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June 2, 2008

Earthquake

老闆自己做了一個小小的募款活動, 公司同事,包括我在內,都出了一點小小的心意. 老闆賑災回來, 對這趟trip寫了一篇好長的紀錄/感想. 因為是老闆的親身體驗, 我想要貼出來分享. 我其實還沒有通知老闆會貼出來,所以..哪天我想想拿下來或是鎖碼了也不一定...

老闆的essay很長, 我只摘錄幾段...

...

There are seven us heading north in a minivan being followed by a truck with 490 tents. We are bringing relief supplies to earthquake victims. I've lived through two major earthquakes, one when I was a senior in college, and then in the Northridge earthquake in 1992. I know what earthquakes look like, and I know what earthquake victims look like. At least in America . I'm curious to see what they look like in China . The cumulative death toll from the earthquakes I’ve lived through is less than 500 people. I hear death tolls from this earthquake approach 70,000.

I ask the driver why the road is so deserted. He tell me the freeway along which we are traveling has been closed to everyone but government traffic heading into the Earthquake Zone.
...

There are six or seven adults in the middle, standing silently and looking down. As I walk to the piles, I see a child's desk, broken, next to a small basketball hoop. I realize where I am. This is the school that collapsed.

This is a graveyard for 600 children.

I don't believe there is any father in the world who loves his children more than I love mine. In the same way, I don't believe these fathers loved their children less than I do.

This ground is holy.

When the earthquake hit, this four-floor school building simply crumbled. The children inside had no time to hide under a door, or under a desk or even to face the end of their lives holding the hand

of someone who loved them. Their world turned to rubble. Nothing. Life. Then no life.

I noticed that none of the people who were there were wearing watches. I understand that. As a parent, time is now irrelevant. There is time Before and time After. Nothing else.

This ground is holy.

I see an orange rubber ball crushed under a white cement column, a child's drawing of a cloud and a house that is similar to the drawing on my walls at home, a red backpack with blue shoulder straps, a math notebook, a tiny pink jacket with a hood and a shoe that is much, much too small to be found in the violence of ruins like this.

This ground is holy.

I'm not sure how the government is going to consecrate this ground. I'm not sure they can. There is nothing more obscene than the death of a child, and the idea of 600 children dying in a schoolhouse is grotesque. The reality is worse.

I have two children in pre-school. A five year old son, and a three year old son. Before I leave for work, I speak to both boys. I tell them to have a good day in class, I kiss them and I run my hands

through their hair. Sometimes, often, at night, they come into bed with my wife and me. I feel their tiny arms go halfway around my back as they hug me. I know their faces as well as I know my own.

They are part of me. They are the best part of me.

That is what I feel here. I feel the touch of my son's hair. I feel his tiny arms going halfway around my back and I try to imagine not feeling it again. I can't. I can't breathe here, and I can't leave.

This is an important place. Perhaps the most important place in the world.

...

After an hour bouncing around, we reach the village of Xiangexiang . This was a village 12 miles from the epicenter. The ground shook for five minutes. This village is gone. There are giant piles of brick, columns and shattered glass. There are no buildings. Our guide tells us that half of the village died. That doesn't surprise me. What surprises me is that anyone lived.

We stop for a while in the center of town. There are 10 blue tents with the Chinese Red Cross and Chinese soldiers. There are no villagers in sight. The Chinese army has over 100 vehicles in the

area and probably 5,000 soldiers. Everyone is working, putting rubble onto trucks, clearing the roads, planting rice, cooking dinner and cutting hair. The soldiers are managing the ordinary in the face of the extraordinary.

But I'm not sure what they're doing. There is no more village. There is no more hope. This village, this way of life, this heritage is gone. We leave and head back to Chengdu .

As we go back down the same road, we begin to see signs of life. We see a family huddled in the wreckage of a home, pulling belongings out of the destruction. It's sad, but at the same time hopeful. There's a child with them, and he's smiling.

Further down the road, we see a grandparent put a baseball cap on her grandson's head. She's laughing. And so is he.

And as we go, we begin to see life emerge from the ruins. We see children eating, families gathered on chairs, outdoors, and life coming back. All the things that make China wonderful, the love of family, the sense of home, the ability to move forward are on display here. And as we leave the village, I begin to understand that in spite of the loss, and the despair and the suffering that they are moving forward.

And there is hope, and there is a tomorrow.

我真的看到眼眶紅紅的...想到等一下我還可以跟著先生,小孩一起騎腳踏車運動, 我是何等幸運.