By Jordan Rodriguez
(Now that Martelli is officially the President of Haiti, I thought about posting this, a text a few months ago, born of the darkness of the night in Port au Prince, beloved and feared port with the smell of death and hopelessness)
Night and the little light that smoke from burning tires in the street still let through to the ground, bathed in water of strange texture and a smell of death are falling into account the place where I Am. Dante was here in his "Divine Comedy", others before him, no one breaks out.
The old radio bulletins released in a language known only to themselves and the departed always closest to his brothers, bringing them closer to Quine still charging them, for two hundred years, the audacity of the first men have been free of the water. Say "no longer are a thousand, are one hundred thousand are one thousand one hundred and a few, are a thousand and many can kill us all." The rage would be less killing, anger, ignorance, more than that the innocent are killed hundreds in a day I die before my eyes a Haiti destroyed.
Suddenly ... Bang! A shot breaks the silence of the Champs de Mars, the field of all, a cry, a woman cries and runs a small arms malnourished choked by gas. Came the devil! Men say, than a single mass, defend themselves with primitive weapons are: rocks, in a country in ruins, the raw material of any event is at hand. History repeats itself, now under the light of a moon that is breaking through, he knows he is the only source of light and reliable free and perhaps one of its rays can provide a Haitian able to see where he is shot and avoid a criminal.
run here, run there, they are afraid, but they are the bravest things I've seen. They call for freedom to live as human beings want out of oblivion, they want you to see them. To think about how lucky you are able to be in a bed under one roof, with a full stomach, hugging your child is still alive Is it too much to ask? .. It seems that if it seems to have been born in Haiti is a punishment, it seems that the ghosts of January 12 are in every corner of the city eager to collect the living every second of neglect and suffering under the rubble, suffering in every corner, screaming without being heard, the truth does not make much difference at this site, you like to be alive than dead.
was written during the electoral campaign coverage for Pirmera Vuelta.
Cecilia García Arocha
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