Published in an American anthology of women writers
writing about 9/11 [title unknown], 2002.
by Barbara Welton
Ipsissima verba. n. pl.
the precise words. [Latin]
Sept 14, 2001
I remember hearing
years and years ago, back in my childhood some time, that if the end of the
world was ever announced, every telephone line on the planet would be engaged
as people tried to contact their loved ones to say "I love you" one
last time.
The thought of
this, of all these last-minute declarations of love, has remained one of the
most potent Armageddon images for me.
(And what of those who can't make it to a phone? Or those who can't get through? People who, in a panic, dial a wrong
number?) There's a song called "Four Minutes" by an English
punk band called Culture Shock. It's a
devastatingly depressing song about what to spend one's time doing after the
world's last four minute warning is sounded.
I usually end up in tears when I listen to this song - and frequently in
the first twenty seconds of it, too, as Dick Lucas sings "When I heard on
the radio we only had four minutes to go / I couldn't believe it wasn't a joke
'til I couldn't get anyone on the phone".
Tuesday night, I
was watching videos and drinking gutrot wine at home on my own. The evening dragged on and I eventually
decided it was time to go to bed. Got
up from my chair, turned the VCR off, and was confronted immediately by the
image of a plane-sized hole in the side of the Pentagon. The vision flickered back to New York where
two huge buildings were billowing smoke.
And then, as I stood there watching this live feed from the USA, one of
those buildings crumbled right before my eyes.
The very next thing I did was to reach out to my telephone, to make
contact with somebody I loved.
The phone kept
ringing... eventually rang out... My
best friend, Haydn, wasn't home.
Despite the hour, I rang my parents, knowing they'd already be in
bed. When my father's sleepy voice
eventually answered, I apologised for getting him up. "But history's unfolding, Dad. The United States is under attack."
I sat up and watched
for a while, horrified and scared and sad, sad, sad. This is the stuff of my childhood nightmares, the fear that
started keeping me awake right from the time I was old enough and cognisant
enough to start thinking about and worrying about the world and what happens in
it. I have such clear memories of the
Soviets invading Afghanistan, the hostage crisis during Carter's
administration, the Faulklands war, the US bombing of Libya, the disintegration
of Jugoslavia, the Gulf War, umpteen other terrifying reminders that Serious
Shit Happens out there in the world.
But none of them ever gave me the feeling I had on Tuesday night - I was
a child again, an eight-year-old who's just seen her first TV documentary about
the prophesies of Nostradamus and now can't sleep because this is the first
time she's fully realised that the world might see to it that she'll never get
a chance to grow up and there won't be a damn thing she can do about it.
I went to bed. Left the TV going - that's something I've
never done. Before too long I was up
again, answering my ringing telephone.
"Have you heard the news?" Haydn's lovely voice on the other
end of the line. It was a quick talk,
but it was that needful contact I'd been wanting earlier. I returned to bed, wrapped my arms around my
pillow and drifted in and out of sleep all night, periodically woken by
coughing fits and the alternate subdued / panicked voices coming out of the
television.
My parents
eventually moved their TV into the bedroom and sat up 'til three in the
morning, drinking cups of tea and talking about that other night they both
remember so well, the one in 1939 when they both sat with their respective
families and listened to Neville Chamberlain's clipped tones on the radio...
Nothing matters
anymore. I have to stop myself sneering
at workmates who want to know how to load paper into the photocopier or why
their email's not working - WHO FUCKING CARES?! IT'S NOT IMPORTANT. I'm
horrified and scared and sad, sad, sad.
I was numb for days, probably even in shock. Now I'm just blisteringly angry. It's not exactly the most focussed anger, either. Inside, I'm railing at everything and everyone.
The only music I've
played since Tuesday night was some classical and choral music on Wednesday
night, whilst making love and trying not to think about w-a-r. But last night, I needed to shout loud,
pissed-off words at my walls and immerse myself in cheap alcohol. There's nothing better than punk music for
this.
First three songs I
played were "Die For Your
Government" by Anti-Flag ("You gotta die, gotta die, gotta die
for your government / Die for your country / That's shit!"), "I Hate People" by The Anti
Nowhere League ("I hate people / I hate the human race / I hate people / I
hate your ugly face / I hate people / I hate this fucking shit / I hate people
/ And they hate me"), and "Race
Riot" by D.O.A. ("Race riot / Don't buy it / We don't want this
crap"). Not far behind was The
Ruts' classic "Babylon's
Burning". And what is it The
Ruts say Babylon is burning with? Anxiety, ignorance and hate. Ain't it the truth?
I haven't been
brave enough to play Culture Shock's "Four
Minutes" though. "And I
cried because I never had the time..."
When will smiling
feel right again?
"Hi.
I'm in the World Trade Tower and it's just been hit by something. I'm on my way out now, but I want you to
know that I love you." [phone
message left by a man who hasn't been heard from since]
the end.