Earthquakes are not unusual events on a planet with a shifting surface, so the April, 25, 2015, temblor in Nepal was just more of the same for Earth. Not so for the people of Kathmandu and local villages. More than 7,000 people died in the quake. For them and their loved ones, there was only one earthquake; it mattered. Occur where they might, earthquakes are always significant for those who live near the epicenter and suffer loss of property or loved ones. By destroying infrastructure, earthquakes also isolate survivors.
Pulled from the Nepalese rubble of broken homes were two people on the opposite ends of the age spectrum: A baby and a 101-year-old man. Imagine. You just start your journey on this world, and you find yourself in a dark, musty place with no mother’s touch of comfort. Imagine. You have been around longer than all your friends, have survived diseases and accidents, and you find yourself in a dark, musty place with no human touch of comfort.
The baby’s temporary entombment might, except for its dryness, have been reminiscent of its recent home in a moist, warm womb. The old man’s entombment might have been reminiscent of the separation between him and all those who died along the way of his long life.
Survivors and aid workers saved both from their entrapment. Earthquakes seem to emphasize that we are gregarious as a species. Yes, there are some who choose isolation, both physical and social. Usually, the rest of the species looks on loners as a bit odd and potentially dangerous. Conscious withdrawal from the touch of comfort just doesn’t seem “human.” For the overtly gregarious, the idea of isolation or an entombment away from the comfort of others is disturbing at the least. The gregarious empathize with the isolated, the entombed. They rush to dig them out of their isolation regardless of their stage of life. A lonely place is not a human place.
We won’t keep track of the baby’s life. Residing in Nepal, the baby will live without a personal memory of the event except through the stories of elders who tell of the miraculous recovery. Possibly, down the road some as yet unborn reporter will cover the life of the infant who survived and retell the tale of the rescuers’ efforts. Maybe the baby will do something to change the world in some way. We might hear about the centenarian again when he dies. Regardless of his surviving the earthquake, he is, quite obviously, not destined to live many more years. When he dies, we will read a headline that says, “Centenarian Who Survived Earthquake Dies.” If such a story does appear, I hope it contains the following sentence: “His rescuers ignored the dangerous aftershocks to free him for a death among friends.”
Our finiteness is mitigated by our gregariousness. That we care—even for those who want to separate themselves from the rest of us—is a species-wide trait. That we watch intently as rescuers dig through earthquake rubble, open new shafts to free trapped miners, rush into burning apartment buildings, or sail to save the storm-tossed, is an indication that we are all connected, regardless of place, time, or age.
Pulled from the Nepalese rubble of broken homes were two people on the opposite ends of the age spectrum: A baby and a 101-year-old man. Imagine. You just start your journey on this world, and you find yourself in a dark, musty place with no mother’s touch of comfort. Imagine. You have been around longer than all your friends, have survived diseases and accidents, and you find yourself in a dark, musty place with no human touch of comfort.
The baby’s temporary entombment might, except for its dryness, have been reminiscent of its recent home in a moist, warm womb. The old man’s entombment might have been reminiscent of the separation between him and all those who died along the way of his long life.
Survivors and aid workers saved both from their entrapment. Earthquakes seem to emphasize that we are gregarious as a species. Yes, there are some who choose isolation, both physical and social. Usually, the rest of the species looks on loners as a bit odd and potentially dangerous. Conscious withdrawal from the touch of comfort just doesn’t seem “human.” For the overtly gregarious, the idea of isolation or an entombment away from the comfort of others is disturbing at the least. The gregarious empathize with the isolated, the entombed. They rush to dig them out of their isolation regardless of their stage of life. A lonely place is not a human place.
We won’t keep track of the baby’s life. Residing in Nepal, the baby will live without a personal memory of the event except through the stories of elders who tell of the miraculous recovery. Possibly, down the road some as yet unborn reporter will cover the life of the infant who survived and retell the tale of the rescuers’ efforts. Maybe the baby will do something to change the world in some way. We might hear about the centenarian again when he dies. Regardless of his surviving the earthquake, he is, quite obviously, not destined to live many more years. When he dies, we will read a headline that says, “Centenarian Who Survived Earthquake Dies.” If such a story does appear, I hope it contains the following sentence: “His rescuers ignored the dangerous aftershocks to free him for a death among friends.”
Our finiteness is mitigated by our gregariousness. That we care—even for those who want to separate themselves from the rest of us—is a species-wide trait. That we watch intently as rescuers dig through earthquake rubble, open new shafts to free trapped miners, rush into burning apartment buildings, or sail to save the storm-tossed, is an indication that we are all connected, regardless of place, time, or age.
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