Gaby Saget : Thanks to good luck or providence, my life was spared

A personal account by journalist Gaby Saget of Radio Métropole in Port-au-Prince, winner of the 2009 RFI-OIF-Reporters Without Borders Francophonie Prize “I’ll expect you in Les Cayes this evening,” said the SMS from a new friend, Jonathan Boulet-Groulx, the head of a project for handicapped people near the southwestern city of Les Cayes. “It’s a deal, I’ll come tomorrow,” I replied. On Monday, 11 January, at 2:42 p.m., my decision was taken. I would set off the next morning for Les Cayes with my closest girlfriend and spend the last two days of my annual leave there. We arrived in the early afternoon. Tour of the town, eating out... I was enjoying some holidays at last. We felt a slight jolt on our way to the beach. We stopped the car and inspected the tyres, but found nothing. After setting off again we felt a few more jolts which we blamed on the poor state of the road. At around 10 p.m., Jonathan ran into a colleague who told us the news. There had been an earthquake. The local radio stations said a building had collapsed in nearby Mapou and some school children had been injured or terrified by the tremor. We then tried phoning Port-au-Prince and, miraculously, we succeeded on the first attempt. Port-au-Prince was in ruins – the National Palace, public buildings, schools and many homes, all were flattened. I finally managed to reach my father at around midnight. My family had survived the collapse of our house but they had nowhere to go. I was petrified, especially I was being told that the ground was continuing to shake. We had to get back as quickly as possible. Jonathan offered to take as he was also worried about his friends. I had no idea of what I was going to discover. We saw the first earthquake damage when we got to Grand-Goâve. From there until Carrefour, the road was covered by enormous rocks, large pieces of asphalt had been raised up, and houses had collapsed. There were endless lines of survivors walking on both sides of the roads, everyone carrying a bag or a bundle containing their meagre belongings. Newly homeless people were building camps on empty lots, using sheets to make tents. When we reached the metropolitan area, we decided to make a detour via the lower town, Port-au-Prince’s main business and administrative district. It was apocalyptic. The National Palace had collapsed on itself. The ministry buildings were destroyed. The national tax office has been reduced to a pile of rubble in which volunteers were busy searching for survivors. The Champ de Mars park had been turned into a refugee camp. My anxiety was mounting. What would my future be in a country reduced to rubble? My eyes filled with tears. I spotted a fellow journalist, rushed over and threw myself into his arms. We both cried. I was then taken to my home. The two-storey building that was my house had collapsed, crushing two children and an adult who were inside on the ground floor. Aside from the horror of this situation, I realised I was now homeless, like thousands of other people of all social classes, reduced to living under a plastic sheet or in the wreck of a car. I spend my first night huddled up against a small girl, sitting on chair and covered by an old sheet, cold and scared by the aftershocks. Life hangs by a thread. An ordinary invitation saved mine. Now I had to preserve it. The second challenge was now beginning.