9/11, Memorial Day, and the Weight of Memory
Reflections on war, loss, survivor’s guilt, and choosing life
Note: This is a longer reflection (approx. 20 min read). Take your time with it, come back if you need to. It’s heavy, but it matters.
This piece touches upon loss and suicide, please take care of yourself while reading.
Today marks the 24th anniversary of 9/11… Originally written just after Memorial Day, what follows is both remembrance and reflection: on service, loss, survival, and connection. I share it now because the ache of 9/11, Memorial Day, and personal losses are intertwined for me. This is my way of honoring them.
Finding the Words
I tried to record this thought train on Memorial Day, but my app failed and all I got was muted mumbling.
I tried to record it similarly the year before by a beautiful spot beside the lake. Finished it after crying a bit, only to find I’d failed to hit record.
Don’t you love it when either tech fails or you glitch in the moment?
Frustrating? Very.
Through with it? Not by a long shot.
So here we go…
9/11: The Call to Arms
Today marks the 24th anniversary of a day none of us can forget. Collectively, we carry the trauma and catastrophic loss our nation endured, but also the solidarity we felt as a people in the aftermath.
The unspeakable. A day of national trauma; those in the vicinity of the attacks pouring their hearts and themselves into rescue operations for so many lost… the rest of us glued to our television sets, helpless to do anything but watch it all unfold.
Our shock and terror were slowly replaced by grief and a profound sense of loss. That shared grief begot a sense of solidarity quite unique in our collective memory. People were furious at those responsible, but kinder to one another within our borders. Pettiness was largely rejected in those early days.
I’d already submitted my application to rejoin the Army when the attacks occurred. Two days later, I heard from my recruiter and arranged to in-process. I had small children. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt this meant I would deploy. I was afraid of what might happen.
I did it anyway.
We all felt that call deeply.
Deployment Bonds
Memorial Day is a mixed bag for me. I was very fortunate in that we brought everyone home from Iraq.
Sure, there were some injuries and close calls, but we made it. We came home whole… mostly. And most of us began the process of trying to settle back into life in CONUS (Continental U.S.).
Of course, we bore scars, most of them unseen. That time in our lives was wholly different than any other.
It’s hard to describe the difference in life and connections between my deployment and being here. I’ve spent my life feeling out of step with those around me. Either ten steps ahead or failing to notice the nose on my face. A divergent thinker, forever isolated.
I had friends, but I always had to mask, to use the words they used, to try to fit in. I was lonely and my most interesting conversations usually happened with myself.
Things were different when I was deployed. It was like we were all in this sandpit together, so why not talk about whatever came up?
We’d sit on the hoods of our Humvees at night gazing up at the stars, so bright they looked like diamonds scattered on black velvet, mere inches in front of us. Like I could reach out and pluck one out of the sky at any time and hold it in my hand.
So many philosophical conversations had in those moments: What do you think is really out there? Does God exist? What is your take on the meaning of life? What do you think they’ll serve at chow tomorrow? Will we make it out of here? What did you really mean when you said xyz? What’s the first thing you want to eat when we get back? Can you fix the blown-out seat of my DCUs? Can you sing a song for me?
We talked of food relentlessly. Rationing 2 MREs and 2 bottles of water per day will do that to you.
Ah, the comfort of civilization… so very far away. Where we were was decidedly not civilized.
Survival & Sanity
Out there, the heat was relentless. The very first day we arrived, they made us sit on a bus with the windows closed for over two hours.
We were waiting for movement. We were always waiting for movement.
Windows shut so no one could see who was inside. So covert.
By the time we finally rolled to the place where we’d be pitching, we were told to wait again in the sun, on the sand, with all our gear. Leadership did what leadership does.
We passed out on our rucks, the heat pressing us flat, and woke to the first layer of sunburn that would keep building in the days ahead.
A month or two in, I woke one morning and poked out of my sleeping bag. My skin recoiled instantly, gooseflesh rising in protest. I dove right back into my cocoon.
I found out later that the temperature had dipped to the low 90s that morning.
I can remember when the Headquarters 1st Sergeant made a deal with locals to pick up ice blocks on a daily basis for a while. We could put money on the books. He would exit the wire early in the morning and be back shortly before lunchtime. We’d get word and I’d go get my block: they were huge.
I weighed under 100lbs at that point in the rotation, belt tightened as far as it would go, and my slacks still drooped low. My pro-mask slung so low, the bottom scraped the top of my boot.
Carried in my arms like a baby, this thing towered several feet over my head on my long walk from my place of duty back to our personal area. By the time I’d get there, half would be gone… melted.
I’d be soaked, with my teeth chattering.
Didn’t matter. It made those days so much better.
My buddies and I would take our useless bayonets and break it up into pieces, to reside in a shared cooler for the day.
Humor & Release
Those nights we would break out the hookah and pass it around, giggling at stories we would tell each other.
The other thing about being out there: in the daytime, everything blurred into beige. Monotony, painted in sand. The anti-malaria meds they had us on gave vivid dreams, which were really nice by comparison.
The short? We were starved for entertainment, bright colors… difference.
Anything that made it feel like we were alive. I had brought a lot of art supplies with me, which were a big hit, the further into the deployment we sank.
And so, we formed very deep bonds with each other.
Humor was the water in which we bathed.
We made each other laugh all the time. All of my kingdom for want of a giggle.
We also talked: really talked about all the things that we felt and thought. There were no filters, really.
It was, in many ways, the most liberated I’ve ever felt around others.
The Other Side of Stress
Now, I can’t say this was uniform among all the troops.
The thing about stress is that it can bring out the best in people, but also the worst.
There were those that lived for making life even more of a living hell than it already was. The butterbar lieutenant who lived for trying to pin any shame possible on the only female in the unit. The lieutenant colonel who would imperiously throw his shit bag on his driver’s cot because he himself was too good to take it to the burn pit.
Memories.
This type of behavior only served to draw those of us who were not driven to cruelty that much closer together.
Why We Were So Close
I can remember this conversation featured with many of my battle-buddies out there: Why do I feel more comfortable with you than with anyone else I’ve ever known? We’ve only known each other a few months.
My answer? Well, look. Back home, we meet as coworkers and spend what? Maybe an hour or two politely chatting, occasionally getting a really good laugh together per week... or even month?
You and I have spent many (sometimes 10 or more) hours every day for the last six months, keeping each other company, but most importantly alert, each time diving even deeper into what makes us tick.
The conversation doesn’t end. It continues when we wake up again.
That’s like the equivalent of a 20–30-year friendship in just hours alone.
The answer was always the same: I hadn’t really thought of it that way.
No doubt, Chuckles. It does make an extraordinary difference in how we relate. There’s a reason that I know I can trust you with my life but wouldn’t trust you with my girlfriend!
So yeah, we were tight. And it helped us make it through a very different reality we existed in for a year.
Of course, we grew complacent. It’s what happens when you think you know the score. When there’s that kind of sameness all around you... hell, we could set our watches by the mortars the insurgents fired every evening.
They got close on a few occasions.
Ah memories.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I was conflicted the entire way through that deployment. The sight of children begging for food, bombed out schools, people genuinely suffering?
So. Not. Cool.
But I was also hellbent to come home to my own children.
Sorry, rambling a bit. Talking about this does that to me. There’s so much to convey.
Returning Stateside
What’s important here is that not all of us truly made it back.
Physically yes, but otherwise, Iraq came home with most of us.
Some assimilated back into life. I managed for a while. My guys knew I always cooked for an Army, so they stopped by regularly for dinner. That Thanksgiving, I had sixteen people in my house in addition to my own family.
But military life shifts fast. They started leaving one by one. Before long, I was the only original member left. And I was right back to the same old tired games I’d endured when I started: sexual objectification, targeting, continuous harassment.
No acknowledgment of the ground covered between.
No acknowledgment as a valued member of the unit at all.
And when the new commander issued the final threat, my answer was simple: “Start the paperwork. I was looking for a job when I found this one.”
Linkin Park’s Easier to Run carried the weight of everything we couldn’t outrun and still can’t. It’s the quiet echo that surfaces when survivor’s guilt hits hardest.
Loss & Survivor’s Guilt
Some of us thrived and went on to make serious rank. I fell away from each as time drew on.
Being apart changed all of us. Amnesia seemed to be the theme. Forget the bad, but forget the good too: the closeness, the laughter.
Years on, I saw the news in my feed: T. was gone. Suicide.
It hit me like a punch. I had no idea what his life looked like then. All I could picture was his goofy face cracking jokes, hiding the depth I always suspected was there.
I was at a soul-sucking call center job. I didn’t take the news well.
I was already circling my own edges at that point. One time in particular, almost sealing the deal.
I don’t know what all he was going through, but I knew what I was experiencing: a complete disconnect. A feeling that it would never get any better. Each day somehow worse than the one before.
I often wonder if it was like that for T. too.
I was lucky: I kept putting off that seeming inevitability. Kept talking myself down.
“If it sucks this bad tomorrow, I’ll revisit. For now. No.”
That single choice saved me. Again and again.
I’ve had many brushes with suicide in my life: talking people back from the ledge and, unfortunately, one I didn’t perceive was standing that close until it was too late.
So, I knew with absolute clarity, even in my darkest times, that I needed to wait.
So, I kept choosing life just a little longer.
Choosing to Stay
Eventually, it did start to feel better. Not all at once, but through a daily trek and steady climb. A whole lot of reaching for help.
My life isn’t perfect and never will be. But I live each day making the most of it I can. I strive for happiness and clarity, even when I feel like crap.
I wish T. could have given himself that time too.
I’m the lucky one, not in spite of everything I’ve borne, but because of it.
Not thanking past abusers or misogynistic assholes.
Thanking myself.
For choosing to become stronger. For choosing to stand up anyway.
The Biggest Loss of My Life
Five years ago, I lost my father. He was my biggest inspiration in life.
A veteran of the US Navy, he was a big part of why I joined the military in the first place. He was proud the day I graduated Basic. He was my hero, always.
Memorial Day was never about barbecues for me. It was about talking to him, honoring him. The miles fell away when we talked.
After he died, I shut down for a couple years. Hid from Memorial Day entirely.
But hiding isn’t living.
Now I honor him still, even if the conversations are one-sided. I can hear him laugh, saying, “Well, not much has changed then, huh?”
Beloved wise ass. How I love that man.
Linkin Park’s Somewhere I Belong was one of the most-played songs during deployment. Back then, it was a shared escape; now it’s a reminder that somewhere out there is a place, or a moment, where I can finally feel at home in my own life again.
What I Remember Most
For my estranged brothers-in-arms, I miss the laughs we used to share. I miss how easy it was to be around them, how any squabble could be squashed with a sparring match or a stupid joke. I’ll always remember that time with fondness for the part they played in it.
For my friend, T., I carry the echo of his warmth, his slow smile, the mischievous glint in his eye when he knew he had you. His absence still lands like a gut punch, but it’s a privilege to have known him at all.
For my father, my hero, I miss our conversations about everything and nothing. He was my anchor, my inspiration, my model of service and integrity. I wouldn’t be who I am today without his sacrifices. And every Memorial Day, I still talk to him.
These are the memories I hold close. Not the stress. Not the horror. Not the fear.
The laughs. The closeness. The bonds that were forged in fire and sand.
The feeling of being seen — truly seen — and accepted.
And if you take anything from this, let it be this: that even in the darkest places, connection is what keeps us alive. That memory is not a weakness but a responsibility. That choosing to stay, one day at a time, is an act of defiance, of survival, of love.
9/11 and Memory
9/11 taught us how fragile life is, and how deeply we need each other. Memorial Day reminds me of the cost of service, and the ache of absence. Together, they remind me why I keep choosing to stay, and why I believe in the power of connection: to hold us up, to keep us alive, and to remind us we’re not alone.
If You’re Struggling
I can’t talk about loss and suicide without also saying this: if you’re in that place, feeling like there’s no way forward, please know you don’t have to carry it alone.
📞 In the U.S., dial 988 to connect with the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. There’s someone available to talk to you 24/7.
🌐 You can also visit 988lifeline.org for chat support and resources.
💬 If you’re outside the U.S., you can find international hotlines at findahelpline.com, or search for crisis resources in your country.
You matter. Please reach out.
Author’s Note:
This piece wasn’t written lightly. It came from sitting in the ache: of memory, of loss, of the parts of myself I’ve had to reclaim piece by piece.
If you have been there—in the sand, in the waiting, in the after—you know how much of it never really leaves you.
If you have not, maybe this gives you a window into why I write the way I do.
— Liora
voice through fire | www.liorawrites.com
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This piece expertly connects the complexity of the devastation of 9/11 with the very real consequences of the invasion of Iraq and the lingering effects experienced by the brave women and men who served our country. I thoroughly enjoyed your reflections and the sensitivity to the scars left by a unique shared experience.