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Sometimes, silence seems louder than the shrillest noise. In New York, where noise is the norm, silence can pierce your heart and penetrate your soul, until you feel like crying.

6 years after 2 planes pierced the hearts of an entire nation, and penetrated the souls of the Western world, the silence at Ground Zero still screams. And though the pain will never go away, New York is back on its feet.

The sky is grey, almost black, as I pace through Chinatown at 8:00 a.m. this morning, but New York seems as loud as ever; people hurrying to work, kids going to school, and shop owners preparing for another day. Nothing unusual. I pass Columbus Park, Broadway, and head south on Church St., when the silence starts to penetrate. Today, 6 years after 2 planes changed the world as we know it, people look as though they try to escape another piercing, striding north away from the Financial District and Lower Manhattan.

I emerge on the World Trade Center site to the sight of 50+ police officers and firefighters, surrounded by even more journalists and tourists, lined up facing the emptiness that was once the lungs of the New York business life. Eerie silence develops to a slight piercing in the chest, and every step seems a thousand times heavier. A slight drizzle breaks the levee of emotions that’s been clogging the air, and it becomes hard to tell drops of water from teardrops – probably to the relief of many, for it seems as though New York is tired of crying. As one woman, who lost her husband (69) to the first tower, auspiciously noted, “raining today is like a signal for change, like it’s time to move on. Like, ‘Fuck you, we’re moving!’”

It’s 8:45 a.m. when the bell tolls, marking the time of the first plane, hitting the south tower of the World Trade Center. For a minute, the insisting sound of clicking cameras seizes, as a police chief’s commands soar to the sky along with the memories and blessings of the officers and firefighters getting in line before him, praying that their lost loved one’s have gone to a place where silence is golden. Some formal words follow, and they proceed to the reading of the names of the victims. A couple of minutes later, the audience becomes uneasy, and the last name I hear is “Paul” before the sound of cameras and chatter conquers the scene.

I seek cover under the canopy of the “Millenium Hilton,” and overhear an English officer ask a guy from the FBI, “when’s the next bell?” eager to take a time-out and get some coffee. A woman from Jehovah’s Witness completes the awkwardness, remarking to her group of co-Witnesses, “I got to go back to get some more [issues of “Awake!”]. They just love the story on 9/11!” Time works in mysterious ways.

Minutes pass, and the next bell tolls. 9:03 a.m.: the time of the second plane, hitting the north tower of the World Trade Center. Again, the police chief commands a bit of commotion, while the reading of names rustles in the background. The following bell goes almost unnoticed, and the commanding chief causes but a ripple on the pool of people still facing the memorial site. Under the canopy, people begin to share their own experiences of that day 6 years ago: One lost her husband, who, at 69, “just wouldn’t retire;” another lost a colleague, who “wouldn’t move until he received orders.”

Across from the “Millenium Hilton,” a visual choir of critical voices display that America might just be ripe for more than ceremonies and sentimental tip-toe’ing. “Investigate 9/11” and “9-11 Truth Seeking Leads to Peace,” demonstrate that the mourning has moved beyond flowers and balloons. As the New York Times notes, “Sept. 11, as a public occasion, has shrunk to life size: potent as ever for people holding photographs of fathers on their wedding days and mothers in their backyards, but unlikely to start wars again” (New York Times, Sept. 12, 2007).

I leave the shelter of the canopy to make my final rounds of the Memorial Site, and pay my last respect. The sun peeps through the clouds, as the chief’s commands briefly fuse with the 2,750 names and then evaporates under the morning sky. The last thing I hear is, “…who went from the 78th floor to the stairway to heaven.” No one can afford to stand still in New York. Like, “Fuck you, we’re moving!”

By Peter Dahl

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