I was in Syria on the afternoon of Sept. 11, 2001. That would have been the morning New York time.

I was listening to the news on Radio Orient when I heard about the attacks. Assuming I'd misunderstood the news in Arabic, I then waited to hear it in French.

Baffled by what I'd heard, I decided to take a walk throught the Old City of Damascus, where I was living at the time.

The scene must have been identical throughout the entire world: Everyone had stopped what they were doing, and they were gathered around television sets at local shops with their jaws dropped in astonishment.

I then went back home, and I called my family in San Francisco, walking up my father at around 7 a.m. Pacific time.

I said to him, "Turn on the news."

He said, "What? Did something happen in Syria?"

I replied, "No, America."

I'm not sure he understood the concept that I was calling from the Middle East to tell him that America had been attacked.

I'd heard on CNN, that Palestinians had celebrated when they'd heard of the attacks.

So, I went to the local refugee camp in Damascus to see for myself.

No one there was celebrating. Even if they wanted to, such political expression would be forbidden here.

Most of the Palestinians I saw there looked defeated. They had their own news that day -- Israel had invaded several villages in the West Bank.

I had an appointment that day at the UN, which I kept despite the indescribable distraction. Where else was I going to go that day?