Last Thursday saw the seventh anniversary of the September 11 attacks on the US. The memorial at the Pentagon to the victims who died in the Pentagon and in the plane was formally opened and as always, we observed a moment of silence at 8:46 am, the time the first plane struck the first tower.
I'm always moved by this day and by this act of remembering. It is so vivid to me, as it is, I'm sure to all Americans. But what struck me this year is the number - 7. That's a significant number in mythology. It's a biblical generation. Things seemed to happen in orders of seven - seven sons, seven generations, seven-year plagues. Does this mean that this is the end of the first period of mourning? Or perhaps it's taken us seven years to learn to live with the new realities of extra security and suspicions? Perhaps this year will see the first election devoid of paranoia, meaningless finger pointing and accusations of un-patriotism if you challenge the war in Iraq.
Or perhaps the number has no significance at all. But it does seem like a lifetime ago to me.
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