Gilberto Haaz

* The tragedies of that black September. Camelot.


Written in years past. 2012

New York. It is a park where you can breathe stillness. Where people enter in silence. The sun is beating down. A lot of security. It will remain a risk zone for a long time. More so now that the five towers rise like giants of steel and glass and concrete. 2,983 men, women and children died that day, the information brochure reads. Now it is a controlled park. When all the towers are working, it will be an open park, without restrictions. You have to pass detector arches, as if you were at the airport. Hundreds of policemen are watching. We will not forget, it is read everywhere. They tell the story when Al Qaeda terrorists brought down the Twin Towers. They display photos of what the buildings were like before the attacks. The new complex will include the memorial park and a museum under construction. Commercial site spaces, the one World Trade Center building, will be the tallest building in the United States.

And towards the northwest, in the pavilion of the museum you will find the transit operations center, designed by the great Spanish architect, Santiago Calatrava. World famous.

In the park there are two large swimming pools. We get closer. People who work there hand out brochures in your language. This park was put to competition. 5,201 entries from 61 countries, won by Arad and Walker. The memorial park council, I read on a plaque at the entrance, is made up of folks in the arts and letters, from Robert De Niro and Billy Cristal to Mayor Bloomberg.


You walk and surround the two giant pools with giant waterfalls. They have planted California white oaks. These trees were selected from nurseries that were within a 500-mile radius of the three attack sites. Symbolism in its entirety. Only one tree survived in that area. They take care of it like the apple of their eye. It is lined with rubber hoses so as not to injure it. It is perhaps his Tree of the Sad Night, like the one we have in Mexico, although now it is called by another name. He survived, and at the bottom people leave little letters with messages. I read one: ‘We won’t forget them.’ A young firefighter arrives at the foot. Maybe he didn’t live in that place that cursed day, when the world was never the same again. You breathe peace. It is sacred ground. A graveyard, like that blessed ground at Gettysburg, which President Lincoln consecrated and sanctified to immortality, when he said: “May these glorious dead infuse us with their devotion to the cause for which they shed every drop of blood.”

Like these, from that September 2001.


20 years later, Hollywood does not forget those events. Netflix released last week a movie called How Much Life is Worth ?, with the great actor Michael Keaton and Stanley Stucci. It tells the true story when a group of lawyers, rather a group of experts, from Washington, took the reins at the presidential request of George Bush, to assess how much a life is worth, because they had to be compensated, on pain that the lawsuits would arrive in waterfall, to the 4 thousand dead from the Towers and the Pentagon and commercial airplanes. A historical and true fact of how expert lawyers give everything so that the families of the deceased receive not only adequate compensation, because they died from bricklayers and minimum wage people, to high-ranking executives and each one could not be valued by profession, the visits to the widows, the dimes and diretes with the different options, the valued points of view. The government responding to its citizens, a titanic struggle that ended with a more or less adequate end, but I no longer tell you about it, better turn on the TV and watch it. Tape that, a week after the premiere, got among the first acceptance among Netflix moviegoers. It’s worth it, check it out.



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