I’m one of the lucky ones. I wasn’t in danger on 9/11. I didn’t have friends or relatives in the danger area. I didn’t have to make frantic calls. I lived in California, and woke up after we knew it was terror and not accident.

But I remain affected by that day. When I read about that day, or hear stories about that day, or watch images from that day, I am filled with a deep sadness that is mostly unlike any other emotion attached to my life. I know I should probably be angry, but mostly I’m sad.

Sad that so many lost loved ones. Sad that people we don’t know hate us SO MUCH that they could do this. Sad that America has lost some of its innocence. Sad that Muslims and Arab-Americans sometimes have to face (more) descrimination and anger from people whose fear and confusion mutated into bigotry. Sad that we are so divided even among ourselves. Sad that we have squandered the world’s good will and sympathy toward us.

But mostly sad because of the mothers…the fathers…the children…the friends… Sad because so many people important to us are gone because of this senseless act.

I live with a man whose father was killed by terrorists in a suicide attack in Beirut. I have seen first-hand how that loss has changed his life. I have seen how angry it has made him. I have seen how hurt it has made him.

And the whole thing just makes me sad.