At the Pentagon, from light to dark

Every day on my way into work in Washington, I come over a rise and see the Pentagon, sprawling, impressive and resolute. I give it a respectful glance as I pass by, mindful that it signifies the might and power of our armed services. Yet, as a military brat, I don't pay too much attention. I assume it will always be there. Until now. Everything changed once American Airlines Flight 77 from Dulles International Airport to Los Angeles slammed into the Pentagon. As I kissed my wife goodbye before leaving for work Wednesday morning in the wake of the terrorist attacks on New York and Washington, I thought about the scenes of devastation I would soon see as my carpool vehicle passed the Pentagon. Traffic was slow in the carpool lanes leading to Washington as we approached the Pentagon. The side of the building that parallels Arlington National Cemetery was a gaping, smoking black hole. Cars came to a standstill, drivers dumbstruck. In weird incongruity, the radio blared the chipper strains of a Britney Spears song as the Pentagon burned. On most mornings, the sun leaves this side of the Pentagon in shadow. Today the charred rubble seemed to consume all existing light. Twenty-four hours after the crash, smoke still billowed from the gap where the Pentagon collapsed. Black and oily, the smoke drifted across the highway, obscuring the road and the usually shining office buildings of the Crystal City area of Virginia. I had seen the pictures on television, but they did not do justice to the magnitude of destruction. My connection with the military has been lifelong and intimate. My father was in the Navy. I have lived my whole life in the shadow of military might, close even to nuclear weapons. I have been shaken out of bed by the roar of fighter jets practicing night landings. Acts of terror are not new to me. When I lived in Korea, anti-American sentiment was on the rise and we frequently gagged on the tear gas that drifted over the base from nearby riots created by those who opposed American deployment on the Korean peninsula. I was almost killed in one of those riots. The fact that North Korea was just 30 miles away from my home in Seoul and had never stopped fighting the Korean War was not lost on me. Yet an attack on the Pentagon is much different and deeper than chaotic street rioting or the slow burn of a conflict that has lasted 51 years so far. The Pentagon, hastily erected at the beginning of the second World War, has suddenly changed from a symbol of might, superiority and security into one of national insecurity, a symbol now of our inability to prevent attacks from unseen and unknown adversaries. Water arced onto the Pentagon's vast roof and the black hole. As I passed through the smoke into the light of the day, the opposite side of the Pentagon was sunny. I could feel how close I had been to the flames, the terror. My father has worked in the Pentagon. My next-door neighbor works there now. His wife is six months pregnant. I am not a person whose blood is easily heated by patriotism. But I must admit that on this day, I was moved by the sight of an American flag flying at the edge of the Pentagon's dark chasm.