On 12 January, it was another morning in Port Au Prince. Everyone was getting ready for at least being awake and alive. Then the ground moved suddenly like a wave and then suddenly death was absolutely everywhere. Hysterical screaming, thousands and thousands of walls falling over onto the people under them.

The earth shook and then swallowed in just a few moments over 100,000 to 250,000 to then maybe 316,000 souls. No one would ever know since the census had ended in 2004. The year of the last coup. Many, many more would perish from their injuries in the days to come. ONG and UN technocrats and the government officials who were to be found gort on the radio and begged the world to help. The President Preval was missing. They made up numbers like they do. Trying to account for a catastrophe the likes of which the world had never seen except in wartime.

Remembering nothing, we begin again. Try to tell a story from the beginning, but you cannot.  Vodoun dreams and oral history of what went on long before the enslavement times. Aake for the Quake. Oh Papa, the sheer horror. Papa Legbe, open the door to the crossroads of redemption and salvation! Bring us back to the ancestors in Guinea! Bring us to a heaven in the heart of the sea.

For what seemed like an eternity the screaming stopped and a huge cloud of dust spread out over the bay. Hundreds of thousands of people had just been buried alive.  Many were wretched souls to begin with, abandoned and often exploited souls kept in such a state by their own leaders, and powerful gangsters, and the apathy of the world at large. But those images that came over the telescreens on the 6 o’clock news woke everyone up for about five hours, and didn’t let the good ones sleep so well that night. In a unanimous voice across the globe many asked what was to be done. An entire island of poor, unfortunate souls had been rendered apart, cleaved asunder by the ground on which they’d eked on nothing. One famous American televangelist, that bat shit crazy devil, that hateful fuck Pat Roberts quickly explained to his vast pale flock, 

“It’s because once upon a time the sadistic leaders of that misbegotten slave island made a pact with the devil himself.”

There is only one thing every white, every blan so-called knows about the Republic of Haiti; that some many years ago (between 1791 and 1804 precisely)  they killed every single white person on that island in a highly successful revolt against slavery and have lived in disorganization and total misery ever since.

While Sebastian Adon lay half-drunk from defeat in bed coming off a 16 hour graveyard shift in the trenches of ambuland Central Brooklyn, his arms around a Chinese miss thing, a fashion designer named miss Julie Chu; Gerard Prévot, an 18 year old pre-medical student in Port-Au-Prince watched the central dormitory of the General Hospital collapse on over 200 sleeping nursing students as the ground moved in a vile and grumbling wave. There was then screaming from everywhere, thick plumes of smoke, death and dust. More screams, hysterical screams that no Haitian ever had made before. 

As millions of people scrambled to find their loved ones under enormous slabs of rubble.

While Dany Bélair field stripped equipment off Engine 17 in Atlanta, Georgia USA; coming off work Jacque, a shatah joined a frenzied mob attempting to dig some several hundred school children out from under a collapsed school house with their bare hands. 

A pretty girl with crushed and dismembered legs was bleeding all over herself next to a man in a daze who just saw his family disappear under his housing complex.  Screams, frenzied howls and constant prayers in Haitian Creole: “Durean Papa!” “Papa, why?” 

Toba Hadaad, which was clearly not her real name, is a slender Israeli with thick curly black hair and big tits. She was getting her nails done did in Soho; while Jasmine-Yvette a Haitian yelled, bellowed really at a UN peacekeeper to “do some help, lots and lots of fucking help”, and then another few buildings came down on a mass of praying, pleading people in the aftershock and the UN peacekeeper drove right off.  That wasn’t their job really; it is peacekeeping; not search and rescue a city of perhaps over three million.

Yelizaveta Alexandrea Kotlyarova was studying at Stony Brook; with James Miranda in the library at Stony Brook six months from the Boards, although they never met and never each other’s’ respective passion for vertebrate mammalian marine biology; when the Carrefour municipal complex collapsed killing no one immediately, well who knew; except for just about everyone in that part of the city as they slept being the epicenter of the terrible quake. 

No one knew. Did the Haitians die immediately in the crush, or did they die slowly over many days trapped below homes? Did 316,000 die, did 100,000; and then it was all over the TV.

“Don’t do it,” was all Scott Sevastra said to Sebastian Adon, EMT partners out of Station 35 that night, “Don’t do it, don’t go, that isn’t part of the plan.”

The five year plan Banshee Association had to unite all 14,500 Greater NYC EMS into a type of union while fighting for human rights. To Adon, it looks like 9/11 times a whole lot more people.

Victor Cange was at the wheel of an ambulance in Far Rockaway hauling a morbidly obese Italian woman to a dialysis appointment, she was complaining and he was wondering if for this he went to paramedic school; when most of the Haiti’s major hospitals and the doctors inside of them perished in the blink of an eye.  

Everything that wasn’t much left to begin with is now supposedly completely gone. The quarantine has now become just a vast killing field. The capital of a slave revolution ongoing for over 200 years. Now a flat, dusty screaming field of rubble, on some mountainous island most of us had forgotten all about until today.

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