don't ignore china

I couldn’t help myself. I clicked on one picture after another. Rubble. Tears. Bodies. Children. Old, young. Civilian, soldiers. It was mesmerizing. It was depressing. Other people I knew refused to look at the pictures, the hopelessness of the situation made them too despondent. Why let something continents away affect their daily lives?

Here were pictures of women holding, no clutching, each other, trying to find the strength to take another breath in the light of their devastation. They lost husbands, parents, children. No, they lost a child. With the one child policy survivors had no sisters, brothers, aunts or uncles to turn to. Parents lost their only children, grandparents lost their only grandchild. Eighty year olds lost their child, grandchild and husbands or wives.

Pictures enlightened me on the nation I never knew. They had houses just like us, they had hospitals, just like us. They had roads, apartments, washing machines, school, cars, bikes. They dressed like us; jeans, t-shirts, nightgowns, jackets, tennis shoes, helmets. They sent their kids to school, just like us, expecting to see them again at the end of the day coming up the drive way with their empty lunch boxes and homework, tired expressions on their faces, ready to unwind with a snack. But that wouldn’t be anymore, after seven thousand schools were smashed from possibly shoddy construction, leaving colorful backpacks, lunch kits with animated pictures and student I.D’s scattered in the wreckage.

The pictures were grisly. Here was a picture of a child buried under cement. Trapped under cement. The picture just showed her face (a face that is seared in my memory) as workers cut off her left leg to release her. Here was a boy lying in a hospital bed, minus his arms, with his mother beside him. I wonder what she was thinking. Was she grateful her son was still alive? Or horrified at the life he would now lead? Would he rise above his circumstances and be a winner or would he fall prey to endless self pity and despondency.

There were some soldiers and other survivors holding people back from the bodies of their relatives. Why? Would falling on the bodies make the sorrow any worse? Would it not yield closure? How much more dramatic would it be to fling yourself on your dead husband, wife, child as opposed to being held back? What is the purpose in that? They all suffered loss, why care about someone else’s reaction? They cared for each other, just like we do.

There were several pictures of survivors, bandaged up, using homemade crutches and stretchers, getting ready for a nine hour walk to make-shift shelters. Evacuating in a hurry to avoid being flooded by the risk of collapsing dams, more drama, and more destruction. Leaving everything behind, not on purpose but because where was it? Buried under mudslides and rubble. Destroyed. These were people lucky enough to be carrying kids, holding hands of wives, parents. Going to a shelter for what? Would there be supplies aplenty for them? Water, food, clothing, protection from the elements?

There were pictures of the military digging, masks over their faces to minimize the stench and prevent the spread of disease from decomposing bodies. Rescue work isn’t pleasant, but it has it rewards, like finding a pregnant woman and her mother still alive! Shouts went up everywhere as they were extricated and sent to the hospital. Life would go on. Then the return to reality, digging for more survivors, victims. Who really were the lucky ones? The people that died right away, that wouldn’t have to try to cope, hunt for food, and beg for water? Wouldn’t have to wait for help; look for family they would never see again lying in body bags? Grieve?

The military sees its share of the unpleasant but will these rescuers suffer post traumatic distress syndrome? The rescuers at the World Trade Centers did. It’s hard to cope with so much death all in one place, finding bodies, burying bodies in mass graves, burning bodies on pyres. I know the survivors will go through years of mental anguish, loneliness. Hopelessness.

Hopeless. What can I do to give hope? I can send some money for supplies so the refugees can have food when they get to shelters. Food, water, medical supplies, tents cost money. Rebuilding a country takes money.

I got on the phone after hours of picture viewing and praying. Of getting to know the faces of survivors and seeing their torment. Of seeing how much like me they were. People with emotions and needs hit by something beyond their control, something done at random, unpredictable. The groaning of the earth. We have had our fights with nature also. Tornadoes, hurricanes, volcanoes, earthquakes, lightening strikes burning up the country side, and that’s just the damage from nature! It would be fantastic to know that humanity, no matter what their religion or culture, would pull together on this ship called earth and support each other.

I got on the internet and found the American Red Cross, where I made a donation that they would send to the Red Cross Society of China.( China has a red cross? That’s the beginning of optimism). Considering the enormity of the problem what I sent was trifling, an insult really. But it would buy more than “nothing” would. Then I called my friends and suggested they do the same, the little “nothing” they could contribute would build up to more supplies. More than “nothing” would yield.

Hopeless. What else could I do? Pray. After I took action and sent funds, prayer was next on my list, or was it first? Did the quiet praying I did as I viewed the pictures inspire me to send donations? I would pray for hours, days and years. Pray for the surivors. Pray for us. But for the grace of God, there go we.