On Sept. 11, 2001, I was a 12-year-old boy living in England. Because of the five-hour time difference, I first learned that something had happened as the school day drew to a close. It wasn't until I got home later that afternoon that I saw the images of the Twin Towers burning thousands of miles away and watched them collapse in a hellish explosion of steel and concrete and glass and ash.

And I just didn't get it.

Yes, I knew it was bad, and I knew it was unprecedented, and I knew it was scary, but as a child, I had absolutely no understanding of the gravity of what had just happened, or any concept of the feeling of unimaginable terror experienced by each of the victims who were murdered that day, or even any knowledge of what the Twin Towers — let alone New York City — represented.

Let alone did I know what the Pentagon even was.

Twenty-five years later, I get it.

It wasn't until I was an adult that I could even begin to truly process the horrors of that day. And it wasn't until I first visited New York City — and subsequently return time after time after time — that I could even begin to process the scale of that day.

Because for those who were not there to witness it, and for those who have never gazed in awe upon the New York City skyline, the scale of the attacks of Sept. 11 is impossible to fully understand.

No matter how many times I travel to that great city, I am always reminded of one line in F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel "The Great Gatsby": "The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time..."

That remains true whether you arrive by car, bus, train, plane or scooter, but something is different. This city still seems so new, and yet you can sense that something has changed forever. It's like the two holes at Ground Zero are holes in the city's soul — a soul that once felt untouchable.

Now, there's an inescapable melancholy about its spectacular skyline, a melancholy brought into sharp focus every time we see a photograph, television show or movie that returns the magnificent Twin Towers to their past glory for just one, fleeting moment.

But the truth about New York City, more than anywhere in the world, is that its magic doesn't lie in its buildings, but its people. Yes, they're rude and loud and brash. Yes, they'll curse you out if you dawdle on the sidewalk or stutter over your food order. But it's also a city full of people that, when it really mattered, came together to defend one another, as New Yorkers of all colors, creeds and religions witnessed the burning towers in the sky above them and ran toward death and destruction to save their friends and neighbors.

Twenty-five years after the country's worst day in modern memory, we shouldn't just remember those lost, or the damage done, but the best of New York City — and America — that shone like a beam of sunlight through the blinding clouds of ash that flooded through Manhattan.

That is the America I love. And that is the America we all need to defend.

Never Forget.

Ian Haworth is a syndicated columnist. You can find his work on Substack and follow him on X (@ighaworth).

Photo credit: Tomas Martinez at Unsplash