Reflections on 9.11 Through the Perspective of My First Trip to India

I have technically been “home” since mid May, and yet somehow I feel I must qualify my lack of typical routine, or more specifically my lack of actual employment, to having “just returned from six months in India” I must admit that throughout my travels, I had often rhetorically questioned how things would be different upon my return to the states, how I would be different, and if I would have a smooth re-entry. My adjustment period (although some say quite normal for a first time traveler) has lasted longer than I would have imagined, each month giving myself one more month to get my shit together and start a career here in NY. However after an entire summer of fruit-less searches and especially in light of recent tragic events, somehow the idea of pursuing the very same American Dream that so many Indians I met along my travels held envy for my mere potential (by default of location) of fulfilment, just doesn’t seem as easily obtainable, much less as important.

 

Back in October of last year I left the comfort of my cushy 10-6 job as the Aquatics Director at Harvard University. With it I left behind a half completed masters degree (courtesy of a lovely benefits package), gladly exchanging it for a greater sense of fulfilment. For I knew (as much as my family thought I was crazy), I was about to embark on far more amazing experiences than I have had the past four years photographing small (in comparison) music festivals. Months before I resigned, wanting to keep hold of some sense of security, I asked for a leave of absence. My boss suggested that I try to plan this trip in the summer, when we were not in the middle of the academic year and the height of the varsity swim season. Obviously she did not absorb the official, yet heartfelt, letter I wrote (requesting my leave) must less notice the details surrounding its purpose.

Every twelve years; that was why I couldn’t go for spring break, nor in the summer, nor the next year. This was the Maha Kumbh Mela I was talking about. You’ve never heard of it? It is only the largest spiritual pilgrimage festival on the planet. This year would be the most auspicious, due to it not only being the first Kumbh of the millennium, but also the 144th in the cycle of a long history of Kumbhs. I felt lucky enough to be given the opportunity to attend much less join a crew to document it. And because January 8th – February 21st (not any other time convenient with Harvard’s schedule) would be my once in a lifetime opportunity to throw my life in wild, unimaginable directions, I had no other choice but to welcome a change my current career path. I had no idea I would ultimately end up dropping out of the “American Dream” searching society as I knew it.

From the moment I signed my letter of resignation, everything else, like a graduate degree from Harvard and a multitude of side projects photographing the talents emerging from the Boston jazz scene, just didn’t seem as important anymore. Instead of bringing my camera out with me to places like the House of Blues and the Middle East, I danced; prepared to answer the inevitable questions “where is your camera tonight? Why aren’t you taking pictures?” with a confident “Sometimes you just got to enjoy the music and dance. Well, actually I’m saving my film for Kumbh Mela” “What’s that?” they’d murmur, as they’d turn away sipping their draft from a plastic cup, disguising their ignorance of third world events for not having heard me correctly, my words quite possibly lost among the club chatter and saxophones.

 

Come to think of it, I hadn’t photographed anything since. After all, I have still “just returned from India” and quite frankly nothing here seems as interesting; nothing, until I watched what some of the third world apparently considers the quintessential symbol of our American Dream come crashing to the ground right before my eyes. As I awoke with the frantic cries of my flat-mates, “Turn on the TV! No, go up on the roof!” my first instinct was to pack my camera bag, grab my helmet and cycle across the Williamsburg Bridge to the other side where the madness was growing. Yet like so many of those crowded and hectic early days at the Kumbh, Tuesday and Wednesday I allowed the fear to set in and hid, protected by the river that divided me from the chaos. Viewing the smoke scenes from afar and comfortably from the safety of our roof.

 

So many months not shooting, I struggled with the idea of getting out there again, knowing if I went out there, possibly risking my life in the asbestos, I could have had my big break. I had heard of a friend of a friend who got paid $10,000 for a shot of the second plane crash. I sat in front of the TV practically petrified in agony that I was allowing myself to be stuck inside, watching the footage of massive crowds crossing the bridges by foot on their way from Lower Manhattan to Brooklyn. The scene was all too familiar, remembering almost enjoying the feelings of near claustrophobia, walking and shooting among the pilgrims, being herded like cattle on pontoon bridges that crossed the Ganga; I couldn’t believe I was not apart of it this time.

 

As the entire world seemed to stand still in anticipation of the unknown, fearing more attacks on other cities’ skyscrapers, or worse, a full blown war, once again I was given the excuse to put the whole re-entry process (i.e., job search) on hold. So many people out of work, actually out of work-space, just wandering Union Square. I would find myself there too, rather than keeping busy sending out resumes and making phone calls, among them on a bench in front of the newly patriotic horse statue, starring off into the space of flowers and candles, writing to save my self from bursting into tears. So many cell phone conversations I overheard, as people roller bladed by making comments about how, they didn’t know what to do with themselves since their office was closed, or that they were not sure how they were going to get back into their downtown apartments. It was all too sad, and I found myself again holding back tears, while I attempted to make poignant photographs (from 14th Street downward), feeling despite all the anguish, this must be documented. Even though I was unsure of what to do with the images, it just seemed the only way I could feel better was to lose myself on the other side of the fence between observer and participant; my subtle way of dropping out of a painful reality.

 

At another much needed comfortable escape, Roshashana services, the Rabbi said it was like god was telling us (not in so many words, but I can’t think of a better way to say it) “get you shit together people! Is this what you are really supposed to be doing with your lives? Is making money, really what the American Dream should be all about?“ I didn’t think so in India and I feel after the 9.11 tragedy, my hunch had some validity to it. The real state of emergency was not our worries of pursuing economic livelihood, but the reality of western culture’s utter moral bankruptcy, that I saw spreading throughout metropolitan India like a virus. This whole event just made me wonder (even more than ever), what this world was coming to. After watching the epitome of that atrocious ideal collapse like the Berlin Wall, how can I go on living my life in search of this supposed American Dream.

 

Six months in third world villages is enough to change a person. Just as there is something truly amazing about photographing among a crowd of over thirty million, there is something truly humbling about wiping your ass with your bare-left-hand, forcing the habit of only touching food with your right. Sure makes trivialities out of the many adversities that hinder most civilized or shall I say sophisticated Americans. It was my experiences in the East that made me applaud to hear a Wall Street resident on the Tele explain that she could not possibly move back into her home, “not without hot water!” I felt like every body’s grandpa telling tall tales of walking barefoot in the snow five miles to school. I would have said “Oh yeah. Well we had to walk up several flights of stairs carrying buckets of water from the Ashram’s pump (next door), heat it on the stove, then carry it up another flight of stairs to the wash areas, without spilling most of it; then pour the water over us with a scoop to take a shower. But we also washed our dishes with dirt (well actually ash) and threw our trash over the balcony into the back yard for the cows to eat.” And the local villages (with television sets) wanted to be Westerners!

 

Now that a couple weeks have gone by, the downtown area has been cleaned up quite a bit since that Thursday I almost got arrested for taking photos at Ground Zero. People are slowly getting back to their Wall Street offices, and back to the daily grind of their nine-to-fives. As for me, I feel more lost than ever. The internship that I got doing Flash animation for Internet banner Ads, just doesn’t seem as fulfilling anymore, much less rewarding. Instead, the idea of taking my time to really get what I want out of this life (more than to pay the bills), or figure out what that is exactly, seems most important. After all, what is a few more days, weeks, months of digestion, or should I say procrastination? I mean, I did “just get back from India”, right?[Originally written September 24, 2001 | reflections on 9.11 through the perspective of my first trip to India.]

Excerpts from TMTTR