Will the Sun rise again?
Destruction is part of natural cycles. The images of war and hurricanes, of carpet bombings and floods ravaging land, of fires wiping out whole towns, those images turn out to look very similar. They shock us, they shake me, and probably unsettle you, too. Destruction is part of life, and life means change. In all processes like in composting, recycling – even in birth – some destruction takes place. But collectively, we have never been bombarded day after day, hour by hour, with so many images of mass devastation. Our instinctive responses are fear of loss of life & home, helplessness, fragility of life. We wonder if self-protection and survival of family will be possible. People are affected by war and disasters in random ways. This is an amazing reality: the neighbor’s house might be burnt down, ours still standing. The bombs might hit this village, not that, the soldiers might take her father, not yours. The police will shoot this young Black son, or brother, not that one. This randomness perplexed me as a kid, even though in Germany everyone was affected by the war. But in a million different ways. Still now, I feel troubled wonderment about the huge range of possible fates in one and the same event of destruction.
The 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake in San Francisco on October 17, thirty-three years ago – 6.9 on the Richter scale – was a traumatic occasion for me. Like a strange war experience. It is happening on a warm afternoon at 17:04 while I am in the metro from the Mission to downtown to meet a friend. Out of nowhere the Bart train is shaking terribly, comes to a rough halt, then rolls slowly into the next station, stops – we don’t know what’s happening. A collision perhaps? After half hour of waiting with no announcements, the doors open. Hugely relieved that no panic broke out in our car, I emerge above ground to broken glass literally EVERYWHERE on the streets, and utter chaos, confusion and panic all around. Somehow, I find out that an earthquake has happened, the asphalt is broken and warped. I flag a cab, but once I am in, the taxi is stormed by several other frantic people. One of them a woman with a young child, so I jump out, giving my seat to her, and decide to walk along the water front to Fort Mason. I was supposed to meet my friend for early dinner at Greens. Here I am in my short summer dress and high heels. Ridiculous. Already people are starting to drink. Aftershocks are rolling through the pavement. Having been in this country for only 8 years, I am confused and disturbed by how people are behaving. Barely can I receive news updates when asking people, no cell phones back then :) At this point I don’t realize that the world series was about to start at Candlestick Park, just when the earthquake hits.
As I near Fort Mason, I see flames and thick smoke rising. Here at the Magic Theater, I had performed upon arriving in America. I head to the big Safeway store that so completely overwhelmed me 8 years earlier, this time to buy not lunch but just water. Somehow, I am spared to go inside – frenzied people all around – someone gifts me a big jug of water. Did she or he see how lost I am? This kindness has meaning, I might survive... To me all looks, sounds and feels like a war scene.
From the Marina district on fire, I decide to walk home to the Mission, up the hill to Union Street. My high heels a nuisance, I continue barefoot. On Union Street, no buses, so I decide to hitchhike. A car with two ladies picks me up, they gladly take my gallon of water in exchange for the ride. On their way home to Noe Valley from a downtown office, they are chipper. Assuming it is not going to be a big deal for them to drop me off a bit further down on Folsom and 23rd Street, I ask for that extra stretch, just five more minutes by car. But having listened to radio reports of looting and criminal activity, they refuse my plea, too scared to drive down into the heart of the Mission. I am not able to convince them that it is quite safe with the car, I am stunned.
By now it is pitch dark, all street lights are out, an eerie quiet, and walking alone as a younger woman in a short dress down the hill for maybe 15 blocks into the inner Mission seems dangerous. I brace myself, sure that I will get raped along the way. Only a small pouch across my chest, shoes in hand, no more water. Whenever a figure – only men seem to be out on the street – approaches blinding me with their flashlight, I keep my “martial arts” composure, focused, calm and confidant, sure of what I am doing. And as often, this seems to keep the potentially ill-intentioned guys at a distance. On bare and bleeding feet I make it home. The owner of the house stops me: “It’s a mess in your flat, maybe you should stay with us downstairs.” But they are all drinking, and loud… My housemate, a colleague, is away on a trip. Entering into more darkness, I light a candle and find myself surrounded by broken glass and pots, plants, earth, shards of all kind strewn everywhere on the floors, water pipes broken… That night for a seeming eternity, I will sit outdoors on the wooden fire escape stairs in back, convinced that the sun will not rise again tomorrow. Exhausted I finally crawl into bed…
Early next morning, the friendly owner brings me a thermos of hot water, checking out more of the damage. Still in shock, sitting again on the wooden planks outside, a cup of tea now in my hands, the first sunrays are warming my face. I feel reborn…. fragile and grateful. The day after, our telephone line gets repaired, and I am finally able to talk to my family in Germany. How seriously worried my parents, brother and sister are, there is much sobbing on the line, theirs and mine: I am alive! And how much love!
Most people I knew experienced the earthquake quite undramatically, they were safe, had even fun, partied, made love. The person I was going to meet was on Bart as well, stuck in the Bay tunnel, and had to return back to the East Bay to stay with friends. I don't know anybody who experienced the kind of strange odyssey as I did. And I realize: once a post war child, always a survivor… and wanderer… Many people died that afternoon. Families and loved ones were destitute. The whole world heard about this event and its shocking news. But I survived unharmed, only seriously shaken. And I learned a lot about American culture, people, and myself. Kindness and help were extended to me, I passed it on, and others’ refusal to help did not get me killed – despite a good chance to not make it, I arrived home unharmed. Best of all, the next morning the sun was rising again…
Please share YOUR earthquake experience…
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