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To mark the 15th anniversary of the terror attacks that killed thousands in the United Stats on Sept. 11, 2001, and shook the world, The Citizen is reprinting some of its coverage from New York City in the days that followed.
Originally published, Ottawa Citizen, Sept. 14, 2001.
LOWER MANHATTAN — Daniel Lopez rolled out of bed Tuesday around 7 a.m. He showered, donned khaki pants and a freshly ironed navy-blue shirt, then made his way to work at the World Trade Center. He arrived an hour and a half later. Eighteen minutes into his work day, a hijacked jetliner crashed into the tower.
The 39-year-old New Yorker made his way into the stairwell down to the 78th floor. There, he borrowed a cellphone from a another man and called his wife at home. He got the answering machine and this is what he said:
“Liz, it’s me, Dan. My building has been hit. I’m OK but will remain here to help evacuate people. See you soon.”
Marilyn Bautista, 46, left her Queens home in a rush. She barely had time to give her husband, Rameses, a kiss goodbye.
The accounts payable clerk was supposed to be at the office in the north tower at 9 a.m. On this day, she arrived on the 98th floor at 8:32 a.m.
Two floors up, Claribel Hernandez, 31, phoned her husband from the stairwell, but her voice faded.
Three floors below, in the south tower, Sita Sewnarine, 27, took a seat at her computer minutes later.
Out the window, she couldn’t help but notice the explosion in the north tower.
Sixteen minutes later, she called her brother, Chris, and said: “There’s a lot of smoke out there and we’re going to try to get out.”
Two minutes later, the phone went dead.
Up on the 102nd floor of the same tower, Chuck Karczewski, 34, also phoned home. He called his wife, Philomena, but seconds later the signal was lost.
Rev. Larry Bowman, a part-time security guard on the bottom-floor shopping plaza of the south tower, phoned his mother to let her know he was safe.
Over the phone, at exactly 9:06 a.m., his last words were: “Oh no, another one hit.”
Ian Rubin, 43, dropped off his fiancee, Joanne Rubino, 45, in front of the centre at 8:30 a.m.
Twenty minutes later, he phoned from a supermarket to get the grocery list right.
She told him what they needed, then they wished one another a good day.
He left the supermarket, then heard about the terrorist attacks.
On the 106th floor of the north tower, Abdoulaye Kone, 37, a pastry chef at Windows on the World restaurant, was baking for another busy day.
He took a call from his wife, Celestine, anyway, but kept it short, telling her he loved her and the children. He said he had to get off the phone, and for her to call back later.
This is the story about the missing. There are too many people missing to even count.
Thousands of people across this city are on foot, walking from hospital, to hospital to hospital.
They are looking for the people they love, the people who are lost.
Across the street from the 69th Armory Building, a military drill hall on Lexington Avenue, journalists waited for any kind of official comment.
Inside the building, past an intense police presence, grieving families comforted one another and told the Citizen their stories. All waited to see if their vanished friends and family appeared on one of the lists naming the living and the dead.
They also filled out identification forms, detailing everything from blood type to dental information.
Police officers and firefighters arrived with old X-rays of their fallen comrades to help in the massive, desperate identification mission.
One police officer told a family there could be more than 5,000 people missing and feared dead.
Police and volunteers told friends and family to search city-run Internet sites, only to find out that hackers had defaced the information and left racial slurs next to the names of survivors.
They could live with that, but then they were told the names of survivors could not be trusted because of the security breach.
Then, most took their search to the streets, papering poles, bus shelters and makeshift memorial walls outside city hospitals.
They asked everyone in their path to help. And all said hope dies last.
By early afternoon, they had reason to believe their lost ones could still be alive.
A handful of rescue workers were believed trapped in a sports utility vehicle under rubble were pulled alive to cheers.
Some firefighters on the scene wept while others chanted God Bless America.
But it was a matter of confusion among the hundreds of rescuers. The people apparently pulled out alive, were rescuers who had fallen down into the rubble. They were pulled to safety, but were not part of the initial response units.
In the emergency room at Bellevue Hospital, exhausted doctors seemed fresh again, and took turns scrubbing down for the arrival of survivors — only to learn it wasn’t true.
Jeanne Keating had hoped one of the survivors was her brother, Paul Keating, a decorated firefighter.
“They just told me it’s not him. I still have hope that he’s alive, it’s all I got. It’s also frustrating not knowing, and worse, no one seems to know who the survivors are,” she said.
In the rubble, it seemed the best searchers around were dogs — including a blood-soaked Bear.
The 11-year-old golden retriever has led rescuers to seven bodies so far.
“In there, modern technology is not working. Bear can track blood, it’s a lot easier for him than it is for people,” said paramedic Scott Shields.
By last night, friends and families of the missing stood in a line two blocks long, waiting their turn to give identifying details of their lost husbands, wives, children and friends.
“I refuse to break down, there’s still a glimmer of hope. I know my husband is out there. It’s hard but I’m hoping somebody saw him and knows where he is,” said Wanda Ortiz.
Today marks the six-month birthday for her twins, Emily and Amanda.
“They need their father back,” she said. “We have a lot of support. There are thousands of other people who are in our shoes.”
Tony Fanelli was looking for his daughter, Dolores, 38.
“I haven’t heard a thing. I’ve been on Web sites, chat channels and to every single hospital. There’s nothing at all,” Mr. Fanelli said.
Angela Hidalgo, 18, was looking for her father. He was a good father and she hopes he’s still alive.
Silvia Fuentes, 32, was searching for her brother, Jose Castro, 37.
The missing chef was working in a cafeteria on the 101th floor of the north tower when a suicide pilot struck.
“He’s a survivor. I know he’d try to make it out. I found his name on a survivor’s list this morning, but he’s still missing. I hope it’s not a hoax, there are a lot of people on the survivor list that are still missing,” Ms. Fuentes said.
At every turn in the streets of this city, people were drawn tight in grief and hope.
Strangers hugged strangers, and passers-by honked horns and waved American flags, wishing the searchers all the best.
On every block, people could be seen unfurling U.S. flags outside their windows.
One woman scrawled a sign across a memorial wall outside Bellevue Hospital that read: “Bring home the ones we love.”
查看原文...
Originally published, Ottawa Citizen, Sept. 14, 2001.
LOWER MANHATTAN — Daniel Lopez rolled out of bed Tuesday around 7 a.m. He showered, donned khaki pants and a freshly ironed navy-blue shirt, then made his way to work at the World Trade Center. He arrived an hour and a half later. Eighteen minutes into his work day, a hijacked jetliner crashed into the tower.
The 39-year-old New Yorker made his way into the stairwell down to the 78th floor. There, he borrowed a cellphone from a another man and called his wife at home. He got the answering machine and this is what he said:
“Liz, it’s me, Dan. My building has been hit. I’m OK but will remain here to help evacuate people. See you soon.”
Marilyn Bautista, 46, left her Queens home in a rush. She barely had time to give her husband, Rameses, a kiss goodbye.
The accounts payable clerk was supposed to be at the office in the north tower at 9 a.m. On this day, she arrived on the 98th floor at 8:32 a.m.
Two floors up, Claribel Hernandez, 31, phoned her husband from the stairwell, but her voice faded.
Three floors below, in the south tower, Sita Sewnarine, 27, took a seat at her computer minutes later.
Out the window, she couldn’t help but notice the explosion in the north tower.
Sixteen minutes later, she called her brother, Chris, and said: “There’s a lot of smoke out there and we’re going to try to get out.”
Two minutes later, the phone went dead.
Up on the 102nd floor of the same tower, Chuck Karczewski, 34, also phoned home. He called his wife, Philomena, but seconds later the signal was lost.
Rev. Larry Bowman, a part-time security guard on the bottom-floor shopping plaza of the south tower, phoned his mother to let her know he was safe.
Over the phone, at exactly 9:06 a.m., his last words were: “Oh no, another one hit.”
Ian Rubin, 43, dropped off his fiancee, Joanne Rubino, 45, in front of the centre at 8:30 a.m.
Twenty minutes later, he phoned from a supermarket to get the grocery list right.
She told him what they needed, then they wished one another a good day.
He left the supermarket, then heard about the terrorist attacks.
On the 106th floor of the north tower, Abdoulaye Kone, 37, a pastry chef at Windows on the World restaurant, was baking for another busy day.
He took a call from his wife, Celestine, anyway, but kept it short, telling her he loved her and the children. He said he had to get off the phone, and for her to call back later.
This is the story about the missing. There are too many people missing to even count.
Thousands of people across this city are on foot, walking from hospital, to hospital to hospital.
They are looking for the people they love, the people who are lost.
Across the street from the 69th Armory Building, a military drill hall on Lexington Avenue, journalists waited for any kind of official comment.
Inside the building, past an intense police presence, grieving families comforted one another and told the Citizen their stories. All waited to see if their vanished friends and family appeared on one of the lists naming the living and the dead.
They also filled out identification forms, detailing everything from blood type to dental information.
Police officers and firefighters arrived with old X-rays of their fallen comrades to help in the massive, desperate identification mission.
One police officer told a family there could be more than 5,000 people missing and feared dead.
Police and volunteers told friends and family to search city-run Internet sites, only to find out that hackers had defaced the information and left racial slurs next to the names of survivors.
They could live with that, but then they were told the names of survivors could not be trusted because of the security breach.
Then, most took their search to the streets, papering poles, bus shelters and makeshift memorial walls outside city hospitals.
They asked everyone in their path to help. And all said hope dies last.
By early afternoon, they had reason to believe their lost ones could still be alive.
A handful of rescue workers were believed trapped in a sports utility vehicle under rubble were pulled alive to cheers.
Some firefighters on the scene wept while others chanted God Bless America.
But it was a matter of confusion among the hundreds of rescuers. The people apparently pulled out alive, were rescuers who had fallen down into the rubble. They were pulled to safety, but were not part of the initial response units.
In the emergency room at Bellevue Hospital, exhausted doctors seemed fresh again, and took turns scrubbing down for the arrival of survivors — only to learn it wasn’t true.
Jeanne Keating had hoped one of the survivors was her brother, Paul Keating, a decorated firefighter.
“They just told me it’s not him. I still have hope that he’s alive, it’s all I got. It’s also frustrating not knowing, and worse, no one seems to know who the survivors are,” she said.
In the rubble, it seemed the best searchers around were dogs — including a blood-soaked Bear.
The 11-year-old golden retriever has led rescuers to seven bodies so far.
“In there, modern technology is not working. Bear can track blood, it’s a lot easier for him than it is for people,” said paramedic Scott Shields.
By last night, friends and families of the missing stood in a line two blocks long, waiting their turn to give identifying details of their lost husbands, wives, children and friends.
“I refuse to break down, there’s still a glimmer of hope. I know my husband is out there. It’s hard but I’m hoping somebody saw him and knows where he is,” said Wanda Ortiz.
Today marks the six-month birthday for her twins, Emily and Amanda.
“They need their father back,” she said. “We have a lot of support. There are thousands of other people who are in our shoes.”
Tony Fanelli was looking for his daughter, Dolores, 38.
“I haven’t heard a thing. I’ve been on Web sites, chat channels and to every single hospital. There’s nothing at all,” Mr. Fanelli said.
Angela Hidalgo, 18, was looking for her father. He was a good father and she hopes he’s still alive.
Silvia Fuentes, 32, was searching for her brother, Jose Castro, 37.
The missing chef was working in a cafeteria on the 101th floor of the north tower when a suicide pilot struck.
“He’s a survivor. I know he’d try to make it out. I found his name on a survivor’s list this morning, but he’s still missing. I hope it’s not a hoax, there are a lot of people on the survivor list that are still missing,” Ms. Fuentes said.
At every turn in the streets of this city, people were drawn tight in grief and hope.
Strangers hugged strangers, and passers-by honked horns and waved American flags, wishing the searchers all the best.
On every block, people could be seen unfurling U.S. flags outside their windows.
One woman scrawled a sign across a memorial wall outside Bellevue Hospital that read: “Bring home the ones we love.”
查看原文...
