As an old year passes, a new world emerges

About 25 minutes of driving separates Princeton from the New Jersey Turnpike. Last Monday, I made it 20 and turned around. My odyssey home to New York city had encountered its first of many expected obstacles, as I scanned the radio trying to find a traffic report. There continued to be a limited flow of traffic into the city since the previous week's attacks, but I had not expected the radio to tell me it would be a two-hour delay through the Lincoln Tunnel.

It was a good excuse for me to turn around. I did not know what had taken me down to Lot 23 and into my car other than some sort of masochistic desire to see the treasured skyline of my hometown ravaged by hijacked airliners. I needed to know that there was still something left. Yet for those 20 minutes on U.S. Route 1, I sat in my car, nervously clutching the wheel with both sweating hands, terrified. The traffic was a perfect way for me to convince myself to disregard the waste of time I had spent driving and return to Princeton to get on the train. I knew the whole time that driving was not a good idea. I just hadn't realized exactly why. Somewhere on that strip of Rt. 1, as I navigated past the endless miles of mini malls, supermarkets and fast food restaurants it became perfectly clear. I was scared of the Lincoln Tunnel.

I wanted to see the war-torn city, to be a part of the patriotic fervor that I had heard was so unmistakably present in the streets. I wanted to help the thousands of grief-stricken relatives of the missing that walk the streets with undying hopes of finding their innocent loved ones; I was going to spend time looking at their missing-person flyers and try to somehow bring them solace by remembering the faces on these posters. However, before I could do any of that I had to get through the Lincoln Tunnel. As I got back to campus and got on the train it occurred to me what everyone on television meant when they said our lives would never be the same. I will never come home through the Lincoln Tunnel or over the George Washington Bridge again without being consumed by fear of a terrorist attack. For many years there had been talk of threats on structures like these, but not until Sept. 11 had occasionally reported threats become our collective reality.

I sat tensely on the train, waiting for that moment somewhere between the North Elizabeth and Newark station when the skyline suddenly becomes visible in the distance. It is impossible not to stare when this happens. My reaction began with a stare but continued in utter puzzlement. There were many minutes when I sat in my seat questioning whether this hazy view in the distance was in fact Manhattan, or whether I had mistaken it for the slightly less striking cityscape of Newark. My inability to recognize New York left me utterly distraught and disoriented. I stumbled out of the depths of Penn Station and began walking.

I passed small boutiques once specializing in the merchandise of Broadway musicals now converted into exclusively selling American flags and patriotic T-shirts. The racks of postcards that stand outside the flag outlets are mobbed with people all vying for the same thing: pictures of the World Trade Center from every possible angle. Perhaps the images of the serene two towers will give some comfort to those of us who watched 24 hours of news coverage as the massive structures were destroyed along with most of our sense of security. I must admit that I bought a flag, and I now understand why everyone else in New York has one displayed from his or her window or awning. We are showing support and unity for not only one of our cities and our nation but also for those who lost people. New Yorkers need to feel as though the nation is standing behind them through everything and the flag is, to a degree, that unifying force. Displaying a flag does not mean you support a full-fledged land war with a draft and everything that made Vietnam what it was, as those critics of the increasing patriotism think. If it means anything, it means that an evil has been done and justice must be served. Right now American patriotism is not a dangerous term, it does not mean we are going to be happy watching our classmates get drafted and shipped to Afghanistan, it is not the nationalism of the Third Reich; patriotism is a call for uncompromising justice, not war.

I continued my walk home staring up at skyscrapers trying to envision what they would look like if they fell down. I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and there behind me was a man; middle-aged, with a long black beard, wearing a USA hat who very well may have been homeless. "You better polish your boots," he said with a serious look on his face. Not understanding what he was talking about, I gave a half-smile and turned back around. He walked faster so he could be even with me and we could talk. "You better polish your boots, young man. It's gonna be a long war." I tried to respond but swallowed my words. I, for the first time, began to understand both the experiences of those who fought a war and those who protested fighting. The man continued, "I'm a little too old, but if they'd let me, I'd get right in there behind you." I was moved by his words and replied softly as I shook his hand, "I'd be happy to get out there in front of you, my friend." This man, visibly down on his luck, felt as violated by the terrorist attacks as the investment banker who watched the buildings go down from his midtown office and worried about his colleagues or the college student who was sleeping when the attacks happened but watched the news for hours upon hours for a week trying unsuccessfully to come to terms with what had happened. This affects everyone.

I had come home to celebrate Rosh Hashanah with my family. The next day we left the house early and went to synagogue. At the door we were greeted by something that seemed out of place. My parents looked at each other ominously. I took my keys out of my pocket, placed them in a dish and walked through the metal detector.

At the end of his sermon, the Rabbi said that he had invited some special guests to come up and be blessed and welcomed by the congregation. The doors in the back of the chapel opened and in walked four New York City firemen. Everyone rose to their feet and gave them a 10-minute ovation. American flags waved, and the firemen were seemingly touched. Still, they were clearly injured; their bodies looked battered by the strain of continuous work and their faces beaten by the loss of so many comrades. I'm sure they have the same fear as we all did: "What if this were to happen again?" Some of our fear was quieted as we saw these four men still standing and ready to go back to work.

United, the nation must stand strong and bring justice upon those responsible for the attacks on Washington, Pennsyl-vania, New York and America. Flags will wave, not because we are the most powerful nation in the world that has the capability to crush anyone who gets in our way — but because what America is built on is freedom and liberty and that is right. What was done on Sept. 11 was wrong.

I stood up to leave synagogue and felt comforted, but as I walked through the metal detector my fears solidified once again. We left the building and I glanced at my mother, tears streaming down her face. I put my arm around her. Things have changed at home. Things have most certainly changed. Gordon Saft is from New York, NY. He can be reached at gsaft@princeton.edu.