Twelve years out. For a teenager in an American high school the events of that day must seem surreal. What spin do their textbooks put on it? The ongoing wars, which I know less about than I ought to, continue to cause havoc out of proportion to their inspiration. The walls of our prison in Cuba seem sturdy enough and there is certainly no trace of that body in the Indian Ocean--and what comfort does that give us? What sense of security have we gained, or given to others?
I picture an office worker that day, going through the ritual of the elevators, feeling glad to get to work on time, to have a job, to have someone to look forward to going home to that evening.
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