We have been terrorised by what happened in America and we

Hear, O seeker of truth, the voice of Muammar al-Gaddafi, who in a moment of global anguish declared: “We have been terrorised by what happened in America and we express our condolences to the American people who suffered from this unexpected catastrophe and a new world war.” These words were spoken in the shadow of September 11, 2001, when fire and steel fell from the sky, and the world was shaken to its core. In that hour, even a man often seen as adversary to the West spoke with the gravity of shared humanity. He named it a catastrophe, for it tore the veil of normal life and plunged all nations into fear. He called it a new world war, for the struggle that followed was not fought upon a single battlefield but across every border, in every heart, against the specter of terror itself.

Mark well the meaning within this utterance. To be terrorised is not merely to face death, but to feel the weight of dread that paralyzes nations, that clouds reason, and that shatters the illusion of safety. In this sense, what befell America was more than an attack—it was a wound to the world order, a shattering of balance that echoed through every land. Gaddafi, though no friend of American power, acknowledged the universal truth: when calamity strikes with such sudden force, the sorrow belongs not to one people, but to all humankind.

Consider the power of unexpected catastrophe. History is filled with moments when the unthinkable altered the fate of nations. Recall the bombing of Pearl Harbor in 1941. America, long hesitant to enter the fires of World War II, was thrust into the furnace by an attack unforeseen. Out of that single dawn of destruction, the world’s destiny was reshaped. So too with September 11: a morning of horror unrolled into years of conflict, alliances, invasions, and policies that touched every corner of the earth. The unexpected became the tide of history.

And what of the new world war Gaddafi foresaw? He did not mean armies clashing in the old manner, but a conflict of shadows, of ideologies, of fear against fear. Planes did not only strike towers; they struck the spirit of peace. Thereafter, nations girded themselves not against a single foe but against an enemy without nation, without face, without borders. This was indeed a new kind of war, one in which civilians became soldiers, and the battlefield lay in airports, in cities, in the unseen corridors of intelligence and policy.

But in this, there is also a lesson of unity. For though Gaddafi himself was often condemned as tyrant, in that moment he reminded the world of a truth: in catastrophe, the divisions of politics can pale before the shared grief of humanity. When towers fall, when innocents perish, the cry of anguish knows no nationality. To offer condolences is to declare, “I too am human, and I too feel the pain of others.” If even enemies can pause to acknowledge the suffering of their rivals, then surely ordinary men and women can extend compassion beyond the walls of tribe and nation.

Therefore, let us learn: fear will always tempt us toward hatred, but compassion can build bridges stronger than steel. When the unexpected catastrophe arrives in our own lives—whether by disaster, betrayal, or loss—do not let the first seed sown be vengeance. Sow instead understanding, for in this way we break the endless cycle of violence. War may rage in the world, but peace can begin in the heart that refuses to be conquered by hatred.

Take this counsel, then, O listener: speak condolences when others suffer, even if they are not your kin. Stand firm against terror, but do not let terror transform you into what you despise. Prepare yourself for the unexpected, but let your preparation be the cultivation of patience, of kindness, of wisdom. For Gaddafi’s words remind us that in every age, catastrophe comes swiftly, and the war that follows may engulf all. Yet those who hold fast to compassion and unity shall not be lost, but shall be the torchbearers in the darkness.