9/11

Right next to a big corn field, I watched my cousin play football (sorry, soccer) with his schoolmates. A group of hawks with wide-spread wings rode the warming air currents and circled above us. Dark, dark silhouettes against the blue, blue clear sky, with movements as agile as kites, yet radiating an aura of awe almost as majestic as America’s proud and bold national bird. Dry corn stalks shivered shyly, their shabby heads hung low, their bodies swayed in sync with the wind like a silent crowd in mourning. Saturday, nine twelve in the morning on September eleven.

It’s the start of the school term, and the first week of friendly games. Bright faced boys and girls in colourful football jerseys ran after the ball as parents cheered on and coaches directed and encouraged the little players. I watched them run and kick around, and smiled at those moments of frustration when some kid misses the goal. Frustration that quickly evaporates and is replaced by laughter and big grins. To them, at this stage in the game, at this stage in life, it’s all just (literally) good sports and a game. No swearing, no pushing, no foul play or playacting. At least not yet.

Moments earlier, I watched part of the solemn commemoration ceremony in New York. The mayor spoke of the disbelief and hurt as those two towers tumbled to the ground, killing thousands of innocent people and traumatising to the core the psyche and security of a great nation. Disbelief and hurt that till this day lingers on in the hearts and minds of the victims and their families, and lingers on in the long military campaigns far, far away from Ground Zero. Though maybe nobody will be burning any Qur’ans today, the controversy surrounding the building of a mosque has brewed and veiled the run-up to the ninth anniversary of September 11. Perhaps it is a sign after all these years, distrust and animosity towards Muslims in general is still resonating with parts of the American population.

Back to smalltown New Jersey, back to the soccer field that is parched and almost yellow from the recent drought. The final whistle blows, and the score is 5-3. Red-faced and panting, with sweat dripping down their cheeks and the backs of their T-shirts patched with moisture, the little boys and girls high-five and pat one another on the shoulders. Exactly nine years ago, in the time that the game began and finished, three more planes crashed, thousands more perished, the Twin Towers burned and collapsed. And a president finished reading a book about a goat that consumed everything in its way.