As a Muslim in metro Atlanta, 9/11 attacks created space between U.S. and us
Editor’s note: The author offers a recollection from Sept. 11, 2001, when he served as an airline pricing manager in metro Atlanta.
I knew before the CIA, the FBI and even CNN.
The day began like any other. Carmen, my wife, had an early doctor’s appointment. The girls left for school — Salma excited, Sarah bored.
I was scheduled for a soft-skills class at a nearby hotel. I drove there, found the conference room and sat beside Stew, the ticketing manager.
Ten minutes into the class, a pager sounded. Brian, the departure-control manager, stepped out. He returned with his face drawn tight and whispered something to the instructor.
“Listen up, please,” the instructor said. “Operations control at Delta informed Brian that a plane hit one of the World Trade Center towers.”
Brian faced us. “So far, we have no information about the aircraft, which tower or the extent of the damage.”
No one knew.
Jack, the mainframe manager, cut in. “This is a freak accident. I can’t imagine an airliner over Manhattan at that altitude. It’s one of those flight schools — a stupid trainee and an idiot captain.”
We agreed.
Minutes later, Brian’s pager went off again.
“Another plane hit the second tower. These are passenger jets — not Cessnas,” he said, his voice breaking.
Questions loomed and I went to get my daughters
We rushed into the lobby. A TV hung from a column, tuned to CNN. A plane tore into a tower. Then came the fireball. We stood shoulder to shoulder, heads tilted back, saying nothing.
A terrorism expert appeared on the screen.
“This has the fingerprints of terrorists all over it,” he said. “Muslim terrorists.”
“Bulls---,” I said, loud enough to be heard. “How can this be a terrorist act by Muslims?”
Stew answered without turning. “Two planes. Two towers. What else could it be?”
“Are you saying terrorists can fly jets now?” Our eyes clashed.
“They just need to force the pilot,” Stew said.
“What kind of pilot would do that? They’d be dead on impact anyway.”
He didn’t answer.
I ran to my car.
On the radio, NPR described people falling 110 stories. I drove to Sope Creek Elementary in Marietta and asked to take Sarah home.
“We haven’t told the kids anything,” the woman at the desk said. “You don’t need to worry about her. But it’s your decision.”
She sounded sincere. I left.
Back in the car came the news of the Pentagon. If first it was New York City, then Washington, D.C., what was next — Atlanta?
At Dickerson Middle School, also in Marietta, the woman in the office had red eyes. I asked to take Salma home.
“Taking Salma out now might single her out. So far, there’ve been no issues.”
“You’re right. Please don’t call her.”
I drove home. CNN reported that Flight 93 had crashed in Pennsylvania. Had one of our jets brought it down? Then the South Tower collapsed into a cyclone of dust.
Still, I wanted the criminals to be anyone but Muslims or Arabs — another Timothy McVeigh, the Oklahoma City bomber; or Eric Rudolph, the Atlanta Olympics bomber, white men with grievances against immigrants or about the unborn.
My family was afraid of what might come next
Sarah came off the bus talking nonstop. When Salma’s bus arrived, she said, “Hi,” her eyes unfocused, her lips parting as if she meant to speak but couldn’t.
Carmen came home later.
“It was a strange day,” she said. “After the hospital, I went to the store. The woman behind me in the checkout line told me I didn’t belong in this country.”
At dinner, I told the girls that bad people had hijacked airplanes and crashed them into buildings.
“Muslims?” Salma asked.
“I’m not sure. It’s possible. We need to be cautious.”
“Why would they do such a stupid thing? Crazy people,” Sarah said. Then, after a pause: “But why us?”
The next morning, I spent 20 hours with 11 other managers figuring out how to get the airplanes back into the sky when the Federal Aviation Administration reopened the country’s airspace. The system had never been designed for a nationwide shutdown that left aircraft and crews stranded in the wrong places.
We found a way. The system was ready.
At home, silence settled into the walls. They hadn’t said it, but they were afraid — not of what had happened, but of what might come next.
In the weeks that followed, I felt more American than I ever had — and more out of place than ever.
We were no longer simply citizens of the United States. We had begun to be measured against it — in glances, pauses and the questions people chose not to ask.
It was the space between the U.S. and us.
Born in Alexandria, Egypt, Sameh Abdelaziz spent his career in U.S. airline technology. The morning of 9/11, he was a Worldspan/Delta pricing manager in metro Atlanta. Now retired, he writes full time. His debut autobiography, “The Informal History of US,” is expected this fall.
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