The day the music died

September 11.

This date, this one day in September, has come to signify one of the most horrific, terrifying, pre-meditated events in Western history.

It is a date guaranteed to stir up violent emotion in anyone who witnessed it - either via television, radio, telephone, or, in the worst case scenario - in person.

It is one of very few days in history in which millions of people could tell you what they were doing, where they were, how they felt. Even ten years on, we all remember with shocking clarity.

On September 11, 2001, I was a university student, recently returned from a long stint backpacking around the world.

Sitting in my parents' home, rugged up in a doona with a horrendous dose of the flu, I watched in disbelief as thousands of innocent people died.

I listened as reports of planes crashing into fields and the Pentagon came, like the plot of a movie I would never choose to watch, simply because I hate violent movies. Especially if the violence is unwarranted, done simply for the entertainment or gratification of others.

As a 25 year old, I cried for the poor people in the planes and the Twin Towers. I wept for the firefighters in New York City, and the families of those who had their lives ended so gruesomely. I sobbed at the injustice of it all, at the horrible ridiculousness of the situation.

On September 11, 2011, I relived the horror of ten years ago. Only now, my stomach churned even more.

Now, we know so much about why the towers came down. We know some of what the incredibly brave people did on Flight 93 to prevent another building being hit, even when they knew their own lives would be lost. We know what people went through before they decided to jump from the skyscrapers to their deaths. We know that there are families forever torn apart. We know there are people wandering New York as homeless people, because their brains were damaged and their memories were wiped when the towers came down.

We know that this act was one of sheer hate. We know they wanted it to be much, much worse.

As the mother of three children who will never know a world without the threat of terrorism, I feel so much worse about September 11 now, compared to ten years ago.

Now, I think about the mothers and fathers who lost children; the wives who lost husbands; the husbands who lost wives. The aunties, the uncles, the grandparents. The friends. The lovers. The innocent.

I think about the fact that we all wonder when the next attack will be. After America, there was Bali. And London. And then Madrid. I'm sure those in the know have stopped many others that the general public were blissfully unaware of.

I wonder, will we ever feel completely safe again? To fly on a plane without secretly wondering if it will arrive unhindered? To enter a tall building to admire the view, without checking where the escape stairwells are? To go to a packed football stadium without feeling like a sitting duck? To go shopping in a large mall at Christmas time?

On September 11 every year, we weep for all that was lost. Thousands of loved ones. The innocence of the Western world. And the freedom to live without the shadow of fear cast across our faces.