An expatriate American welcomes the nation to a
cold, new world
By Marc Spiegler
Newcity.com
I've never owned a television, not even when I lived in the
States. But when the news is so big that major news sites
start keeling over, you need CNN. So I go to the house of
Raoul, my Dutch-Egyptian friend. Together we watch that second
jet streak toward Tower Two, and together hold our breath
as the plane disappears from view--as if by doing so, we could
halt the fireball that erupts a second later. It doesn't;
we gasp.
His mobile rings incessantly. When something big happens
in America, the whole world telephones each other. He keeps
saying, "It's gone. Forever. Forever." His eyes are wide with
awe. But each time I watch the towers shudder and then dematerialize,
it becomes more abstract. In my mind, they'll always be there,
until I'm actually looking at that hole in the sky. I try
to visualize a honeyed sunlight flooding from the Hudson River
into the once-dark canyons of the Financial District. It's
unimaginable.
When you're an American abroad, New York's never far away.
And for all its corporate sterility, I'd warmed up to that
neighborhood. My favorite Asian joint, Mangez Avec Moi, keeps
streaking across CNN, its scarlet awning indecipherable. Trying
to judge how far the rubble flew, I study the south tower’s
collapse; my friend Jonathan lives literally in its shadow.
And then there are the things I cannot know, like whether
my brother had an early morning meeting near Wall Street.
I try to make a mental list of everyone else I know in New
York. I once lived there, and my more ambitious friends have
moved there, and it's the center of my industry. After few
dozen names, I give up, certain that the life of at least
one friend has changed forever, if not ended. I'm steeling
myself to go to a funeral next week, without knowing whose
funeral.
The weird thing is that I'm experiencing this much the same
way in Zurich as I would in Chicago. Everyone I know is huddling
before CNN, watching the thin gruel of video footage. I'm
crashing the same Web sites for news. I'm getting an equally
dead tone when I try dialing my brother. And, of course, just
as if I were Stateside, I'm flailing for salience on deadline,
numbing my numbness with literary distance.
Still, there's a part of me that's looking through expat
eyes, and what I'm seeing is the end of an empire. Only last
year, America boasted the world’s strongest economy, held
itself up as a model of democracy and seemed militarily impregnable.
Today--after the dotcom collapse, the butterfly ballot and
Tuesday's attacks--that era's over. The rest of the world
may still recognize America's power, but that doesn't mean
they worship the dream.
All over the globe, there are people who take some measure
of joy in this dethroning, though that measure varies. In
a few countries and ethnic enclaves, people are partying tonight,
scores even wishing they personally piloted those planes.
Many, many others--millions, even--will mix a humane sadness
with a political righteousness. For this is the world America
has made. I remember the Columbine massacre, and the hand-wringing
that followed it. At the time, U.S. Air Force jets were bombing
Belgrade. To me, the connection seemed unavoidable: when the
government uses violence toward its ends, so will the citizens.
And so will its enemies.
So, welcome, America, to the cold new world. Where people
are tired of a populace without passports electing the world's
most powerful man. Where people don't like their kids watching
MTV and scarfing McDonald's. Where the most dangerous men
are those with nothing to lose. And where airport security
is a better investment than Star Wars.
