It’s hard to believe that the second anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks is upon us. We Americans have had to push the horrific events of that day into the recesses of our minds, in order to get on with the business of living. But this anniversary is an opportunity to reflect on what it meant to each of us, and also to revive a memory that must never be forgotten.

What can we say about 9/11 that hasn’t already been said? The tale has been told so many times, and we have been flooded with so many images and words attempting to describe the indescribable. Nonetheless, the need to tell our own stories is a strong one, and the following is my attempt to do so.

On the morning of 9/11/01, like most people, I was startled out of sleep by a phone call, telling me to turn on the television. From that point on, the day became a blur. I could do little but stare transfixed at the horror unfolding before me on the television screen. I must have watched more TV (in one sitting) than in my entire life, but it was a way of masking my helplessness. I realized that I’d never truly comprehended evil until that day, for nothing prepared me for the feeling of immediacy that this crime brought with it. These were my people, and my country that were being attacked and it was done with an utter savagery and cruelty that I’d never thought possible.

It was not the huge spectacle that affected me the most, but rather the images that demonstrated the human frailty at the center of it all. The close-up of one of the towers after it had been hit, where people, looking so small against the enormity of the building, peered out of the windows in desperation. The bodies of those who jumped out of the buildings to escape the fiery inferno, falling like ragdolls to the earth. But the quintessential image of the day for me, was the photo of a "Windows on the World" chef holding hands with another person as they jumped together. It demonstrated the human spirit in the face of the most unimaginable situations.

Later other pictures would be seared into my brain, in particular the many faces of the "missing" plastered all over the city by relatives desperate to find their loved-ones, and doomed to failure by the undeniable odds against anyone surviving the attacks. There were fathers, sons, mothers, daughters, aunts, uncles, and cousins, all of whom simply went to work that day, never to return. The incalculable loss suffered by these people haunts me still.

I did not know anyone who died in the attacks, but I felt that I had lost something irreplaceable nonetheless. Perhaps it was my innocence, because I was the never the same after 9/11. It was many months before I was able to emerge from a period of mourning that permeated my whole body and infiltrated every waking moment. I felt that I’d aged, and it was a long time before I could enjoy the things I always had, such as music, food, and especially laughter. I sought comfort in local commemorative events, and found pain instead. In the end, I performed a simple ritual by myself that brought some closure. I went to Ocean Beach at sunset and lit a single candle in memory of all those who died and suffered on 9/11.

I went to New York to visit Ground Zero almost a year after 9/11. I saw that vast hole in the ground where once the mighty World Trade Center towers had stood, and I felt the bitterness rising in my throat as I thought to myself, "Those bastards destroyed our pyramids." A priest who was making his way through the crowd of onlookers caught my teary eye and responded with a sympathetic nod, as did one of the men working to clean up the site. I made my way around the circumference, taking note of all the graffiti, missing signs, and wreckage still left along the way. At the waters’ edge there was a memorial to the firefighters, police, Port Authority, and other officials who died in the attacks, where I stopped to pay homage. Crisp American flags flew in unison on a row of boats docked nearby, a sight that added a glimmer of light to a dark frame of mind. Indeed, New York’s vibrancy had returned, along with a new substance and patriotism, all of which were in evidence across the city. Being able to witness that resurrection helped me overcome my own scars, although they will never disappear completely.

In the end, 9/11 altered my perspective on the world and ultimately, it changed my life. Everything become crystal clear to me, where before it was murky and indistinct. The attacks of 9/11 were undoubtedly an act of war against our country, but they were also a crime against humanity. Those who didn’t recognize that at the time probably never will, and those who did, will never forget it. On both a personal and political level, it was indeed a defining moment.