Concern From Afar

I’ll never forget that day, sitting in my Istanbul apartment, staring at my computer screen. It was the early weeks of 2005. Reports were starting to filter in about the devastation that hit the communities around the Indian Ocean from an earthquake-triggered tsunami. At the time, I was reading reports of loss of life in the tens of thousands. I was in total shock. That number seemed huge to me.

I don’t know why I was so affected by the news. I knew nobody in that region, had no ties, no experiences there. Yet, I sunk into a sort of deep sorrow over it for weeks. I’d never been so affected by terrible news before. Maybe it was Winter that was pulling some of those strings since I am affected by the seasonal darkness. Either way, I was devastated for those people.

If you look at Wikipedia’s entry on that catastrophe now, you’ll see the loss of life stands at upwards of 230K — one of the deadliest natural disasters in history. There had been no warning systems in place, as tsunamis in that region were relatively rare. To try to imagine the shock that tragedy must have been to so many families, it’s impossible.

I’ve since learned that I do have biggish feelings sometimes, especially when I see others in dire straits. Ever since that tsunami, I’ve tried to keep a small emotional buffer between me and awful news. I don’t shut myself off. I do try to catch myself from sinking into despair as I did back then.

For me, being concerned is part of what I like best about myself. Yet, it can be a hindrance if I don’t watch it. Emotional regulation is a better way to do life than the opposite approach and letting it take over — like a tsunami. It’s a learning process.

I’m thinking about all this now because I had family near the eye of recent Hurricane Ian that Americans were watching with clenched fingers and nervous minds. In the days leading up, I kept watching NOAA’s hurricane website. It didn’t look good. On the day Ian hit the Florida coast, I was pacing around like the rest of my family living far from Florida, wondering how it would go, and then later in the evening, how it went.

I waited for my aunt to give word about her sons. I thought about others I knew in that area. I crossed my fingers and hoped and waited.

Then word started to filter in. The storm had shifted late in the game, sparing my family the worst of it, but pummeling those a bit south instead. Photos and video show some of the damage with folks picking their way through the rubble. They have the same look about their posture and face that you’ve seen in war photos and at the site of other disaster rubble — blank shock. What will I do now?

I haven’t lived through devastation from a natural disaster. The closest I got to experiencing one was the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989 when I’d just moved to California and my apartment building started to sway like a tree mere seconds after I’d stepped out of the shower. Scary, disorienting, but not devastating.

I also have friends and family in California where fires alight the landscape and cause a smoky living situation at best. I know folks in the tornado belt, in the drought-stricken regions, and in areas where floods happen. Although, I don’t know anyone living through war or famine. It’s hard to imagine what it’s like for those trying to make their way through any of these situations.

It’s tough sometimes. Tectonics, war, the weather. They can cause some real strife, some true loss. It’s all a complicated discussion wherever you care to take it, from whichever point you want to start. Yet, there’s one aspect of these difficulties and losses that is easy to imagine — our genuine concern for those experiencing anguish and sorrow.

It’s probably the one common ground we have. If we see someone truly suffering — no matter the views we hold or the anger we foster or the things we insist upon — we will drop everything, run to the other side of the road, and pick up a devastated individual to rock in our arms. That’s one of our main glories. It’s the thing we point to when we’re suffering because of each other — we’d stop our quarrels if a disaster happened — aka 9/11. We have this capacity. Perhaps it’s even our deepest core.

I look at the folks in Florida right now and try to imagine what it must feel like to lose everything that held meaning for you. I know objects aren’t the most important thing in life, but they can add value, especially as mementos or relics of the key points in our lives. Photos, old heirlooms, wedding gifts, and crafts made especially for you by others. Either way, your home is the castle you built — however small or temporary — to house your daily life. It is your special nest in the tree, burrow in the ground, pile of sticks in the stream.

There’s another type of home — each other. That’s why I was so drawn down back in 2005. So many people — my own species — devastated. I remember watching the movie The Impossible, a 2012 film about that disaster. A group of my extended family crowded around my parents’ TV room and watched it together. It was a hard movie to watch, harrowing. I looked around the room at my family. To imagine your loved ones going through that — helps you to imagine strangers doing so.

The thing is folks go through terrible straits regularly. I just wish they knew how much people from very far away are sending their love and concern. I don’t know if that would even help me if I were in their shoes, but I can’t imagine it would hurt. If we had the ability to see this love and concern from an aerial view in real-time, I know it would make a big impression on us.

Sending love to those affected by Hurricane Ian, the war in Ukraine, and other especially difficult situations.