[Congressional Record Volume 149, Number 123 (Tuesday, September 9, 2003)]
[Senate]
[Page S11242]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                         FINDING THE CONNECTION

  Mr. VOINOVICH. Mr. President, it has been nearly 2 years since 
terrorists attacked the United States on September 11, 2001. As our 
Nation prepares to honor the memory of those who were lost on that 
tragic day, I would like to submit for the Record a piece that I read 
in yesterday's Cleveland Plain Dealer that was written by Christy 
Ferer, whose husband, Neil Levin, perished in the World Trade Center. I 
was deeply moved by her words, which serve to remind us of the reason 
behind our ongoing efforts to promote the virtues of freedom and 
democracy as our men and women in uniform remain on the front lines in 
the fight against terrorism in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other parts of 
the world. We owe them our deepest gratitude.
  I ask unanimous consent the article be printed in the Record.
  There being no objection, the material was ordered to be printed in 
the Record, as follows:

                 [From the Plain Dealer, Sept. 8, 2003]

                         Finding the Connection

                           (By Christy Ferer)

       When I told friends that I was making a pilgrimage to Iraq 
     to thank the U.S. troops, their reactions were underwhelming 
     at best.
       Some were blunt: ``Why are you going there?''
       They couldn't understand why it was important for me, a 
     Sept. 11 widow, to express my support for the men and women 
     stationed today in the Persian Gulf.
       The reason seemed clear, as far as I was concerned. I was 
     going not to embrace the war, but to embrace the warriors.
       I didn't intend to use the emotional capital generated by 
     my connection to Sept. 11, 2001, to defend the U.S. presence 
     in the Gulf. And I am certainly aware there is no proof yet 
     that Saddam Hussein was linked to those terrorist attacks.
       But I wanted to go to Iraq because I am the daughter of a 
     World War II veteran who was decorated with a Purple Heart, 
     and because I am the widow of a man who lost his life in what 
     some feel was the opening salvo of World War III.
       I wanted, needed, to honor my father and my husband, their 
     service and sacrifice, by standing before those who were now 
     making sacrifices and serving our country.
       But my friends' reactions were so politely negative that I 
     began to doubt my role in the first USO/Tribeca Institute 
     tour into newly occupied Iraq. Besides, with Robert DeNiro 
     Wayne Newton and Rebecca and John Stamos, who needed me? 
     I'm hardly a celebrity.
       Did U.S. soldiers really want to hear about my husband, 
     Neil Levin, who went to work as director of the Port 
     Authority of New York on Sept. 11 and never came home?
       How would they relate to the two other bereaved people 
     traveling with me--Ginny Bauer, a N.J. homemaker and mother 
     of three who lost her husband, David, and former Marine Jon 
     Vigiano, who lost his only sons, Jon, a firefighter, and Joe, 
     a policeman?
       As we were choppered over the bleached deserts, I wondered 
     if I'd feel like a street hawker, passing out Port Authority 
     pins and baseball caps as I said ``Thank you'' to the troops. 
     Would a hug from me compare to hugs from a Victoria's Secret 
     model, or the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders?
       The first ``meet and greet'' made me weep. My own daughters 
     are old enough to be soldiers. Here were their peers--18-
     years-olds, armed with M-16s and saddlebags of water in the 
     120-degree heat. The soldiers swarmed around the stars for 
     photos and autographs. Then it was announced that a trio of 
     Sept. 11 family members was also in the tent.
       It was as if an emotional dam had burst.
       Some wanted to touch us, as if they needed a physical 
     connection to our sorrow, and living proof of one reason they 
     were there. One mother of two from Montana told me she'd 
     signed up because of Sept. 11, and dozens of others said the 
     same. One young man showed me his metal bracelet engraved 
     with the name of victim he'd never known and that awful date 
     none of us will ever forget.
       At every encounter with the troops, there was a surge of 
     reservists--firefighters and cops, including many who had 
     worked in the rubble of Ground Zero--who had come to exchange 
     a hometown hug. Their glassy eyes still didn't allow anyone 
     to penetrate to the place where their trauma is lodged, the 
     trauma that comes with devastation unimaginable to those who 
     didn't witness it. It's there in me, too. I forced my way 
     downtown on that terrible morning, convinced I could find 
     Neil beneath the rubble.
       I was not prepared for the soldiers who showed us the World 
     Trade Center memorabilia they'd carried with them into the 
     streets of Baghdad. Others had been holding in stories of 
     personal Sept. 11 tragedies that had made them enlist.
       To those men and women, it didn't seem to matter that 
     Saddam's regime had not produced the murderers of Sept. 11. 
     What they made clear to me was their belief that despotic 
     rulers like Saddam fuel the volatile anti-American sentiment 
     that breeds such terrorism: They feel they are in Iraq to 
     stabilize the Gulf region, and thus to protect U.S. soil.
       At Saddam Hussein International Airport, where Kid Rock 
     gave an impromptu concert in a steamy hangar, Capt. Jorge 
     Vargas from the Bronx tapped me on the back. He'd enlisted in 
     the Army after some of his wife's best friends were lost at 
     the World Trade Center. When he saw the piece of recovered 
     metal from the Towers that I had been showing to a group of 
     soldiers, he grasped for it as if it were a grail.
       Then he handed it to Kid Rock, who passed the precious 
     metal through the 5,000 troops in the audience. They lunged 
     at the opportunity to touch the steel that symobilized what 
     so many of them felt was the purpose of their mission. 
     Looking into that sea of khaki gave me chills, even in the 
     blistering heat.
       When I got to the microphone, I told the soldiers we hadn't 
     made the journey to hear condolences, but to thank them and 
     to say that the families of Sept. 11 think of them every day. 
     The crowd interrupted me with chants of ``U.S.A.! U.S.A.! 
     U.S.A.!'' Many cried.
       What happened next left me with no doubt as to why I had 
     come.
       There I was on stage, quaking before thousands of troops 
     because I was to present a small piece of the World Trade 
     Center steel to Gen. Tommy Franks. As I handed him the icy 
     gray block, his eyes welled up.
       I was stunned when the proud four-star general was unable 
     to hold back the tears, which streamed down his face as he 
     stood at center stage before his troops. The men and women in 
     khaki fell silent.
       And he turned from the spotlight to regain his composure, I 
     put my arms around him and tried to comfort both of us with 
     an embrace.

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