Those words sucked all the oxygen out of the car. I cracked open the window.
“And,” he said, pulling out of the school’s driveway, “Mom hasn’t heard from Dad. He went to a military base this morning, Caitlin, and has not called since. She wants you and me to stay at home until we know he’s okay.”
I started connecting all the pieces: My dad worked for the government; he was at a military base; the Pentagon had been hit. I jumped to the impossible notion: My dad may be dead. I shook my head. That was preposterous. But then I remembered the fire I saw in the sky on the TV earlier that morning. That seemed impossible, too.
Once home, I clicked on the TV. The images were even more frantic, as the buildings had collapsed by then. It looked as if it was snowing in downtown New York. I heard a reporter say, “The ashes are scattering as far as Brooklyn,” and turned off the TV. It was too much to take in.
An hour later, I heard the dogs barking. Mom was home.
I ran downstairs.
“Have you heard from Dad?” I asked as soon as she walked in the door.
Her face was slick with tears so new I guessed that she must have just been sobbing in the car. When she shook her head, more tears sprang from her eyes. I ran over to give her a hug.
“He’s going to be okay, Mom—he has to be,” I said as I squeezed her. But I was not sure. All kinds of crazy thoughts went through my head, but rather than sit in front of the TV with my mom, I went up to my room and put Incubus on my CD player.
“I dig my toes into the sand,” the song started slowly. When it hit the “I wish you were here” chorus, I turned the volume up.
Three hours later, the phone rang. My mom shouted, “Thank God it’s you.”
I ran down to hug her as she continued to talk to my dad. I’d never been happier hearing his deep voice booming through the receiver. He said that he had been stuck on the military base, which was on red alert. All cell service was blocked. He was finally on his way home.
I stayed home from school the next day—and the rest of the week. My parents were rattled by the experience, and so was I. Especially when we learned that the plane crashes were an act of terrorism. I’d learned that word the year before, after the embassy bombings. I never expected anything like this would ever happen on US soil. Damon thought it would lead to a full-fledged war. We talked on the phone every night for hours.
“If there’s a draft, I’ll have to go,” he said somberly one night.
I kept quiet, but there was a maelstrom forming in my chest. The weekend before, Damon took me to Six Flags amusement park. We rode the Vertical Velocity and I had never been so scared in my life. That was just a ride. The thought of Damon leaving to go fight in some faraway war was terrifying in a different way.
“We can go to Canada,” I responded. “My family has friends there.”
“Baby, I will do what is right for my country,” he said.
“I won’t let you go!” I said. As those words left my mouth, I understood how everything I once knew to be true about my country had changed in an instant. My safe little world was quickly becoming unraveled.
I thought of Martin for the first time in days. Had he even heard about the attacks? I owed him a letter.
I eased in with a bit about my life in school before getting to the heart of what had been consuming me for the past six days since the attacks.
I guess by now you have heard of the terrible terrorist activities that have plagued our proud nation, I wrote. Those words released a torrent. I shared every single detail of that day, scene by scene. It was the first terrible thing that had happened to my country in my lifetime and I was still grappling with what it all meant. This tragedy touches all who believe in freedom, I continued. Although the terrorists were nameless and faceless, we will recover. Our strength comes from knowing that we are a strong nation who believes in liberty and freedom for all. Our buildings may crumble, our hearts will bleed, we shed openly our tears at the loss of loved ones, but we will survive. These terrorists have not won anything.
I did not even notice the tears that were streaming down my face until they splashed onto the keyboard as I typed. Please pray that our leaders find the appropriate answer to all this violence and find inspiration and intelligence to provide the plan to hit this terrorism in its heart.
There was so much more to say on this issue, one I thought Martin would somehow understand.
September 2001
Martin
BY THE END OF THE BREAK, my mother was back up on her feet, bossing everyone around. I’d never been so happy to wash dishes. On my last night home, Nation and I started laughing about it.
“What’s so funny?” my mother shouted as she brought more plates to clean.
“You,” I said. She swatted at me, and then went to finish tidying up.
Now that my mother was well, I could go back to school worry free. My bus left for Nyanga at nine the next morning. After breakfast, I said good-bye to my father and siblings. I hugged my mother for longer than usual. Her strength had returned. I could feel her squirm in my grip.
“No time for this,” she said, pushing me away. “You will be late for your bus.”
“Take care, Mai,” I said. “Go easy.”
“And you study hard,” she responded.
“I will,” I said.
On Monday, Mr. Muzawazi started his weekly assembly with a pep talk.
“We are entering the final semester,” he started. “Half of you will be finishing your A-levels in December and heading to university to do great things. The rest have one more year to follow in their footsteps.”
I had started to think about what I wanted to focus on at college. My grades were good enough to apply for scholarships in Harare, but I was more determined than ever to pursue university in America. Ever since the hospital experience with my mother, I was more determined to study medicine. Rabbit was going to start his medical degree at the University of Harare that January, and I had a few other friends who were planning to do the same. Zimbabwe certainly needed doctors, and I wanted to make a living where I could actually help people.
I was mid-reverie when Mr. Muzawazi began his inspection. For some reason, on that particular day, he was easy on all of us. He walked briskly up and down the aisles nodding and smiling. No one was called out. It was strange in a nice way.
Two days later, at breakfast, another assembly was called. This was unexpected. We all started chattering in the dining hall about what it could be.
“Someone must be in trouble,” Rabbit said.
We filed into the assembly area quietly. Mr. Muzawazi was standing at the front with his hands clasped in front of him, his head nodded down, as if in deep prayer.
Once we all had taken our places, he spoke.
“Students, I have troubling news,” he said. “There was a terrorist attack on the United States.”
A ripple of sharp breaths and “How is that possible?” exclamations went through the rows of students.
“Two planes struck the twin towers in New York City,” Mr. Muzawazi continued. “A third hit the Pentagon in Washington, DC. And according to news I read this morning, a fourth plane crashed in Pennsylvania.”
I had never heard of the twin towers, though Mr. Muzawazi explained that they represented the financial capital of the United States. We had all heard of the Pentagon, and were shocked to learn that people had died as a result of this tragedy. But what alarmed me the most was the plane crash in Pennsylvania. That was where Caitlin and her family lived. What if the crash was near Hatfield? What if they had been hurt? With each new question, my throat constricted. I had to make sure Caitlin was okay. But how? A letter took two weeks to get to her. I shot my hand into the air.
Mr. Muzawazi stopped mid-sentence, surprised to be interrupted.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said. “But do you know where in Pennsylvania?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Martin,” he said. “All we know is that it was
in the middle of a field, and everyone on the plane died.”
As awful as the news was, it made me feel better. Caitlin would have been in school and not on a plane. I could breathe again.
For the days that followed, everyone at school talked about the attacks. Not too long thereafter, we learned that the US and Britain were imposing sanctions on Zimbabwe, which was still involved in the Congo. While this was not directly related to September 11, the ripple effects of a changed world were being felt everywhere. The US was targeting any nation that abetted terrorists—that included my country. Still, I wasn’t worried about the global consequences—I wondered, would these sanctions impact my relationship with Caitlin? I prayed every night that would not be so.
I also prayed for news from Caitlin, and was relieved to return home for the Christmas break to a letter that said she and her family were fine. As always, her words put all my fears to rest. I wanted to offer her comfort with mine. They were still all I had.
Dear Caitlin and family, I wrote. I’m so sorry for the terrorist activities that rocked America and led to the loss of innocent lives. We Zimbabweans join you in this period of sorrow.
I asked if she had heard of the sanctions, and then added, I pray that all these potential problems and economic tensions between US and Zimbabwe will not affect our deep strong relationship.
There were so many things I wanted to share with her: namely, that I was considering medical school seriously. Caitlin had already reached out to a few places for me, and then my headmaster even gave me a list of more top schools to pursue. I included several in that same letter: If you could please contact New York University School of Medicine, Stanford University School of Medicine, University of Washington School of Medicine, University of Michigan School of Medicine on my behalf. I knew this was a lot, so I added, I’m sorry for giving you such a huge task. I know it is time-consuming and may be boring. Maybe you don’t have to do the whole task in one day, you may do it bit by bit. That is when you are free and feel like you want to do the tasks. So do not strain yourself! I thank you in advance for your help.
I sent the letter right before Christmas and was amazed to receive one from her only a few days later. Our missives had crossed somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, I thought as I ripped open the envelope.
Folded in between the pale pink stationery was a piece of silver. It looked like a very thin candy bar. I unwrapped it to find a twenty-dollar bill. I shook my head in disbelief. I’d forgotten to ask for money to secure a passport. I needed one now that I was planning to study abroad. Somehow my friend from so far away must have already known that. This was a sign.
January 2002
Caitlin
EVERYTHING CHANGED AFTER SEPTEMBER 11. The attacks were proof that there were people who truly hated America. That was a new feeling. It was terrible, but it made me think hard about what it meant to be an American. I shared those thoughts with Martin in my next letter. The terrorist attacks affected every American. But our country is so great, because we all stuck together in this time of need. We stand behind our government and trust that the terrorists will be brought to justice.
The words just flowed out of me, as if the experience opened a new valve in my brain and heart. I hadn’t heard about the sanctions Martin mentioned in his letter, but nothing could alter my feelings toward him. I made a point of that, writing, Rest assured the political crisis between Zimbabwe and the US will not affect our friendship.
If anything, I felt more indebted to Martin than ever. He had already changed the way I thought about the world. And now he was having an impact on what I wanted to be in it. Ever since he wrote me about going to medical school, I started thinking about becoming a nurse. I told my parents over dinner one night. They were thrilled.
“You will always have a job,” my dad said.
“And you have the right disposition,” my mom added.
“Plus, if Martin does go to medical school, we can work together,” I said.
We all laughed at this thought in a “wouldn’t that be amazing” way.
Later that evening, my mom asked me to sit down with her in the kitchen.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Your father and I want to help Martin as best we can, but we cannot afford to send him to college here in the States.”
“I know that, Mom,” I said.
“But he won’t be able to get here without our help,” she continued. “You have so much on your plate, I don’t want you to worry about helping Martin getting into college as well. Since I’m only going to be substitute teaching this year, I’d like to help Martin find a scholarship.”
“That’s the best news ever!” I said.
She smiled and then whipped out the letter she had drafted to Martin earlier that day in which she detailed the six universities she had already contacted about international scholarships.
“I didn’t want to send this without your okay,” she explained.
“You have my full support, Mom,” I said. “But I still want to help.”
She stuck out her hand and said, “Deal.”
We shook on it.
I had already started to reach out to medical schools for Martin, and that process inspired me to make another appointment with my guidance counselor to talk about my own options. I told her I was thinking about nursing, and she asked if I had heard of the dual enrollment program. I had not.
“You only need to take homeroom and physical education next year in order to finish all your high school credits,” she explained. “So why not start college at the same time? You can double up, and get a head start.”
I was getting sick of high school and loved the thought of getting a head start on college.
“Where?” I asked.
“Montgomery County Community College offers all the prerequisite classes for a nursing degree,” she said. “Your grades are good enough to go and you don’t need any standardized tests to get in.”
“You mean I don’t have to take the SATs?” I said.
I went out with Damon the night before the PSATs and bombed them. I was dreading the SATs.
“You would still take them,” she said. “But they won’t matter.”
“How can I sign up?” I said.
June 2002
Martin
I WAS SURPRISED TO RECEIVE a letter from Caitlin’s mom. In it, she offered to help me navigate the complicated American college admission process. I was so happy to hear this. It was further proof that Caitlin was not the only angel in this family.
Anne asked me if I had ever heard of the SATs. I had, in fact, because my good friend Wallace had taken them earlier that year. He, too, was planning to go to school in the States that September.
Wallace lived in the dorm next to me but was always in my room because he was close friends with my roommates Bonaventure and Cornelius. We called Wallace “Lobe,” short for Lobengula, the Ndebele warrior who fought the white colonialists when they invaded in the eighteen hundreds. Wallace was very buff. He worked out all the time, lifting weights. But he was also very calm, quiet, and reserved. He never said much unless you asked him direct questions, which was why I didn’t learn sooner that he was going to the US to study. When I did find out, I started grilling him. That’s how I found out his brother was already attending college in Canada, and that his parents owned a bed-and-breakfast in Victoria Falls, where he grew up. Despite his family’s wealth, Wallace was humble, not showy like so many of our other classmates. I asked him one day why that was so, and he explained that his father was the first in his family to go to university, and that many of his relatives lived in the rural areas and were even worse off than my own parents. He understood poverty, even though he had not experienced it firsthand. He never judged me for mine. Instead, he inspired me to be the first to escape it in my family, like his father had.
When I received Anne’s letter, I asked Wallace where I could take these SATs.
“You sign up for them through the Inter
net,” he explained.
This was yet another reason I needed access to a computer. Anne had already mentioned that all of the information I needed for college was online, and she had recently asked if there was any way I could communicate with her via e-mail to save time, as it took a month for letters to get back and forth. There was an Internet cafe in Mutare, but I wouldn’t be able to use that until I went home for break. I was getting frustrated, but then Wallace told me that Mr. Muzawazi had a computer—and online access—in his office.
I made an appointment to meet with Mr. Muzawazi, who was pleased to hear I was pursuing university in the States.
“Terrific news, Martin,” he said.
“That is why I’m here,” I explained. “I’m having trouble finding all the necessary information. I need access to the Internet.”
“I see,” he said.
“And so I was wondering if I could borrow your computer from time to time,” I said. This was a lot to ask. I had to offer a compelling reason.
“I’d only use it after hours to correspond with my pen pal and her mother as they are helping me gather material,” I explained.
“Other students have managed to get into universities abroad without a computer, Martin,” Mr. Muzwazi responded. This was going to be a hard bargain.
“Yes, I understand, sir, but those students come from wealthy families,” I said. “I will only be able to do it if I find an international scholarship.”
Mr. Muzawazi remained silent.
“Caitlin’s mother said she’d help me, but she needs to be able to get information quickly,” I explained.
“Okay,” Mr. Muzawazi said.
“Plus, I must register for SATs online,” I explained. “Wallace told me this is the only way.”
“I’ll talk with my secretary,” he said finally. “And we’ll arrange to get you a key. You may use my office after hours.”
I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives Page 19