And then, on September 11, 2001, the world fractured.
It's beyond my skill as a writer to capture that day, and the days that would follow-the planes, like specters, vanishing
into steel and glass; the slow-motion cascade of the towers crumbling into themselves; the ash-covered figures
wandering the streets; the anguish and the fear. Nor do I pretend to understand the stark nihilism that drove the
terrorists that day and that drives their brethren still. My powers of empathy, my ability to reach into another's heart,
cannot penetrate the blank stares of those who would murder innocents with abstract, serene satisfaction.
What I do know is that history returned that day with a vengeance; that, in fact, as Faulkner reminds us, the past is
never dead and buried-it isn't even past. This collective history, this past, directly touches my own. Not merely because
the bombs of Al Qaeda have marked, with an eerie precision, some of the landscapes of my life-the buildings and roads
and faces of Nairobi, Bali, Manhattan; not merely because, as a consequence of 9/11, my name is an irresistible target
of mocking websites from overzealous Republican operatives. But also because the underlying struggle-between
worlds of plenty and worlds of want; between the modern and the ancient; between those who embrace our teeming,
colliding, irksome diversity, while still insisting on a set of values that binds us together, and those who would seek,
under whatever flag or slogan or sacred text, a certainty and simplification that justifies cruelty toward those not like
us-is the struggle set forth, on a miniature scale, in this book.
I know, I have seen, the desperation and disorder of the powerless: how it twists the lives of children on the streets of
Jakarta or Nairobi in much the same way as it does the lives of children on Chicago's South Side, how narrow the path
is for them between humiliation and untrammeled fury, how easily they slip into violence and despair. I know that the
response of the powerful to this disorder-alternating as it does between a dull complacency and, when the disorder
spills out of its proscribed confines, a steady, unthinking application of force, of longer prison sentences and more
sophisticated military hardware-is inadequate to the task. I know that the hardening of lines, the embrace of
fundamentalism and tribe, dooms us all.
And so what was a more interior, intimate effort on my part, to understand this struggle and to find my place in it, has
converged with a broader public debate, a debate in which I am professionally engaged, one that will shape our lives
and the lives of our children for many years to come.
The policy implications of all this are a topic for another book. Let me end instead on a more personal note. Most of
the characters in this book remain a part of my life, albeit in varying degrees-a function of work, children, geography,
and turns of fate.
The exception is my mother, whom we lost, with a brutal swiftness, to cancer a few months after this book was
published.
She had spent the previous ten years doing what she loved. She traveled the world, working in the distant villages of
Asia and Africa, helping women buy a sewing machine or a milk cow or an education that might give them a foothold
in the world's economy. She gathered friends from high and low, took long walks, stared at the moon, and foraged
through the local markets of Delhi or Marrakesh for some trifle, a scarf or stone carving that would make her laugh or
please the eye. She wrote reports, read novels, pestered her children, and dreamed of grandchildren.
We saw each other frequently, our bond unbroken. During the writing of this book, she would read the drafts,
correcting stories that I had misunderstood, careful not to comment on my characterizations of her but quick to explain
or defend the less flattering aspects of my father's character. She managed her illness with grace and good humor, and
she helped my sister and me push on with our lives, despite our dread, our denials, our sudden constrictions of the
heart.
I think sometimes that had I known she would not survive her illness, I might have written a different book-less a
meditation on the absent parent, more a celebration of the one who was the single constant in my life. In my daughters I
see her every day, her joy, her capacity for wonder. I won't try to describe how deeply I mourn her passing still. I know
that she was the kindest, most generous spirit I have ever known, and that what is best in me I owe to her.
It's beyond my skill as a writer to capture that day, and the days that would follow-the planes, like specters, vanishing
into steel and glass; the slow-motion cascade of the towers crumbling into themselves; the ash-covered figures
wandering the streets; the anguish and the fear. Nor do I pretend to understand the stark nihilism that drove the
terrorists that day and that drives their brethren still. My powers of empathy, my ability to reach into another's heart,
cannot penetrate the blank stares of those who would murder innocents with abstract, serene satisfaction.
What I do know is that history returned that day with a vengeance; that, in fact, as Faulkner reminds us, the past is
never dead and buried-it isn't even past. This collective history, this past, directly touches my own. Not merely because
the bombs of Al Qaeda have marked, with an eerie precision, some of the landscapes of my life-the buildings and roads
and faces of Nairobi, Bali, Manhattan; not merely because, as a consequence of 9/11, my name is an irresistible target
of mocking websites from overzealous Republican operatives. But also because the underlying struggle-between
worlds of plenty and worlds of want; between the modern and the ancient; between those who embrace our teeming,
colliding, irksome diversity, while still insisting on a set of values that binds us together, and those who would seek,
under whatever flag or slogan or sacred text, a certainty and simplification that justifies cruelty toward those not like
us-is the struggle set forth, on a miniature scale, in this book.
I know, I have seen, the desperation and disorder of the powerless: how it twists the lives of children on the streets of
Jakarta or Nairobi in much the same way as it does the lives of children on Chicago's South Side, how narrow the path
is for them between humiliation and untrammeled fury, how easily they slip into violence and despair. I know that the
response of the powerful to this disorder-alternating as it does between a dull complacency and, when the disorder
spills out of its proscribed confines, a steady, unthinking application of force, of longer prison sentences and more
sophisticated military hardware-is inadequate to the task. I know that the hardening of lines, the embrace of
fundamentalism and tribe, dooms us all.
And so what was a more interior, intimate effort on my part, to understand this struggle and to find my place in it, has
converged with a broader public debate, a debate in which I am professionally engaged, one that will shape our lives
and the lives of our children for many years to come.
The policy implications of all this are a topic for another book. Let me end instead on a more personal note. Most of
the characters in this book remain a part of my life, albeit in varying degrees-a function of work, children, geography,
and turns of fate.
The exception is my mother, whom we lost, with a brutal swiftness, to cancer a few months after this book was
published.
She had spent the previous ten years doing what she loved. She traveled the world, working in the distant villages of
Asia and Africa, helping women buy a sewing machine or a milk cow or an education that might give them a foothold
in the world's economy. She gathered friends from high and low, took long walks, stared at the moon, and foraged
through the local markets of Delhi or Marrakesh for some trifle, a scarf or stone carving that would make her laugh or
please the eye. She wrote reports, read novels, pestered her children, and dreamed of grandchildren.
We saw each other frequently, our bond unbroken. During the writing of this book, she would read the drafts,
correcting stories that I had misunderstood, careful not to comment on my characterizations of her but quick to explain
or defend the less flattering aspects of my father's character. She managed her illness with grace and good humor, and
she helped my sister and me push on with our lives, despite our dread, our denials, our sudden constrictions of the
heart.
I think sometimes that had I known she would not survive her illness, I might have written a different book-less a
meditation on the absent parent, more a celebration of the one who was the single constant in my life. In my daughters I
see her every day, her joy, her capacity for wonder. I won't try to describe how deeply I mourn her passing still. I know
that she was the kindest, most generous spirit I have ever known, and that what is best in me I owe to her.