In this video, sent by Willard Metzger, people injured in the earthquake are treated by truck headlight.


Willard Metzger, director of church relations for World Vision Canada, in his makeshift office in Haiti. He describes the situation after a massive earthquake devastated that nation.

World Vision Canada’s Willard Metzger, director of church relations, was leading a group of volunteers on a trip to Haiti when the earthquake rocked his Port-au-Prince hotel on January 12. In the night and day that followed, that hotel became a makeshift hospital—and morgue. This is Willard’s eyewitness account followed by further reflections on his experience.

By Willard Metzger

Night One
Soon after the quake ended, dust created a haze across the sky and the sound of wailing filled the air. Darkness fell within an hour, hampering immediate rescue efforts.

The Wounded Start to Arrive
Our hotel became a quick, make-shift medical clinic. People with emergency first aid experience became lead doctors. Bed sheets were ripped into bandages, pool chairs became stretchers and baseboards were stripped to become splints. The make-shift medical clinic worked with the headlights of vehicles until 10:45 p.m. Then the scenes seemed to settle for the night. But not for long.

By 11 p.m. the wounded started pouring in again: a young girl who had been dug from the rubble, still in her school uniform from her walk home, a young boy with a broken ankle, foot pointing outward. These broken limbs needed to be set with little more than a steady hand, ripped bed sheets and splintered base boards. Painful cries rose into the starry sky.

Another tremor shook the ground sending those who could run scrambling into the middle of the unlit streets. But the damage had already been done and the wounded needed care. The street was filled with those receiving medical attention as relatives waved their hands and begged God for mercy on their children.

From Wails to Prayers
This was the scene through the night—stranded hotel patrons sharing the streets with the moans of the wounded. After midnight, the sound of mournful wailing changed to responsive shouts of prayer. The sound of the crowds crying out their prayers lifted into the clear night sky. By 2:30 a.m. I started to identify an area near the front entry as a morgue.

I had hoped for emergency crews with the sunlight of a new day. Instead, the dawn brought an even heavier flow of wounded. More bed sheets ripped into bandages, more furniture broken into splints. Emergency response never came. There was none. Our bed sheets were it. Bed sheets and empathy.

On Wednesday
Wednesday. The wounded came in waves all through the day. The street became a tented city. The morgue grew through the day—little children laid onto the pavement—the little bed sheets unable to cover the cruel reality.

A stream of helicopters buzzed overhead throughout the day. Our little street corner became the emergency airlift for the critically wounded. Prayers that the bed sheets would sustain life until the victims were airlifted to safety. Desperate parents tug on our shirts, despite trying to explain that we are but patrons of the hotel. But we are the only ones with bandages—so we are the only ones to give them hope.

Second Night in Haiti:
How Long Before the Night Feels Safe?
The second night after the quake and the aftershocks seem stronger than yesterday. People were shaken out of their sleep at 2 a.m. and scrambled out into the open night air. Each tremor reignites choruses of crying. Dogs bark and a child wails in the dark—another new injury. It is tough to know how to protect your children as a parent.

You strive to make things normal for your children but the damaged walls of what was once home now seem like a trap. Each tremor further dislodges compromised structures. Each tremor adds to the list of injuries and inflicts more uncertainty. How long before a restful night? How long before it feels safe to sleep in your bed again?

Helicopters lifted the seriously injured to safety yesterday—but the newly wounded through the night must wait until day break. Parents are left to pray that the injuries of their children are not severe, but will be bad enough to make it onto the air lift to medical care. It is hard to hope when severe injury becomes your only ticket to securing the protection your children rely on you to provide. The list of "not bad enough" is numbing: a man with broken limbs, a small boy with his right eye swollen shut, a little girl with scrapes across her back and a deep gash on the top of her head, a little finger with the first layer of skin peeled back.

On a normal day, these injuries would break your heart, but this night you sigh a relief—they'll live. Parents who had hoped for something more than bed sheet bandages are left disappointed, but at least the bed sheets are not being laid over lifeless bodies. Maybe the sun rising over the hills will bring everything back into perspective. It is always easier to have hope during the day.

Further Reflections

Looking away

Not sure which looked more listless – the young boy with his puffy eye swollen shut or his father not knowing how he can help his son. Both came looking to our hotel for help. Both would be disappointed. I look away, because that is all I can do.

Other parents grab my arm for attention and point to a young daughter with deep cuts on her back. A mother tugs my shirt and shows me a teenage daughter with a lacerated foot. I look across the throng of injured lying in the street and see a young man and woman sobbing into each other's arms. I don't know the details but the deep sobs indicate they have joined the growing number of mourners.

I stand there with a roll of duct tape and strips of bed sheets hanging on my shoulder. This makes me a doctor in the eyes of the injured. This makes parents feel relieved. I feel as though I am playing a cruel joke. I feel as though I am offering false hope to pleading parents. Duct tape and bed sheets will do little to stave off infection or close gaping wounds. I wonder if it is more humane to throw up my hands in defeat and allow the reality of despair free reign. But we do what we can.

A gash on the top of a woman's head is cleaned and we wrap bed sheets under her chin and over the top of her head. Good thing the hotel had some king size beds in their junior suites.

I look down again at the father and his son. I gaze on the puffy swollen eye trying to think of some way how the strips of bed sheets can help. I look away because that is all I can do. Another bloody hand is thrust in front of me. Here the bed sheets apply.

Bed sheets, iodine and duct tape. These are irrelevant resources for the father and his son. By the third time I looked back at the pair, we came to an unspoken understanding as I looked into the eyes of the father - there was nothing we could do to help. There was no one here that could help, and there was nowhere else to go. For the last time, I look away because that is all I can do.

Now that I am on my way home from earthquake, I realize that the picture of this father and his son is how Haiti has been treated. Parents have not been given the resources they needed to adequately care for their children. The only resource they have had is to beg for help from others.

Perhaps the devastating earthquake will shake the world from its lethargy, and unleash not only a flood of response for relief - but also a commitment for longer-term development. I can give to the cause of rebuilding. This time I can respond. This time, I will not look away. This time I will give because that is something I can do.

When the earth stops shaking

For a couple days that seemed more like a couple weeks, the earth beneath my feet has been shaking. Caught in the earthquake that rocked Haiti, the shifting earth has become a regular reality. For days we waited for evacuation.

Now about ready to board a plane for safer ground, the flight attendant has asked me to wait a few minutes before boarding. So I do.

On the edge of the jetway, looking at the outside of my transport home, the wind causes the structure to sway a bit. A normal occurrence but an alarm raises inside my head and alerts my feet for flight.

For days, the earth beneath my feet has been quivering. Sometimes it escalates into another tremor that has everyone bolt to door frames or run for open space. But most times it simply quivers, twitches. But the movement keeps my nerves on edge.

No wonder the streets of Port-au-Prince are lined with those afraid to go back into their houses. This is the new Haiti immediately following a devastating earthquake. Those who are afraid to go on, lie in the streets with those unable to go on – wrapped in sheets – lives cut short.

Children cling to parents who don't know where to turn – awakened with a new surge of fear whenever a new tremor rattles the buildings.

But most times, the earth lies trembling, as though weeping beneath your feet. Maybe it is mourning the 100,000 feared dead – many children. Maybe it is lamenting a land allowed to remain poor for too long. Maybe it is sobbing the lost opportunities of others to help Haiti reclaim dignity and the self-worth that comes from being able to care for those you love.

If these are the things represented by the unstable earth, then I join in the sorrow. Maybe the whimpering earth will propel others to respond. If enough people give Haiti the opportunity and the long-term commitment to develop a people able to care for themselves – then those sacrificed to the rubble will have a lasting impact.

It is the poor lying on the streets. The poor, because they have little other than life to protect. If I were the earth forced to hold decades of neglect and accept the bodies of too many children who have died of malnutrition, I might cause the hills to heave with my sobbing too.

A little child lies on the street and feels the subtle swaying of the earth. "When will the earth stop shaking," she asks her mother? Oh to know the answer. When will the earth stop shaking?

I board the plane and my body relaxes. My world will soon feel stable again. But for too many others the trembling continues.

Can't leave Haiti

Two nights have passed since being evacuated from the earthquake of Haiti. But each night as I lay in the safety of my bed, I find myself still in Haiti. My body has been evacuated but my heart and emotions are still trapped in Haiti. There are feelings unresolved. There are emotional responses still ignored. Until the experiences are revisited and the associated emotions are embraced, my heart remains in Haiti.

They are not nightmares. But in the stillness of night, the trauma is unhindered and rises to the surface. I welcome the night because there is still work to be done. There are lives to mourn and honour. Strangers to me, but no life should be wrapped in a cloth and discarded alone along the edge of the street. I want to weep for them. Every life deserves acknowledgement.

Two days of telling stories. I want to tell the stories. Intuitively I know that telling the stories is important to my emotional healing. It is a way of expressing solidarity to the poor. It wearies me, but I want to retell the horror – for all suffering deserves the dignity of being noticed.

As the scenes in my mind are revisited, each given the emotional response required, I will find myself more fully returning to Canada. I must first come to grips with everything I couldn't do before I can be released to do everything I can do.

Lost In The Crowd

She raised her small hand in front of us so that we could treat her wounds. Layers of skin had been peeled back from three fingers. She was one of many injured who came all through the night following the earthquake in Haiti. It was now the morning after the 7.0 earthquake and she arrived to our hotel long after our minimal medical supplies had already been exhausted. We had iodine and bed sheets left.

My partner indicated that we should try and apply some iodine for a disinfectant and then wrap her fingers separately with strips of linen. So this teen, a young woman, grabbed the cloth soaked in iodine and squeezed it over her wounds. The iodine dropped from the cloth and ran freely over her raw fingers.

She held her head high. She shed no tears. She sat in the chair with her back straight as she administered her own first aid. I stood and watched, my senses retreating further. Still, my heart ached, my muscled tensed - but emotional response denied. Such a young woman should not be required to show such resilience.

When her fingers had been wrapped, she stood up from the chair, collected her little sister who had been watching, and left. She disappeared into the maze of wounded and I was left with one more memory.

This young woman epitomizes Haiti. Haiti is accustomed to suffering. Haitians are accustomed to needing to administer their own first aid. They have mourned many dead. They have buried many children. But in the face of continued suffering - they hold their heads high, sit with their backs straight and face whatever reality surrounds them.

My prayer is that such resilience will be met with equal resolve: a resolve of a caring world determined to give Haiti a new platform to rebuild. No suffering should be allowed to melt into a crowd and go unnoticed.

How Long Will It Last?

The wounded kept arriving all night. Some carried on doors. Some carried on blankets. Children carried in the arms of their parents.

Injuries were crudely wrapped in bed linen bandages. Broken limbs held straight by broken pieces of base boards and dismantled furniture. We could only use what we had - and it wasn't much. The treated took their place on the street. Some lying on cushions and pillows from inside the abandoned hotel, others simply spending the night on a blanket.

A young boy rocks his head in pain as he lays on the street - two boards tied on the sides of his broken ankle. His sister sits beside him gently caressing his cheek. I bury some more tears.

The street became crowded with the wounded. Vehicles providing the benefit of headlights are pushed back to create more space for those arriving. Fresh cries erupted with every new tremor. And with the cries came more wounded.

How long will this last, I wonder? But the wounded kept coming. There was no end. Hotel staff filled plastic garbage bags with bloodied sheets and garments.

Now, safe in my home, I recall the images. I tell the stories. I describe the scene. Others do as well.

The world has responded to the devastation. Donations flow - everyone wanting to do something. I thank God for the generosity of people, and I pray for the many faces still in my mind.

How long will it last, I wonder? How long will people be moved to respond? How long will we feel compelled to do something?

Perhaps this will be a new day for solidarity with the poor. Maybe this will initiate a new longevity for compassion. I pray it will be so. The rebuilding of Haiti will take a lot of time. I pray that our compassion and solidarity will last as long as it takes to create a new platform for Haiti.

The morning after the earthquake, the number of wounded increased dramatically. Many others had waited for daylight to carry their loved ones to our location. All looking for help.

I retreated into safety, unable to embrace helplessness any longer. I looked over my shoulder. The young boy's sister was still gently caressing his face. She smiled at him. Her reassuring presence had held him through the chaotic night.

The Response of God

The voices melted together into a wail of despair. Millions of people affected by the earthquake that leveled most of Port-au-Prince expressed their anguish. The night air was filled with mourning. Whenever the cries of pain subsided in the streets of our impromptu emergency ward, the wails of countless others filled our ears. The sounds of mourning added to our sense of helplessness. We knew that unless the injuries surrounding us were minimal, we could do little to prevent mourning.

Four people stood up among the wounded lying on the streets and started praying. Their arms extended to the night sky, heads cocked in anguish, they released their sorrow. Their cries were muffled by sobs, but the sound resounded in our hearts. They wept for their loved ones injured at their feet. They wept for their country, tired of mourning the death of their children. They wept to God because they knew there was no other place of hope. Their faith was expressed in their tears.

As I watched this holy moment I knew God was there. God was also weeping, mourning a land stripped of natural resources, plundered by wealthy nations, and deforested to pay impossible national debt.

I listened to the cries of millions of people below in the valley, and I knew God was hearing them as well. But not as I heard them - a mass wailing - but a throng of individual pain. God could distinguish every child crying out for missing parents. God could identify every parents frantic search for their children. There were no silent tears for God, every broken heart thundered in heaven.

When I returned safely to my home, I heard of an individual in Northern Canada who had given a substantial financial gift to World Vision's Haiti Relief. Finally tears locked away deep inside me began to pour from my being. I wept for the countless people I met through the night in that make shift hospital. I wept for the many I saw mourning the loss of loved ones. I wept for Haiti.

I wept in appreciation, because I knew someone else had felt the tears of God and heard God's plea of invitation. "Express my love," God had whispered, "Extend my grace." And a stranger in Northern Canada responded. The hand of God had been extended. And I wept in gratitude and worship.

For God's people there is always hope. Because for God there are no strangers. God hears every cry, and speaks gently to hearts around the world. To the suffering in Haiti, God speaks comfort. To the church in Canada and around the globe, God speaks an invitation.

Because God's voice is heard in both the land of suffering and in the land of plenty - there will always be hope.

What You Can Do
Through your donations, World Vision can distribute urgently needed relief supplies to families—especially children—in Haiti.