Dimitry Leger - God Loves Haiti

Some time later, the sour scent of his own piss, like smelling salts, startled Alain awake. How long had he been out? Clearly not long enough for the events of the past dozen or so hours to disappear in a nightmare’s blur and return him to his normal and, all things considered, not terrible life. In that life, he’d lost the woman he loved to a rich old man, but at least his legs were functional, which gave him a decent shot at running after her and winning her back. In that life, his city had a ground you could run on and not feel like running from. Now the world around him was filled with horror. Herds of people had settled on every patch of available dirt in the park. Women, men, and children, all looking hysterical and in pain, like they, too, had had recent and unusual encounters with death. Their own shadows made them nervous. They were jumpy and kept looking up at the sky or over their shoulders, as if they feared an attack, as if the sky might decide to fall on their heads or the ground might turn into quicksand. Most of those heads already nursed garish injuries. Most shoulders sported bleeding gashes mixed with gravel or dirt. Or was that cement? As if the arms had been used to protect their owners from falling objects. Their eyes now darted to and fro, as if, having barely survived nearly getting buried alive, every sense yearned for connections to community and humanity. The people clutched and touched everyone near. Alain guessed they touched each other because they needed help shaking off the shock of whatever had happened that seemed to have stripped them of everything save their lives. I did it, their faces said. My God, we did it. Survival needed constant affirmation. Alain had seen this look before. It was after a runaway truck at a carnival sent a crowd running for cover. He was a small boy. The mob reached him when they ran out of steam. His father had him fetch them water, out of his customary generosity. People took the water from Alain without looking and drank while looking over their shoulders in the direction of the danger they had just fled. Some of those survivors were so distracted they missed their mouths while trying to drink the water. They missed his tray when they tried to put the cups down.

These disaster survivors were different. They looked like survivors of an avalanche, and Alain was in no position to help them. He was one of them and felt exactly how they felt. Fucked-up and scared out of his wits. Terrified of what unexpected shit the next second of life could bring. From his seat on the ground, Alain strained to see the world beyond the mob of survivors. A couple hundred of them already filled the park. Unable to stand, he saw only jumbles of limping legs and feet and groins and white dust-covered clothes and swollen, sad faces. On his right, beyond the fence and across the street, Alain took a look at the National Palace. The two-story domed manse had been reduced to one story. The dome was gone, caved into the building. The memory of witnessing the revered building’s destruction while his car flew through the sky came back to him. He broke out in sweat and felt the return of the now familiar — hopefully not permanent — terror run through his body. What force could do that, casually destroy one of the biggest buildings in the country and throw cars into the air like leaves? A nuclear bomb? On Port-au-Prince? No, Alain had read John Hersey’s Hiroshima at university. Even if he and these people had managed to survive being at ground zero of a nuclear explosion, their bodies and the city would either be on fire or coping with burn wounds. The very air around them would still be burning. The air would be thick with radiation and rendered invisible and unbreathable by lingering clouds. In short, we’d be dead. And the sun wouldn’t have come out so quickly. So brightly. So damn perkily. Fucking Caribbean sun. Besides, today’s nuclear bombs were stronger than Hiroshima’s. If one landed here, or anywhere on Hispaniola, even by accident, it likely would have sunk the island. Today, Haiti, like man since his first encounter with death, persevered. Worn, but still here. Heads above water. Barely. What else could… an earthquake?

Oh my God, an earthquake. It was an earthquake! Had to be. But there’s no history of earthquakes in Haiti. None whatsoever. His parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents never mentioned it. And picking apart the nation’s colorful, sorrowful, and thrilling history is all Haitians do. It’s a sport, the fucking national pastime. History is all we have to take pride in, since our greatest achievement occurred in 1804, and we hadn’t contributed fuck-all to humanity in the intervening two centuries save a few good books and paintings. Dining out on the heroes of independence of 1804 allowed Haitians to overlook the mess we made of the present. No one would have overlooked a major earthquake in this society’s, and indeed the world’s, constant search for proof that Haitians are or aren’t God’s children, put on one of earth’s most beautiful corners to suffer absurd streams of misfortune. But how else could Alain explain the buildings he saw falling over like dominos on rue St. Honoré? And all these people sporting injuries that could come only from falling objects? Gashes and wounds on their heads, shoulders, and arms, arms that were probably used in futile attempts to protect themselves from falling debris, houses, trees, and… cars.

Fuck. An earthquake hit Port-au-Prince! Must have been huge. My God, the city is too crowded. Its houses too poorly built. Too much liberal use of cement everywhere. Too-lax building safety regulations. Our government is too ill equipped! Too few hospitals, doctors, nurses, beds, and even ambulances. Fuck. My Lord, how, how could You allow this to happen? Here and now? Three million people are said to live here, but we all know the number is closer to five million. Fuck. Fuuuuuuuuuck. God, how could You? What father does that to…

Hey!

Someone had walked quietly up to Alain and poked him in the head with a stick. It was a boy. A naked boy of about six years old was staring at him with the biggest, brownest, and softest honey-chocolate-colored eyes Alain had ever seen. The reflection of himself he saw in the boy’s eyes gave Alain pause. He looked like shit. Dirty, swollen face. Hair askew. Wounded and mangy, like roadkill. He looked scared and crazy. In desperate need for medical attention. The child, meanwhile, wore preternatural calm. As if he didn’t realize he was nude and covered with dried mud, the child looked at Alain with familiarity and tenderness.

I was taking a bath, the boy said. Maman was telling me a story about why I should stop playing with the big boys across the street. Then goudou-goudou came. It was loud. I couldn’t hear her voice anymore. I couldn’t hear anything but goudou-goudou, goudou-goudou, goudou-goudou. The room rocked back and forth, back and forth. Mummy wanted to hug me. Then the ceiling came crashing down on her.

The boy mimicked a roof caving in. Mother disappeared, he said. The roof fell on her. In midsentence, she disappeared. All of her except her hands. It was strange: her fingers continued to stroke my shoulder. I pulled her hand away and climbed out of the bathtub and walked around the pile of debris that filled the room. I apologized to Maman for walking over her. After one last look to see if she would climb out of the pile of cement — don’t laugh; you don’t know how strong my mother was — I walked out of the house through a small hole of light where the front door used to be.

Why are you telling me all this, little boy? Alain said. I feel bad for you. I really do, but, as you can see, I got my own problems.

The pain in Alain’s legs had sizzled up his back and neck and grown sharp and overwhelming once his adrenaline shock had worn off. Alain felt that the boy’s lament was distracting him from the more fun preoccupation of suckling the black rage and pain exploding in his head, blurring his vision and emptying his usual glass-half-full disposition. He was angry with God for allowing nature to strike Haiti with such tragedy. The blasphemy felt good. It crept hrough Alain’s physical pain like water moving through a living room from an overflowing toilet. He was determined to not let this angelic little orphan dull his rage.