The Third Wave_ A Volunteer Story - Alison Thompson [79]
Me and the gang after a long day in the field
Taking a cold shower on the days when we had a bit of running water felt like a miracle. Otherwise, we had to make do for days at a time with wet wipes and some sprinkles of bottled water to rid ourselves of the stink and sweat.
After approximately two weeks, the military medical team left Haiti. They had planned to take their large hospital tent and supplies with them, but we begged them to leave those behind. We were still seeing more than 1,000 patients a day at the hospital, and the deep wounds and infections we were treating were life-threatening. Lieutenant Colonel Foster from the 82nd Airborne agreed with our need for the hospital to remain and immediately called the White House to get permission for the equipment to stay. Much to our relief, the orders soon came back from Washington that the hospital was to be donated to J/P HRO. I was now in charge of coordinating the hospital and its staff.
On January 26, I was supposed to fly to Australia to receive the prestigious Order of Australia, the country’s highest honor for public service, for my work during the tsunami. Instead, I emailed to let them know that I couldn’t make it since I was going to continue volunteering in Haiti. I also sent a letter to my parents, which ended up getting published in the Australian press, and then picked up by news services around the world. The letter included the following description:
Dante would describe it as Hell here. There is no food and water, and hundreds are dying daily. The aid is all bottlenecked and not reaching here.… It feels like the job is too big. But good news today: our New York doctors helped evacuate eighteen patients with spinal injuries out to Miami, and we’re all so excited.
We are totally self-sufficient with food, gas, and medicines, and a private stash of cash. Sean Penn is here purely as a volunteer and is cutting through bureaucracy to get aid moving and to the people. There is no agenda but to save lives.
Helicopters fly overhead every few minutes, and it feels like the images I’ve seen of Vietnam. The first night, 50,000 people sung me to sleep, and they sing every night for the world to save them. There is always hope, but she’s not here right now.
I’d felt so inspired by the people’s singing that first night that I started going to church in the tent village each evening. Sometimes, Sean and the other volunteers would join me. The “church” consisted of nothing more than a grassy clearing on a small rise at the bottom of the hill, where a few musicians played drums, keyboard, and guitar, and a preacher spoke through a microphone attached to several massive loudspeakers.
A little boy waiting in line for water
The preacher, a wonderful and inspirational man whose real-life name, I kid you not, was Pastor Cyncre (pronounced “Sincere”), spread a message to his people of joy, hope, rebirth, and personal responsibility. The Haitians sang along to the hymns with their eyes closed, faces glowing, and hands raised to the heavens, fervently expressing their devotion to God and prayers for assistance in the recovery effort. Their spirituality was profound and it gave me strength. During one powerful moment, I remember closing my eyes and lifting my hands skyward just like the Haitians, quietly calling for love to engulf and heal us all. I felt at one with the Haitian people.
Even if we weren’t attending the church services, we could hear them all the way up in our camp, thanks to the powerful speaker system. Pastor Cyncre would say each night, “Thank you to the Army angels in uniform. Thank you, Sean Penn. Thank you, Alison