On Monday night, I watched “Children of 9/11″ on NBC. I knew it would be painful, but as with all things connected to 9/11 I have yet to strike the balance between preserving my heart and my sanity and honoring the people whose lives have been shattered by not looking away.
It’s fallacious reasoning.
It doesn’t matter to the children who have lost their parents if I’m watching or not.
But to me it matters.
It matters that I share, however minutely, in the pain.
But I haven’t told you about how a few weeks before September 11, 2001, we were at my parents’ dacha talking about the Holocaust. Because what else are you supposed to do on a beautiful summer night if not discuss the horrors of Nazi Germany?
We were talking about how soon all the Holocaust survivors will be gone. How in a generation, the Holocaust deniers will be stronger, have more ammunition. How we will have no one among us who will roll up his sleeve, casually, because it is too warm, and reveal a tattoo across the arm, reminding everyone in proximity what had happened. Just by being.
Of course we are not going to forget September 11th. Not in our lifetime and not in our children’s.
But it’s going to happen eventually.
And that’s terrifying.