September 11, 2001. I was working at Inuk Media, a media agency in Greenland, when we first heard that a plane had hit the World Trade Center in New York. At first, none of us really understood the scale of what was happening, or whether what we were hearing could possibly be true. This was 2001, long before live news was something you could simply pull up on your phone. Internet access was still limited in Greenland, and watching live video online was practically unheard of, so we went to KNR, Greenland’s national broadcaster, where we knew they would have access to international television feeds. By the time we arrived, the second tower had been hit. I remember standing inside the television station, watching the screens and slowly realizing that this was no accident. The atmosphere had changed completely. There was urgency, confusion and disbelief as the staff rushed to prepare for live coverage while trying to understand the events themselves. One detail has stayed with me ever since. In the middle of all that chaos, people were frantically looking for a comb because Jonathan Motzfeldt, Greenland’s political leader at the time, was about to appear live on television. It sounds almost absurd now, but perhaps that is why I remember it so clearly. While something unimaginable was unfolding thousands of miles away, ordinary television routines still had to continue. Someone still had to prepare the studio, find a comb and go on air. Then, as we stood there watching, one of the towers collapsed. For a moment, it was difficult to understand what we were seeing. A building that had filled the screen only seconds earlier suddenly disappeared into an enormous cloud of dust and debris. It felt completely unreal, almost like something from a disaster movie, except we knew that thousands of real people were caught up in what we were watching. Then the second tower came down. I remember being surprised by how deeply it affected me. New York was thousands of miles away, yet for those hours the distance seemed to disappear. We were standing in Nuuk, Greenland, watching the same images as millions of people around the world, all trying to understand what had happened and what it might mean. At one point, a presenter on KNR went live and, in the confusion of those first hours, mistakenly opened the broadcast by saying that World War III had begun. That sentence has stayed with me, not because it was true, but because it captured the uncertainty of that moment. Nobody knew the full extent of the attacks, who was behind them or what would happen next. The following morning, I woke up to the radio playing a remix of R.E.M.’s Everybody Hurts, mixed with voices and sounds from the coverage of 9/11. I remember lying there listening and realizing how far the shock had travelled. Even in Greenland, thousands of miles from New York, people were trying to process what had happened. That day changed America, but its impact was felt far beyond America. Even in Greenland. We were far away, but we were not untouched. That is how I remember September 11, 2001.

9 December 2005 On 9 December 2005, Laurentz set out on her final voyage along the west coast of Greenland. It was a cold December morning, and we were on our way to Saqqaq in North Greenland to attend the opening of a new Pilersuisoq store. It should have been an entirely ordinary trip. Halfway to Saqqaq, the engine caught fire. We grabbed the fire extinguishers and tried to bring it under control. But the flames were spreading faster than we could fight them. At some point, it became clear that we were no longer trying to save the boat. We had to save ourselves. We sent out a mayday over the radio. Fortunately, two shrimp trawlers were nearby and changed course towards us. When the first one reached us, we had to get from the burning Laurentz onto the other vessel. There is one moment in particular that I have never forgotten. I was standing at the bow of Laurentz. The fire was taking hold around us. The crew on the trawler were shouting at us to hurry. There was a real risk that the boat could explode. And in the middle of it all, Greenlandic Christmas music was playing on the radio. That contrast has stayed with me ever since. The flames. The shouting. The cold Greenlandic winter. And the Christmas music. I remember thinking.. Is this how my life ends? I thought about my family. My friends. Everything I had yet to experience. And all the people I might never see again. A short while later, we had made it onto the trawler and were moving away from Laurentz. I can still remember the sight of the burning boat behind us, surrounded by the cold, dark waters of Greenland. More than 20 years later, I still think about that morning. Not every day. But often enough for it to remain a reminder of just how quickly something completely ordinary can change. Most of us go through life quietly assuming there will be another tomorrow. That there will be time for the conversation we never had. For family. For friends. For the journey. For all the things we keep putting off. 9 December 2005 taught me that time is never guaranteed. I came home that day. Laurentz did not. And perhaps that is why I still remember that cold December morning in Greenland so clearly. Not only as the day we almost lost our lives. But as the day that taught me to appreciate mine.