The taste of exile

 

Treacherous land

 

 

By Andrés Pascoe Rippey

 

 

 

"Shit, I'm going to die in Chile". Such was the thought of a friend of mine when the violent earthquake of Santiago caught him in a 13th floor while getting drunk with three Hungarian table dancers. In fact, he was with a couple of friends. But in any case, he thought he would die.

My situation was different. It was 2:50 a.m. when I woke up due to a strange noise. It was Miranda, my 4 month old daughter, who was making unusual sounds. I got bad, because she should not be hungry at that hour, but I could not put her to sleep. I gave her a bottle, she drank it and I took her to the cradle.

I was just starting to fall asleep when the quake began. Patty awoke almost immediately and said, "it’s trembling". I know, I said, do not worry. I really meant it since I felt no danger at that moment. A few seconds later it all changed: it turned from a slight earthquake, to a dramatic one; the shaking was brutal.

I took Miranda in my arms –who stared at me as saying "didn’t you want to sleep?"– and I held her tightly towards my body. The pictures were moving, things were falling. There was a deafening noise. The earth was crackling. It lasted almost two minutes but they seemed eternal. Exhausting.

When it was over, the light was gone and the street was filled with the expected sounds: car alarms, barking dogs, and voices of baffled neighbors. The darkness was complete and, looking out into the street, I could see all the stars as never before in this city.

The frantic attempt to communicate with the loved ones began, frustrated by the congestion of lines. The cell phone, useless to communicate with anybody, turned into a flashlight. We use them to illuminate our way towards the house and assess the damage. Fortunately, they were not severe: a fallen bookseller, ornaments on the floor, a crack in the wall. Nothing else.

And this was the incredible fortune that barred us, at first, from sizing up what had really happened. As a veteran of the earthquake occurred on September 19th 1985, it was clear that people living in buildings would have suffered much more than us, but I didn’t know the size of the tragedy yet.

Two hours later light returned and with it, the TV. The news were already showing the first images of the blackout –widespread throughout the city– and the first data was clear: epicenter at 60 kilometers from Concepción, one of the largest cities in Chile, and 8.5 Richter degrees. I thought: "Chile regrets because in few days the rightwing will assume the power".

The information began to flow and soon we realized the size of the disaster, the destroyed roads, the collapsed buildings, and the deaths. Patty went to her parents' apartment early the next day and found a gruesome sight: EVERYTHING was broken. There was not a dish or a cup alive. A whole life of objects turned into dust. They did not have gas or electricity, so they decided to take refuge in our house. With that, I sent the government an official communication to the inclusion of my name in the list of victims.

Saturday was a day of shock and fear. While people cottoned on what had happened and realized they had no place to spend the night, the pain was becoming anger. Thousands slept in the street, terrified of returning to their apartments because of the threat of a replica. Indeed, up to now, there have been 117 aftershocks, out of which two have exceeded the six Richter degrees.

Concepción is one of the most affected cities and there, the social rebellion starts to develop. On Sunday morning, police had to drop tear gas inside a supermarket, while many other small shops were looted until leaving the shelves empty. These images disturbed the Santiaguinos, who came in droves to stock up, emptying the supermarket with heaves.

We also went there because we needed diapers and beer, two things without which we can’t live. I was impressed with the amount of people and their mood. They were all ready to snatch the bread out of someone’s’ hand. And though, it happened in a nice neighborhood supermarket.

I noticed another thing that differentiates us from the Chileans. At this point there is not a single joke about the catastrophe. At least as far as I've seen, the Chileans have not found a way to make fun of themselves for the tragedy. But they are doing something they love to: hoarding.

Somehow I thought about the time of the Popular Unity and about the way the rumor mill helped to crystallize the democratic catastrophe. Today, a person says "the benzene is about to be over" and within a few minutes all gas stations will have kilometric rows. In fact, the government began to dose gasoline, reducing it to 5 thousand Chilean pesos (about 100 pesos) per car. They all are outraged.

Although it was announced that there is enough gas for 2 weeks and enough food supply, terror –and rumor– are stronger. The corner store is almost empty and still has a queue of 30 people.

However, it is impossible not to understand: the images on TV and newspapers are frightening. The pain and desperation in the voice of people that in less than two minutes lost it all, permeates the bones. The aching faces of those who lost their family spread their abyss. Up to now there have been 300 dead people and there will be more.

This earthquake was not traumatic for me, nor was the one of 1985. But I've found that even the taste of tragedy is contagious and I can’t help suffering with the pain of the victims. Impossible it is not to be empathetic and to put ourselves on the victims’ place.

I'm side by side with the sufferers and with the harassed people. I'm with the children who today sleep on the street, with the mothers who have no food for their family. I'm with everyone. I never thought I'd say this, but today we all are Chileans. So do I.

 

 

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