Executive Pay Climbs as 9/11 Museum Deficit Widens, Tax Dollars Offer Little Rescue

Soaring executive pay at the 9/11 Memorial & Museum has stoked controversy, as persistent deficits and lofty admission fees spark questions about nonprofit stewardship at one of New York City’s most hallowed institutions.

New Yorkers are well acquainted with excess, but even they might blanch at the latest numbers posted by the National September 11 Memorial & Museum. Despite charging $36 per head—50% higher than in 2015—the much-visited institution has managed to lose nearly $20m over the past year. The culprit is not waning demand: the site draws some 9,000 visitors on a typical day. Rather, critics say, it is surging costs, not least for executive salaries, that explain why the museum, built to honour the dead, now finds itself at the centre of a pecuniary dispute very much among the living.

Recent federal tax filings paint a less-than-edifying picture. In 2024, the memorial foundation took in $93m, including $4.5m in state and federal subsidies. Tiny, by Manhattan megaproject standards, was the $10.3m in private donations. Instead, the overwhelming majority of revenue—$69m—comes from ticket sales, museum tours, and an array of official souvenirs. Expenses, meanwhile, ballooned to $112m, with payroll alone hitting $34m, up from $22m just four years ago. Of the charity’s 411 employees, 13 pocketed more than $100,000 each.

This has ignited outrage among 9/11 victims’ families, who see little justification for a cadre of high earners at an avowedly public-spirited institution. “It’s another slap in the face,” lamented Jim McCaffrey, a retired firefighter, whose brother-in-law died in the attacks. That pain is compounded by memories of the pandemic, when, even as the nonprofit axed or furloughed most of its workforce, the wellbeing of its senior leadership remained curiously resilient; 2020 saw the museum end $47m in the red, but somehow bonuses still flowed upward.

For New York City, the row comes at a delicate juncture. Civic pride in the memorial runs deep, and a steady procession of school groups, tourists, and first responders ensures its iconic vaulted galleries are rarely empty. Yet the institution’s financial fragility bodes ill for its custodial mission—especially when core operations depend so overwhelmingly on admission fees.

Therein lies the rub. When costs rise faster than private philanthropy can offset, the pressure to squeeze ever more from ticket-paying visitors becomes irresistible. In practice, entry has become punishingly expensive for many New Yorkers, let alone those from out-of-state or abroad—“broadening access” rings hollow when a family of four must part with nearly $150 to step inside. Whatever the prestige of the World Trade Center site, such gatekeeping risks turning a universal space of remembrance into just another elite-priced “experience”.

The museum’s spending patterns offer few comforts. Alongside the bountiful executive compensation and eight-figure wage bill, $13m went to janitorial services, $10m to private security, and $7m in annual rent to the Port Authority, which owns the land. Another $28m appeared as depreciation and amortization—non-cash expenses, to be sure, but ones that put a further dent in headline figures. The foundation notes, not entirely unreasonably, that excluding these entries yields a surplus, but such financial legerdemain tends to fray public trust.

Oversight and stewardship in question

The museum’s troubles are hardly unique among New York’s arts and heritage sector in the years since COVID-19. From the Metropolitan Museum of Art to the American Museum of Natural History, inflation and ever-pricier property costs have left even the grandest nonprofits feeling the pinch. Yet few can match the 9/11 Museum’s reliance on paid admissions—and even fewer have responded with such a mixture of wage largesse and revenue desperation.

For New Yorkers, the stakes are not merely financial. The memorial occupies a singular place in the post-9/11 city’s sense of purpose. Its existence was meant to serve as a democratic forum for grief and memory, transcending politics or profit. When stewards seem to forget this calling—or worse, appear to prioritise comfort at the top—civic faith in collective institutions suffers a further, quiet blow.

There are national echoes, too. American nonprofits, especially those with mixed funding, have seen a slow accretion of executive pay and managerial accoutrements. Data from the Urban Institute reveal that median compensation for top officials at large cultural charities has risen more than twice as fast as inflation since 2010. While arguments can be made about the need to attract competent leadership, the optics of fiscal self-indulgence are poisonous, particularly when performance—measured in visitor experience, educational outreach, or fundraising haul—remains tepid.

Globally, too, memories of tortured monument finances abound. The UK’s National Holocaust Centre, France’s Musée du Quai Branly, and Japan’s Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum have all struggled with the expensive realities of running sites of conscience while serving the general public. Most, however, manage to maintain at least the appearance of prudent stewardship—a lesson the Americans may wish to absorb.

The Board of Trustees and public authorities now face a choice, sharper than it first appears. A more transparent, sustainable operating model—one that expects more from private donors, contains payroll growth, and reconsiders the wisdom of relentless ticket inflation—would better honour the site’s remit. The alternative portends a future in which the memorial grows ever more exclusive, while deficits and mistrust escalate in lockstep.

In the end, none of this is beyond repair. New Yorkers have, time and again, shown an ability to demand better from their civic institutions. The 9/11 Museum’s financial foibles are, on their own, a venial sin. But unless checked, they eat away at exactly what the site is meant to foster: shared memory predicated on public trust. In an era of waning confidence in charitable governance, the stewards of ground zero would do well to remember that some legacies are easier to tarnish than to restore. ■