Of course countless members of our slice of western humanity have faced life changing and life ending challenges but many of us have had it so easy as well as so good. Only twice have I felt in mortal danger. The first occasion was in August 1970 and I was driving up the recently completed M1 in a Morris Minor Convertible [ a chariot of beauty if not exactly of fire ]; off to enjoy the delights of the Edinburgh Festival. As was, and is, my wont, the ever present temptation to doze off was irresistible and I succumbed on this sultry, the world is my oyster, sort of day. My open-air charabanc took me, without deviation or hesitation, from the inside lane to the central reservation in days when there was no barrier on that reservation to impede progress on to the lanes on the other side heading southwards. I awoke travelling at right angles to, and seemingly under the wheels of, some gigantic, angrily driven articulated lorries, musing that this would be a somewhat messy way to go. I was relieved to be able to call a halt to progress as my horizontal journey eased up on the hard shoulder on the other side, while I ignored the jibes and gestures of my fellow road users and tried to make it appear that I knew exactly what I was doing.
A year later found me on an Olympic Airways flight from Athens to London in the age of that great country of Greece languishing under military dictatorship. We had already skidded off the runway on take-off and then, over Italy, the pilot perhaps imprudently announced receipt of a message that there was an explosive device on the plane. As many of the passengers around me were, Kipling-like, losing theirs, I found myself as scared as the next fellow traveller [ literal interpretation ] but endeavouring to put a brave face on it, humming the celebrated words of Tom Lehrer: ' We will all go together when we go, every Hottentot and every Eskimo ', although neither of these categories of humankind had found a place on the flight register. Somehow, after an emergency landing in Italy where exit was enabled by inflatable shutes, we all survived.
The experience of 11 September 2001 was different. Despite being of eternally cowardly disposition, I never felt in mortal danger in New York on that day but I was close and involved enough to feel part of something truly historic. Looking back after eighteen years and not having re-read my contemporary account since that time, my abiding memory is of the contrast between the dynamic historic deeds of the members of the emergency services, achieving miracles at every turn, and the stunned torpor of public figures and just about everyone else, who seemed capable only of stopping and staring. It all feels strangely recent.
So here we are at Ground Zero,
Where battled so many heroes;
They tackled the fires,
Vile funeral pyres,
Others just fiddling like Nero.
I make no apology for publishing as a blog, in full and unchanged, the address which I gave at a school assembly when I returned to Gordonstoun. However, I do apologise for this meaning a style of rhetoric and a home made prayer which are out of keeping with my usual practice but reading this stuff is not compulsory and expurgation or changing history is rarely a virtue. So here goes.
REFLECTIONS ON TUESDAY 11 SEPTEMBER 2001
(An address in Gordonstoun Chapel at Assembly, 18 September 2001)
One of the defining moments for me of last
week's tragic events came when we were in St Patrick's Church for the Service
of Remembrance on Friday and had just sung that Hymn God Moves in a Mysterious Way. The Minister asked us, in the Christian tradition - and I am going to ask
you to do this now - to greet one or others in this Chapel this morning by
giving them the sign of peace. I do not mind who it is or where they are but I
want you to shake hands or embrace someone, say "Peace be with you",
and mean it and I would like you to look into the eyes of that person and think
especially of young people of your age who, as a result of last week's events,
are no longer able to say it.
I do not really feel qualified to speak to
you this morning about such important events. I am not an expert in anything
that has happened, I was not directly involved. You have seen almost as much on
television as I have but I was thereabouts, if not there, and I can tell you
how it felt for me and how the Americans around me responded. Having then had
twenty four hours a day to think about it for five days, I can give you an impression of
what I think we should now be focussing on.
This talk, therefore, falls into two parts.
During the first twenty four hours of the crisis I kept a diary, minute by minute. The
reflections which follow a week later will be totally different. As far as the
diary is concerned, I apologise if it seems to be journalistic and superficial,
self-centred, for such is the stuff of diaries and perhaps this is how we are,
particularly in a crisis. Bits of it may be dull and I particularly apologise
if it contains foul language but I felt the need at certain points to repeat
exactly what was said. It may even seem insincere, but it does ask some
questions and explains some of our reactions. It is entitled:
And how many times
will it take till we learn….?
Bangkok it might have been for all the
oppressive humidity as I stepped out of the airport concourse on 10th September
2001 but New York, in fact, it was and there were just three hours with plenty
of homework to fill the time before our guests, all friends of Gordonstoun,
arrived at the Union Club for a fundraising reception.
As a student of neither America nor
meteorology, the onset at six o'clock of the most violent thunderstorm in
recent years was noteworthy but not remarkable. -to an audience depleted by
torrential rainfall, I ventured the opinion that one ferocious rumbling outside
resembled a bomb. "Surely not in New York" came the withering — and
it turned out unprophetic — retort.
The next day was altogether different. I
sat with Angela Harkness, the School's Development Director, in the Executive
Lounge on the 44th floor of the Hilton Hotel and watched a
delicately pinkish sunrise cast its blessing over the up turned, elongated
matchboxes which comprise New York's skyline. Thoughts of Wordsworth on
Westminster Bridge and buildings seeming to sleep glanced superficially off our
reflections as the unlikely possibility of America perhaps, after all, being
part of God's kingdom was kindled by a delicate sense of the romantic.
But it was quickly to business; a
7.40 taxi through Manhatten back to JF Kennedy airport for the morning flight
to Boston. As neither a lover nor a connoisseur of skyscraper architecture, I
took a polite interest when Angela pointed out the two upwardly stretching turrets of
the World Trade Centre as we passed. She had taken a photograph of them against
the morning skyline as we departed, having visited them two days before.
Suffering, as is my usual habit,
from British withdrawal symptoms, once in the terminal building, I made
straight for the news stand in search of The Times - or even the Daily
Telegraph — and I was being gently let down via the young lady shop assistant's
message of depressing inevitability, when an airport worker breezed through
breaking the news, accepted at face value by none of those present, that two
aeroplanes had hit the World Trade Centre. The thought line of — "one
small helicopter involved in a disturbing accident — yes; two substantial
airliners flown with obvious intent at a major landmark — of course not" — melted immediately into stomach churning
reality as we all moved across to the café to see the next two hours unfold on
television in all its brutal and unreal reality.
First thoughts from Angela and me were of relief because, if we had adhered to
original plans we would have been flying out of Boston on an American Airlines
plane that morning. Failing to appreciate the enormity of the tragedy, but
perhaps already feeling its monstrous impact, one could not but admire the skill
and effectiveness of this terrorist operation which had, by now, resulted in
the destruction of both the World Trade Centre and then half of the Pentagon.
America was clearly on its knees.
The starkest emotion was fear. The
terrorists had selected American Airlines planes; JFK airport had to be a
potential next target and we were trapped in Terminal 9, the home base and
centre exclusively to American Airlines domestic flights. And where was the
guidance and instruction from those responsible for security? Where was the
leadership and the disaster scenario organisation? We waited for ages,
certainly two hours, before there was even a trifling announcement about
reclaiming baggage and that was it. Here we were in the heart of the greatest
democracy on earth — God bless it — and we might soon be the victims of their
preoccupation with unqualified liberty, an arrogant preoccupation some might
say, which sits myopically in a bunker of independence, armed to the teeth, polluting
the world and without a care for the air travelling public. Or so it might seem
in that instant for mortals who looked for guidance and help but found none.
We were frightened, we were stunned,
we were angry and the futile trumpeting of a bald, red shirted official with a
loud hailer did nothing to relieve any of these emotions. And why had my dear
son, Robin, with whom I had had a row shortly before leaving on Sunday evening,
twice insistently asked his mother to be sure to say goodbye to me?
Although no-one informed us in as
many words until the sniffer dogs arrived, Angela and I sensed a move to
another terminal might be prudent. In Number 8, life was horribly, chillingly
normal. Conventional chaos, such as you might find in Bogota or Bombay was the
order of the day with a largely Asian travelling public focussing on the
important niceties of coca cola and compensation. An Indian woman, at this
moment of high drama, was holding an airport official, almost unbelievably, in
heated dialogue about damage to a suitcase. Only smaller children, through
their nervy, interminable wailing, seemed to realise that the world was in
crisis.
Rumours by now were rife — eight planes
hijacked; four still in the air, 50,000 people killed as we were unceremoniously
dumped on the forecourt in the burning midday sun. Angela tried to help a Czech
couple who spoke no language apart from their own, had no contacts and nowhere
to go.
But nor did we. We dodged deftly
from one terminal to another, eventually, ironically, achieving success back at
Number 9 and found a friendly taxi man who, mistaking us for an unduly wealthy
American couple, agreed to drive us into the great (for us) unknown to try and
find hotel accommodation.
The travel was easy as he took us
along totally deserted motorways against the flow of traffic 
with millions trying to get out of Manhatten — but
the search was far from straightforward. The big hotels were choc-a-bloc and as
we became increasingly conscious of the deadly plume of smoke sitting
mantra-like over us. Against the eternal whine of the vehicles of the
emergency services, we wondered if we might be returning to the alfresco nights
of student memory.
with millions trying to get out of Manhatten — but
the search was far from straightforward. The big hotels were choc-a-bloc and as
we became increasingly conscious of the deadly plume of smoke sitting
mantra-like over us. Against the eternal whine of the vehicles of the
emergency services, we wondered if we might be returning to the alfresco nights
of student memory.
Ironically, the haven which was to
be our accommodation for the next few days — The Airway Motor Inn - was
poignantly reminiscent of its ownformer times. Our Pakistan taxi driver looked slightly
disappointed with his fifty dollars but assured us that this was 'very nice
hotel'. 'Nice', of course, is a relative term especially if you come from
Islamabad but it was reassuring to find our single room apartments with heavy
metal clad outer doors, stained carpets generously populated by earwigs and centipedes
and it was eerily reminiscent of the unpredictable plumbing in Greek holiday
villas in the 1970s to turn on the hot tap in the basin only for a torrent of
cold water to cascade in a single shoot from the shower. There were no
cockroaches in the kitchen, only because there was no kitchen in which they
might have done their thing with relish and abandon. We looked at each other
and, once again, were glad to be alive.
An update of the evolving horrors
through a temperamental, flickering television pushed me in the direction of
escape. This I usually achieve through the medium of work but even Gordonstoun
affairs didn't seem sufficiently significant, so I took to the streets instead.
We were very much in downtown New York, the Queens district, as multinational
as the centre but different in background and in a strange way, defying social
categorisation. At times I wondered if the people really cared about what had
happened.
"Quite a day" remarked a
truck driver as I stepped on to the walkway.
"Quite a bad day" I replied, almost correcting him in my schoolmasterly
tones.
"Quite a day" — his
repeated but definitive words were the end of my first exchange on the
disaster, in turn told me very firmly that America was still in charge.
The atmosphere was different from
the stunned shock of the airport. For the most part, business went on whether
as usual or otherwise, I knew not, but groups were gathering at four o'clock on
street corners. There was much animated discussion and, I suspected, as many
theories about the background to the day's events as lives lost. I was thinking
about — well, something — so I went straight passed the Motor Inn and then
suddenly it hit me — hit me in the forehead with the force of the smooth stone
from young David's sling as he assaulted Goliath. Up to then it had been all
pictures, commentaries and reports but there on Astora Boulevard, New York's
equivalent of the scruffy end of the Edgware Road, was a commonplace ageing
black Chevrolet, except is wasn't black, but white. It was a ghost car, driven
straight from the Centre of Manhatten and as the driver opened the bonnet a
layer of several inches thick of pale grey, flakey concrete dust was revealed,
enveloping all its inner 
tubes — all its intestines. I
had to stop, to peer in wonderment at this chilling example of surrealism, and
in doing so, quite understandably, risking an insult as an interfering
eccentric in a green tweed suit. However, the directives were saved brazenly
for others, "If we don't bomb the shit out of these mother fuckers
tomorrow, there's something wrong with this country. " I passed by
very smartly on the other side.
tubes — all its intestines. I
had to stop, to peer in wonderment at this chilling example of surrealism, and
in doing so, quite understandably, risking an insult as an interfering
eccentric in a green tweed suit. However, the directives were saved brazenly
for others, "If we don't bomb the shit out of these mother fuckers
tomorrow, there's something wrong with this country. " I passed by
very smartly on the other side.
Films were now appearing of the area
around the World Trade Centre — pictures of a landscape akin to a nuclear
winter — and what if these terrorists ever gain access to nuclear power? Slowly
the awfulness of both the crime itself and its consequence was beginning to
sink in. The effort of the emergency services were hugely brave, hugely
impressive and one had the sense of a community coming together, co-ordinated by the calm, determined,- phlegmatic and very human mayor — Rudi
Giuliani.
And what to do now? I remembered
that at the time of the last major US disaster, (when everyone could remember
where they were) the assassination of President Kennedy in November 1963, his
entourage, returning from Dallas to Washington, endeavoured to overcome the
emotions by getting paralytically intoxicated. They did the drinking but the
paralysis eluded them and this was, to an extent, how it then went for many of New York's inhabitants
that evening. Angela joined me at the start of this process in Joey's
Restaurant at 4.30 pm, eight hours later things were yet more stark and no less
crushing. My two strongest emotions were wanting to say "Happy
Birthday" to Jenny, my wife, because that was what September 11 was really
still about for me, but New York had no contact with the outside world and,
very strangely, a nagging desire to light a cigarette. Fortunately feeble
inhibitions about embarking on the process of purchasing a packet of cigarettes
and the magnetic, enveloping attraction of the big TV screen meant that this
passion passed unsatisfied.
Angela, who had already used all her
consummate skill in persuasive communication to procure both transport and
accommodation, was a reassuring companion so we watched and we took refreshment in this
strangely noisy hostelry where the mood was uncertain — shocked, but perhaps it
was an attempt at extrovert, if not fully genuine, bravado — a metaphoric two
fingered gesture. The evening's show of boozing and socialising for all those around us had to go on.
We reminded ourselves that the United States and their people have not , unlike
most countries of the world, been bombed and terrorised on their mainland in
living memory. However again and again "Turn back the day" was
regurgitated, as two televisions with different channels deafeningly competed
for attention. The inadequacies and occasional eccentricities of the Voice
Recognition Text ("now over to one of our producers Rose Arse") was
gently reassuring as I thought of my secretary, Sheila, ploughing through
mountains of urnntelligible and, in context irrelevant, work which I had left
behind at school.
"Quite a day" I rashly quipped again to my generously built bearded neighbour in the Gentleman's Comfort
Station. "What do you mean, 'quite a day"' he responded aggressively.
"I was standing only on block away when it collapsed, I thank God I'm
alive" I decided not to talk to any more strange men.
The debate on the television about
responsibility was warming up and fingers were now being pointed. I still felt
appalled at the lack of airport security — no bag checks, vague kerbside inspection,
visitors going to the gate and so on, and I remember writing to Merlyn Rees
when he had been Northern Ireland Secretary in the mid 1970s about a similar lack
of provision on car ferries between Stranraer and Larne. I remembered also that he
hadn't replied and I felt angry about that too. I had to remind myself time and
again that the real criminals were the ones who had done these terrible deeds.
While through the surrounding atmosphere of Bud Light
and Stoli, the authentic Russian vodka, the sickening images of the second
plane slicing through the World Trade Centre were played ad infinitum and ad
nauseam — strangely I became more disturbed rather than immune and had to shut
my eyes each time before impact. I felt guilty, however, that the final
collapse of the building seemed strangely and attractively gracious — a pink
and white skirt billowing gently in the breeze.
How can you value your life so
little and hold a fundamental belief so strongly that you will kill yourself
and others in the pursuit of something which you will never see and which may
not materialise? How can one man hold the world to ransom? And what is that
chef doing in the kitchen preparing a salad with a cigarette hanging
laconically from his mouth? Thank God for some mundane human misdemeanours.
Against our
expectation, hush descended as the President of the United States spoke — and
he spoke well, if unremarkably. People looked for consistency and a steady hand
at the tiller. He was full of regret, praise and business as usual but, in the
end, he really had nothing to offer except prayer. I found that reassuring in
some ways to be looking to the power beyond ourselves — but a sense of glum
realisation also — humankind had created problems which it could not solve on
its own.
It was midnight and emotions were
running strongly. The temptation to descend to rumour mongering was almost
overwhelming. Of course it is the work of Osama bin Laden and of course he must
be strung up immediately. The barbaric response, without logic, without justice
— resist it or not... And then there is talk of general anti-Muslim feeling; wrong again but do we not all have the responsibility to condemn extremism in
our own cultures?
Again the courage and camaraderie of
the rescuers lifts us from indulgent distant debating points to appreciate now
that too many have, indeed, died but the incredibly brave unselfish response of
New Yorkers and the emergency services in particular are grounds for hope on
the planet — hope on this day springs fraternal.
As we walk back to the hotel the
glow, post explosion, in the direction of the World Trade Centre is more dim,
the sirens more distant but the reality more compelling. I think of home, so
proud to be in a school where service is highly valued, so sad still for
Shivani's death, and so relieved still that Jamie — almost the last Gordonstoun
student I saw on Sunday — at least is not one of the world's young casualties
this week.
So the witching hour had come and we
had slipped imperceptibly from the throes of black Tuesday 11 September 2001 forever
securely etched in the short and simple annals of America's and the world's
poor but, on this occasion also, and even more in the light of the success of
this horrid mission, in the records of industrialised, more prosperous
societies also.
Now its back to the bedroom, the
bedroom reeking of stale acrid smoke, and I am glad I was not led completely
into that temptation. Exhausted I fail to pray, but perhaps better done when
sane and clear headed in the morning. And that came all too soon with the realisation
that this had not just been my personal awesome nightmare but a real global
tragedy. However, as darkness managed reluctantly to merge into a grey
cheerless dawn, it hadn't been a nuclear attack and many of us are still alive.
And what of the lessons to be
learnt? We educators have to justify our existence through 'improving' messages. Leaving the mighty themes at this stage to those appropriately
qualified, we should always prepare our young to encounter crisis in their
lives; we should never object to our bags being searched with the proverbial
tooth comb in airports; and we should say "hallelujah" to text
messaging, however infuriating that practice may seem to be, for some of us for
a vital period in our lives, it was our only means of contact with the rest of
the world.
And will the world — at least the
world of America — really never be the same again? a message pumped out
remorselessly by politicians and commentators alike. As a long-time, part-time
student of personal and public behaviour in Northern Ireland, I would not be
too confident about that. However, I did pause to thank a lucky star or two
that I wasn't a script writer for horror movies. As fantasy had become fact in
the third millennium, we would not be needing the services of such folk again.
And, at the end of this long day, my
friend, the answer is still blowing in the wind all over the streets of South
Manhattan.
That is where the diary entry ends
and, in fact, the five days that followed are one long blur. I felt I had
freedom of movement but nowhere to go, my mind was wanting to work but had
little to do. The result was that I spent hours and hours constantly watching
the television. I found it addictive — anything up to 21 hours a day. A
tremendous amount of repeats just to garner one or two new facts.
It is difficult to quantify the
devastation if you have not seen it. Five days later the pile of rubble that
had been the twin towers of the World Trade Centre were still smoking and
smelling. At present between 4,000-5,000 tons of rubble a day are being moved.
If that pace is kept up it means they will still be moving rubble in January,
after the Christmas holidays when we reassemble here.
I wonder if one of you died, how
many people would be directly affected. At a rough guess, counting, of course,
family and close friends, but also families of friends and friends of families,
a conservative estimate would put it at between three and four hundred. This means that over two
million people were immediately and directly affected by bereavement from the 3,000 people killed in last week's tragic events.. Of course, in terms of more
general shock and economic suffering, the number is far higher. There are some
inexplicable quirks of fate. I got into a taxi last Thursday morning driven by
a young man, not much older that some of you, who told me that his wife worked
on the 101 st floor of one of the towers. On the day in question,
their one year old son had been unwell and she had, therefore, decided not to
go to work. On the other hand, I was told of a fireman who, between the first
explosion and the collapse of one of the buildings, had rescued one of his
colleagues and carried him down 40 or 50 flights of stairs to safety. He was
walking, still holding him, just outside the building with a very short
distance to travel when someone jumped out of the window from one of the top
storeys landing on him and killing him.
The pile of rubble was, and is,
vast. There were bits of it which were like pictures of First World
War battle grounds, bodies and parts of bodies mutilated beyond recognition. It
was, in some way, a miracle that more were not killed. The two towers between
them, when full of workers and visitors housed over 50,000 — that is nearly the
population of Inverness. What an extraordinary thought! Very few were seriously
injured and virtually none have been found as survivors since. Thousands will
not be recovered and will not be recognised. In New York the walls are covered
with photographs of missing people posted by families "anyone who has news
of please tell us". I came across a young man weeping in an open phone box
and he was carrying a picture, "Are you OK?" I said to him as I might
say to one of you. He showed me a picture of his sister. He was not in any way
hopeful of her being alive but he wanted to know if anyone in the building had
seen her at the end of her life as the buildings collapsed — how had she
seemed?, were there any last words?
Two years ago a small child went
missing on the Essex coast. No one knew whether she had been lost, wandered
off, abducted or swept out to sea. Time went by and the worst was feared. Then
her body was washed up and strangely there was relief because, although she was
dead, she had not been abused or murdered and it was not the result of some
crime. It is the same with major disasters. We get used to earthquakes, floods,
drought and terrible suffering. Thousands die and we are very sad but these are
not as bad as deaths involving a similar number caused by human intention.
These actions degrade us all and demean civilisation. In the middle of the last
century there was the holocaust. Six million Jews killed and people said then
that society had to improve after that but the killing fields of Cambodia,
Rwanda and Yugoslavia tell a different and negative story.
International terrorism is a real
blot on the landscape of the world. This was a monstrous crime and unspeakable
evil and, if you stop to think about it, in 1963 a terrorist kills one person,
John F Kennedy. In the 1980s terrorist actions result in the death of 230 people
placing a bomb on a plane over Lockerbie, in 2001 there are 6,000 deaths with
brains used as bombs. What will the situation be in 2020? Terrorists in
possession of a nuclear device — 6 million? 60 million? 600 million? The
principle will be the same - fanatics fostered from birth to think of such
actions even if, especially if, they die as martyrs. The answer to this real
worry must be to root out terrorism on a global scale and it will take a long
time and require huge co-operation. Preventative measures must be put in place
and must be effective. This will not be achieved by talking only and hoping
that civilisation and wise counsel will prevail, nor will it be achieved by one
violent strike taking out a supposed leader. It must be long-term, long-planned,
must be supported by the overwhelming population of the globe and must not take
one civilian life unnecessary.
None of us can hide from our
responsibility in this and if we do nothing, evil will triumph.
I should add that the American
reaction, I have found, broadly sensible so far, less frenzied and frantic than
may be suggested here in the British press. Some rhetoric was inevitable but
there has been no immediate, major build-up towards retaliation.
And is there any hope for the
future? Watching the television for hour after hour, I got used to the names of
the victims in the crashes and I noted that one of those, a ten year old boy
killed in the crash in Pennsylvania, had been given the name Jesus by his
parents. Well, his namesake who died over 2000 years ago has given great hope
to humankind since then and I certainly found hope in the response of New
Yorkers. Yes, there was commercialism, certainly. Here is a T shirt with a
picture of the aftermath, with the smouldering mass on the front. I am going to
have this framed and hang it in our Ambulatory as a reminder and a symbol for
as long as you are in the School of• what has happened and what our
responsibilities might be.
But meanwhile, the New Yorkers set
an example — candle-lit vigils on pavements; volunteers, too many of them,
arrive to help; the marvellous work of the security services. I went to the
theatre when they opened for something to do. The comedy was not very comic but
the speeches by the actors at the end about the tragedy were most moving. There
was a great feeling of companionship and a real feeling of hope.
As well as posters on the wall,
graffiti sprang up similar to Ancient Rome and here was a quote by Mahatma
Ghandi "I have seen that life persists in the middle of destruction. Therefore,
there must be a higher law than that of destruction
Two footnotes. The first is that, as
I was leaving the hotel to go to the airport, I could not help overhearing a
conversation between a hotel porter and one of the cleaners clearly relating to
the tragic death of a friend or relation. As he followed me into the lift, I
said how sorry I was that he, too, had been affected by this terrible tragedy.
"Oh no" he said to me, " It is just my sister who has recently
died of Aids" We should not forget there are many other problems in the
world to which we should also be turning our attention.
The second footnote. The very
important one. The most generous, the most helpful and the nicest man I met in
New York was a Muslim. I was trying to rush and buy a few presents on my last
morning, thinking this was part of my duty. I had run out of money and credit
cards weren't necessarily working as telephone and other systems had crashed. A
shopkeeper told me that he would not be able to sell goods to me because of
this and when I looked desperate, he advised me to go round the corner to
another larger shop run by his brother who, with greater authority, might be
able to provide some money for me. I appeared at the other shop and the Muslim
gentleman, simply on presentation of my card and without further ado, without
knowing me, without knowing that he would ever see his money again, provided
the wherewithall for the purchase of these gifts. I thought that was
remarkable. A lovely person and certainly one of God's children.
And what of the challenges for you,
the younger generation. I have just four pieces of advice. The first is to take
an interest in affairs and make sure you are informed not just when there is a
crisis or a tragedy. Secondly, cherish your freedom, your reasonable freedom
and what provides it. Thirdly, work out in life what you believe is right and
is best and fourth, say and do it regardless of the consequences.
Or as I saw inscribed in large letters on the corner of 5th Avenue
and East 65th Street
Do
Justly
Love
Mercy
Walk
humbly with God
Love
thy Neighbour as Thyself
Another defining moment came on the evening of the disaster when we
were all stunned. There was a prayer meeting shown on television of
politicians, policemen, firemen and so on. A young, afro-American policeman, an
elegant man with a beautiful voice, gave an unaccompanied, solo rendition of
Amazing Grace. It is befitting that we should sing that now after which I will
say one short prayer:
Dear God
of All Gods
Look with mercy on all the peoples of this world. Be with those who died
tragically last week and all others who were dear to us and are no longer with
us.
Be with the families and friends of those left behind.
Give them an understanding of the mystery of life and give them hope
for the future.
Support all governments of the world that they may work together,
acting wisely and humanely to ensure that good flourishes and evil disappears.
And be with us God with your still, small voice to guide us into
thinking with clarity, speaking with integrity and acting with courage.
( Address dated 18 September 2001 )
( Address dated 18 September 2001 )
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