While in exile in Syria, Gilbran, a Lebanese poet and philosopher, wrote “Dead are my People” from the anthology, “The Treasured Writings of Khalil Gibran” to express his anguish over the loss of his fellow countrymen by famine during the first World War. It very much relates to the current situations in New York and Washington, D.C.

“Gone are my people, but I exist yet,/Lamenting them in my solitude . The knolls of my country are submerged/By tears and blood, for my people and my beloved are gone, and I am here/Living as I did when my people and my/Beloved were enjoying live and the/Bounty of life, and then the hills of/My country were blessed and engulfed/By the light of the sun.”

They came from every educational, religious, and socioeconomic background imaginable. While the image we often conjure of people working in Manhattan is one of fashionable, affluent people living in the fast lane, they were janitors and secretaries, parking garage attendants and interns.

“My people died a painful and shameful/Death, and here am I living in plenty/And in peace.”

They were getting ready for a regular Tuesday of work. Replying to e-mails, returning phone calls, checking the numbers in the accounts they managed. Emptying the trash. Brewing coffee. Holding the telephone receiver between their ear and their shoulder, listening to elevator music while they were put on hold.

The rest of the country was getting ready for a regular Tuesday at work. We heard of them riding the bus, listening to the radio in the office, and when people burst into the room, “Have you heard?”

“This is a deep tragedy/Ever-enacted upon the stage of my/Heart; few would care to witness this/Drama, for my people are as birds with/Broken wings, left behind by the flock.”

We watched, helpless from thousands of miles away. Most of them lived a story we will never hear, and we will never forget the images we wish we had never seen.

We flew the flag.

“I am afar from the pitiful/Arena and the distressed, and cannot/Be proud aught, not even of my own/Tears.”

Some knew they were dying. They were trapped, and we saw them waving from the windows of their high-rise offices, so long glistening towers representing affluence and success.

Waving was futile.

Some of them jumped.

“This is the painful/Tragedy which tightens my tongue and/Pinions my arms and arrests me usurped/Of power and of will and of action. This is the curse burned upon my/Forehead before God and man.”

They had names we all know. Michael. Christy. Paul. Amy. Jim.

We will never know all of them, but our children will read of them in their history books as only as mass, lost.

Some of them were dear to us. Our powerlessness is haunting.

“But there was no rescue from the/Closing jaws . My people dropped/And wept with the crying angels.”

Some were aboard an airplane over the forests and meadows of Pennsylvania. In frantic cell phone calls to family members, they learned of the fate of their sisters and brothers in New York and Washington, D.C. In a final act of selflessness, they decided to do something.

The airplane hit no intended government or civilian target. All people aboard were killed, but they did not kill anyone else on impact.

“Yes, but the death of my people is/A silent accusation’ it is a crime/Conceived by the heads of the unseen/Serpents . It is a songless and/Sceneless tragedy”

We watch the rescuers, stoic against the twisted steel and crumbling cement, their hearts collapsing and their minds forever filled with horror that cannot be encapsulated in a sound bite for the twenty four-hour reporters with their microphones.

“My brother, the kindness/Which compels you to give a part of/Your life to any human who is in the/Shadow of losing his life is the only/Virtue which makes you worthy of the/Light of day and the peace of the/Night….”

Rachel Faber Machacha is a graduate in international development studies from Emmetsburg.