Anderson Cooper | BIO
It's been one month.
A lot of people who haven't been here probably think what happened is old news. I know people aren't as interested in hearing about it as much anymore. That always happens, but it's hard to accept. Haitians, of course, are used to it. They are used to people losing interest in their plight, this time they had hoped it would be different.
It may feel like this is a month-old tragedy, but here, on the ground, each day, it feels brand new: new struggles, new setbacks, new deaths, new horrors.
Charlie, my producer, and Neil, my cameraman, and I have been here three weeks out of the four. The week I was gone, all I wanted to do was get back here. Here nothing is wasted. Nothing is fake. People look each other in the eye. They clasp your hand hard. Everything has been stripped away, gutted.
I've started to pay attention to things no one wants to hear about. I saw a puddle of dried liquid on a concrete slab, and a small mound of human hair. It was all that was left of someone. There are packs of dogs that roam the streets at night. People say they've seen them feed on corpses. You hear them barking, growling deep, fighting each other in the darkness.
I see the good things here too: The love families have for one another, the strong faith, the resilience of people, but it's impossible to ignore that Port-au-Prince is still a graveyard. How many more dead are still buried in its rubble?
I find myself crying at odd times. I'll be walking up a flight of stairs and suddenly realize there are tears in my eyes. I was speaking to someone I hadn't seen in a while and my voice cracked, my throat tightened, I can't even remember what I was talking about. It happens to everyone, I think.
For the rest of the world its been one month. Here, on the ground, it feels much longer. The clocks have stopped. The earth no longer spins. This place, these people, are once again forced to begin again.