Who owns the right to grief? Reflections on September 11th.

On the 11th of September 2001 I was due to be in Manhattan, staying on Lexington Avenue in quite a nice four star hotel. I was meant to have arrived on the 10th in the evening, from London, and due to the time change, would have likely been up and walking around early in the morning.
Instead, I had called in sick, and was at home when the phone rang. It was my father, telling me to put the television on and had I heard what had happened. I switched on the TV just in time to witness the second plane crashing into the World Trade Centre.
As a flight attendant ( I would normally use the term Cabin Crew but deliberately choose the more American term out of respect for my fallen colleagues), the attack was very close to home. The previous year I had started temporarily working as a Crew Resource Management (CRM) facilitator whilst flying for a leading British airline and had been privy to some disturbing news.
A man by the name of Bin Laden had vowed to take down a British or American plane, and was a credible threat. Although there is no doubt that security was amped up quite significantly after this news was received, what really made the difference was an incident on the 29th of December of the previous year when a schizophrenic passenger gained access to the flight deck of a Boeing 747-400 aircraft on its way to Nairobi, Kenya.
I spoke to a number of the crew and passengers that were on that flight, including a lady that was in the flight attendant rest space built into the tail of the aircraft. The bunk area is a square room with a total of 8 bunks inside it, 2 on each side. A cramped area, where it is impossible to even stand upright, and with an enduring aroma of stale air, each bunk is also equipped with a seatbelt which is meant to be worn at all times in case of turbulence. This is because the rear of the plane moves around a lot more than the rest of it and turbulence is accented quite dramatically. One of the ladies I spoke to was attempting to sleep on a top bunk when the madman gained access to the flight deck. I asked her if she was screaming and if she was scared and she told me that the G-forces were so strong that it was impossible to move or make a sound. But that she had eye contact with those on the other top bunks, that it was clear the were all going to die, but that the inability to scream resulted in such an eerie calm that her overall sensation was one of acceptance. This was the end, and there was nothing that could be done.
The madman had been sitting in the last cabin of economy. He had not seemed quite right and in subsequent interviews it would emerge that he had spoken to most of the crew individually as he worked his way through the aircraft, asking questions that were not suspicious by themselves, but when put together would paint a picture of deliberate and wilful malice. He took advantage of half the crew going on their break and managed to make his way to the upper deck, pretending to be a business class passenger looking at the snacks available. When the single crew member on the Upper Deck went to the toilet, he calmly walked up to the flight deck door and stood next to the toilet at the front. The madman opened the flight deck door and walked up to the First office who was the only pilot at the controls as the captain had gone for a rest. He grabbed the control wheel and turned it sharply downwards and to right, at which point the plane plummeted towards the earth. The first officer was an ex-RAF pilot who had a significant amount of experience in fighter planes, prior to becoming a commercial airline pilot. He wrestled with his controls and managed to get the plane to ascend several times. However, the madman seemed equipped with an almost superhuman strength. During this time the plane enters the highest rate of descent that a commercial plane has ever recovered from. Boeing later revealed that the plane was not designed to physically withstand the dive, and should have broken up. At one point the plane was a mere four seconds from impact. Captain Hagan managed to crawl back into the flight deck and started to assault the madman, trying to get him to let go of the controls. This had very little effect. In desperation, Captain Hagan reached over and gouged at the madmans eyes, at which point he let go of the controls and directed his aggression at the captain himself. As first officer Watson stabilised the plane, two further passengers gained entry to the flight deck and assisted the captain in subduing the madman. A video of the incident is available here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYhMG4BwIi4
Once the situation was under control, the captain made a short announcement and the madman was handed over to police upon landing. Curiously, this incident was made available in training flight simulators and not a single pilot was able to prevent disaster.
I spoke to a couple that had been passengers on the flight and they told me how initially it had felt like bad turbulence. So much so that she had given an inadvertent gasp only to be told not to be silly by her husband. He ruefully told me that no sooner had he spoken the words, it became very clear that it was not turbulence at all, and that they truly believed they were going to die.

What could have been a tragedy was averted. But this incident was a much greater gift. As a direct result of this incident, British airlines changed protocols for flight deck door access and greatly increased security. This may well be one of the deciding factors explaining why the September the 11th involved only US airlines.
As an intercontinental flight attendant I had stayed in many of the same hotels as the flight attendants of other airlines. An extended community, it was usual for us to recognise each other, to share outlandish stories of what each airline tried to impose on us, on passenger incidents, on, well on life, because ultimately this was not just a job but a way of life. We shared our Christmases, our Easters, our birthdays, our joys and sadnesses with each other. On longer stays we shared drinks, meals, even trips to local sights, confident that we formed part of a greater family of people that had chosen this strange lifestyle for ourselves.
And I mourn, still today, the passing of so many of my colleagues at the hands of terrorists.

However, September 11th had been a day of mourning for many years prior to this. On the 11th of September 1973, the democratically elected government of Salvador Allende was ousted in a brutal US-backed and funded coup which led to the disappearance of close to 3000 Spaniards and the death, torture and disappearance of up to 100,000 Chileans. Amongst the dead, Victor Jara, poet, singer, songwriter, teacher. Together with thousands of others, he was rounded up and imprisoned in the football stadium in Santiago. recognised by a guard he was brutally tortured, his hands, the artists hands, crushed and mangled beyond recognition. When his body was discovered abandoned on the street, it was riddled with more than 40 bullets.

I was born in 1977, after the coup, and grew up in Spain, in a community which held a number of families that were in exile from the Pinochet dictatorship in Chile. Of the music I listened to as a child, the music of Victor Jara featured significantly. But nobody told me he was dead. Nobody said that he had not only died, but been murdered after brutal torture. I must have been around 13 when I found out. I remember it clearly. I was in the school library and was reading a book on popular protest in South America. I was shocked. I remember the tears pricking at my eyes, threatening to spill. I remember managing to hold them in, barely able to contain my emotions. And I vowed I would not forget. I would remember Victor, I would remember the coup, those tortured, dead and disappeared.
Years later, democracy returned to Chile and I was on one of the first flights to Santiago via Buenos Aires, working as a flight attendant. I was given the opportunity to disembark for a few hours, to accompany the captain as his interpreter to do a bit of sightseeing. We stopped at the football stadium where Victor Jara was murdered. We stopped at the Palacio de la Moneda where Allende, president and hero of the people made his last stand, the bullet holes still visible in the facade.
Some time after this, the old dictator started to lose his international standing. I recall the jubilation upon hearing that Judge Baltasar Garzón was demanding his extradition to face charges  regarding the many Spanish that he killed and tortured. And my shame that the UK let him return to Chile.
I remember. And I will not forget. You may misinterpret my words, you may believe what you wish, but my remembrance of the atrocities committed back in 1973 does not negate other atrocities. It does not make them somehow less. No nation has a greater right to grief and commemoration than another. 3000 Americans died on 11th of September 2001. Are these lives worth more than those of people from other nations? Are these dead somehow more sacred than all the others? Are we to mourn exclusively? Does the passage of time meant hat we may not mourn for those that died before this event on the same day and in greater numbers?
Regardless of what people may want to believe, I will continue to remember. Both those that have died in my lifetime as well as those that died before it. 

Betrayal

 

A sham, 

No friend of mine. 

You cloaked yourself with words of peace,

And I, believed you.

I did.

I offered up my best, 

My open hand,

My music, 

My very being.

When your words wavered,

poorly chosen, unkind,

I made excuses.

I stood stoutly by your side.

Defended.

Down to culture,

Down to stress,

Upbringing. Issues. All the rest. 

It has taken time,

But truly I do not wish you death,

though the thought of it lightens my soul.

I would prefer

you be stopped. A life of limbo,

suffering.

Knowing that I know what you are 

That there is no hiding

no safe port

no shelter from the storm.

Your betrayal.

Of the worst kind. 

For you betrayed yourself, your soul, 

Your one and all. 

How do you live with that? 

Homage to Antifa