Free The World is Moving Around Me by Dany Laferrière

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.

    The Desire to Help
    In the streets of Montreal, I can measure the depth of emotion set off by Haiti’s misfortune. People seem moved to their very souls, as if the city were as one with Haiti. I went home and saw those inconsolable faces again on TV (always in close-up). Nurses rushing off to help the injured, children raising funds by any means possible (selling their art and putting on shows) and delivering it to humanitarian organizations, amateur and professional musicians sending the totality of their proceeds from their concerts to orphanages, suburban rockers with Mohawk haircuts wearing T-shirts with “I Love Haiti” printed on them, journalists who want to adopt the children they hold in their arms for the camera, giant benefits like in the days of “We Are the World” that raise dozens of millions of dollars in a single night, Hollywood stars who sell their party dresses and buy food with the money, big names from the movies who use their personal airplanes to ferry in medicine, doctors who operate until they’re exhausted. Not to mention anonymous individuals who want to act, but discreetly and modestly. But where is all this energy going? And where is all the money ending up? People want to help so much that they don’t try to find out the answers. The sadness on their faces alternates with the will to really do something. And do it personally. Haiti has barged into their private lives.

    The Return
    My sister called to say that Aunt Renée had died. I bought a plane ticket to Port-au-Prince for the next day. I moved from the virtual to the real. From the TV bombarding me with images to reality into which I sink like quicksand. My heart stops as we land. Loads of American planes on the runway, as if the country were occupied. Out of the window, I see blue tents just about everywhere. People won’t stay in houses that might be dangerously weakened. If they have to sleep inside, they leave their doors open and their belongings close at hand. They’re ready to run at the slightest alert. The fear of being caught in their sleep by a strong tremor has made them as nervous as a sprinter waiting for the gun in the race of his life. It would be too simple if they had to worry only about saving their own lives, but there are kids, the sick, and old people. The city’s eyes are red from lack of sleep. Still, I expected the population to be more impatient. But here I am, in a city of calm.

    The Last Doctor
    I watch my mother putting the utensils back on the shelves. The tablecloths in the drawers. The baskets, blue and pink plastic, carefully lined up on the counter. She insists on doing the household chores even though she has a wound on her right leg that won’t heal. Her doctor died in the earthquake, and she needs a new one fast. It’s not easy, since everyone wants an appointment. People injured in the earthquake have priority, especially those in danger for their lives. Last month, so many arms and legs were amputated that could have been saved in other circumstances. Now, people are afraid of this bush medicine where everything is done at top speed. At the beginning, there weren’t enough drugs, especially antibiotics, and doctors feared gangrene like the plague. A good number of Haitian doctors became unavailable; their own families needed their help. Then there were the ones who were injured or killed. What can you do but turn to Jesus, the only real doctor, as my mother says, whose clinic is open day and night. It’s remarkable that Haitians aren’t cursing God for this endless river of misfortune. Are they too weak or too resigned to find the energy to shake their fists at the sky? They do it sometimes, in their way. My sister told me that one of her girlfriends, who used to go to mass with her every