It’s been five years since I watched in astonishment on my mother’s television set the destruction of the twin towers.
That night, on the 11th of September 2001, I had just come home from I can’t remember what (this blog didn’t exist yet), and my mum’s study door was ajar, and she was sitting and watching CNN. Then, it had already been a tumultuous year as it was for my family, what with my sister having a long convalescence from childbirth-related illness, my leaving my much-envied job as a talent agent after almost a year of doing little inconsequential things like arguing over whether Fiona Xie should take up the Chinese sitcom role she eventually made her own.
The first plane had already hit one of the towers, and I remember wondering how ‘zhun’ the plane had been, to hit right into the tower as I watched the top few floors burn with the most acrid black smoke. Then the second plane, a flying black shadow, crashed into the other tower.
“The world is going to end”, said my mother, while I stood, transfixed, wondering if any more planes were gonna zoom in and hit any other building.
So many things have happened since then. So few things have changed.