thoughtful, she told me, even if there was a little misunderstanding at one point. She couldnât understand that the fact of not knowing where I might be was news in itself. One journalist asked my wifeâs permission to record her words. She kept saying that she had nothing to say because she didnât know where I was. In the end, the poor journalist understood that my wife didnât know that absurd system according to which nothing can be news. Then night came. But not sleep. Next to her, the telephone was silent. She couldnât concentrate on her crossword puzzles. Sheâs probably thinking that Iâm talking about her too much, and not enough about the people who lost their families. But Iâm really talking about the anxiety that runs through the veins of anyone waiting for a phone call. I remember the last lines of the poem âNuit dâhôpitalâ by Roussan Camille as he is waiting for dawn in a hospital bed in Port-au-Prince: âOur Lady of Fevers, mistress of anguish, have pity on the thoughts that run to madness in the night.â
The Small Screen
Inside Haiti, we didnât have enough perspective to see the big picture. We could only take care of those next to us and had no idea what was happening in other parts of the city. The radio wasnât working full-time yet. We had to find water, help an injured person get to the hospital, look after a child whose parents had disappeared. Everyone was trying to find out if their family members were still all alive. We didnât dare ask if people had survived. Itâs always a shock to learn of a friendâs death. In Haiti, we experienced all that first-hand, but in only one place at a time (the place we happened to be). From outside the country, we had a panoramic view of the city. The small screen never blinks. A protean eye made of hundreds of cameras that show everything. Everything is naked. Flattened out. Death without discretion, since the camera, at first, made no distinction between class and gender. Since I returned a few hours ago, Iâve been lying prostrate on the bed, watching an endless parade of horrifying images, unable to absorb the fact that Iâve just emerged from that landscape of devastation. The worst thing is not this succession of misfortunes, but the absence of all nuance in the cameraâs cold eye. Sleep came and caressed the back of my neck, warning me it was time to let go.
A Glass of Water
I woke up bathed in sweat. I felt the room moving. The books on the bedside table had fallen to the floor, carrying the telephone with them. I must have been having a nightmare and knocked over the glass of water with my hand. I always keep a glass of water next to me because I often get up in the middle of the night to read. Mostly poetry. The little mess Iâd made affected me because I know people donât have enough water in Haiti. And what they have, they have to boil. Itâs not easy to start a fire when you canât find matches. I think of all those smokers trapped in a city without cigarettes. Whatâs worse, the Barbancourt company that makes the local rum sustained major damage. I stare at the wet floor and canât stop picturing the faces of thirsty people. Normally Iâm against transposing torment from one place to another. Itâs better to keep your energy to help people solve their problems. Just because thereâs a water shortage in Port-au-Prince doesnât mean there should be one in Montreal. I lift myself and slide the pillow behind my head. I turn on the TV without the sound. The images flicker by in silence. A continuous stream. Women with arms raised skyward. Long lines of people walking with no destination. A girl telling a story I donât need to hear to understand. I drift off again and leave the TV on. Turning it off would be like slamming the door on all those people who demand our attention. In any case, the telephone next to my head
The Small Screen
Inside Haiti, we didnât have enough perspective to see the big picture. We could only take care of those next to us and had no idea what was happening in other parts of the city. The radio wasnât working full-time yet. We had to find water, help an injured person get to the hospital, look after a child whose parents had disappeared. Everyone was trying to find out if their family members were still all alive. We didnât dare ask if people had survived. Itâs always a shock to learn of a friendâs death. In Haiti, we experienced all that first-hand, but in only one place at a time (the place we happened to be). From outside the country, we had a panoramic view of the city. The small screen never blinks. A protean eye made of hundreds of cameras that show everything. Everything is naked. Flattened out. Death without discretion, since the camera, at first, made no distinction between class and gender. Since I returned a few hours ago, Iâve been lying prostrate on the bed, watching an endless parade of horrifying images, unable to absorb the fact that Iâve just emerged from that landscape of devastation. The worst thing is not this succession of misfortunes, but the absence of all nuance in the cameraâs cold eye. Sleep came and caressed the back of my neck, warning me it was time to let go.
A Glass of Water
I woke up bathed in sweat. I felt the room moving. The books on the bedside table had fallen to the floor, carrying the telephone with them. I must have been having a nightmare and knocked over the glass of water with my hand. I always keep a glass of water next to me because I often get up in the middle of the night to read. Mostly poetry. The little mess Iâd made affected me because I know people donât have enough water in Haiti. And what they have, they have to boil. Itâs not easy to start a fire when you canât find matches. I think of all those smokers trapped in a city without cigarettes. Whatâs worse, the Barbancourt company that makes the local rum sustained major damage. I stare at the wet floor and canât stop picturing the faces of thirsty people. Normally Iâm against transposing torment from one place to another. Itâs better to keep your energy to help people solve their problems. Just because thereâs a water shortage in Port-au-Prince doesnât mean there should be one in Montreal. I lift myself and slide the pillow behind my head. I turn on the TV without the sound. The images flicker by in silence. A continuous stream. Women with arms raised skyward. Long lines of people walking with no destination. A girl telling a story I donât need to hear to understand. I drift off again and leave the TV on. Turning it off would be like slamming the door on all those people who demand our attention. In any case, the telephone next to my head
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