Where were you on September 11, 2001?
The question itself is a generational touchstone. For me, the answer is a blur of time zones and disbelief—a day that began with routine and ended in a world irrevocably changed. I was in transit, returning from a United Nations assignment in Algiers, Algeria.
Following a week at a UN conference, my team and I were ready to head home. Our days had been filled with the meticulous work of high-level security: liaising with Algerian officials over probable threats and confirming meeting protocols. Between these demanding tasks, we stole moments to enjoy the city’s striking contrast of vibrant life against arid hills, savoring incredible Algerian cuisine with the Mediterranean as our backdrop. With the conference ending on the 10th, all that remained was our flight back to Nairobi on the morning of September 11th.
That Tuesday dawned bright and cloudless as we left for the airport. Our route was circuitous: a short hop to Lyon, then to Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport, and finally, a direct flight to Nairobi. The first leg to France was uneventful. During the brief layover in Lyon, we retreated to the quiet of the Air France Lounge.
I was headed for the bar when I noticed a crowd frozen under the TV monitors. “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” I said to the barman, nodding at the screen. “What’s going on?”
His reply was calm, almost casual. “A small plane hit one of the Twin Towers in New York.”
Drink in hand, I joined the silent spectators. A quick mental calculation: it was just after 9 am on the East Coast. An accident? It seemed improbable. Then, as we watched, a second plane carved a fiery gash into the South Tower. A collective, horrified gasp sucked the air from the room. “What the f***…” I heard someone whisper. This was no accident. This was a deliberate, monstrous act.
Instinct and duty took over. I reached for my phone to contact my Desk Officer in New York. The line was dead. I tried another number. Then my in-laws. Then my friend, John Aaron. Nothing. A chilling silence had fallen over the world’s communications.
Amid this unfolding nightmare, our boarding call for Amsterdam was announced. The disconnect was surreal—walking away from the horror on the screen to board a plane into a sky that suddenly felt menacing. As we taxied for takeoff, my mind raced through the implications. If they can hit the towers, what else is a target? The UN Secretariat… it’s a glaring symbol. An aircraft coming from the east could approach it undetected down the East River. Having had an office overlooking both midtown Manhattan and the East River, I knew a plane could cause massive damage to the UN Secretariat. The questions were endless, the answers unknowable.
One certainty cut through the noise: the world was grounding to a halt. The moment the seatbelt sign flicked off, I was in the aisle, speaking in low, urgent tones to my team. “Listen up. Partner up. When we land, follow me directly to the KLM desk. Every flight will be canceled; hotels will be jammed. We need to move fast.” I gave the same measured warning to the diplomats traveling with us, masking my deep alarm with a veneer of professional contingency planning.
At Schiphol, the captain’s announcement confirmed it: “All flights to North America are canceled. Other destinations may be affected.” We were the first off the plane, a determined convoy heading for the transfer desk. The airport was already descending into chaos. My fears were confirmed: all transcontinental travel was frozen, including our flight to Nairobi. By sheer persistence, we secured the last rooms at a downtown Amsterdam hotel.
On the courtesy bus, I finally got a call through to our Nairobi office, then to my wife at our home in Runda. Her voice was strained. She had been watching the same horrific replays, desperately trying and failing to reach our family and friends in New York. She filled in the devastating blanks: both towers were gone; the Pentagon had been struck; a fourth plane had gone down in a field in Pennsylvania. The scale of the attack was beyond comprehension.
We checked into the hotel, dropped our bags, and gravitated to the bar. There, surrounded by other stranded travelers, we sat in silent witness, watching the impossible images replay deep into the night.
September 11th began in the calm of an Algiers morning, seared itself into my memory from a lounge TV in Lyon, and ended in the hushed shock of an Amsterdam hotel bar. We spent 36 tense hours there before the skies slowly, cautiously reopened.
On this, the 25th anniversary, may all who perished from the events of 9/11 continue to Rest in Everlasting Peace.
Pasifika Talanoa by a traveled ITaukei Fijian 