Giving Birth in the Shadow of 9/11

“One of the worst days in America’s history saw some of the bravest acts in American history. We’ll always honor the heroes of 9/11. And here at this hallowed place, we pledge that we will never forget their sacrifice.” — President George W. Bush at the Pentagon in 2008

As my daughter reaches another birthday, I cannot help but reflect on that traumatic day that changed our world, and like the majority of us, I remember vividly where I was on Tuesday, September 11th, 2001.

∞

In the south of England, the lower autumn sun shone brilliantly; the sky stretched out — a crisp, radiant blue. My sister was driving me back to my home on the coast; we had just visited our mother.

This was a memory in itself, as I struggled to maintain a relationship with Mum; her rudeness and eccentricity terrified me. Still, maybe because I was heavily pregnant with my first child (with only ten days to the due date), the nesting stage of pregnancy had overridden my defences. I’d precariously hoped to blot out the underlying dysfunction.

Piercing the flow of our chatter, a BBC news bulletin sliced through the air; the reporter’s urgent tone grabbed my sister’s attention. His pressing words spoke of an alarming development in New York.

Her shriek shocked me:

‘Oh my god, a plane has just crashed into the World Trade Centre!’

I couldn’t fathom her reaction, never having been to America or particularly corporate, I had no idea what the World Trade Centre even was. My mind pictured a light aircraft, incorrect coordinates, or caught out by low fog, crashing into a lofty office tower.

Yet, in the short time, I learnt what they symbolized, we heard the update of a second plane smashing through the South Tower; we sensed this was no accident. My head was scrambled — the enormity of what was unfolding in real time. We sat quietly for the rest of the journey, processing the horror, eager to find out more.

Finally home, we raced to the cottage to share with my then-partner what we’d heard, but of course, this news was global, and the images were streaming live from our state-of-the-art TV set. The mammoth panel was projecting the sheer horror of what we’d heard on the radio, no more than twenty minutes before. I wasn’t expecting to find such catastrophic and harrowing scenes, surreal, spread across the screen.

I witnessed the traumatising images unfold; the towers, standing at a profound height, both with gaping holes three-quarters up where the airline jets had impacted them, individually, at speed. Open wounds, ablaze with an intense orange inferno, and billowing dense black smoke from the burning aircraft fuel, with entire floors eaten up by the collision and fire.

I watched, dumbstruck, at the sorrowful scenes of so many people trapped above the obliterated floors, waving what appeared to be white handkerchiefs or tablecloths; the helplessness that sat in me, knowing how powerless and stuck they were in this hellish predicament.

As time crawled by, we could see that it would be impossible for the firefighters to reach them. I waited for helicopters to rescue them, yet looking back, I now know that the heat and smoke were too intense and dangerous. But at the time, it was live, and we were all watching and praying — the whole world, in whichever capacity — was praying.

There were more updates: two more planes had been hijacked. The third, crashed into the lower deck of the Pentagon. The fourth was heading for the U.S. Capitol building, but was thwarted by the passengers, who were able to force themselves into the cockpit.

They’d courageously fought back, knowing they had nothing to lose, having heard about the prior attacks that morning in the US. Incredible heroes to their last breath, and forever in our memories.

I was unable to pry myself away from the images, watching the horrors unfold, from the falling debris to victims jumping or falling to their deaths. They looked like weightless ants. It was gut-wrenching. I was tearful and frightened — for what would have been going through their minds, and the hell for their loved ones.

The towers finally collapsed.

Silence.

America declared war on terror

As I lay in the bath that night, placing my hands over my unborn child, I was filled with a deep sense of unparalleled fear. Thoughts of:

How the fuck can I bring a child into this terrifying world now?

The world was scared. We were all scared.

Of course, I had no choice but to have my baby. Yet many others and I that day had never witnessed an event so traumatic, at least since the Lockerbie bombing, which claimed 270 victims. But that day claimed 2977!

∞

My daughter was born a day and a half later (eight days earlier than her due date). She was and is a treasured gift; a reminder that life always pushes forward. She is an old soul, wise for her years, and throughout her life, has inspired me to keep moving forward and to never let go of healing my deep scars. I had contemplated whether she’d been aware, from the cocoon of my womb, of my fear, shock, and grief as I prayed in desperation for those poor victims that tragic day? Had she chosen to arrive sooner, as a deterrent, for comfort, hope, and for love?

This September, twenty-four years have passed, and we have witnessed more extremists waging their hate and evil on innocent people. The American war on terrorism began — because of 9/11 — with the invasion of Afghanistan on 7th October 2001, which makes you wonder if terrorism will ever be defeated, knowing that date all too well.

Every 9/11 anniversary, perhaps the fear fades a little with time, but my memories of the horrors that emerged that day stick with me. The terrorists idolize their oppressive cause more than they love life.

With respect, I wholeheartedly salute those souls of the Emergency Services (and the civilian heroes), who swore oaths to protect the citizens of New York, to their very deaths, in the extreme attempts to save as many people as they could on 11th September 2001.

Rest In Peace

© Chantal Weiss 2025: All Rights Reserved