Tuesday January 12, 4:45 pm

7.0
The first thing I noticed was a sound like a freight train. I was sitting on the second floor of the administration building where we live, with Mary and Kristen, two other volunteers. I thought the generator next door was turning on, and something was wrong with it causing it to make a louder than usual noise. Someone said, “what’s happening?” and I realized the floor was moving and things were rattling around. When I think of it now, I think I noticed the floor was moving in waves … or maybe I’m just imagining that after the fact. We never said “earthquake” but someone said “what should we do – should we get out?” I didn’t think I could stand up anymore and was afraid to run out and fall, so I said “no, get the fuck down.” (I actually have no memory of saying that … someone told me later that’s what I said.) My instinct was to climb under the little couch in our common room. Looking at it now it’s sort of hilarious to note that there’s about 12 inches from the floor to the bottom of the couch. I wouldn’t so much have fit under there. I remember looking at the walls to make sure that nothing would fall on us and I just got down and covered my head. Mary somehow had the presence of mind to pull the standing fan down with her so it wouldn’t fall. I became conscious of so much screaming outside, and I remember wondering if this was a big earthquake or just a tremor, never having experienced one before. And then it stopped. People say it was about 20 seconds, but it felt like forever.

The next thirty minutes though were actually the scariest. When it stopped we got up slowly, totally bewildered, and walked out of the building holding on as we went down the stairs, knowing that the aftershocks would start any minute. As we rounded the corner of the stairs – which are actually outside – I noticed that the front wall surrounding the campus had completely fallen down into the street. I heard screaming. My legs were like jello and heart was racing. I remember thinking about adrenaline and that maybe that’s why my heart was racing and that maybe the magical powers that adrenaline supposedly gives people would allow me to do whatever needed to be done in the next few minutes. As we emerged I saw that the planter by the door had fallen and shattered. I saw kids running toward me and the front basketball court where they always gather, crying, or using every shred of their strength not to cry. I ran the other way toward the first building to go inside and make sure the kids were all out. I had this image in my head of a kid being too scared to get out, or an injured kid inside, and an aftershock coming and knocking down the whole building. I remember thinking it was totally idiotic for me to go inside any of those buildings, but I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

There weren’t any kids inside, but as I came out, two terrifying sights greeted me. The head maintenance guy, a really big guy, was running full speed past me with a little girl limply in his arms, yelling for help. Then I saw that that two water tanks that hold our drinkable water were gushing out water. The possibility that we had serious injuries, or that we might have drinking water problems in the aftermath, had not yet hit me. I watched as the pickup truck filled with - I couldn’t tell how many - injured kids and a few staff members raced out of the driveway. I kept running around through two more buildings screaming for kids to get out, then ran back to the basketball court where they were gathered as they always do, actually standing in the lines in which they always stand. Most were crying, holding on to each other. The adults were all walking around trying to comfort kids, having no idea what the hell was going on themselves. Zanmy, the assistant principle who is only 26 himself, got up on the table as he always does and quieted the kids. I actually don’t know what he was saying because my Kreyol brain wasn’t so much functioning in that moment, but I stood next to him, just to be another adult standing there. At some point there was a strong aftershock that had me jumping off the table to get on the ground, and the kids all screamed and ran toward the center of the court, away from all the buildings and the front wall that didn’t actually exist anymore. I knew that aftershocks were normal, but it occurred to me that they probably didn’t. These were some absolutely terrified kids.

Settling In
In the next hour we moved the kids to the back soccer field, away from the chaos that was unfolding on the street outside. When I got back there I saw that part of the wall around the soccer field and playground had fallen too, and learned from another volunteer that seven kids had been injured when that wall fell on them. The next few hours were spent calming kids, keeping them away from the walls surrounding the field (afraid that a strong aftershock could knock them down), securing the drinking water, rigging up some lights and a TV because – amazingly – our solar panels were completely intact and we had working electricity in most buildings. Fortunately, the school’s cooks had just finished making dinner when the earthquake struck so some people carried the huge pots and the kids’ bowls outside and passed out food. We rolled the drums of diesel fuel away from the now crumbled front wall into a more secure location in case any kind of unrest or looting happened. About ten of our security and maintenance guys sat in a circle by the now wide open front gate, and despite the chaos, seeing them there I felt – almost – totally safe.

At first we still had cell phone contact within Haiti, so staff members were feverishly calling family and friends, and we even had cell contact with the US at first so we could report and get information from the staff there. But after a few hours, all but one of the Haitian cell companies went down and we were left cut off from the US, so those first hours were extremely complex in terms of decision making. We were missing our two senior most leaders who happened to be away from the school that day, many staff members had not yet returned to campus from their universities for the evening, and the rest of the staff had moments of total clarity, but were clearly struggling to hold it together at other times. One learned that his eleven year old cousin had been killed when a wall two streets away fell on her. Another heard of an injured family member, but before he could get more information, lost cell contact. Others just waited, not knowing anything. In this context we had to make decisions about whether or not it was safe to run into buildings even for a moment to take out foam mattresses and sheets for the kids to sleep on. We had to decide how to handle the parents who were arriving. We had to decide what area we would use as a bathroom. Meanwhile, there were radio reports of a tsunami warning, and predictions of more intense aftershocks. We had some kids descending into total shock while they waited, hoping that the next parent in the door would be their own. Those reunions made my heart ache, and made the rest of the kids even more anxious about the fate of their own families.

By 9 pm we had everyone lying down somewhere and the movie Happy Feet on the TV. Unfortunately we couldn’t find the DVD remote in the chaos of the totally upside down library and couldn’t switch the language to French, so, we just watched it in English. The story was clearly not what mattered. The kids never got totally quiet that night. We played movies all night, just to provide some distraction. There were moments of singing, and moments of praying and moments of sobbing. Older kids just walked laps of the field in small groups, with so much nervous energy. Little kids slept. At some point we went back upstairs to our own rooms to gather warm clothes, toothbrushes and our own mattresses when one volunteer suggested we grab out passports and wallets … just in case. Later on staff took turns sleeping, as well as we could. The aftershocks continued, at first eliciting screams from the kids, and eventually just making us all gasp a little, and then go back to sleep. Haiti in January is actually kind of chilly at night, probably in the sixties, and the kids were all wearing their play clothes from earlier in the day. I gave a little girl in shorts and a tank top my black hoodie, and another boy one of my sheets. It was a cold, mostly sleepless night.

We awoke with the sun just before 6. As I gathered myself and my belongings together, I remember thinking, “Here we go. This is the beginning of the real work.” After moving all of the mattresses to the side, we gathered the kids as we do every morning, in their usual lines, and one of the oldest students got up in front of them and led them in a prayer of profound thanksgiving. We still knew little of the extent of the damage and death outside, but we knew we were blessed to be alive, and together in a safe place. They sang a song of thanksgiving, “mesi bondye pout tout ou bay nou … thank you God for all you give us.” I stood to the side and watched them singing, wrapped in sheets. I was utterly humbled by their faith.

We spent the rest of the day cooking … literally, the next nine hours. Most of the Haitian staff were still trying to get information about their families, or hadn’t yet returned, or were out with the kids, or just weren’t really in any shape to help. So it fell on the nine US American volunteers to make breakfast for 400 Haitians. We decided that it wouldn’t be possible to make three meals each day, so we settled on a mid morning meal, and a late afternoon meal. Unfortunately there was a probable gas leak in our industrial kitchen, so we were left to do all the work in the small residential kitchen. Spaghetti for breakfast is a staple in Haiti, but we didn’t have any hot dogs which are a typical part of the meal. So we boiled pot after pot of spaghetti, made pot after pot of a simple tomato sauce, and carried it all in shifts out to the back soccer field to serve the kids class by class. It took five hours to cook the food and feed everyone. When it was done, and all the dishes were clean, we started on dinner, a simple plate of rice and beans.

The New Normal
We’re now on day six since the earthquake. We still spend most of our time cooking and cleaning, but have settled into a state of near normalcy. The kids still sleep outside, and during the day set up a little tent city. They made a shower area to take bucket showers. Yesterday they were washing their clothes and hanging them to dry all over the playground. We have the meal serving and cleaning down to a science, and many more of the Haitian staff are able to help – or rather lead – the cooking process. Consequently, the kids are also much happier with their home cooked Haitian food as opposed to that very mysterious Italian style spaghetti we made them on that first bewildering morning! We’ve also been able to feed almost 100 people from the neighborhood at least once, and sometimes twice each day. We are so blessed that the earthquake struck at the beginning of the month. Our freezer was full of meat, and our pantries full of rice, spaghetti, beans and some vegetables.

Within our own school, the rebuilding is beginning. Students and staff moved the pieces of concrete block from the front wall that fell into the street. The kids help with the meal prep and cleanup. We knocked down the balcony banister that was precariously perched on the third floor of a classroom building. On Saturday we climbed on the roof of a building to clean the solar panels. Kids are cleaning up the shelves and books that fell all over the library and returning it to some state of order. We’re still awaiting confirmation from an engineer that all of our buildings are inhabitable despite the cracks, but we’re trying to get people used to the idea of being in them – and on them – so though the kids aren’t sleeping inside yet, we’re starting to make use of the buildings whenever we can.

In the country the rebuilding is clearly coming, but hasn’t begun in earnest yet. There are still bodies all over the streets, and huge piles of rubble that used to be the hospitals, the universities, churches, supermarkets, peoples’ homes and schools, and the national palace. But we hear the reports of four thousand American troops and billions of dollars of aid on its way. Every day there are more and more planes in the sky and I’ve started playing a little game with kids – and adults – that whenever a plane flies overhead we imagine what’s in it. Doctors … machinery to remove the rubble … beans … firefighters … pepperoni pizzas …?

Now the real trauma of what happened in this country is known to us all, and is hitting this community in personal ways. Though all of our students and staff are alive, we did have seven students with injuries, two of whom are still not quite right. Students and staff are learning of family and friends who were killed when houses collapsed, or the university collapsed, or the wall on the side of the road they were on collapsed. Some still haven’t heard from family members at all. People coming from the outside are wearing masks now, as the smell of death is everywhere in the city. Some put toothpaste on their upper lip to disguise the smell, and all have horrific stories or walking through downtown, or Delmas or Petonville and climbing over corpses and rubble to get where they’re going.

Many people are so scared that this hole is just too deep for Haiti to come out of. They’ve heard of international aid on its way before, only to have corrupt government officials line their own pockets with it. They’ve had hope for change before, only to have the harsh reality of daily life in Haiti break those hopes to pieces. They wonder out loud if this isn’t some kind of punishment from God. I have found that people here express joy so freely, but hope doesn’t come as easily. The radio reports are that foreigners are leaving the country in droves. There are lines outside the US embassy of missionaries and NGO workers and others waiting for evacuation to the Dominican Republic. How can people be hopeful when everyone seems to be abandoning them? Today I was sitting with a group of little children from the neighborhood coloring pictures. Not that any of us really knows anything about art therapy, but the idea of giving little kids crayons and paper after a crisis just seemed like a good idea. One little boy, about seven years old, drew a picture of a girl, and a house, and a boat with a little Haitian flag on the top. I asked who the girl was and he said Kristen, one of the other US volunteers. I asked who the house was and he said it was my house. I asked who was in the boat and he said “blan”- white people, which colloquially means foreigners. I asked where the boat was going and he said “nan etazuni.” To the United States. Even as Kristen and I sat next to this little boy, he was so sure we were on our way out the door. We assured him that we’re not going anywhere.

Koman ou ye?
We try to ask each other and the kids “how are you” as often as possible. The answer depends on the moment. Loud noises still make us all jump. The US Air Force lanes are coming in around the clock right now, and they’re HUGE and fly very low, very loudly. Every time the generator turns on, I flinch. The aftershocks which sent us all running outside a few times a day and night seem to have stopped. However, the sensation of moving floors and dizziness (which we’re calling “earthquake feet”) still comes and goes for everyone, especially at “ground zero” – where you were when it happened. Unfortunately for me, that was where I live, so every time I went back inside I had the sensation of moving and shaking. On Saturday I decided to go and spend about three hours in there cleaning the whole place top to bottom, organizing all the things that fell down. Then last night we finally all went back inside and slept in our own beds and it was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a week.

As for the kids, they are amazing. I asked one 16 year old boy yesterday how he was and he said with a huge smile “everything’s OK. My family is good. My house is totally broken and they’re sleeping outside, but everyone is good.” Some haven’t been home yet, and I’m starting to worry that some of the older kids are delaying the reality as long as possible. We’re encouraging them to go home, just to see, as long as it’s safe. We’re afraid that we may lose many students. Most people in Port au Prince are transplants from the countryside. If they lost everything here, many will just go back to the family home in the provinces.

Now I’m in school mode again. I’m working on a modified school schedule so on Tuesday we can start having some academic classes with whichever kids and staff members are here. The country has officially cancelled school for a month, but we will carry on as well as we can. The cooks will come back tomorrow, so the volunteers and staff who have been cooking and cleaning all day can get back to being teachers … sort of. We’ll incorporate many hours of work into each school day, so we can fix everything on our campus, and when the resources become available, we’ll help the neighbors rebuild their houses

I’m not afraid there will be another big earthquake, and the aftershocks rattle me – literally and figuratively – a little less each day. The security situation in the country is OK. Yesterday we drove around a bit and saw people out selling things on the street, and even some tap taps running. Those people aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t do that with marauding gangs all over town. The presence of a huge US military force will be good. The relationship between Haitian civilians and the US military is actually excellent. People see them as helping to maintain order and peace. Our food situation is secure, and we’re managing to find the things we need. Today we bought 720 eggs and even found bread for breakfast tomorrow. No one really knows what the next months will bring, but we’ll make plans, then scrap them and start over as the situation demands. Maybe in February, the week when Carnaval should have happened, the volunteers will spend some time in the DR sipping cocktails with umbrellas in them … or maybe we’ll just stay here and work. Time will tell.