SEPTEMBER 11, 2001 started out as a normal day. I was looking forward to taking some time off in the afternoon with my fiancé to meet the caterer for our wedding reception, just a few short weeks away. The weather was fine, clear, and starting to show hints of autumn as I walked from the subway stop to my office at the Department of State's main building.

I walked into my office at 9:00, fully expecting to commence the morning ritual of getting coffee, switching on my computer, and making calls to my colleagues in Balkan Europe, where we were monitoring a barely-contained civil conflict in Macedonia: just another day in the Office of Overseas Citizens Services.

I had barely started to say "Good morning" when our division secretary met me in the corridor with, "A plane just hit the World Trade Center."

"Please be joking," I said. But I knew she wasn't. We both stood there, dumbfounded.

Bad weather? Drunk pilot? How could such a thing happen? My colleagues and I looked at each other, wondering aloud. We had no idea that the weather in New York was just as fine as in Washington.

We proceeded with our usual excursion to the cafeteria for coffee. I had a feeling we would need it in the hours to come. A plane crash outside of the US would activate our office's emergency responders; but a domestic plane crash, we thought, would be a situation for the Federal Aviation Administration. Nevertheless, a World Trade Center is a World Trade Center, and our posts abroad would probably be fielding inquiries from anxious family members. Okay, we thought, Operations will set up a Task Force, and in about a half an hour we'd have a better idea of what we'd need to do.

We hadn't even reached the cafeteria before the news came out: the other tower had been hit.

The weather is never that bad. Two drunk pilots? Highly unlikely.

That was when we knew. This was no accident.

TVs throughout the building showed live footage of the towers spilling smoke into the New York skyline. We got our coffee, hurried to the crisis management office and watched, waiting for someone to explain what had just happened. Facts were few and speculation was unhelpful. Mostly we could just sit and watch, convincing ourselves that this was real.

Then the rumor started going around our floor: There was an explosion at the Pentagon. The Department of Defense was on fire.

No. Impossible, I thought. "I won't believe it until I see it," I said. I went back to my desk. My colleague in Cyprus called to ask about a task force. "I don't know," I stammered, "no one knows what's happening yet¿there's a rumor about the Pentagon¿" I heard a colleague shouting down the hall, "Don't kid about that, my brother works there!" And somewhere, there was a picture on the TV showing the tail section of a plane, and fire erupting from the building. My colleague in Macedonia, struggling to keep a rein on two neighboring crisis zones, called to ask me if I was okay. "That's my line," I said, trying to keep cool. He's the one in the war zone, I thought, not me.

Then the evacuation alarm sounded. I told Macedonia I had to go. I grabbed my coffee and joined the masses heading for the stairwells, exchanging dazed looks and "What have you heard?" "Both towers?" "I'm not gonna stick around here and be next!" "Do they know who did it?" as we poured out and scattered into the streets. Outside, I paused at the corner, looked south, and saw it: over the roof of the Lincoln Memorial, smoke rising from the Pentagon. It was starting to sink in: our nation's military headquarters had been bombed.

I was witnessing the first act of war on continental U.S. soil in over a century, just across the river from where I was standing.

At that moment, none of us knew about United Flight 93, doomed and heading towards Washington. The World Trade Center was still standing. We didn't know what kind of plane had hit the towers or the Pentagon. We just knew that someone must have done so intentionally, and there could be hundreds, if not thousands, of casualties. And we didn't know whether "they" were finished.

It wasn't the chaos that frightened me in those moments, nor was it the scale of what was happening. I just wanted to know whether it was over. Like many of my colleagues who deal with crisis management, I was anxious to get down to the business of recovery: answering questions, locating the missing, helping the wounded and bereaved. I can handle that. It was the uncertainty: not knowing what, if anything, is next? That scared me the most.

A group of us from my office gathered up and headed to the Department's alternate Operations Center. While our car crawled through traffic evacuating the city, the words "Pearl Harbor" came up as we tried to process what had happened in the past hour. We got to our destination, where we watched the World Trade Center towers crumble, one by one, their ashes blotting out the sky over New York. Every channel repeated the video so many times we lost count. Every plane in the country was grounded. Rescue workers were swarming the Pentagon. The news of United 93's loss was just coming out. Two of the tallest buildings in the world were destroyed. We started to believe that the attack was over. The worst, I hoped, was past. Shortly after noon, drained and still stunned, I began walking home. Well, I thought, I guess we won't be meeting the caterer this afternoon. I started making a mental list of who to call from home, and what to do with the rest of the day.

Someone driving past saw me on the sidewalk and pulled up to offer me a ride. It was someone I'd never met and didn't recognize, even with a Department of State badge. Under ordinary circumstances, I would never accept a lift from a stranger. On that day, I agreed without hesitation. I don't remember now who it was. I just remember a stranger offering a kindness to me in the middle of a whirlwind.

The next morning I got up and went to the office as usual, just as I had the day before. I was relieved to see so many people, and we eagerly got down to work. My colleagues overseas were likewise happy to hear from me, if a bit surprised that I'd come in. I told them there was work to do and no reason to stay home. People need our help, I thought; the worst is over, let's get busy.

Fast forward five years to 2006: The anniversary of September 11 was approaching; so was Hurricane Florence. My husband, 20-month-old daughter and I were living out of our suitcases. We'd been in Bermuda all of seven weeks. I was six months pregnant. None of us had been through a hurricane before. Images from Katrina's devastation of the Gulf Coast were all over the media, marking her anniversary. These did not inspire comforting thoughts.

Even though we knew when the storm was coming, and had time to prepare, I could not help being anxious: What if something happens with the baby? Will I be able to get to the hospital? What if the roads are blocked? How long is this going to last? How will my daughter react? Are we going to be cooped up with a screaming, inconsolable child for three days?

But as the storm got closer, I got to know Bermuda very quickly. Co-workers showed me how to operate the generator. We had conference calls with Washington, and walked through checklists for preparation. Our landlord came over to board up the windows. Everyone said, "call us if you need anything." I must have looked nervous filling up at the gas station: people kept telling me it would be okay. "If the roads are blocked," said one guy with a landscaping truck, "we don't wait for the Government to tell us what to do. We just get out there and start clearing up. It's an easy drive to the hospital from here, honey, you'll be okay."

The whirlwind was approaching, and everywhere, strangers offered me kindness.

When the storm had passed, and the worst was over, we got back to work.

One year ago, the U.S. and Bermuda jointly observed the anniversary of September 11 with the dedication of a memorial at the Botanical Gardens. It honors those who died, including two Bermudians, in New York, Pennsylvania, and Washington in the attacks. But more than that, it stands as a reminder of the spirit that Bermudians and Americans share in the face of tragedy. We remember the fallen, and we serve the living.

This year, as September 11 approaches, Bermuda has been battered by storms of a different kind: the peace of summer has been shattered by tragic loss of life and senseless violence. We want to know when it will all stop. We search for kindness and reach out to strangers. What else can we do?

Honour those who have fallen.

Serve the living.

Let's hope the worst is behind us.

There's work to be done. People need our help. Let's get busy.

Margaret Pride is a Consul at the US Consul General's office in Bermuda