HAITI (in hebrew- i was there) - AND STILL AM

With time, things get different shape. Perhaps it can explain why I needed two weeks before I could sit down and write this account. Two weeks is not a long time, but now I see things more clearly than before, thus allowing me to reflect and describe the events, perhaps as they occur. It was six o’clock in the evening, like every day at that time. We were at home after another routine day in the embassy. I was leaning over my computer, trying to read the newspaper and catch up with whatever went on in Israel that day, many miles away. My wife, next to me, was reading a design magazine, slowly sipping her steaming tea. "Do you feel what I feel?" She asked, as if one could ignore the terrible jolt that gripped the entire building. Doors swung back and forth like mad, objects were flying hither and thither. More than five on the scale, I thought, as if I was some kind of an expert. "What do we do?" she asked. Depends, I replied. Usually, I explained, citing from years of practice from the time I lived in Tokyo, one should run to an open area, if there is enough time to do so before the building collapses over one’s head and buries him underneath. The other option would to hide under a table or a door frame while praying it will hold and be over with quickly, this would promise that even if the building collapses - you will have a comfortable nook to lay in for 2-3 days before the rescue team finds you.




It lasted 40 seconds. 40 seconds is a very long time. At that moment, I was not aware of the devastation. I got up, showered, dressed, put on my best tie, and prepared to leave for the opening of an exhibition that was planned for that evening at the French Cultural Center “Alliance Francis”. Upon arrival it was obvious that something has gone wrong. "The event is canceled due to the earthquake" announced the guard at the door, and at that moment my cell phone vibrated as if it felt the need to add a word. "Yes, yes this is the ambassador," I replied. On the other side an Israeli journalist advised me to take shelter in higher grounds as a possible tsunami, he said, was on its way to my whereabouts. I urged my driver to get away to a higher place and then quickly returned home. Only then I realized that the Center of the earthquake was Port Au Prince, the capital of Haiti. I could only imagine, knowing the poor quality of construction, what went on there, if we felt it so strong 350 km’ away. It must have claimed many lives, I thought, but even I couldn’t have imagined how many. All that night I could not sleep. I followed the reports, and spent the hours until dawn tracking local and international broadcasts in order to feed my Foreign Ministry. By the morning I had a clearer picture and was on my way to Haiti.



At noon I found myself sitting on a plane next to a television crew on a chartered flight. “What the hell are you doing on my plane?” asked the CBS reporter sitting next to me. “flying to Haiti" I replied and showed her my ticket before she throws me out of the plane. An hour later we landed at Port-au-Prince airport. No one was there to receive me. The terminal was abandoned. Its torn walls and devastated control tower told the story. The doors were locked and a crowed outside was trying to force its’ way inside, in an attempt to catch the first outbound plane.



The president of Haiti, Rene Prevall, was standing in the center of a crowd of reporters. He seemed fragile and tired. I approached him. He smiled in recognition. I expressed my sympathy and said that the government of Israel sent me to examine what kind of assistance will be the most effective, and asked him if he can spare me a policeman to accompany me on a short tour of the city. Usually when I arrive, there is a car waiting for me with a police escort, as protocol requires. However the new situation called for new rules. The President called his assistant and ordered him to assign an escort. The assistant whispered in my ear: "Sorry sir, but there are no policemen available as many of them perished in the catastrophe. Some are buried under the ruins and others probably went looking for family members. The president is not fully aware of the situation, but we cannot help you". The next day I found out that 50 to 80 percent of the force was destroyed.

The embassy's security officer who accompanied me urged me to turn back to the Dominican Republic, from where we just arrived. For a moment I felt lost. Then I saw my salvation. Next to a small airplane which started to unload food and medicine, I saw a friend of mine from the Dominican Republic who started who started a one man relief mission to Haiti. I explained my situation and he gave me a car and a driver who then took us on tour of the shuttered city.



It was scary. Thousands of people were moving quietly without direction. Moaning, wounded people where lying on the pavement or trailing slowly back and forth between debris and covered bodies. Miles of demolished homes or buildings stood in odd angles as if designed for a Hollywood blockbuster horror film. On Further though, I now see that Hollywood films are quite exact in their portrayal of real life and not vice versa. No rescue vehicles were seen on the street, no firefighters, no medical teams, no one to give a helping hand, be it Haitian or foreigner. We headed towards the home of my honorary consul Gilbert Bigio, a notable member of the business community, well known in government's quarters. He was the key to the success of our mission and we had to find his son Reuben, if we thought of using his company’s trucks and structure for our operation. We arrived at my consul’s residence. It used to be a beautiful compound with three houses, now only one stood intact, unharmed while the other two caved in to mother earth’s tremor. The guard at the gate told us that Gilbert is in Miami and that the family left due to the collapse of the houses, and are now somewhere in the mountains. There was no point to continue the search.



The night was about to engulf us. The city was dark and all electrical systems were out. We asked the driver to drive us to the nearest hotel. We headed to a guest house uphill the “Vila Creole” and as we entered the lobby, a terrible aftershock accompanied with frightening thunder made us flee from the building. A burst of cries came from the hundreds of people who were lying on the pavement. People dared not risk their lives entering those homes that stood the devastation. "Back to the airport" I ordered the driver. "Today we are going to sleep on the runway" I told my security officer, who stated that something must be very wrong with me and I better see a psychiatrist as soon as possible. I instead was more worried of the “swarm of mosquitoes” who were preparing themselves to feast upon me. I forgot to mention that in the absence of planning and time, hours earlier I left my home with a small suitcase, which I packed totally absentmindedly still believing in the old order and in the ability to find all services if I only pay for them. I do not know now why I thought that hotels, experiencing an earthquake of 7.3 on the Richter scale, would be capable to go on standing, as if nothing happened, and continue to provide the same level of service for an appropriate fee.



As I was staring at the mosquitoes hovering around the car, and wondering about the sleepless night that awaits us, I tried to remember what drove me to choose this career, it dawned on to suggest that we ask for political asylum in the U.S. embassy. After a short call to the U.S. Embassy in Santo Domingo, we were ushered to the lobby of our nightly sanctuary where we were given two stools to comfort us for the night. In an attempt to justify the poor hospitality, I can point out two facts: First, they provided us with rations of the army, and under the circumstances, It was one of the best gourmet meals we ate, I ate with such an appetite, even if its’ packing date was a century ago. Second, the embassy has become one big refugee camp, packed with wounded people waiting to be evacuated back to safety. The D.C.M. apologized and explained that this is the best they can do to accommodate us. Considering the alternative, it was the best hotel ever.



At three o’clock in the morning, my foggy mind had an idea. I called the Marine guard and asked him to notify the chief of U.S. search & rescue operations and that I wish to see him in order to coordinate the arrival of the Israeli hospital. I introduced myself to the lady officer and mentioned that I am the “spearhead” of the State of Israel “SAR” team to Haiti and I wish to learn about what was happening in the city, in order to facilitate the decisions we are about to make regarding the deployment of our forces. We were welcomed into the inner sanctuary – the embassy cafeteria, where we stretched ourselves on the floor, not before drinking hot tea and meeting the Ambassador of Spain, who was slightly injured when his house collapsed on him. The officer, promised to be back first thing in the morning to brief us, but we had plunged into a deep sleep and did not hear the end of the sentence. That night I had a revelation: only those who slept on a chair can appreciate the sweet pleasure of sleeping on the floor. I wanted to comfort my security officer and to reassure him by a promise of a better tomorrow, but he has already escaped this reality to the dream world.



To be continued.

The Cradle of Myths

The Messiah must have come! Otherwise it’s hard to understand how a CNN report was praising the State of Israel! It called for a bit of a”chutzpa” to have them come to our military hospital but it was essential that the story be told. The result was a watershed of visits that brought the attention of the world to one of Israel’s great human rescue operations.

At the time, dozens of wounded Haitians were lying on cots, moaning and groaning, seeking relief to their wounds. Two huge hangar tents, in the secured UN compound, serve as a hospital. A small medical staff was trying in vain to attend to those needy people. At the far corner, I saw resting on a tripod, a motionless TV camera. At its foot a good looking woman was dozing, trying to get some rest, ignoring the heat among the squadron of flies and the random cries.

Minutes earlier, I had entered the compound accompanied by the Chief Surgeon of Israel’s Home Front Command, LG Dr. Ariel. Our mission was to identify the “hard cases”, those who needed a skillful hand if they were to survive. In the early construction phase, it was already clear to us that ours was going to be the best hospital in Haiti and, dare say I after two years of my tenor, the best of the entire island. Ariel detailed to the medical staff the capabilities of our hospital and its equipment. He stressed that we practice an open door policy. We will receive anyone, but it will be more effective to send us the more complicated injured people. The Director of the clinic, a fragile and sensitive woman named Jane, eyed us with cynicism or despair and added, "Yes, we heard the same from many who already were here and went without showing their faces again, leaving their promises un-kept.” Hours later she will make history by stating on television, "The Israelis are the only ones who promised and came, back to honor their words".

Ariel checked the patients and was pointing to the severe cases that had to be treated without delay. I went to the sleeping reporter lady and gently woke her up. “Which network are you from”, I asked, startling her for a moment. “CNN”, she answered in Hebrew. “Are you Elizabeth, by chance,” I added. “Yes, I am”, she replied. I was informed earlier that her crew must be somewhere in Haiti and wondered about the coincidence factor. I urged her to visit our hospital that was a short drive away. “You may find it a worthy report”, I said. I'm sorry”, she replied, “I cannot leave the secured compound.” “Nonsense”, I said, “I'm ready to escort you in my car, by our security personnel and will guaranty your safety.” She consulted with her team, got permission from Atlanta HQ and we were on our way. The rest, as they say, is history. The world became aware of Israel’s fast and efficient response. If you missed it, look it up CNN or on You-Tube.

I recall this story, by the way, cruising at an altitude of ten thousand feet. From above, everything looks pretty; pastoral and calm with no hint of the tragedy that has taken place beneath us. The monotony hum of the twin turbo engines like a stubborn mantra, catapults me to the memories and the events of the first days. In few minutes the plane will start to descend into the wounded capital Port Au Prince, to scenery of destruction, people who merit admiration in their capacity to survive. I am going back in order to continue our mission of help by adding another layer of assistance to the one we started with the establishment of the military hospital.

Only sixty-five hours past from the earthquake until the Israeli hospital opened its doors and the first of the wounded was saved. Since then over one thousand five hundred people were treated, with three hundred and twenty operations, including the most complicated ones. Sixteen women gave birth to seventeen new infants. Some were born prematurely or in Cesarean procedure. All took place on a soccer field inside a military tent. This certainly qualifies as a Gold Medal, in the first undeclared “Olympic Games” of providing humanitarian aid.

How was it possible, I was asked, that you managed to arrive from a distance of 15-20 hours flight and be operational before bigger and closer players. I could not hide my pride and said, "We hold short meetings and we do not waste time on unnecessary bureaucracy.”

If you did not see an El Al Boeing 777 landing at the end of the world, our Israeli soldiers marching in perfect order on the tarmac, and if you did not see an El Al cargo Boeing 747-200 landing four hours later and unloading tons of equipment and medicine, on a run way that never met a jumbo jet, and if you did not see how ten hours later we treated the first patient, you could not understand the sense of pride and excitement and the material of which myth, or in this case, a fairy tale, is born.

Incidentally, we Israelis have a unique national sport. No matter where we are in the world, we must know someone or know someone who knows someone, or someone who knows someone who knows someone of our acquaintances. I never understood why it's so important for us. This is a phenomenon not seen in other “tribes” around the globe and it deserves to be researched one day. I mention this because here at the end of the world, on this beaten part of the planet called Haiti, the door of the plane is slowly opened and I am being greeted by the captain Zeev Ben-Dor and Dr. Elhanan Bar-On, the head of the “Schneider” Orthopedic Children’s Hospital, both classmates of my air force piloting course, whom I have not seen since the last century. I can declare proudly that each one of us, in his own career has reached quite far, as far as Haiti.

My thoughts wandered back to that moment at the airport. To my first meeting with those I.D.F. soldiers, at that time they were anonymous, but not for long. I failed to hide my excitement and a small tear rolled down my cheek. All that night we heard the pounding hammers. The forklifts were loading and unloading mountains of equipment shaping it into the “Field Hospital”. At some point fatigue took over me and I collapsed on the grass of the soccer field, but not before a Captain ranked nurse inserted a long needle into my arm with some kind of vaccine, just to be on the safe side, she argued. Those who were not engaged in the construction also fell asleep for several hours knowing that tomorrow had in store a lot of hard work.

Like everybody else, I presented myself in the morning roll call. We raised the flag and immediately immersed ourselves in the tasks ahead of us. The hospital began to absorb the new occupants and in no time was swarming with people. The rumor about the hospital spread rapidly and ambulances were buzzing in and out. Only later as the dust sunk we were able to see the statistics of the lives we saved. I visited other surrounding hospitals. Most hospitals in the capital had collapsed and ceased to function. As for the others, paucity of language prevents me from describing the squalor and misery of these facilities. One of them was spread on a sidewalk at the industrial area of the free zone. People who needed medical treatment lay on the ground waiting in vain to be treated. The doctors were helpless. Thousands gathered outside blocking the entrance gate. Some of them only came to seek food and water.

We made an exchange agreement with some of the local Centers. The seriously injured would be placed at post op’ so that we could double our capacity. People who needed rest and recuperation would be treated by the lesser equipped centers. Our S.A.R. (Search and Rescue) teams rushed every day for new destinations with admirable devotion. At intervals I was privileged to acquaint myself with each one of these magnificent men, reservists, who along with draftees, left their homes, their families and their businesses in order to volunteer and give from themselves to far away people in need, people who sometimes confused Haiti with Tahiti, Israel at its best.

At the edge of the hospital, we settled into a routine in a small encampment, which could in other days, be described as pastoral. Volunteers from civil society join the military camp. The set, a medical commando that scanned the newly mushrooming refugee camps in search of injured people who could not get to a hospital. Others adopted orphanages and distributed tents and food. We ate military rations. My Haitian driver, Jimmy, complained to me after two weeks that he is fed with our food, longing for the good old Haitian rice and beans and prefers it on the legendary meatloaf, the one some of us still remember from 1948.

After over 1,500 patients, 320 surgeries, 17 infants and two weeks of sleepless nights, we saw a change in that the nature of our visiting patients. Instead of earthquake victims we received traditional patients and we were transforming slowly into a Haitian branch of medical clinic. We stopped being unique, in part because the big slow, but rich players started to be seen on site. It was time to retire, at our best.

The army left, leaving me behind. For them the operation was over, for me, it just began. But all of who took part in this operation will forever cherish the memory of love, dedication and the genuine desire to help others in a far away land, thousands of miles from Jerusalem.