No Place
I tried in vain to watch TV while avoiding images of Port-au-Prince — let alone the smaller cities that we’re just finding out about. I get the impression that everyone is using the same bank of images. Within two hours, I saw the same closed expression on a little girl standing in a crowd a dozen times. The face of the boy who just crawled out of a hole is so luminous, he looks like he swallowed a light bulb. His glowing smile makes him an instant star. An American reporter is filing his story with a baby in his arms. The images are so strong they hide everything else. How do they go about choosing? Do these images just naturally get our attention, or is it the repetition that makes them so familiar? I suspect they’re busy building our memories. Often they’re the last ones we see before drifting off to sleep. Is the choice of images random or do the news directors know from experience what will move their audience? All that work in the flow of the moment. I try to see something new. Like that woman moving through the crowd. The way she’s walking, with no sense of anxiety, gives no idea of her destination. She’s just there. The truth is that people are in no hurry any more because most of them have lost their houses. They have no decent place to live, so they live in the moment.
Ten Seconds
She came and sat next to me on the yellow sofa. Slender and refined, she was extremely careful how she broached the subject. She wanted to know if there was a moment when I lost my head, knowing I might die. That isn’t a question to be taken lightly. I took my time answering. I think what helped, I told her, is that we were together as a group. There were three of us. We supported each other. I don’t know how I would have acted if the earthquake had caught me alone in my room. If the question had been, “Were you afraid?” I would have said Yes, but not at the beginning. The first violent tremor took me completely by surprise. No time to think. I was afraid when the second tremor shook us; it was almost as strong as the first. It came just as I was getting my thoughts back. Just when I figured I’d made it through, the second shock was like a blow to the back of the head. I understood this thing was serious. This was no play: the actors weren’t going to get back up for the applause. There was no audience. No one would escape unharmed. For ten seconds, I waited for death. Wondering what form it would take. Would the earth gape open and swallow us up? Would the trees fall on us? Fire consume us? At that moment, I knew I couldn’t stay distant from it. In any case, I wasn’t up to it. If an earthquake could shake an entire city, one individual was not going to resist it. That’s when we cling to our most archaic beliefs. We think of the gods of the earth. I waited and waited. Nothing. I got to my feet, humbly. I felt the worst was behind me. But for ten seconds, those horrible ten seconds, I lost what I had so carefully accumulated all my life. The veneer of civilization that I’d been inculcated with went up in smoke — a cloud of dust like the ruins of the city. All that took ten seconds. Is that the true weight of civilization? During those ten seconds, I was a tree, a rock, a cloud, or the earthquake itself. One thing was for sure: I wasn’t the product of a culture any more. I had the definite impression of being part of the cosmos. The most precious seconds of my life. I don’t really know if there was a gap of ten seconds, but I’m sure the emotions were real. We all shared the same event, but we didn’t experience it the same way.
Sharing
You turn on the TV and feel their presence. They’re the first volunteers who found a seat in a plane. They don’t give their opinions; they act. I watch them file out of the plane and head immediately in the right direction. They know where to go. The situation is tailor-made for them. Most of them come from the United States: Adventists, Baptists. The Creole that their leaders learned in American universities makes it possible for them to fan out rapidly throughout the country. Traditionally, the Catholic church took the side of the political, cultural, and economic elite, and the Protestants used that fact to infiltrate the overall population. The Protestants vigorously pursued the war against voodoo that the Catholics began in the 1940s with their famous anti-superstition campaign. Over the last decades, the Catholic church has understood that to survive, it would have to win the heart of the poorer classes. Nowadays, you can’t tell the Catholics apart from the Protestants, since the two wolves have the same attitude toward the flock. Then you have to factor in the humanitarian organizations that act like left-wing clergy. They claim to be more practical and direct, but they’re just as emotionally manipulative. In the end, there’s no difference. Those who practice voodoo, who were always considered archaic, have been trying to modernize. They use the Internet and cell phones and want to claim their share of the market by tinkling the bell of nationalism. The people have all the opium they need. If the day ever comes when there’s enough to eat, will they still want to smoke so much?
Staggering Steps
I panic when I think I might have absorbed a dose of anxiety strong enough to remain in my body. A month after the earthquake, I’m still sensitive to the slightest vibration. Is the information rooted in my mind or my body? I’d like to know what triggers panic: my head or my body? The other evening, I was eating with friends when I felt something. A slight vibration at first, then it grew in intensity. Unbelievable: the other people just went on with their conversation. I was about to make a dash for the door when I realized the guy next to me was tapping his knee against the table — a nervous tic. Once, when I was on the fifteenth floor of a building downtown, I had the very strong feeling that everything was going to collapse in a matter of seconds. When I looked out the window, I was sure the building across the street was moving. The more solid a place seems, the less confident I am. Just now, as I was writing those lines, the chair moved. All rationality fled my body, and I was alone with my panic. And what about the people whose nightmare still continues? I’m talking about the ones who didn’t have the means to leave the island. I can’t imagine what it’s like to walk upon ground that has already betrayed you.
The Pivotal Moment
This event will have repercussions as important as those caused by the declaration of Haitian independence on January 1, 1804. At the time of independence, the Western world turned its back on the new republic and it had to enjoy its triumph alone. That was the destiny of a nation that had just left behind the long, black, suffocating tunnel of slavery. The West refused to recognize its emergence onto the world stage. Europe and America alike turned their backs. Mad with solitude, these new free men devoured each other like beasts. Ever since, the West has pointed to Haiti as an example for anyone who wants to free himself from slavery without its permission. The punishment has lasted for over two centuries. You will be free, but alone. Nothing is worse than being alone on an island. And now every eye turns to Haiti. I picture an enormous door slowly turning on hinges of darkness and light. A pivotal moment. During the last two weeks of January 2010, Haiti was seen more often than during the previous two centuries. And it wasn’t because of a coup or one of those bloody stories mixing voodoo and cannibalism — it was because of an earthquake. An event over which no one has any control. For once, our misfortune wasn’t exotic. What happened to us could have happened anywhere.