Opinion: Haiti is much more than story

PORT AU PRINCE, Haiti — By the time I set out to find a friend the day after Haiti’s most deadly earthquake, it was nearly midnight on the night of Jan. 13. Hassles with logistics getting into the country, securing a car and navigating the roads took far longer than usual.

A driver and I headed slowly up Delmas, a main thoroughfare that connects seaside Port-au-Prince and Petionville, a wealthier suburb at the top of the hill. Delmas was full of people. Some were running uphill, responding to a false rumor that the ocean was rising in the aftermath of Haiti’s 7.0 earthquake. Others were headed downhill, trying to find a flat, open area to sleep. And some were just wandering, not sure where they were going.

We passed a few rescue efforts. One involved a Citibank employee who’d fallen three flights and been trapped now for nearly 30 hours. I couldn’t see her under the rubble, but I could hear her voice, strong and lucid. She was directing the men as to where to cut the metal that had trapped her. A crane could have easily done the trick, but there wasn’t one available. There weren’t even any flashlights; a car’s headlights lit the sunken area. The men cut with a hacksaw and were using a car jack to lift the metal one crank at a time.

The streets were quieter as we turned off Delmas and headed towards Lalue. I caught glimpses of roofs sitting sideways, interiors that had become exteriors, an occasional limb sticking out from massive amounts of rubble. I inhaled deeply, but the whiff was such an unpleasant mix of things I couldn’t — and didn’t — want to identify that I quickly covered my nose.

We worked our way over to Peu Bas de Chose, by the stadium, where hundreds of people had hunkered down for the night. Songs from prayer circles mixed with an occasional cry or dog bark. We drove until we couldn’t drive anymore, couldn’t find an opening amongst the mounds of debris, and then parked. We had only about six more blocks to go.

Neighborhood appointed security guarded the streets, and branches marked the area where the surface changed from dirt to bodies, some sleeping in sheets, others in layers of clothes. It was dark and I had to walk slowly. Mostly it was silent, but every now and then I heard a low cry, as if someone was stifling a sob. Once or twice I heard people wail. At one point a small group of five or so swayed with their arms encircled, praying. I even heard a snore or two.

As I walked, I knew I was living a scene that I was going to be forever replaying. Until then, I’d consciously tried to maintain a matter-of-fact attitude. I knew I couldn’t afford to give way to emotions begging to erupt because I had to parcel them out slowly. This wasn’t a story that was going to be reported in a day. Haiti, to me, was much more than a story. It was the place where I became a journalist, fell in love, raised a child. Where I made friendships as strong as family ties. Where events I reported on became life-changing experiences.

Gone or destroyed were the capital’s visible landmarks that had been cornerstones for my most memorable reporting experiences: changing of governments at the National Palace, marches by the Cathedral, mayhem around the Judicial Palais (Palais de Justice); massacres at St. Jean Bosco. As hard as it was to admit, I knew that there was no way Port-au-Prince was going to recover, emotionally or physically, from the damage of the quake — it was just too powerful.

I slowed my pace even more. I wanted to remember this experience, of people, hundreds and hundreds of people, lying under the stars, side-by-side, just as they were going to have to work together, side by side, to rebuild their lives. And their country. And I imagined that it was possible, though improbable, that they could build better lives, a better country, one that might be able to offer their children opportunities that they and their parents and their great grandparents never had.

I found my friend and his family. They were all fine, and their house had survived the quake with minor damage. Half the family was asleep outside, the rest of the family members scattered in a variety of cars parked on the sidewalk. We talked for a while, and then I worked my way back through the crowd, one slow step at a time. I knew that when the sun came up the next morning these streets would look and feel different. They would be littered with dead bodies and crumbled buildings and destroyed lives. But if I closed my eyes, even just for a second, I’d still be able to conjure up the image of the night before, and it would offer at least a moment of relief.

Kathie Klarreich is the author of Madame Dread, a memoir of her life in Haiti as a reporter for NPR, the Christian Science Monitor, NBC News, and Time during the past decade.