Osman Altan survived the 1993 bombing at the trade center; this was far worse.
By: Steve Rauscher
WEST WINDSOR Osman Altan remembers being more frightened in 1993.
At first.
In February of that year, a truck packed with explosives blew up in a basement parking garage beneath the World Trade Center, where he had been working for three years as a consultant for the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey.
"That was scarier, actually," he said Wednesday, leaning forward on the kitchen table in his Princeton Junction home. "That was the first emergency situation I was in. We were all headed down toward the source of the blast and there was thick smoke rising and the lights were out. It was very scary."
Eight years later, however, the incident had largely faded from his memory as he performed the rituals accompanying his daily commute to the twin towers.
"Tuesday morning, strangely enough, my daughter wanted to give me a big hug before I left," he said. "She hadn’t done that in months. At that time, I didn’t think much of it … but that could have been my last hug."
Mr. Altan is one of the thousands of parents for whom a hug from their child took on the greatest significance Tuesday, becoming one of the few genuine comforts to be had on a day of horror. And, as he sat and recalled his journey through the dying north tower of the World Trade Center to safety, Mr. Altan found little solace in his escape.
"I can’t feel really happy," he said. "And I don’t feel really sad … I just feel numb."
The numbness was reflected in Mr. Altan’s quiet, fitful monotone. He spoke slowly, his soft tenor rising just above the buzz of CNN on the living room television.
"At about 8:40 a.m., we felt this tremendous impact," he said. "The whole building swayed back and forth. I found it difficult even to stay in my chair.
"It felt like a strong earthquake, but I wasn’t sure what had happened."
The fear, he said, didn’t settle in immediately. He remembered taking the time to grab his briefcase and shut down his computer.
"I’ve been through this before," he said. "Maybe it’s because of that, but for some reason I just thought about turning it off."
Mr. Altan and what he estimated to be 200 fellow employees on the 73rd floor of the north tower rushed toward the stairwell, not yet aware that a hijacked Boeing 767 had slammed into the building about 20 stories above, but knowing full well that something was very wrong.
"People were talking about what had happened, but nobody had a clue," he said.
Eventually, he said, details about the attack, gleaned from cellphone conversations, trickled through the mass of desperate but calm workers as they squeezed into the stairway.
"Everybody thought it was an accident. Then we heard about the second plane hit, and at that point it became clear that it wasn’t an accident," he said.
Strangely, Mr. Altan said, he witnessed few outbursts of panic during his flight to safety.
"It was pretty calm and orderly. People weren’t panicking or anything," he said. "I was just thinking about what had happened and whether I would see my family again. All those thoughts go through your head. I was very calm, but I didn’t think I was going to make it.
"Once I got onto the stairs and felt the smoke and the fumes, I was thinking not so much of the building collapsing, but of the flames overwhelming us."
Around the 20th floor, Mr. Altan said fear for his own safety abated slightly when he encountered dozens of rescue workers on their way up to search for trapped victims.
"They told us it was clear and that we were going to be OK," he said. "I believed them, but I somehow thought that something terrible was going to happen, because I was looking at all those people going up as we were going down … and I was wondering if they were going to make it."
Any sense of safety Mr. Altan may have temporarily gained vanished, however, when he reached the second-floor plaza between the two towers.
"It was bedlam," he said. "There were bodies everywhere, and body parts. I just stood there in disbelief, looking at these bodies and limbs and debris and ash. It was really bad.
"I stood there for a while, I don’t know how long. Because I’d had no idea that had happened, that kind of devastation."
Eventually, Mr. Altan made his way out of the plaza, his feet splashing through pools of blood and water as he passed beneath the sprinklers and through the exit.
He rushed away from the building to Church Street, and began searching for a pay phone to call his wife.
Then the first tower collapsed.
"I don’t think anybody expected that," he said. "Immediately I thought about all those rescue workers and firefighters who might have been killed. I started running away and I started to cry. I couldn’t hold myself back anymore. I thought about my wife and I finally found a phone. I told my wife I was all right, and she asked me where I was and I had no idea."
He kept his conversation with Aydan, his wife of 16 years, short. There were many others with phone calls to make.
Mr. Altan survived Tuesday’s cataclysm. But, he said, he can’t stop thinking about all those who didn’t.
"I feel no sense of relief. None at all," he said. "I can’t forget those firefighters going up. I was looking at them, one by one, as they passed us, and I was thinking they may not be able to get out.
"Having experienced what I’ve experienced, witnessing those awful scenes. I feel like it’s going to stay with me. Such an experience helps put things in perspective, what’s important and what’s trivial."
What’s important, Mr. Altan said, is family. And what’s trivial is everything else.
"To be able to be with my family, my children … just to be able to stay together. Everything else is secondary.
"I can’t say that I can come to terms with this. I’m still trying. I feel like my life has changed," he said, hands clasped and staring at the table.
"For that matter," he added. "I feel like the world has changed."

