It’s
April again, the time when dry winds pick up and blow roofs away. As the
winds twirl little circles of dust and the sky crack-les with a flash
of lightening, the heart starts pounding. Not far away from here,
someone’s home will be destroyed again.
How
many times have they had to move in a year? How many times have they
sat under their flimsy shelter and held on to the end of their
tarpaulin sheets, or run with buckets to catch the rain? And in this
daily struggle to survive, how many times have they wished they too had
died in the earthquake?
From
the day the quake happened, I’ve been reporting on it for Al Jazeera
English. From that moment, all the Nepali reporters I know rose to the
challenge of reporting the most momentous event in our lives--while
after-shocks shook us. Disasters are times when the basic fabrics we so
carefully stitch together in lives, fall apart. The memory of the shock
and the visions of the dead, the endless broken houses and the
expressions of people have become indelible in each of us.