Fearing the Enemy We Cannot See Amid the Smoldering Ruins of Terrorism

Odd how the mundane plays against calamity in the presence of war.

In the heart of darkness, death and destruction rule over a charred earth. Panic and urgency blacken the very skies.

But beyond the perimeters, doctors’ appointments are kept, markets remain open and gas stations continue to function.

Life seems to go on as usual. But the faces of the people tell a different story.

As I drive and walk through L.A. I see expressions of horror and disbelief. I see tears. I see anger.

Wherever I go, either television or radio is reporting the breathless news: New York, beautiful, dynamic New York, is afire. In Washington, D.C., portions of the Pentagon are in ruins. In Pennsylvania, a jetliner is down.

Manhattan is a symbol of the destruction. Landmark buildings have fallen, altering one of the most beguiling skylines in the world. Many have died.

In Los Angeles, airports shut down, streets close and federal buildings are under guard. No explosions rock us, but the city crouches on high alert. What next? Where?

And yet, stricken as we are by what has happened a continent away, we carry on. We keep our doctor’s appointments. We fill our gas tanks. We shop.

Telephones ring and worried relatives ask, “Are you all right?” as though the terrorists that brought fire and death to New York, Washington and Pennsylvania have also come to L.A.

Yes. We’re all right. That is, our personal safety is not immediately threatened. But something deep and abiding has happened to us inside. Our souls are in pain.

Terrorism is less about horror than about fear, though they walk hand in hand across the smoking ruins. Terrorism strikes at the psyche of a people, shattering the internal functions that keep us normal. Terrorism disrupts, confuses and paralyzes.

I hear from friends who swear they’ll never fly again or they’ll never enter a federal building again or they’ll never stay in the upper floors of a hotel again.

Parents keep their children home from schools. Others worry about the safety of loved ones in hospitals. Will the sick and dying be targets too? Is there no mercy in this strange and awful war?

As I write, I hear of candlelight ceremonies tonight at churches and parks, then a voice from the radio asks, “But who’s going to risk going out?”

Our enemies are shadows, figures that move furtively in and out of reality. We shout while they whisper. We lumber while they sneak. How do we fight them? There are no front lines to hold, no obvious bastions to attack.

Armies amass in vain, bombers fly without targets. Who’s to blame? Who murdered our people and destroyed our buildings? Who dared intrude on the serenity of the mightiest nation on Earth?

Who are you? Shadows. Where are you? Silence.

People want to talk about it, as though communication will somehow lead to clarification. Strangers approach me on the street. “God, what a day,” one says. “Can you believe this?” another says. We cluster. We discuss.

My son awakened me with a phone call the morning of that terrible day. “Watch the news,” he said. It’s surreal: The silhouette of a commercial jet approaches one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. A “spark” strikes the tower then bursts into yellow flame and billows of smoke. The flicker of the spark has concealed disaster. It’s a jetliner striking the building.

We see it over and over again in video taken by professionals and amateurs. We are both repelled and transfixed by the hellish scenes. Smoke blows past the cameras, people run through the streets, screams and sirens intermingle, confused voices overlap each other on CNN. It all seems strangely manufactured, special effects and miniaturization combined to present trailers for a disaster movie.

Can it be real? Can this be happening?

Pearl Harbor is mentioned often. I think of London and Berlin a lifetime ago. I think of fire bombs. I think of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And now I think of New York.

One can figure that the Pentagon at least could be classified as a military target. But not the twin towers. Not this gathering of the innocents in their place of work. Not our wives and husbands and children trapped in the cruel confines of a dying jetliner.

Retaliation is inevitable. That’s the nature of war in any form. They hit us, we hit them and they hit us again, until the cycle is exhausted. We will all suffer.

I saw New York only a few weeks ago, more radiant than it has ever been, cleaner, nicer, safer. I heard its music and embraced its people. And now this.

Watching the terrible destruction, one can only repeat the cry of the young radio reporter as the Hindenburg went down in flames 64 years ago: “Oh the humanity.”

Oh, the humanity.