And, unlike the earlier bombing on the World Trade Center, a

Allen Klein’s words, “And, unlike the earlier bombing on the World Trade Center, a major landmark and symbol of the strength of the financial world was, not just damaged but, totally destroyed,” stand as both lament and testimony to one of the darkest days in modern memory. He draws a stark line between two assaults: one that scarred but did not topple, and another that brought down towers which had been raised as monuments to commerce, ambition, and human endeavor. His reflection speaks not only of shattered stone and steel, but of the deeper shattering of certainty, pride, and the illusion of invulnerability.

The origin of these words lies in the aftermath of September 11, 2001, when the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center fell under the weight of hatred and destruction. Years earlier, in 1993, the first bombing had rattled the towers, causing injury and fear, but the buildings endured. That survival had been taken as a symbol of resilience, as if the very walls testified to the unbreakable strength of the financial world they represented. Yet in 2001, that illusion was ripped away. The towers, once seen as unshakable, collapsed into dust, and the world witnessed that even the strongest fortresses of man can fall in a single day.

History echoes with similar stories. Consider the fall of the Roman Empire, which once believed itself eternal. Its marble cities, mighty legions, and sprawling roads were thought unassailable, yet centuries of decline and the final blows of invasion revealed that even the strongest civilizations can crumble. Rome’s fall, like the destruction of the towers, was a reminder that the symbols of power are fragile, and that strength built on worldly foundations alone can be toppled by forces unforeseen.

Yet in tragedy lies the unveiling of a deeper truth. Though the towers fell, the strength of the people did not. Firefighters climbed into fire when all others fled, strangers reached out to strangers, and a nation stood together in grief and resolve. The physical landmark was destroyed, but in its place rose acts of courage, compassion, and unity. Herein lies the paradox: what is destroyed in matter can awaken what is indestructible in spirit. Klein’s words name the loss, but history reveals the resilience that rose from the ruins.

This teaching is not only for nations, but for every human life. Each of us builds towers—dreams, careers, relationships—that seem indestructible. Yet life brings calamities that can topple them in an instant. Illness, betrayal, loss, or failure may leave us in the dust of our own ruins. But just as the world rebuilt from tragedy, so too can we. For true strength is not the avoidance of destruction, but the will to rise after destruction has come.

The lesson for the listener is clear: do not place your trust solely in the towers of stone and steel, for they may fall. Place your trust instead in the virtues that cannot be destroyed—courage, compassion, faith, and unity. When calamity strikes, draw upon these, and you will find that though landmarks may be reduced to rubble, the soul of a people, or of a person, can endure and even grow stronger.

Thus, let this teaching be carried into the future: all symbols of worldly strength can fall, but the unseen strength within—the spirit of resilience, the will to endure, and the compassion that binds us—remains. From ashes we can rebuild, from ruins we can rise, and from destruction we can forge a new strength, greater than the one that was lost.