Tuesday 11 September 2001

I awake early, at about 3 am, on my first morning in New York. This is no surprise to me as it has happened on my previous trips to the city. After failing to return to sleep I decide to get up and head in early to the office at about 7 am.

Unlike yesterday's weather of heavy rain showers, today is a fine autumnal morning -- not a cloud in the sky. "I do like being here in New York," I'm thinking to myself as I walk from my hotel on Wall Street for about five minutes to One New York Plaza, where our office is located.

I arrive at my desk for the day -- kindly offered to me by a new analyst who was going to be out taking an exam. After going through most of my emails from London, I reply to a few and send a couple of light-hearted emails to friends and work colleagues. Sitting next to Joan Rivers on the American Airlines flight over from London is, so far, my big story for the trip. Later in the day I find myself trying to picture all those other passengers who I traveled over with and wondering whether any of them were victims of this awful tragedy -- most likely, yes.

It's about 8.40-something, and I'm just thinking about popping down to the canteen to get some breakfast when I see a couple of people running over to one of the television screens on the floor. I hear somebody saying that the World Trade Center is on fire and has been hit by a plane. I walk over to a conference room where you have a clear view of the WTC from our 48th floor. It is about 800 yards away.

Black smoke is coming out of the top half of one of the towers. There are also thousands of silvery pieces of paper floating gently down from the tower against the dark blue-sky backdrop. Quite a crowd has gathered in the room. Most people are at this stage thinking it is an accident -- a small plane has perhaps lost control and hit the tower. I, however, in my auto-sceptical way, cannot believe this -- looking at the enormity of the WTC I find it hard to believe that a plane would, by accident, hit such a huge landmark. The fire is progressively getting worse. At this stage people are talking and discussing the situation quite freely. I am trying to figure out how on earth a fire can be put out at such a great height, out of the reach of ladders and hosepipes -- the only way would be by helicopter. I scan the skies looking for the emergency assistance but there is nothing there. I am concerned that people on the floors above the fire will be struggling to get out.

I return to my desk to call London who, by the sound of it, are all watching the CNN live coverage. I am on the phone to London (I could not honestly remember who I was speaking to and the following sequence of events are a little grey). It turns out that I was speaking to Samantha, a close work colleague of mine. I had probably been speaking to her for a couple of minutes when suddenly the whole building shook and swayed. "Shit... I've got to go, the whole building is shaking," I say and hang up. Has there been a bomb in our building? People are saying that another plane has crashed into the other tower of the WTC. I am now certain this is no accident. I rush over to the conference room again and there are people there who eye-witnessed the second plane flying in and hitting the tower. Everybody is stunned. I scan their faces -- each has a look of complete disbelief of what is going on. There are tears, hysterics even, as some of my New York colleagues are realising the scale of what is happening before our very eyes. Some have friends and relatives working in the building.

I rush back to my desk to try to call my Mum and Dad. I can't think of the code for the UK so I phone my work number and ask for them to transfer me to my parents' number. My heart is pounding -- just as it was when I was ringing the emergency services a month or so ago, back home in Clapham when the flat next door was on fire.

My Mum picks up the phone. "Hi it's me. Are you watching the news?" "No." "Well just to let you know I'm okay but turn on the news. Two planes have hit the World Trade Center."

As I am saying this I see one of the senior managers telling people that they can go and they don't have to stay.

"Look I've got to go. We're being evacuated. I'll call you as soon as I can." There is undoubtedly a sense of panic in my voice.

I grab my bag and head for the lifts where it is getting quite crowded with people anxious to get out of the building as soon as they can. Will we be the next target? I am surprised that the lifts are still working and haven't been shut down due to the building shaking. I get in the lift -- silence -- apart from a few quietly sobbing.

Standing on the forecourt pavement area in front of One New York Plaza the evacuated mass is gathering. People are all looking up at the towers in disbelief. Disbelief is probably an understatement to describe what is going through people's minds. I spot a couple of colleagues who I didn't know were over from London as well. We make eye contact and exchange firm handshakes. Not many words are spoken. We just look up at the disaster and then back at each other, shaking our heads, looking for some kind of reassurance from each other. There is none.

The fires are rapidly spreading and there is thick black acrid smoke billowing from all sides of the towers. There is no indication of any visible attempt to put the fire out. A helicopter hovers near the towers but looks pathetically helpless versus the huge structure of the WTC. The enormity of this disaster is becoming increasingly apparent. Who has done this? A terrorist attack for certain. A middle-eastern lunatic organization would not be an unreasonable guess. I am praying that the people are able to get out of the building in time before the fire starts taking victims.

Thinking that the worst is over, I make the decision to head back to the hotel to watch the news coverage. I am anxious to hear news reports on what is happening. What I can see before my own eyes is incomprehensible. I am hoping that hearing commentary will somehow help explain what is occurring. My mouth is dry and my breathing is unsteady. As I walk I notice that there are pieces of scorched paper and documents on the pavement and in the road, blown out from the WTC. The streets are busy with office workers who have been evacuated from their buildings. However, I am amazed to see two road workers carrying on with their work, smoothing out some freshly laid tarmac as though nothing is going on.

From lack of concentration I manage to lose my bearings. I stop and ask a big, grey-haired man which way is Wall Street. After repeating the question a couple of times, he tells me the way to "Wall". I stand and chat to him for a couple of minutes -- I cannot remember much detail of our conversation but I do remember him mentioning that a lot of his friends were fire fighters and would probably be having a "busy" day today. I wish him well and thank him for the directions.

I find my way to Wall Street and am about four or five hundred yards from the WTC when there is a colossal explosion and the ground shakes. People scream and I find myself sprinting away from a huge wall of cloud coming towards us down Wall Street. What is happening?! A bomb? Another plane? I am soon to find out that the first WTC tower has collapsed -- that in itself, another unimaginable thought.

As I run from the explosion and the huge wave of dust and debris, I cannot feel the road beneath my feet. My legs feel weak but I am trying hard to concentrate on keeping my balance and not falling for fear, amongst all the other things, of being trampled by the mass of people. My heart is pounding as heavily as it has ever done in its twenty-seven years. I notice that my bag slung over my shoulder has the zip open -- I quickly look in it to make sure that my electronic organizer is there and cannot see it. "No!" I shout out -- everything is getting too much for me as I think that I have been robbed in the middle of this nightmare. Quickly I realize the insignificance of this in the circumstances and my efforts return to focussing on what to do and where to go in order to try and escape this pandemonium.

The cloud of dust has now caught up with the mass of people heading towards the East River and is getting into people's eyes and throats. There is a peculiar smell in the air -- a combination of burning and cement. I hop over some railings onto the FDR (the main highway which takes traffic to and from downtown Manhattan). A fire engine screams by and then several ambulances. The cloud of dust has now practically engulfed us, cutting visibility to about ten yards.

My senses are working overtime. My attention is drawn to the thunderous noise of a plane flying overhead. I look upward and frantically try to scan through the dust to see anything. There is yet more panic and disbelief on faces around me -- all of us, I'm sure, fearing the worst, thinking another terrorist plane. When is this nightmare going to end? I just want to get out of the area -- over the water, anywhere. I can see people almost fighting and scrambling onto boats to get away from Manhattan Island.

I keep thinking to myself that this just cannot be happening. I am in New York City, USA. America is the strongest military force on earth and yet it is being invaded and seems to have been totally exposed. For years we have witnessed the US imposing itself on others but now is the US itself being attacked? Surely not?

Having now crossed the FDR I jump down about five feet onto a narrower road which runs adjacent to the water. Breathing is becoming more of a concern. Not knowing whether the dust we are breathing is dangerous in anyway, I use my shirtsleeve as a make shift filter. I notice a small group of people sheltering in a little inlet underneath the FDR, so I go over and stand with them.

Two middle aged black ladies are in the group -- one in tears saying to the other that this is the end and something about God saving us. If I'm honest with myself, I really did not know if this was going to be my end or not. What was happening around us was in God's hands and we could do nothing but hope and pray. The feeling of helplessness is as terrifying as anything else.

A thirty-something Italian-American man has a radio to his ear and tells the group that the Pentagon has been hit and that there is another plane in the sky. In response to this unwelcome update another man standing with us now starts shouting out in desperation, "This is f'****d up. This world is f****d up. There's a dead person over there!" He points over to our right and I can just about make out a body lying on the ground, not far from where I'd jumped down from the FDR, and a couple of people crouching over him. He must have had a heart attack. This isn't fair. I am quickly seeing the meaning of disaster in its utterly uncompromising sense. My whole body is numb.

A policeman or some kind of official tells us to get out of the area and as far uptown as we can. I start walking away and an American girl who was also standing in the inlet asks me if she can walk with me. "Sure," I say. "But you should know that I haven't got a clue where I'm going!"

The FDR heading north and uptown is now jammed with vehicles with people trying to getaway. The other lane of the FDR heading south, is not so jammed but has a constant stream of rescue vehicles rushing to the disaster area. The sound of sirens rings through the air. Hosepipes with running water are being offered to us by people in the fish dockyard which we are passing through. I stop and rinse my face and thank the man. This is an early sign of the charity and unity to encompass the city in the subsequent days.

We approach Brooklyn Bridge and have to turn west to get past the bridge and carry on north. Hundreds are walking over the bridge to known and unknown destinations. Another huge eruption and rumbling starts ahead of us in the direction of the WTC. Once again, I see a massive wall of dust emerging and travelling rapidly towards us. An equally rapid grapevine informs us that it is not another attack but the second tower collapsing. In perhaps a slightly more composed way than before, I turn and start running back down towards the river. I notice people are climbing onto others' shoulders trying to get up onto the bridge. As we are running we can give some relative "comfort" to a few people as they ask what has happened now, by letting them know it is the second tower collapsing rather than a new attack.

We continue our walk uptown. It is now quite a hot day. Traffic is at a standstill. Every now and again we stop to listen to the radios which people have turned up to full volume in their vehicles. We pass a group of kids playing basketball unaware, or purposefully ignorant, of the state of emergency felt by the rest of us.

We continue walking for nearly four hours up to 93rd Street where my extremely kind new American friend offers some clean clothes and the use of a telephone.

The next day, being unable to return to my hotel and my belongings, my priority is to obtain an emergency passport. My company in London is doing its utmost, trying not only to find me a new hotel for the interim, but also to get me on the next available flight back to London. Despite the fact of there being reports of twenty bomb scares during the course of the day, I am astonished to find minimal security at the British Consulate where I have to go for the passport. I was not even asked who I was or what I wanted by the security guard as I stepped into the lifts. Admittedly, I don't look like a middle-eastern terrorist but am horrified by the absence of even the most basic security precautions.

After obtaining the passport, my next priority is to get some new clothes. I am not one for spending hours shopping but even surprised myself when I managed to clock up a fair amount on my credit card within a few minutes in the department store. Normal activities, which in ordinary situations provide some satisfaction, such as choosing clothes or listening to music, held no interest at this time.

Over the next few days, sitting in my new mid-town hotel, I am glued to the news. Words cannot describe the feelings and emotions of the people of New York. There is a great sense of unity -- almost in desperation from the vulnerability of being in the city. Each time US fighter planes fly over Manhattan the worse case scenario comes instinctively into your mind. Now nothing is unthinkable. The world we live in changed in the space of a couple of hours.

As the estimated death toll reaches unthinkable figures I spend much time trying to comprehend this abominable act of hatred. As much as I try, it becomes no easier. It is incomprehensible. All of those people who lost their lives were no different from me. I am no better and no worse. I am evidently lucky, yes, but there is a sense of guilt accompanying this luck. I do not deserve to be alive any more than they deserve to have lost their lives. They too had been walking to work on that perfect autumn morning oblivious of the fact that this was to be their last couple of hours on this earth. And yet, still nobody claims responsibility for this cowardly and inhumane act of terrorism.