghans have died. At worst, they feel the event was some kind of retribution for the ‘crimes’ of America. Many people feel that the American invasion has improved Afghanistan. Many believe it’s damaged the country for the future.

Being in Afghanistan, soaking in differing viewpoints (and I’m also surrounded by many patriotic and deeply affected Americans) I have a deeper understanding and feeling for the human collective conscientiousness and how big events like 9/11, but also small events like the self-immolation of a fruit seller in Tunis can shake, scar or even awaken our, often suppressed, urge to relate to other people.

Some will relate in a negative way, will want to push away or hurt others. But some will reach out, connect and understand.

Being in Afghanistan hasn’t made me less tolerant of others, as it does many people out here. It’s made me relate to other viewpoints, to understand and emphathise, even if I don’t agree with them.

It’s not the popular position in the modern climate - it’s flexible, not polarised, infinitely compromising, not uncompromising. But that’s how I’ve grown, ten years on.

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