Does It Take a Disaster for Us to Care?

The images coming out of Haiti
are unimaginably grim, and as the clock continues to tick while rescue efforts
become mired in bureaucracy, the death toll is sure to rise. Still, as is often
the case in times of epic tragedy, Americans express their grief and
demonstrate their largesse in myriad meaningful ways. The sincerity of these
gestures is obvious, but the question persists: Why does it take a
high-magnitude disaster for us to really care?

Consider that in the case of Haiti,
people essentially were living in a state of "permanent disaster" for decades
with almost no expression of concern from our shores. Hemispheric policies of
creating corrupt puppet regimes, ousting popularly elected officials, arming
paramilitaries, and imposing "law and order" on disenfranchised people have
existed in Haiti
and throughout the region without cessation or even much official denial.
Economically speaking, so-called "free trade" has served to flood markets with
subsidized U.S. goods, drive people from their land tenure to poorly-built
urban shantytowns, cause crushing poverty and despair, and undercut whatever
minimal public infrastructure had existed.

This was the state of affairs for most Haitians before the
earthquake hit. With 80% living in poverty and with no real prospects for
improvement, the people survived as best they could, demonstrating remarkable
dignity and resiliency in the process. But the recent "natural disaster" --
much as happened here when Hurricane Katrina devastated New
Orleans -- exposed the thin veneer of baseline
vulnerability in which the people had tenuously been existing. Inadequate
structures, both social and architectural, crumble in the face of nature's
force. In this sense, the disaster was surely man-made as much as it was
natural, and to some extent we must acknowledge that it was partly "made in the
USA" as well.

Haitian lore may indeed suggest that a "deal with the devil"
was struck to gain their freedom from under the heel of enslavement, but it
couldn't save them from the brute force of our foreign policies. Haitians
largely have been persona non grata
on these shores, effectively remaining landlocked to cope with conditions
sufficient for strong claims of refugee status. Given their proximity to the U.S.,
it is clear that a "stable" kleptocracy with millions living in squalor has
been politically preferable to an unpredictable populism in which post-colonial
peoples feel empowered to define the conditions of their own lives. Despite Haiti
being the first slave state to win its independence, their subjugation didn't
end -- it just changed form.

This is a cultural "teachable moment," as they say in higher
education. If we open our hearts and wallets in this critical time, but then
fail to alter "business as usual" once the crisis passes and the news cycle
moves on, we'll simply be deferring disaster again until the next "big one"
hits. Having done relief work in migrant communities following Hurricane
Andrew, and then again in New Orleans and the Gulf Coast following Katrina, I
have no doubt whatsoever that Americans are generous and caring people filled
with sincere compassion. Yet I also wonder whether such episodes touch a place
of unspoken and perhaps even unrecognized guilt as well. On some level, we must
know that our collective comfort is partially paid for with the impoverishment
of others.

Much has been said and written in recent days about the
desperation and plight of the Haitian people. In this time, we should do
everything in our power to contribute resources to genuine relief organizations
that actually serve people and communities. We should support Haitians living
here in the U.S.
in their quest to locate family and friends, and to deal with the emotional
consequences of the catastrophe. We should offer prayers, empathy, and comfort
on every level that we are able. We should, in essence, apply the basic premise
of the golden rule and consider what we would most need and desire if our lives
were suddenly buried in the rubble.

Most importantly, we cannot lose sight of the plight and
become blithely reabsorbed into our everyday lives in short order. New
Orleans is still an open wound in America's
psyche, and the displaced people there -- both internally and externally --
have not been able to truly find solace and peace in their lives. The best form
of disaster relief we can provide is preventive,
namely demanding a course correction in our national policies that allow people
to exist in states of maximum vulnerability and perpetual neglect. Rather than
simply reacting as disasters befall, we can alleviate them through proactive
policies that uplift people everywhere by exporting a genuine ethos of health,
opportunity, and democracy rather than exploitation and immiseration.

We can help the people of Haiti
by likewise demanding these virtues and values for ourselves. Notwithstanding
certain disequilibria of geography and economy, we all share a common humanity
that is increasingly becoming interlinked both technologically and environmentally.
Let us express this during times of acute crisis, and also during times in
which crises exist below the radar of our cultural consciousness. This type of
ongoing relief in which we strive for justice and equity on a daily basis will
show the true spirit that lies at the core of who we are, as we work
simultaneously to remediate this disaster and mitigate the next ones before they
emerge. Perhaps, in the end, it is this sort of pact with each other that will
lead to our mutual salvation.