In the days that followed the destruction of the towers, I found sanctuary in a wounded city. In New York City there were impromptu memorials and silence. As I read poems and looked at the faces of the people missing, a man pulled out his violin and it seemed to cry. I cried also because I knew this wouldn't be good. A sign seemed to illustrate what I and many other New Yorkers were feeling, "Our grief is not a cry for war".
