FINDING OUR VOICE IN THE WAKE OF 9/11
Like most Americans old enough to remember, I know exactly where I was and what I was doing on September 11, 2001 when the first hijacked plane hit the World Trade Center in New York City. I was showering when I heard my husband yelling for me. Dripping wet and wrapped in a towel, I watched in shock, along with tens of millions of others, as the Twin Towers fell, killing thousands of people inside.
Emotions from that day feel so much closer than two decades ago. My stomach turned in revulsion. My body tightened with fear for my relatives who worked there. Dread settled like a heavy rock on my chest. Like other Americans, I wondered, who was attacking us. But as a Muslim, I had other questions, too: Did the attackers claim to be Muslims? And, if so, what would happen to the rest of us?
I quickly got dressed and headed to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, where I worked as an education reporter. I talked to stunned school officials and students while still trying to process what was happening.
