When there is no time to take care of the dead is that the living walk very fucking. That is something I learned for the first time many years ago in the Peruvian Amazon where the niches of the dead were marble and the houses of the living were made of mud.
In Juchitán, Oaxaca, the place where the earthquake ravaged almost everything, Ramos Sunday's cemetery is in a debris and in another vase, crossings, Pictures The Broken Hurbs. The house of the dead broke out, although he endured despite the whole onslaught, And for what I saw nobody still had time to worry about fixing it. The fight is still to live on the other side of the fence. Survive. And that fight leaves hard prints, generous and miserable.
Because in the streets there is a brick dust trail, of tired crying and customary fear. The houses of a hard sway of the world fell, Fast and brave, that seems determined to demolish everything in this part of the globe. Hurricanes and earthquakes hitting blows where people have the right thing to survive a breeze.
The defeats of others are just a sigh, A chewable prayer and routine
And then chaos arrived and the despair of having lost everything came. Everything. Written and read seems one more phrase that we have become accustomed. The defeats of others are just a sigh, A chewable prayer and routine. What has lived there is a drama, It is different. Touching makes it less digestible.
Whole families that tell you in front of a huge crop of debris that down there is everything they had. Everything. Some also left some life of theirs. They cry. They get angry. And they live. Always earn life. That is why the cemetery is still abandoned, because in the time of the living nothing is stronger than maintaining the status.
And the man also brings out that strange race that we are. Best: people helping, Sharing, giving what it lacks and what is left over to others. In the military airport there are tons of help. The government tries to channel them. The most humble travel the streets with their motorcycle or truck to give some food to their neighbors. The great entrepreneurs come with the president to travel the area and donate some hope. There is never for the victim.
His survival depends that others remember his crying
The victim needs to cry, complain, victimize. He does it out of fear. It doesn't matter if twelve liters of water arrived, You need to demand more because you have an understandable panic for you to forget and one day stop arriving the bottles you need to survive. His morning are rubble. His survival depends that others remember his crying. That's why he must cry loudly, Without rest.
In Juchitán the silence and the calm whore was heard. Sometimes crying. It was market day and in the square the women passed their duster to scare the flies of their meats. Few people buying. Not far from the square some tanderetes of the fixed market fell. There is a foul smell. I see a headless dog that is rotting.
In a clinic that collapsed they placed the medicines on a table and pass consultation on the street. They help. A couple goes with their small cyclomotor distributing food among the families that sleep on the sidewalks. A man arrived from afar to help remove the rubble from his brother's bar. Some lamps hang some of a beam that remained standing. In the background you can see the bar that was full of people dancing and singing before the tectonic plates swing and ended everything. "We will help lift it again", This man of humble condition says.
They do not go because if they stop sleeping and living in front of their rubble they steal how little they have
But together with all these signs of generosity, the ivy of the bastard of human misery grows. No misery of poverty, miserable misery. In the midst of that catastrophe, Juchitán people narrated the fear of robberies. Many had no food or water because they did not go to the collection centers. They don't go because if they stop sleeping and living in front of their debris they steal how little they have buried there.
In a block where two houses had collapsed they told me that the same Friday night, 24 hours after the shake, "We found two kids stealing". They did not give them time to dry the tears of the huge blow of nature and they were already having to fight to survive the blows of the man.
Families with elders and children sleeping on the street so that they do not take away how little they have. “We are poor, But for sticks and machetes it gives us. Men patrol at night ", a group of 12 people who together with others 20 relatives sleep in a square under a plastic canvas.
They listened in the dark the messages of the agents talking about trucks with armed men
In a shelter the situation was even worse. The neighbors who slept in the Sports Center Che Gómez did not reconcile the dream because the radio of the police that protected them was on and they listened in the dark the messages of the agents talking about trucks with armed men touring the city. "It gives us all fear of what is happening and no one can sleep", a neighbor told me.
In the same place, The agent, An old man, I asked me quietly to look right. There was a family, about 20 Member, With water, enough food and clothing to spend a few months. In the family group there were several robust men. In the shelter, in 30 minutes I was there, I saw five cars carrying food, Drink and clothes. "The unfortunates take it. They have plenty of things and outside there are people going through needs ”, The old frightened policeman denounced.
What kind of human being you have to be to steal what remains of some rubble? To take possession of aid delivered millions of people generously? There are also other. Many more. Many more people willing to help, to give half of what you have even very little. All of that was seen in Juchitán after the earthquake that struck the states of Oaxaca and Chiapas especially. The very good and the very bad. All that is capable of man.
