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Witness In Hell
The front half of the car I'm writing this in has been crushed by the garage roof. I'm on the back seat sheltering from the pouring rain. I know the owners don't mind me using their jeep because I can smell them rotting in the room next door. I haven't had a bath for four days. I consider myself very lucky. Because this place is hell and I only have to be a witness. The people around me are not only living it, they are being tortured by it. There is a man who's been sitting for four days by the rubble that was once his house, listening to the cries of his young son buried underneath. He was waiting for help that did not come. Imagine living each one of those minutes, of each one of those 96 hours. Hearing your child, just a few feet away, calling for you, pleading with you to save him. And being able to do nothing. It isn't a lack of will, it's a lack of might. There is just too much devastation here for any country to cope with. By the end of the fourth day, the noises had stopped. The man knew what that meant. But still he crouched there in the cold and rain, waiting now for someone to deliver him a body.