ABSTRACT
On the morning of September 11, 2001, I dropped off my sons, eight-year-old Adam and five-year-old Noam, at the New York Public School 234 school yard at 8:30 a.m. As I headed home, I heard the first explosion. When I looked up, all I could see was sparkling silver confetti drifting down from the blue sky. When I finally glimpsed the building, I fixated on the gaping hole in its side. My mind flashed back to the memory of the post office tower in the center of Pristina, pierced by a misguided NATO cruise missile. I immediately called my wife Esther, who was getting into a taxi to go to her office in Midtown, where she works as a marital and family therapist. I told her to look up at the World Trade Center. “Oh my God,” she said. Having lived in Jerusalem, she learned long ago that when there is a bombing on the left, you go to the right. She got into the cab and went to work.
