I covered religion after the 9/11 attacks. I never imagined the hate would outlast the war.
(RNS) — I had just dropped my two little boys, ages 6 and 3, at school when news came over the car radio: First one plane, then a second, had hit the World Trade Center. I drove to a lookout on a mountain above my New Jersey town, where I could see the burning towers 14 miles east, one degree above the horizon: the width of my fingernail at arm’s length. Within hours, fighter jets scrambled over my house, and bridges and tunnels into the city closed. For the rest of that week, I worked on a 56K home dial-up I didn’t disconnect for 150 hours. My sons were unfazed, their little worlds still knee hockey in the basement and stories at bedtime. That Friday, instead of their usual after-dinner treat, I drove them up the mountain. At the lookout, candles burned on a giant stone semi-circle that looked like an altar, letters and posters taped to the rocks: grief (“Why?”), rage (“This will never happen again!”) and hope (“Let there be peace on earth”). …
