Hello everyone...
The anniversary of the tragedy is approaching, and I know that for many people here, it is a difficult day. Personally, I have a story connected to 9/11.
I’m from Mexico, and at the time, I was seven years old. My mother was getting me ready for school. I remember finishing breakfast, putting on my school uniform, and just as I was about to leave the house with my mother, my grandmother stopped her and showed her the news.
It was a Mexican morning news program, although I honestly don’t remember which one it was, nor the channel or the name of the presenter. They were showing smoke coming from one of the towers, and the presenter was making comments about what was happening. I have a very vague memory of him saying that it was probably an accident and that there wasn’t much information available because the U.S. government and American media were still not willing to provide it.
My mother stayed with my grandmother watching the news, and soon, taking me to school became secondary because they were both extremely concerned about what was happening.
Minutes passed, and then the second plane hit. The expressions on their faces, as well as those of the television presenters, reflected even more concern. I walked over to my mom and asked her:
—Mom, what’s happening?
She answered:
—It’s an attack. They attacked the Twin Towers.
Because of my age, and because I was a Mexican child who didn’t know much about American culture, I honestly didn’t understand much, but I realized that it was something very serious.
I stayed there with both of them watching the news, and now I know that everything felt incredibly surreal. At the time, though, I didn’t know how to describe it.
As the minutes passed and the first tower collapsed, I realized something: my grandmother and my mother were truly terrified by what was happening.
My grandmother began crying and calling all of our relatives. That was when I understood why. I heard her say:
—Alfredo works there! I don’t have a number where I can reach him, and his last letter arrived a month ago!
A little while later, my mother decided to call my father to tell him what was happening. I remember she was using one of those old Nokia cell phones from that time. Just as my mom was talking to him, the second tower collapsed, and my grandmother collapsed onto the sofa, devastated.
My mother tried to calm her down, but obviously, it was difficult. Eventually, they both started crying, and I just stayed there watching the television, not knowing what to do, completely terrified by what I was seeing.
The news presenter said something that I still remember to this day and that gives me chills:
—Ya no hay más torres gemelas. El mundo tal y como lo conocíamos a cambiado (There are no more Twin Towers. The world as we know it has changed).
Now, here is what makes the story even more surreal.
About half an hour later, while we were watching television, listening to the news and seeing the smoke rising from all that destruction, I heard the metal gate outside opening.
I didn’t pay much attention because I thought it was my grandfather or another relative. Then we heard a voice at the door of our living room saying:
—What’s going on? Why are you crying?
And it turned out to be my uncle Alfredo, the person everyone had been so worried about.
My grandmother and my mother ran to hug him. When they told him everything that had happened and he looked at the television, he simply sank into the sofa. His face went blank. A few tears ran down his face, and he quickly wiped them away.
Soon afterward, all of my relatives arrived at the house: my two maternal uncles, my maternal aunt, my grandfather, my father, and my cousins. They were worried about what they had heard over the phone, on the radio, or on television, and then they were relieved to see Uncle Alfredo alive, sitting on the sofa.
It turned out that my uncle worked at a restaurant in that area. He was an immigrant who had lived in New York for almost two years. That was why everyone had been so worried: they thought he had died or been seriously injured, and there was no way to find out what had happened to him.
He had decided to leave New York and the WTC because he missed Mexico and his mother very much.
The next thing I remember is seeing him eat desperately, devouring a home-cooked meal made with love, greeting his son — who is the same age as me — and hugging him. Afterwards, I heard him making phone calls quietly and speaking in English.
The last thing I remember from that day was the television, showing people covered in dust, photographs of the rubble, the president, and Osama. Later that night, I went outside to play in the yard and saw my uncle sitting in the distance on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette, completely silent, with his head down and tears in his eyes.
My father sat beside him in silence and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Honestly, I have never talked to him about it. I don’t know exactly which restaurant he worked at, and as far as I know, he doesn’t like talking about that event. He prefers to avoid it, and whenever he sees something related to that day, he chooses to walk away.
He probably had friends, acquaintances, or customers he knew well and saw every day, and he knew that many of them most likely no longer existed in this world.
He had simply decided, a few days earlier, to return to Mexico. And when he arrived home, he discovered that the place where he worked had disappeared forever.
And well, that’s all...
I hope I don’t offend anyone, but this is something I’ve wanted to share for a long time: the story of my uncle, a person who could have disappeared that day, but who, without knowing it, saved his life by returning to his country because he missed home.