Ten Tiny Stories from Major Disasters
1. Landing in Haiti after a major earthquake, she affected confidence. Everything she’d learned over long training was happening—that guy looked suspicious; this customs official looked too militant; that whole group seemed to need help; what were the Scientologists doing here; where were her teammates?
There they were, and she pressed to get to them, trying to look as if this were normal for her, instead of a 3-to-6-weeks-a-year gig. A man caught her eye and called out the name of her agency, printed on her chest. She was wary, but he only said, “Your group has done a lot for Haiti. Thank you.” She walked with more humility after that.
2. Tornados change everything. Soft breezes and gentle wind acquire edges; metal becomes silk. But humans are still humans, and the woman left dignity behind, running down the street after aid workers, calling for them not to forget to help her, too. It was Arkansas, and she spoke fluent English, obviously, but by the way she begged, you could have been in the most wanting of lands.
3. He had only ever wanted to be a primary-school teacher. But there was no one left to help after the earthquake, and so he ran the camp, trying to manage hundreds of people who had lost their homes in the neighborhood as best he could. The first day the aid workers showed up, he could hardly look them in the eye, so distracted was he by the mess, his situation, that of his students and their parents.
Only a few days later, he had changed. They could see it on him—clean shirt, good posture, firmer handshake. The camp was working just right.
Months later, the aid workers were told the camp was no longer safe. The primary teacher had, perhaps, truly become something else.
4. The Westin is open for business again, and the hotel concierge, when asked where to find a cheap lunch and told that there are aid workers in the area, asks, “You are here to help for Hurricane Odile? You can help me. If you come to a video presentation about our time shares, I earn a commission.” The aid workers know she does not mean to sound like a terrible person: They are reasonably sure she does not go where they spend most of their days: The people whose sweat equity built the Westin and other resorts like it, who clean the rooms and the time shares, probably don’t think of her, as they try to rebuild their casitas in the slums of Cabo San Lucas, just behind the local Wal-Mart.
5. That elderly woman with one remaining goat
6. That guy with the dog inexplicably named “Hitler”
7. This young lady with her three daughters and three sons, and husband working far away, who helped aid workers to track down families who had been overlooked by other aid efforts, five long weeks after a major hurricane. “Help them first,” she said, like the others. “They need it more than we do.”
8. I’m goose-stepping over salvaged fishing nets and lines, following a young lady as she leads me to her grandmother’s house: Hurricane winds have torn off the roof, but the rest of it is solid. It’s better than the tent I can offer her. I tell the granddaughter that I can’t help, and she translates. I get ready for the disappointment, but Grandma nods, grabs my face in both hands, and kisses me on both cheeks. She says something her granddaughter translates into way more flattery than I deserve. Grandma lets go of my ears, points out where she’s hung some fish to dry. She offers some, and when I refuse, sends me off with a solid pat to the rear. “Salamat, salamat,” she says, thank you, thank you, and I go back to my team, wondering how I can be as gracious.
9. The truck lurches up bad roads, climbs through a damp mist reeking of eucalyptus. The four passengers are quiet: The social worker and the volunteer driver have known each other forever, one of the aid workers does not speak Quechan or Spanish, and the other, whose Spanish is only rudimentary, has lost her voice after days of hitchy translation.
Nothing needs to be said, anyway: A family is living in a shack with their guinea pigs and chickens since mudslides took their home. The disabled boy of the family of seven sits on a bench, in the sun.
The tent is unrolled, and as the team of four begins setup, grandmother, mother, and daughter silently step in to help. The disabled boy watches over the baby.
Nothing needs to be said. Everyone communicates by pantomiming, and when the tent is up and the family is moved in, the aid workers know they could watch the whole thing happen again, from any different angle, over and over.
10. Home again. Hot shower; laundry in the machine; Netflix series to binge-watch if she wants; full refrigerator. Potable water from the tap; no need to check in with HQ each day, or read the daily security briefing. She sleeps, jerking awake, dreaming of this family, that woman, this other agency who helped. Letting them drift into the past is nearly impossible.
For more about ShelterBox, the agency Yi Shun volunteers for, visit ShelterBoxUSA.org.
