Whether we knew many who died on September 11 or personally knew

Bob Taft, governor and public servant, gave voice to a truth that was carried in the hearts of millions when he said: “Whether we knew many who died on September 11 or personally knew none, we all lost something on that day. Innocence. Security. A trust that our homeland would always be safe.” These words are not simply about the loss of lives, though that loss was immense and immeasurable. They are about the deeper wound carried by a people when their very foundation of safety and certainty is shaken. On that day, even those untouched directly by death or destruction felt a rupture within—the loss of a trust that had been taken for granted.

The ancients knew this pain well. When Troy fell to the Greeks, it was not only walls and warriors that perished, but the innocence of a people who believed their city impenetrable. When Rome was sacked by the Visigoths, St. Jerome wrote that the world itself seemed to collapse. In every age, when the unthinkable breach occurs, when the sanctuary of a people is violated, it is not just bodies but spirits that are wounded. Taft’s words echo this ancient reality: that innocence, once shattered, can never be restored in the same form.

In the aftermath of September 11, the grief was not contained to families or cities—it spread across a nation and beyond. A child in the Midwest, who had never seen New York, felt the change in her parents’ voices. A farmer in Ohio, a teacher in California, a worker in Texas—all felt that the fabric of certainty had been torn. For though they may not have lost kin, they lost something invisible yet profound: the assurance that the homeland itself was a fortress. That security had seemed eternal; in one morning, it was revealed to be fragile.

History offers parallels. At Pearl Harbor in 1941, Americans too felt this rupture. A distant war had suddenly leapt across oceans, striking home. But the difference in 2001 was that the enemy was faceless, hidden not in armies but in shadows, striking from within and without. This made the loss of trust even more piercing. For how can one trust when the threat is invisible? How can one feel safe when the very sky—the open air above—becomes a weapon?

There is something deeply human in Taft’s recognition that we all lost, even if we did not know the dead. For grief is not confined to bloodlines—it is communal. Just as an ancient village mourns when the temple burns, so too did an entire nation mourn when towers crumbled. The loss of innocence was collective; it belonged to the fabric of the people, binding them in sorrow, but also in remembrance.

And yet, from this sorrow rises a call to strength. If innocence cannot be regained, wisdom must be gained. If security is fragile, then vigilance must be steady. If trust in safety is broken, then trust in one another must be fortified. The heroic response to tragedy is not despair, but the forging of a new bond among people—one made not of naïve certainty, but of resilient unity.

So what lesson shall we draw, children of tomorrow? It is this: the world is never without danger, and innocence once lost cannot return. But we can choose what replaces it. Let it not be fear, nor endless suspicion, but courage, vigilance, and solidarity. Strengthen your families, your communities, your compassion. Honor those who were lost by building a life worthy of their memory—not in bitterness, but in determination.

Thus Bob Taft’s words endure: “We all lost something on that day. Innocence. Security. A trust that our homeland would always be safe.” Let this truth not weaken us, but awaken us. For though safety may not be guaranteed, the strength of a people united in trust for one another is a fortress that no terror can destroy.