It was a Wednesday morning in Philippines. My parents were watching the early morning news. Their eyes were glued to the screen and their faces looked terrified as they watched the footage of a plane crashing two towers. I was ten years old. That was the first time I heard about the Twin Towers, World Trade Center and the word “terrorism”. Growing up, I became more familiar with what happened. Like the rest of us, I saw the haunting photos, heart-wrenching videos, and tributes to all the fallen ones that are circulated every year. I thought my knowledge was enough and my visit to the Ground Zero would not give me anything new aside from photos but I was wrong. 

By the time I visited the Ground Zero Memorial, I already saw more than half of New York’s most famous attractions. I went to Columbia, Times Square, The Statue of Liberty, Wall Street, the new World Trade Center - basically most of Manhattan. It was already 4pm when my friend and I checked out the charging bull and the fearless girl so I was already feeling tired yet satisfied with our city tour. But my friend said “Hey the 9/11 memorial is just around the corner. Let’s go!” I dragged my feet until we reached two huge sites of absence surrounded by tourists in the middle of the concrete jungle. There was a sense of peace, gratitude, and respect. At the same time, chills went down my spine as I look at its emptiness.

It was a paradox. Not a sight of the tragedy was present except for the memorial but I felt that I was taken back to September 11, 2001, as I stared at the ground zero. Men and women in suits were about to start their day, with Starbucks coffee on one hand and a phone in the other. It was supposedly just another busy Monday in this vibrant city and then, suddenly, something unbelievable had happened. The city of New York went pitch black with ashes. I could not believe that a tragedy with this magnitude transpired in this city that, albeit my short stay, made me feel I am most welcome. Here in the city that, in my opinion, best represents the American dream. Now that I've seen the beauty of New York, I could not, for the life of me, imagine the horror that was 9/11.

The lump in my throat wouldn’t go away when I saw the names of 2,983 victims inscribed on the parapets surrounding the memorial pools. Among the thousands of names engraved on the stone, Ronald Magnuson’s name caught my eye. 

There were so many names in front of me. So many innocent people lost their lives here in the exact spot where I was standing, well and alive, at the very moment. It was indeed a moment of paradox. We had dinner, then my friend and I parted ways. He went home to his place in Washington DC where he just started his life in the USA. I, on the other hand, went home and processed everything I saw in New York. I finally let go of the lump in my throat and wept for the lives that were lost sixteen years ago. After what seemed like hours of grieving, I said a little prayer of gratitude for my life and for the chance to experience this.