(Chen
Zhu-qi is a Da Ai TV journalist who went with Tzu Chi on its
relief mission to Sri Lanka after the Dec. 26, 2004 tsunami
disaster. Part of her personal recount is translated below
by Jenner Yeh.)
I've been to other disaster areas before
on two separate occasions, but still, nothing prepares you
for the reality of seeing the scenes firsthand. Actually,
when we arrived in Colombo, Sri Lanka, the undersea earthquake
had occurred only three days before, and the severity of the
disaster had not fully registered in our heads. Furthermore,
Colombo wasn't as affected as Hambantota, the heart of the
disaster, and everyone there was still going about their daily
routines. On the road to Hambantota, we even saw peacocks
and elephants roaming about freely.
As we neared Hambantota, our sentiments
took a complete 180 degree turn. We saw buses filled with
dead passengers. A new supermarket had opened on the day of
the disaster only to have all its shoppers' lives cut short.
Everywhere, debris had washed up onto the streets, high electrical
towers were bent completely out of shape, and tall pillars
were just crumpled into a tangle of metal.
The ground had turned into a sea of black
from the flocks of crows that gathered around the bodies.
The hot, humid weather had given rise to a most incredible
stench that pierced through our facemasks, penetrating our
nostrils. Many of the dead were unidentifiable, having been
smashed into walls and thrashed by the waves. Body parts were
everywhere.
The death count was so high that the government
dug enormous holes in which would be thrown anywhere from
one to 3,000 bodies, each hole surrounded by weeping survivors
unable to properly bury their loved ones or even to identify
them. They could only guess that their loved ones were among
the thousands being buried there.
As the shock of such scenes hit home, we
worked quickly to find a place where we could set up our medical
station for free medical services.
A little boy was brought to our medical
station. He came to be known amongst us as "the two kilometer
boy." He was visiting his grandparents when the tsunami
hit, and he was swept, house and all, two kilometers away
from his original location. He had been thrashed by the debris
and slapped by the waves so badly that, from head to toe,
his entire body was covered in open wounds.
He could not walk by himself. His father
had to carry him in because all his wounds had become inflamed
and infected. When the doctors saw the boy, they came close
to tears because here was this 12-year old boy who suffered
such severity of wounds that, not a single part of his body
was covered in full by a healthy piece of skin.
I don't know if you can possibly imagine
when one has to get stitches, how painful injecting the anesthesia
is. Probably only those who have been through such an experience
would know. This 12-year-old boy had wounds covering his entire
body from head to toe. Each and every wound had to be sutured;
each and every wound had to be anesthetized. The boy cried
beyond belief. The door to the clinic was closed, but his
cries went to the heavens. Outside the door, there was a line
of people waiting, some were chatting with their children,
and kids were playing by themselves.
When this boy let out his first cry, everyone
outside stopped in silence, their faces stricken by his evident
pain. I think in that second-in the hour it took to sew all
the stitches-everyone's heart came together for him, silently
rooting for him. I think that as the people outside waited
in silence, silently praying, this boy received all their
hope and encouragement, giving him the strength he so needed
in order to pull through.
Physical wounds can be healed by medical
treatment, but the emotional damages wrought from the tsunami
cannot even be described. The kind of trauma from losing everything
you have, including your loved ones is an intangible feeling
that hangs in the air and pervades the atmosphere.
We visited some buildings where survivors
were allowed to stay for temporary refuge. Each household
was given one mat to share, and entire families would crowd
themselves onto these mats. However, they weren't sorrowful
or sad; they considered themselves the fortunate ones and
were grateful that at least they still had family. In one
case, a seventy-member family suddenly became one. Only one
person-how does that one person face life after this?
There was a 44-year-old man, Abdullah, who
was brought to our clinic by his neighbor. He looked perfectly
normal and healthy; no external wounds were visible. His neighbor
explained that Abdullah had not slept in six days. Abdullah
had only to close his eyes, and he would think of his wife
and child, whose lives were taken by the disaster.
When our volunteers first saw Abdullah,
he couldn't speak, so we were very worried about his health.
A volunteer quickly grabbed a cup of hot water and prepared
a bowl of hot noodles. Yet another took him by the hand and
brought him to a corner and sat him down. The volunteer stayed
beside him, and patted him on the back to express sympathy
and encouragement. After a long while, Abdullah began to speak
and his story unfolded.
On the day of the tsunami, Abdullah was
out buying medicine for his ailing child when he suddenly
heard cries of "the tsunami is coming! the tsunami is
coming!" He saw the waves roll over from afar and, being
strong in body, climbed a tall tree. From atop, he saw the
waves continue tide after tide and saw one roll and crash
like a huge fist into his house. His heart was stricken because
his loved ones were inside. He could clearly see his house
being lifted to the sky by the waves and crash down as the
wave passed.
When it was over, he ran home frantically
searching for his wife and child, but nothing could be identified.
His neighborhood had turned into a mess of debris and shattered
houses. He could only think at every tree at every wall, "Maybe,
maybe this is my house. Maybe this is where they are."
He searched for three days. He finally found
his wife and child under a big tree. When he saw them, he
was too shocked to comprehend what was before him, because
as he saw their dead bodies, he saw that to the last moment
they had stayed together. Their bodies were frozen in a position
where the mother was holding the child protectively. Now he
was all alone. He couldn't understand why fate had taken away
his only family.
We went to visit Abdullah regularly and
saw his personality slowly begin to melt through his sorrow.
One day our volunteer told him, "I can understand what
deep pain and grief you must be feeling, having lost your
loved ones. But when our loved ones have passed away and there
is nothing to be done, the best thing we can do for them is
to transfer the love we feel for them to other people. Would
you be willing to offer the love and care you have for your
loved ones to other people, as a tribute to them?"
When Abdullah heard these words, it was
as though he began to be willing to open his heart. One day,
Abdullah put on a volunteer's vest himself and began to offer
his care to others who had also lost their family members.
He used his personal experience to connect with them. Abdullah's
story completed a cycle of goodwill and care. After receiving
genuine care and affection, he was able to find strength and
inspiration to do the same for others. Instead of being weighed
down by his loss, he saw it as a calling to help others who
did not yet understand how to deal with their grief.
The people of Sri Lanka are very kind, and
there was this one instance that especially moved us. In Sri
Lanka, there are these three-wheeled motorcabs meant to seat
three people. One day such a vehicle came to our site and
out stepped five people. They all had that movement and look
of stiff joints and limbs, as if they had been squeezed in
an uncomfortable position for a long time. When we went to
talk to them, they said, "We are from Colombo."
The only road open from Colombo to Hambantota is a seven-hour
drive through mountain terrain. How long did it take their
little vehicle to trek those roads? What were they doing here?
They then took out two boxes that had been
wedged between them. The boxes weren't very big in size. They
said, "We brought medicine. The five of us all took out
our money to buy this medicine. We heard there was a free
clinic here, and we didn't know how else to help. Please use
it." I thought to myself, "The boxes are kind of
small. Is this some type of special medicine?" Our doctor
took a look inside and saw that they had bought regular over
the counter drugs, such as Tylenol, anti-inflammatory drugs,
and headache medicine.
This medicine was from these five people's
hearts. From them using their savings, traveling through the
mountains on a crowded motorcab, to their pleading sincerely
for us to "Please use it"-I was very moved. They
demonstrated exactly the kind of sentiment that we wish to
foster at times like this. The doctors and nurses also had
tears in their eyes. It was so unexpected to see care and
concern manifest in this way. It gave us immense encouragement
to strengthen our efforts.
I remember when I had first looked
up Sri Lanka on the map, my first impression was that it was
shaped like a tear drop. However, with care and love, with
everyone coming together, I believe this "tear drop"
can shine like a precious jewel drop of hope.
