Before I start this poem, I’d like to ask you to join me

Moment of Silence is a controversial poem by Emmanuel Ortiz published on September 11, 2002, the first anniversary of the September 11th, 2001 attacks. The poem links the history of colonialism, neocolonialism, imperialism, the War on Terror, environmental racism, and structural violence to the attacks. This is one of first such linkages in public record.




    In a moment of silence

    In honor of those who died in the World Trade Center and the

    Pentagon last September 11th.

    I would also like to ask you

    To offer up a moment of silence

    For all of those who have been harassed, imprisoned,

    disappeared, tortured, raped, or killed in retaliation for those strikes,

    For the victims in both Afghanistan and the U.S.


    And if I could just add one more thing…

    A full day of silence

    For the tens of thousands of Palestinians who have died at the

    hands of U.S.-backed Israeli

    forces over decades of occupation.

    Six months of silence for the million and-a-half Iraqi people,

    mostly children, who have died of

    malnourishment or starvation as a result of an 11-year U.S.

    embargo against the country.


    Before I begin this poem,

    Two months of silence for the Blacks under Apartheid in South Africa,

    Where homeland security made them aliens in their own country.

    Nine months of silence for the dead in Hiroshima and Nagasaki,

    Where death rained down and peeled back every layer of

    concrete, steel, earth and skin

    And the survivors went on as if alive.

    A year of silence for the millions of dead in Vietnam – a people,

    not a war – for those who

    know a thing or two about the scent of burning fuel, their

    relatives’ bones buried in it, their babies born of it.

    A year of silence for the dead in Cambodia and Laos, victims of

    a secret war … ssssshhhhh….

    Say nothing … we don’t want them to learn that they are dead.

    Two months of silence for the decades of dead in Colombia,

    Whose names, like the corpses they once represented, have

    piled up and slipped off our tongues.


    Before I begin this poem.

    An hour of silence for El Salvador …

    An afternoon of silence for Nicaragua …

    Two days of silence for the Guatemaltecos …

    None of whom ever knew a moment of peace in their living years.

    45 seconds of silence for the 45 dead at Acteal, Chiapas

    25 years of silence for the hundred million Africans who found

    their graves far deeper in the ocean than any building could

    poke into the sky.

    There will be no DNA testing or dental records to identify their remains.

    And for those who were strung and swung from the heights of

    sycamore trees in the south, the north, the east, and the west…


    100 years of silence…

    For the hundreds of millions of indigenous peoples from this half

    of right here,

    Whose land and lives were stolen,

    In postcard-perfect plots like Pine Ridge, Wounded Knee, Sand


    Fallen Timbers, or the Trail of Tears.

    Names now reduced to innocuous magnetic poetry on the

    refrigerator of our consciousness …


    So you want a moment of silence?

    And we are all left speechless

    Our tongues snatched from our mouths

    Our eyes stapled shut

    A moment of silence

    And the poets have all been laid to rest

    The drums disintegrating into dust.


    Before I begin this poem,

    You want a moment of silence

    You mourn now as if the world will never be the same

    And the rest of us hope to hell it won’t be. Not like it always has



    Because this is not a 9/11 poem.

    This is a 9/10 poem,

    It is a 9/9 poem,

    A 9/8 poem,

    A 9/7 poem

    This is a 1492 poem.


    This is a poem about what causes poems like this to be written.

    And if this is a 9/11 poem, then:

    This is a September 11th poem for Chile, 1971.

    This is a September 12th poem for Steven Biko in South Africa,


    This is a September 13th poem for the brothers at Attica Prison,

    New York, 1971.

    This is a September 14th poem for Somalia, 1992.

    This is a poem for every date that falls to the ground in ashes

    This is a poem for the 110 stories that were never told

    The 110 stories that history chose not to write in textbooks

    The 110 stories that CNN, BBC, The New York Times, and

    Newsweek ignored.

    This is a poem for interrupting this program.


    And still you want a moment of silence for your dead?

    We could give you lifetimes of empty:

    The unmarked graves

    The lost languages

    The uprooted trees and histories

    The dead stares on the faces of nameless children

    Before I start this poem we could be silent forever

    Or just long enough to hunger,

    For the dust to bury us

    And you would still ask us

    For more of our silence.


    If you want a moment of silence

    Then stop the oil pumps

    Turn off the engines and the televisions

    Sink the cruise ships

    Crash the stock markets

    Unplug the marquee lights,

    Delete the instant messages,

    Derail the trains, the light rail transit.


    If you want a moment of silence, put a brick through the window

    of Taco Bell,

    And pay the workers for wages lost.

    Tear down the liquor stores,

    The townhouses, the White Houses, the jailhouses, the

    Penthouses and the Playboys.


    If you want a moment of silence,

    Then take it

    On Super Bowl Sunday,

    The Fourth of July

    During Dayton’s 13 hour sale

    Or the next time your white guilt fills the room where my beautiful

    people have gathered.


    You want a moment of silence

    Then take it NOW,

    Before this poem begins.

    Here, in the echo of my voice,

    In the pause between goosesteps of the second hand,

    In the space between bodies in embrace,

    Here is your silence.

    Take it.

    But take it all…Don’t cut in line.

    Let your silence begin at the beginning of crime. But we,

    Tonight we will keep right on singing…For our dead.


    EMMANUEL ORTIZ, 11 Sep 2002.