9/11. Eight Years Down the Road

My experience of the first informed the second in ways that I only understand now.

The riots marked the cracks in what appeared to be an invincible political regime. It was amazing to watch how quickly a three hundred year old political lie unraveled  in its wake. Scarier was the way in which it polarized families and friends and the role of the media in the play that unfolded. 

The Soweto riots were a response to a simple request by students to be taught in English rather than the Afrikaans of the oppressive regime.

The riots were so explosive they drew the collective resources of both the army and the police. Our march at the University some miles away started peacefully with a handful of determined protestors. Within an hour, we were a crowd that must have been 2000 strong. Impassioned as it was, the protest remained peaceful, until a band of white thugs from a local technical school decided to stir things up. Armed with chains, bottles and rocks they unleashed a vicious attack on the students, just as the police arrived. Using whatever means they had, the students retaliated.

The unarmed students didn’t stand a hope in hell. The police joined the fray, batons swinging, dogs biting and barking. I hid under a car and narrowly escaped a beating. Others weren’t as lucky. The video footage was chaotic, but by the evening news it was presented an organized narrative.

The ‘corrupt communist’ students at our university had attacked the peace loving students of the technical school who were left with little choice but to defend themselves. This convenient rearrangement of the facts was achieved by a simple stroke of the editorial knife.

I arrived home at about the time the news came on and was amazed at the smooth re-organization of reality. My father, of course, an astute political observer got a little steamed (actually a lot) by the behavior of my fellow students.  He proceeded to lecture me on the stupidity of our actions and that we deserved what we got for our provocation. He also warned me that he’d cut me off financially if I indulged in further protest.

That night was a tipping point. I would never respect or trust my father again. TV was such a new medium to us that he didn’t understand how easy it is to rewrite the truth by simply re-organizing the footage.

As the turmoil unfolded, I watched the as the apartheid regime used the politics of fear to intimidate the populace and push a hard line political agenda. Years late they thought they could use it to compromise Nelson Mandela as he emerged from 27 years in prison.

The idea was to catch him in a photo op shaking hands or ‘palling around’ with the white masters who had imprisoned him. That way they could compromise him through complicity. To his constituency, he’d look like a sellout and a shill.

Mandela, through his political guile, completely outclassed them. They never got their shot. And so they launched a relentless media campaign to undermine him.

What disturbed me more than the vile distortions of the government press was the response of my father and brother. I was astounded by their suggestibility and fear. This was my family.

Mandela emerged from prison and outsmarted the regime to assume the lead in the new South Africa. Through his compassion and smarts, he single-handedly avoided a major bloodbath.

What does this have to do with 9/11?  Everything and nothing. There was no sleight of hand in the 9/11 footage. It was as clear as the September sky. Plane hits building. Plane hits building. Plane hits building. Why the media choose to replay the footage, I have no idea.

But based on my previous experience I knew instantly what the medium to long-term outcome would be. At the time I found myself in a peculiar position. Others around me were in a state of shock. As someone who’d endured the violence of the riots and other unmentionable events, I found myself able to function. I was disturbed by my own lack of response. It was if the events of the past had desensitized me to the present. Violence can do that to a person.

My work situation also made the events more difficult to comprehend. We were in the midst of preparing a promotional pitch for the city of DC. Life changed in an instant. Nothing we created on the 10th would have any meaning on the 11th.

Morning of the 12th I called a meeting and informed my department that everything we’d done was off the table. I sent a team down to DC with a video camera and a determination to bring home footage that would send a mighty ‘**** you’ to the terrorists. As an immigrant I felt so bad. I felt the generosity of America had been so violated. People can talk all they like about American imperialism, but I knew of no country that had tolerated and celebrated diversity. Until this day. Going forward, I knew that immigrants of color would face fear and suspicion. I understood why, but I felt America had lost its innocence forever. 

At the back of my mind, I had this gnawing feeling that everything was about to change.  We captured the footage we needed. It was weak and dispirited, but remarkably it demonstrated a prosaic defiance. Life did indeed go on. People sat at sidewalk cafes. A marching band practiced. Life went on. I needed a music track to lift the footage

I wanted to use Marvin Gaye’s “What’s going on?”  He was, after all, a native son of DC. But I didn’t want to convey a sense of confusion.

I wanted something clear eyed that reflected my view of the promise that America has always represented. But I also knew that we were about to watch America close it’s heart and arms to people who hate us. I also remembered my own experiences with my family. How easily they learned to hate that which they didn’t understand or know.

So, to match my footage of DC on September 12, I chose a track by Incubus called, ‘Drive’…. with the poignant lines that summed up America not just as it was on the day, but as I hoped it might be in the future.

“Whatever tomorrow brings, I’ll be there.  With open arms and open eyes.”

I was half right. I presented the footage. I could hardly contain my emotion during the meeting and had to stop half way. The words of Marvin Gaye were relegated to a poster headline that I hoped we could post in the subways. I figured the people of DC would get it.

The client, on the other hand didn’t get it. She said, “Who gives a **** about what some black guy thinks.”

And like June 16, 1976, my eyes were opened once again.