Arrived safe and sound in Ayti, and it was so nice to be welcomed immediately by so many good friends. The drive to Petionville is the same; shocking scenes of crumbling buildings amid lively markets and peaceful, resilient, beautiful people.
It is Sunday, which means the hospital is slow, so a few of us went out on a tour of Port au Prince with one of our drivers. The tour was reeling and stirred a deep sorrow within us all. Our driver, Crevois, took us all over the city and then to the area where his business used to be located. It was the largest area of rubble I have seen yet in Ayti, and he moved me to tears when he pointed out what once was his community.
The building that three babies lay under.
The house where eleven people died.
The church that is now benches amid rubble, yet people come faithfully every Sunday to pray and hope for better times.
The fresh skull of an eleven year old boy, still with hair on it, visible skull fractures.
He knew each and every member of that community, including the boy, and yet he calmly pointed out these facts, at peace with them. He himself had left his shop 45 minutes before the quake hit. He lost his entire business, but luckily his family is safe.
He is one of many survivors, some by minutes, others by hours. And he is one of millions just like him, bonded to each other by survival, by being survivors. By knowing so many who didn't make it.
The house where eleven people died.
The church that is now benches amid rubble, yet people come faithfully every Sunday to pray and hope for better times.
The fresh skull of an eleven year old boy, still with hair on it, visible skull fractures.
He knew each and every member of that community, including the boy, and yet he calmly pointed out these facts, at peace with them. He himself had left his shop 45 minutes before the quake hit. He lost his entire business, but luckily his family is safe.
He is one of many survivors, some by minutes, others by hours. And he is one of millions just like him, bonded to each other by survival, by being survivors. By knowing so many who didn't make it.
Like the man who was trapped underneath rubble near the church and called his sister to tell her he was alive, could they please dig him out. But they couldn't, they did not have the capacity to move such giant pieces of concrete, and so the man died. Which is worse, I wondered: to be the trapped man or the sister, hopeless? Still alive, with such sorrow? And this is only one story, of millions.
And tonight as the rains came down hard and strong onto my face, my head, drenching every cell in my body, I thought of her; the sister. Likely huddled under a tarp somewhere, pulling it tight to keep the rain off her bed/clothing/kitchen/belongings. And like so many survivors, was she wondering "why me? Why did I have to survive?" Or was she grateful to be alive, to have the rains bring water to the (few) crops and the mango trees? To settle the dust in the air? What was she thinking? What were the sisters of fallen brothers thinking tonight?
And Crevois took us home to our own tents. And we thanked him for sharing, and he went home to his family. And we reeled. And thought. And were far more grateful than we could ever be, for so much more than can ever be written or verbalized. And there is beauty in that, if nothing else.
And tonight as the rains came down hard and strong onto my face, my head, drenching every cell in my body, I thought of her; the sister. Likely huddled under a tarp somewhere, pulling it tight to keep the rain off her bed/clothing/kitchen/
And Crevois took us home to our own tents. And we thanked him for sharing, and he went home to his family. And we reeled. And thought. And were far more grateful than we could ever be, for so much more than can ever be written or verbalized. And there is beauty in that, if nothing else.
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