Responding to Suffering

I stare at my telephone, look at the buttons and wait. I’ll give it to half past the hour and then I’ll call. Give someone else a chance. Other people will want to go, will want the experience. But how do I know if anyone else is going to call? Maybe they’re all busy at work, or too tired or didn’t get the message.
And here I am- aware, able and available.
I pause, stare out the window at the blue sky, at the wind breeze through the back alley, picking up dust and plastic bags. I can feel my feet on the floor, and the warmth of my skin. Things are easy and I am healthy.
As if I don’t know what I’m doing I pick up the phone and dial the disaster response number. I leave my name and phone number. I’m here for the next hour and I am available right now. Click.
Maybe they won’t call me back and it will be an ordinary evening. I would like to visit the Soto Zen sangha and catch up on some extra quiet zazen.
After another hour in the office I put my jacket on and start cleaning up. I have entirely forgotten the disaster response team request. As I walk out the door the phone rings.
“Are you available?”
“Yes, I am”
“Good, we’ll need you until 11pm.”
I get the address and prepare to leave. In the lunch room the news is on the television. Smoke is rising from the condo fire. Black gusts of wind. Water pouring into the building from the fire hoses. The flames have subsided by now but have not been fully extinguished. Traffic has been redirected around the nearby streets. I wonder how I will get to the nearby reception centre. I study the map and decide on a circuitous method to avoid traffic delays.
People are coming home from work, some of them will have seen the news and some of them won’t.
Despite being rush hour the traffic is not as bad as expected. The wind continues to flare through the streets. This has made putting out the fire difficult. Even the strength of the water in the fire hoses are blown away in the gusts, not reaching their target. It is a warm March day and the smell of the air is fresh and clear.
I drive into the large church parking lot and stop next to a police car. An ambulance is also here and so are the media. Their large antenna poking through the scene of cars and people hustling through the doors.
Everyone looks very ordinary. It could be a music concert or theatre event. Booths are set up around all the rooms inside. A registration and information desk, a snack table, a semi-circle of chairs in the auditorium. The large wooden cross sits on the side of the stage. People have picked up bibles to write forms on. I sit down at the table for my duty station and sign in.
Nothing is really happening in our department. We’ve offered blankets and small kits to help people through the night. People wander in and out of the room. Everyone is anticipating announcements from the firemen and police. A crowd gathers at the appointed time but no announcement. Children play and wander around the chairs. A group of friends or family have gathered around a circle of their own and are telling stories. Nearly everyone is on and off their cell phones. The firemen are late, unexpectedly still battling the fire, although its now been seven hours since it started. Its still not over.
The crowd turns as the big men in dirty yellow uniforms enter the room. The weight of their equipment is heavy on their backs as they take the stage with police officers.
Very little information is provided that hasn’t already been offered before. There are two buildings evacuated, one that has the fire in it and the other unaffected except that the power and gas has been shut off because it is attached to the other building. They make it clear, no one is going home tonight, period. Not to get your wallet, your cat or your car. They need to maintain complete evacuation until the fire is clear and it is safe to restart the power in the second building.
Surprisingly there are no murmurings of outrage or shock. No one gets outright angry - although the man who asks how it started seems pretty disgruntled. He does not get his question answered. There are pleas and requests of negotiation- I have nothing on me. It would take two seconds to get my purse. My cats are frightened. The man on the stage is clear and steady, not apologetic or disagreeable, just factual. No one can enter the buildings.
I am pulled into the lodging table to alleviate the immediate rush after the announcements are made. Now we will put everyone who has no where else to go in hotels. Its only for three nights, they don’t have to pay but after that they are on their own. We know this won’t be enough for everyone.
A very polite and straight line develops in front of our table. I ask each individual to sit down in the chair opposite me and ask them if they need somewhere to stay for the evening, how many people and if they have a vehicle to get them to the hotel. Mostly this act is simply filling in forms but it is not just filling in forms. I am surprised at how stable, solid and calm everyone is. So many of them have lost all of their possessions. Some of them are waiting to hear if their pets have been saved. The room is heavy with tears not expressed. In some ways I wish they would cry instead of being polite.
A woman sits down next to me and I ask how many. Her child translates for me. He seems used to this role. Its not clear that he knows what I’m saying, only how to change the words into a different language. She doesn’t look afraid at all. I wonder if she understands.
One woman sitting in a chair opposite another aide worker after asks, “is this a disaster?!”
“Yes, it is.” I say. We nod around the table because she doesn’t believe me. The disaster services signs are a clear indication. I’m not sure what this means to her or why she needs the question answered.
Some people are red-faced and tear streaked. Some are quiet or sincerely grateful. As I’m filling in one form, calculating the cost of the hotel a soft voice asks, do we have to pay for this? No, no. I say. We pay for this.
Oh, thank you very much. He turns and looks at his wife and child.
And on it goes like this. Very human. Not like a shopping mall or even a retreat centre. There is little expectation or entitlement. The flames burnt it away.

Pizza is ordered and many people wander over to eat. People eat while standing or holding on to children or talking on their cell phones. I have barely looked up from my station. I have forgotten everything but the task, the body in the chair, the moment.
Later that night the head of the operation will make clear that no one is going to live in the one building again. What isn’t fire damaged is sitting in water.
Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone, altogether gone.

A man in a nice suit walks up to me. Has just got off work. He missed the announcement. He hasn’t registered yet. I hand him a form he fills in at the table. He seems light and cheerful, makes a joke. I ask him which building he is in. He tells me. I’m surprised. It is the destroyed building. You know what happened right? I ask.
He says, yes. I know. I continue filling in the paperwork. I don’t think he understands. I send him to get some clothes. Does he realise these will be his only clothes?

Someone from my team has been offering to relieve me but I had been so absorbed it didn’t register until it late into the evening. I pick up my things. A few of my many things and walk out the door. The dark sky lit by the lights of vehicles. The media seem to have left.
I drive past the scene of the fire. Police and firemen are still there- the road closed. This happens every day. Somewhere. I am certain. A house is burning down.
The night is over. I am happy to go home to my cat. I missed zazen but I still enjoyed the company of Bodhisattvas.