Images from Ground Zero

By GREGORY J. RUMMO
SEPTEMBER 25, 2001

IT'S RAINING in New York City today—nine days after the destruction of the twin towers at the World Trade Center. I am on the E-train and we’ve just pulled out from the 53rd Street station, on our way downtown.  Subways are noisy and perhaps that is the reason there are no conversations going on around me. Or maybe it’s that New Yorkers are still in shock and they don’t feel like talking yet.

We finally pull into the Nassau Street station and I make my way through the crowds and up the stairs to street level. The drizzle and low clouds adds to the melancholy mood in and around what has come to be known as “ground zero.”

The National Guard stands watch over a city still in shock. American flags are everywhere.	New Yorkers standing in line, waiting for a police escort to to go into their apartments and offices.	Despite dust masks, patriotism.

The sidewalks are crowded with people and there are police, and National Guardsmen everywhere, politely urging the crowds to keep moving. The odor is unmistakable—a fetid, permeating blanket that smells like a combination of damp cement and something slightly acrid. It is the smell of death—almost 3,000 men, women and children—who innocently left for work that morning never expecting that it would be their last day on the earth. I can only imagine their collective screams as they were dismembered and crushed underneath a million tons of hot steel and concrete.

New York City's finest. "We serve willingly, and with passion."	More National Guardsmen and more American flags.	A one-million ton pile of smoldering steel and concrete is all that remains of the World Trade Towers.

I turn the corner and I can’t believe my eyes. Where the north tower of the World Trade Center once stood is a heap of smoldering rubble surrounded by other buildings, many with their windows blown out. Gray dust is still piled on window ledges and what is left on the streets and sidewalks has formed slurries—gray, opaque rivulets—with the splashing droplets of rain.

The wet streets and the diffuse light make it appear like a ghost town. And to some extent, it is.

It’s true, I ponder. One cannot grasp the enormity of the aftermath from this disaster unless seeing it, smelling it and hearing it in person. 

Eerily reminiscent of the Coliseum in Rome, the outer shell of the WTC is all that's left standing.	Hundreds line the streets to get a glimpse, a photo or to express their grief at the scene of utter destruction.	It's raining in New York City today. The sky is crying; it's lifeless gray tone adds to the somberness.

A woman standing next to me is weeping. “I used to work across the street, over there,” she says, motioning with her hand. “My fiancée gave me my first kiss right in front of that tower.” I gently engage her in conversation, trying to offer some comfort. I want to put my arm around her and tell her I understand. But I don’t because I can’t. 

How can you understand the evil minds that would contemplate such horror? After a few minutes, she tells me she’ll be ok and she moves on. 

Our nation has been rocked by something never before experienced in its history. The thin membrane of our security was ruptured on that beautiful morning of September 11, and horror came pouring in.

Friendly, helpful and understanding. Thank you NYPD.	The wet streets and the diffuse light made it surreal that day in New York City.	As people evacuated the towers, firemen rushed in--and many lost their lives.

I stop and engage a police officer in casual conversation. 

"Why are all these people lined up outside your trailer?" I ask. 

"Every person needs to be accompanied by an escort to get into their apartments or offices in the area we have cordoned off," he tells me politely. He's warm and friendly. I can tell he is going out of his way to be sensitive to anyone that stops to ask what's going on. 

I shake his hand and thank him, patting him on the back. "God bless you," I add. 

"Oh, by the way," I say, reaching into my back pocket. "Let me give you one of these." It's a Gospel tract--the message of salvation interwoven through a story about the writing of our National Anthem during the war of 1812. An American flag adorns the front cover.

"Thanks," he says. "I'll read it later."

It's a ghost town, alright--a Holy Ghost town. n

Other columns by the author written about the terrorist attack at the World Trade Center

Terror Attacks Offer Preview of 'Last Days' 
By GREGORY J. RUMMO
THE RECORD, APRIL 11, 2002

Is Anthrax The Work Of Domestic Terrorism? One Local Microbiologist Thinks So
By GREGORY J. RUMMO
THE WEEKLY NEWS, NOV 8, 2001

It Wasn't Just Democrats That Underestimated George W. Bush
By GREGORY J. RUMMO
NOVEMBER 13, 2001

China Playing Critical Role In The Manufacture Of Drug To Combat Anthrax
By GREGORY J. RUMMO
THE HERALD NEWS, OCT 21, 2001

London Cab Drivers Are Solidly Behind U.S. War Against Taliban
By GREGORY J. RUMMO
NEW JERSEY HERALD, OCT 23, 2001

Offering Comfort In The Face Of Conflict
By GREGORY J. RUMMO
THE RECORD OF HACKENSACK, OCT 11, 2001

On Collective Desolation And The Consoling Power Of Prayer
By GREGORY J. RUMMO
THE RECORD OF HACKENSACK, SEP 17, 2001

The American Vision: Liberty Inseparably Linked To Deity
By GREGORY J. RUMMO
THE HERALD NEWS, SEP 30, 2001
(This also appeared in THE WEEKLY NEWS, ENCOURAGING TIMES, THE NEW JERSEY HERALD and on THE AMERICAN FAMILY ASSOCIATION's WEBSITE, www.afa.net )

United Airlines Pilot “No Fear” Of Flying Again
By GREGORY J. RUMMO
THE HERALD NEWS, SEP 16, 2001
(This also appeared in THE DAILY RECORD,  SEP 24, 2001 and THE NEW JERSEY HERALD, OCT 14, 2001)

E-mail the author at [email protected]