Where were you when the twin towers came down? Most New Yorkers can answer that question without hesitation: still asleep; headed for a doctor's appointment; at the office or on the train were some responses. Each story unfolds differently. But all lead to the tragedy of 11 September 2001 - two of four hijacked planes used as weapons crashed into the World Trade Center and killed thousands.

Jazz pianist Dr. Barry Harris was in an uptown hospital recovering from minor surgery. Terrified by the violence, I walked forty blocks to the hospital. Barry smiled when I entered his room. “I was thinking about you at the UN. You OK?” He stretched out his honey-brown arms and offered a hug. Finally, I felt safe and cried. But that was short-lived. I had planned to travel to Los Angeles the following Saturday to visit my family. I was afraid to go, and equally so to stay in New York.

I spoke with many jazz musicians about coping with the tragedy. One drummer who was scheduled to perform in West Coast jazz festivals confided, “I'm not concerned about flying, but my wife and daughters want me to stay. We're going to pray tonight about what I should do.”

Guitarist Russell Malone took his first flight after the attacks in stride. His plane en route to Newark on Tuesday had been forced to land. “I was stuck in Utah for three days. I just wanted to get home. The mood on the plane was somber.”

Encouraged by friends, I flew to Los Angeles then round-trip to San Francisco. Each flight without incident increased my confidence. I heard the Herbie Hancock, Michael Brecker and Roy Hargrove quintet in Saratoga, California. Their bravery in continuing their worldwide tour inspired me.

Jason Lindner, a pianist who travels to Israel often, was in Los Angeles at the Jazz Bakery. He described the attack as “a reality check”. Now America knows how it's viewed. Our country is going to have to deal with other types of thinking, especially Islam. I saw in the news at the Yankee Stadium tribute, a woman whose husband was killed. She said, “No one else knows how we feel”. That's not true. This has happened in other places.

I returned to New York to attend a dinner in honour of Dr. Harris. The Brooklyn Conservatory gave him a $25,000 lifetime achievement award. At the event, he emphasized the spirituality of music.

“What happened in New York just shows how we need jazz more than ever. The music is supposed to make you feel like you’ve been some place. We can heal people with this music.”

At home, I listened to my answering machine. Twelve days after the crashes, friends like Florida singer Riki Brooks still telephoned. “Hey girlfriend, are you OK? Call me. I love you.” Such was the case for many New Yorkers from day one.

Enoch Guomo, a saxophonist from South Africa, was unable to get to his apartment for two to three days. “My machine was full of messages from Johannesburg asking if I was OK and saying I must come home. I said, ‘Which home? This is home for me.’” He lamented over the destruction of the World Trade Center. “When I drive south in New Jersey or return coming north, I look at the twin towers as my guidance. Now they're gone. It doesn't seem right.”

Alejandra Remijio, a store-window designer, moved to New York from California three years ago. “I feel guilty about moving. I’m the only one of my family away from the nest.” She contemplated quitting her job, but couldn’t leave. “I love my job so much. And I know my boss is suffering. He lost five friends in the attacks.”

She admitted to bouts of crying over stories of victims and their families’ grief. Racial profiling also disturbed her. “Before I came to New York the only Muslim I knew was Billy Higgins (drummer). I have Muslim friends who work in the stores and they’re so nice and warm and loving. They say ‘Hi’ when they see me on the street. People are so ignorant (and judge them) because they look different.”

With soldiers in army fatigues and an increased number of New York City police patrolling, I wondered if I should leave New York. But in my heart I knew this type of violence could happen anywhere. Besides, where else could I drink the life I savour here? My lips would parch in thirst for bebop jazz, my studio apartment and the work of the United Nations.

New Yorkers have slowed their pace. On subways, buses and trains, the words “I'm sorry and thank you”, ring with a sincere timbre. But it goes deeper than that. We share this common trauma, a brutal, frozen moment in time when someone “tried to kill us”. We realize it could have been anyone - you, me, my uncle or mother. We keep our chins up, but our eyes tell the truth. We return to work, but our hearts mourn those who lost their lives. We listen to each story with an ear for mercy, and pray that we’ve seen and heard the worst of it.