Over the weeks that followed, the identities and nationalities of the hijackers were revealed. Fifteen of the nineteen were Saudi. Not one was Afghan, but rumor had it that the mastermind behind the attacks, Osama bin Laden, was hiding in the caves of Afghanistan. The collective heads of the world swiveled toward my homeland. The evening news showed women covered head to foot in bright blue burqas, cowering under the raised switch of a long-bearded man.

For years, I’d scoured newspapers for updates. Now, everywhere I looked, I saw the eleven letters of my country’s name, the shape of it becoming as distinct and recognizable as her borders outlined on a map. It had become a country I didn’t recognize, in both pictures and principles.

I wanted to shout. I wanted to hide. I wanted to tell people things had been different.

After one grueling fourteen-hour day in the hospital, most of it on my feet, I wanted nothing but a hot shower. Thick gray clouds cast a dreary mood on an already mourning city. I wore a quilted black jacket. I was at the revolving doors, about to exit the hospital, when I realized I’d forgotten my umbrella in the call room. I was so anxious to get home that I stuffed my hands in my pockets and pulled the hood of my jacket over my head to stay dry.

I took the train home. While standing at the crosswalk, I sent Dayo a quick text to ask if she wanted burritos, salads, or Thai. She lived only four blocks from my apartment, so we got together whenever our schedules aligned. I heard someone hollering across the street and glanced up just as I hit Send.

Three men stood on the opposite side of the road, their hair matted with rain. I felt their eyes on me and looked back down at my phone. Plenty of men behaved badly in the subway or on the streets, offering unsolicited opinions on my figure, suggesting I smile or asking for a sip of my coffee.

These men had something different to say.

We’re going to bomb your people back to the Stone Age.

Get the hell out of this country.

I felt like my jacket had vaporized. I wanted to turn around but wondered if they would follow. And if I crossed to their side of the street—

The light changed.

They were coming toward me. I stood still, drops of rain cascading down my cheeks and soaking through my jacket. I stood rooted, but not out of bravery.

When they were close enough that I could see they were nothing but ordinary men, one of them made a gun of his fingers and pointed it directly at my head.

All of you.