On the afternoon of May 12, a massive earthquake measuring 7.9 on the Richter scale ripped through southwest China, killing at least 70,000 people, leaving more than five million homeless, and incurring damage estimated at $20 billion.
Meg Young ’07, a staff consultant with the international development group ECOLOGIA, was with her colleague and classmate Kate Leyland ’07 in the Sichuan Province city of Chengdu, 80 kilometers southeast of the quake’s epicenter, meeting with bankers when the Earth shook.
Text by Meg Young ’07
Illustrations by Jack Malloy
May 12, Day 1
The world turned upside down today. Kate and I were thankfully together when the earthquake struck and were able to escape the crumbling bank building. (We had just handed over our passports and bankcards to the teller and didn’t find them again until several hours later.) In the street, we dodged falling concrete and rolling cars and set off in the direction of home.
We trekked for three hours and were afforded an impromptu walking tour of the city post-earthquake. The streets are in a stand still. Sirens blared. People, however, remained relatively calm. Based on the numbers of people filling the streets, sidewalks, riverbanks, fields, and parks, one might have mistaken the scene for a public festival. I heard lots of laughing as neighbors compared the clothes they had run out in. Pajamas, nightgowns, house slippers, and undershirts were the norm.
On one sidewalk I spotted two friends, Scottish sisters who sing at the Shangri La Pub. They were sitting on the side of the road, shoeless, dirty; the only stitch of clothes one had was a luxury hotel robe that was wrapped around her. We swapped escape stories. Ours, of running down a swaying spiral staircase, watching pieces of the building fall off around us. Theirs, of scrambling down 14 flights of stairs together, only to end up in a boiler room, dodging pipes and water tanks as they desperately searched for an exit.
“I was just screamin’ ‘Our Father! Our Father!’ trying to get a prayer out as I was runnin’ down the stairs!” said the younger of the two. The older sister laughed and said, “I was naked as could be you know, robe flappin’ in the wind as I went runnin’!”
Most of Chengdu fared well, even as aftershocks continue to rock the city. I cannot say that much for the project villages where our microfinance unit operates. Factories were destroyed, villages devastated. I would receive a call from a 17-year-old rabbit farmer and loan recipient telling me to be careful, then later explaining that his village was falling apart. I felt powerless, anxious, and frustrated.
Our office is working quickly to partner with international donors while using our on-the-ground capacity to deliver post-emergency relief aid to survivors. They need support for rebuild-
ing and repairing damaged homes and village infrastructure. We’ve got the partners, the local knowledge, and—with help—the funds. We came to Sichuan to do community development, and that’s exactly what we plan to keep on doing, now from the ground up.
May 15, Day 4
We’ve felt dozens of strong aftershocks that make
it hard to relax. I slept in a field the first night with a bunch of other residents staying away from their tall apartment buildings, then slept under a table the next night as a few more aftershocks rattled our sixth-story apartment. All friends are ok. Last night, I slept in my bed for the first time, though I woke up at 5 to feel our house shaking again. The aftershocks keep coming.
Yesterday there was a water scare. A rumor started that a chemical plant had exploded and contaminated the water supply. Our water was cut. We ran outside to buy water and found lines going down the street out of every store. There was no water to be found, so we bought bottled tea and watermelons. Water returned later that evening and the government sent out a press release saying that the water was fine. There is news that many dams to the north have developed major cracks . . . not sure what that means for us.
I find myself staring at the cracks in my walls and wondering whether they were there before the earthquake. We live on the sixth floor of our building, so we’ve placed emergency bags at the front entrance in case we need to make a quick exit.
There is a funeral going on outside my house right now. Two dozen crepe-paper flower wheels as big as car windshields have been placed around the entrance of my building, and a makeshift tent has been set up, under which families have been cooking, playing cards, and quietly talking all day. The crepe-paper wheels have the name of a teacher who died in one of the collapsed schools on Monday.
We planned to go out to our project villages today now that aftershocks have died down, but the government has closed the freeways to cars not approved by authorities. We are not sure when we will be able to make it out there. Very frustrating.
May 17, Day 6
It’s 1 a.m. and my bed is shaking as another aftershock rattles Chengdu. It’s day six after the earthquake, and it’s getting hard to calm down. We go about our daily lives now, knowing that strong aftershocks come and go, rattling us, but leaving Chengdu’s buildings intact so far.
A friend went into Beichuan to do relief work near the epicenter two days ago. He told me about seeing this picturesque adobe-colored town flattened in its valley between mountain peaks. He heard voices coming from inside the collapsed buildings; they became fewer as the day went on. He helped rescue two people, including a girl who was kept alive by her parents bodies pressed above her. He stepped on bodies. Not 24 hours after his return, a 5.6 magnitude earthquake hit the area, resulting in further landslides and death. Thank God he is back safely.
Similarly, I am dumbfounded by the luck that Kate and I had in not being in the epicenter area when the earthquake hit. Though it’s a little-known part of a small mountainous region of China (not even a blip on most people’s maps), Wenchuan is very familiar to both of us. We’ve hiked Qing Cheng Mountain, which is now cut off from outside transport lines and buried; and we went horseback riding in Song Pan, where the road and rest stops we used no longer exist.
Honestly, I’m getting a little scared again. Aftershocks keep hitting, and one can’t help but wonder how many 5.0 magnitude earthquakes these buildings can withstand.
The government is doing a great job keeping people informed through text messages on cell phones. The most recent text informed us that the road to our project sites in Dayi was closed except for government use. Another told us that the water contamination stories were scams. Good to know. I have a lot of Gatorade to drink now.
The mood here is eerie. The funeral outside my home continues. The bright crepe-paper wheels are still leaning against the bushes outside, and the family has sat in vigil in their tent for over 24 hours now. Candles are lit. The smell of cooking oil in the air. No wailing, just quiet sitting.
It’s hard not to stay glued to the news. I try to go about my normal routine, but normalcy is impossible now. I cry and cry over a story of a parent who dug through rubble with his bare hands for days until his bloodied hands reached the cold body
of his child.
How is Chengdu looking so normal in the face of this? Are we all pretending? Relief efforts are gaining momentum and offer glimmers of hope. The fact that my NGO’s president is placing so much emphasis on sustainable relief efforts and long-term thriving communities helps me know that we won’t just hand out water bottles and leave. We are in it to stay.
It’s late, my heart hurts. My eyes are swollen. Sleep now.
May 18, Day 7
Here’s what I wrote to my boss today:
Another
6.0 quake hit us, followed by pouring rain, a thunderstorm, crazy winds, fears of major flooding, rumors of potential epidemics from the dead bodies being near water sources, and potential damage to nuclear reactor sites nearby.
We’re starting to joke that we feel like the characters in the beginning of the new King Kong movie, who keep facing larger and more ridiculous scenarios all on one island. Bad weather leads to crazy insects, which lead to massive gorilla attack, which leads to a dinosaur battle. Of course.
Spirits are up, though, and we’ve got enough food and water to last awhile in case we need it to. Registering at the U.S. Consulate tomorrow. That’s the news from the ground! Off to donate some supplies down the street.
I dreamed last night that I was a trapeze artist or maybe someone who had broken onto the set of Peter Pan and rigged themselves to the wires. While the real show went on in front of a curtain, I perched in the rafters backstage and practiced falling, then “flying” like the stage Peter Pan would, using silver wires hooked to my waist. I sang while my stomach dropped again and again from the falls. I remember thinking my voice was nicer than I thought it could be, but was also glad this was just practice, and I still had time to improve.
I woke up to hear that another major aftershock had happened during the night, big enough to send a friend running into Kate’s room yelling, “Did you feel that? It was big!” I had slept right through it.
May 20, Day 9
Every day is full. The last 24 hours taught me lessons in uniquely Chinese aspects of mourning and panic.
On the one-week anniversary of the earthquake, just before 2:28 p.m., another minor aftershock (one of thousands in the last week) rattled our building. We heard sirens blaring, car horns honking, and saw people in a standstill on the street. Another “big one,” we thought, grabbing our emergency bags (constantly packed, now, with passport, money, water, peanuts, clean underwear, camera, and a journal) and the puppy, and ran down our six flights of stairs to the ground level. For once, however, we were the only ones in a state of panic. The blaring sirens, horns, and people were observing a “moment of silence” for the earthquake victims. In a particularly Chinese manner, it was neither a single moment, nor silent, but it definitely got the point across.
Later we went to a vigil in the main square of town. Thousands gathered with candles lit. This “vigil” was unlike any I had been to before. It was loud and raucous with shouts of “China! Fight On!” and “Sichuan! Fight!” The energy was incredible. People poured in from the streets to join marching lines and tightening circles, where they yelled and chanted in turn. Under the giant white statue of the late Chairman Mao, a Red Cross vest had been stuck onto the end of a pole and was being waved like a flag. Below it, a team had set up a tent, collecting donations of water and clothing. I was interviewed by a Chinese reporter who said, “I’ll bet this isn’t what you had expected a vigil would be like.” He was right.
I saw a man wearing an “I Love China More Than Ever”
T-shirt. I stopped him and asked if I could take his picture. He nodded solemnly (a change from the usual excitement at the opportunity for a photo shoot), and I looked over to see his wife standing nearby with tears in her eyes. They had lost someone. Many people. A house? A family? A community? In the midst of rally cries and panicked nights, it is easy to forget about the real loss of this catastrophe. Walking down the street, I see the eyes of those who have lost someone. They are wide, red, and glassy. They look naked.
Just an hour later, back home and making family calls, we received warnings from friends and colleagues saying that another big one—really!—was coming. Emergency bags and puppy were tucked under our arms as we evacuated for the second time that day. We set up camp back in “The Field” (our field, we now say lovingly) and waited as friends from Sweden, Germany, Argentina, and China came to join us at our impromptu sleepover. We were also joined by hundreds of families fleeing their buildings in the surrounding area. We had only one major aftershock (5.1), but nothing noteworthy. Our hips and backs ache, but a few nights
of that is a small price to pay for safety.
May 23, Day 12
How do I begin to describe how much brighter life has gotten in the last few days?
Here is an example: I am volunteering my evenings to work on a trauma debriefing team. We meet with relief workers as they return from disaster-stricken areas. Today I debriefed a team of young men who had flown in from all over China intending to hike into remote villages not yet reached by aid workers. When they discovered that landslides and aftershocks made the path too dangerous for anyone to get through, they set down their tents in a local refugee camp for the night.
There, they noticed that no one was smiling, no children were playing. They spotted an empty space cleared for tent use and persuaded the local officials to let them rope it off as an official “play zone.” Kids who had stared at them with shock and skepticism as they initially entered the camp came running when they saw part of their refugee area turning into a space for music and games and limbo contests. The men had brought with them a guitar, a kazoo, and a sack of balloons. Instead of musical chairs, they played musical water bottles. One piece of rope managed to make its way into multiple games for multiple purposes. A limbo stick was made from a tree branch. At lunchtime, the kids had to be forcefully told to go “home” (back to their family’s blue tent), they then came running back to play throughout the afternoon.
When we spoke, the young men were hoarse from yelling and organizing the children, but kept going until night descended on the camp. Exhausted, they said: “Ok! Let’s do this again tomorrow! 10 a.m., on the play field!” The children reluctantly went home and the relief workers fell into their makeshift beds.
At 6:30, the workers’ tents began to shake. It was the children, who were gathered outside and ready to play. By 8, everyone was on the field, and another day of intense play began.
Today is Friday and these workers have just returned to us. Without meaning to, they had spent five days organizing an impromptu summer camp for refugee children in the middle of Sichuan’s quaking mountains. There are more layers to this story. Parents started gathering to watch the odd sight of their children laughing and smiling for the first time since the earthquake, and they became protective of the field. They made sure that it was permanently closed off to all other activities other than play. Inspired, the principal of the local school emerged from his own period of grieving and, with the help of these young men, organized all the teachers around him to open a makeshift school in the blue refugee camp tents. By the time the relief workers left, children had resumed classes.
As the “debriefer” on the other side of this story, I met four sunburned, dirty, beaming young men. They still had enough energy to make sure I got down the details of every one of their stories, noted all of the current needs of the refugee camp, and even demonstrated their limbo skills. I am awed, inspired, and so glad to be in Sichuan. The days are getting so much brighter.
This story was excerpted and adapted from Meg Young’s blog, Meg in China, which can be found at http://med-in-china.blogspot.com//i>