The tragic awakening

As I was dusting the furniture, on September 11, 2001, an unusually bright and a warm day here in Houston, I heard garbled words — "explosion” and "twin towers.” I didn’t bother looking at the television and I continued with my work. Then I heard "Pentagon,” "Washington, DC,” and "plane crashed into it.” These words, then the sound of a boom, the sound of panic in the news reporter’s voice made me look up at the screen. I just stood there seeing the images of the plane slicing the twin towers over and over again. I just couldn’t hear the words, just the sound of terror and fear, bloody faces, crying faces, individuals fleeing. My dust cloth was clutched tightly in my hands, my body couldn’t move from the spot. A phone call from my husband fol­lowed by one I made to my kids’ school was reassuring. Yet my mind was still so numb, and slowly I started to see and hear what had really happened. Then out of nowhere anger was raging inside me, then sadness and then there were the tears — thinking of my kids, my husband, my family, the loneliness, the emptiness of ever losing them and the thought of any child caught in a situa­tion like this. I felt frightened for my husband who had yet to catch a flight home, but we told ourselves to have faith in Ahura Mazda. Remember him and pray at times like these and all will be well. My husband did return home safely the next day. All I did from the time of this incident in the morning till the time I had to pick up my kids from school was curl up on the sofa hugging myself and praying. This was a span of three to four hours — of doing nothing but praying, and staring at the TV screen.

When it was time to pick up the kids, I was troubled with thoughts of how do I explain where I am from, what if other parents ask me if I belong to the Islamic faith, what if they start disliking me, what if they start to hate my kids? A million more questions came to my mind. Our kids’ school has 98 percent white children so I belonged to that two percent tiny minority. As I approached all the mothers who were waiting to pick up their children, I could hear the chatter of the unfortunate incident. I felt a bit uneasy at first, then joined in the conversation. For a while it was good to talk about the incident and express your opinion, and then came the question directed towards me, "Why do you think they (Muslims) do this sort of thing?” Just as the question came out of the blue, so did my answer, "I wouldn’t know, I am a Zoroastrian.” I remember saying a quick prayer and asking Ahura Mazda for help. A voice inside me said, ‘This is your opportunity to tell others all about your faith — do it!’ A quick hug to my kids and they resumed their play with the others while I stood there in the warm sun for a good two hours doing nothing but satisfying curious minds. At the end of the day my family prayed to Ahura Mazda for all the souls lost in this cruel tragedy, and for the living to be safe, to help those who are misguided, and to give us peace over hostility.

Itook this dreadful tragedy and turned it to my advantage to educate my peers about who is a Zarathushti. This calamity also made me want to learn and understand more about my own faith so I could educate not only others, but my family and fellow Zo­roastrians. I am just a mother who made her children’s life a little simpler, and taught them to say the word Zoroastrian with confidence and dignity whilst proudly proclaiming to be a member of the oldest monotheistic religion in the world.

TENAZ SUNAVALA

Texas, USA