Unseen things

“Here we were taught by men and gothic towers

Democracy and Faith and Righteousness

And love of unseen things that do not die.”

— H. E. Mierow, Class of 1914

A short while after I was asked to write a piece for this commemorative issue, I visited the 9/11 Memorial Garden tucked into a courtyard of one of the oldest buildings on campus, East Pyne. It was getting dark and I, still unsure of how to discuss that unimaginable event, sat thoughtfully on one of the garden’s benches. Staring at the names of the 13 men and women of Princeton who died that day etched into stars in a circle on the ground, I felt overcome by the weight of their memory. I was forced to imagine what it was like for them in their final moments. I tried to see what they saw and feel what they felt in their offices one regular Tuesday morning.

The stars in the memorial garden reminded me of those on dorm windows in honor of the Princetonians who lived there and died in war. I left the garden, and stopped at a small bench that I know outside of Dickinson. It is concrete and plain, and on its side is written, “1944.” Of the 655 students in the class of 1944, 565 of them served in World War II. The bench was dedicated to the 23 members of the class who “gave their lives for their country.” This is how war killed Princetonians 70 years ago. They died in Germany and France and Guam and Okinowa. Far removed from the comfort of Princeton’s halls, they died on a battlefield, in a plane or aboard a ship. This is not how the 13 who died on 9/11 were killed — these modern Princetonians died working dutifully in their offices, following a routine, unaware of the sacrifice they were about to make.

This is how war happens to our generation of Princetonians. The fight to defend our way of life no longer takes place only on a foreign battlefield — it has been brought here. 9/11 showed us that we can no longer see ourselves as passive observers in our “Orange Bubble.” As Danish physicist Niels Bohr discovered, there is no such thing as an observer. The instruments the physicist uses are just as much a part of the physical world as that which he is trying to measure.

We learned on 9/11 that war is not something that happens “over there.” It is something for which all of us are accountable by virtue of living in this country. By choosing to live and work here, we are tying ourselves to the fate of America in a way that drafts us all into a ideological, if not material, war. We were forced to realize that we may suffer attack from those who disagree with our way of life, who disagree with how we interact with the world economically, socially and militarily. Depending on your politics, you may say that “our way of life” is personal and economic freedom, or an aggressive American military foreign policy. But politics aside, 9/11 showed us that in this day and age, there is not an “over there” and a “back home.” War is total, and the stakes are high.

I continued my walk. I sat at a bench where the Class of 1976 encouraged me to “sense our spark, renew your own good energies, as you, like us, depart.” Joni Mitchell, on a circular slab next to the office of religious life in Murray Dodge, told me that, “We are stardust, we are golden, and we've got to get ourselves back to the garden.” Finally I came to my favorite spot on Princeton’s campus: the entryway to McCosh 50, our largest lecture hall. The arch at the entryway is a bottleneck where students push past each other, racing to classes or to lunch. Soberly looking down on these students as they rush by is an inscription, this piece’s epigraph. It tells us of our many teachers while here at Princeton. And in a world where the act of living is a political act, if “love of unseen things that do not die” has anything to teach us, it is that we must very seriously and deliberately choose the things that we live for — the things that will not die when we do. It teaches us that we must take from Princeton a life that is worthy of ourselves, one that, should it be demanded of us, is worth sacrificing.

Luke Massa is a junior from Ridley Park, Pa. He can be reached at lmassa@princeton.edu.

For more coverage commemorating the 10th anniversary of 9/11, please click here.