Haiti’s Earthquake’s Nickname and Some Women’s Trauma

The earthquake that decimated various parts of Haiti on January 12, 2010 has a name—Goudougoudou. That’s the affectionate moniker that Haitians have given the disaster. Everyone uses the term. It is as popular with radio show hosts as it is with people on the street and others in offices. There are several jokes ranging from mild to spicy about what to do in the event of another reprise of Goudougoudou, especially while one is engaged in any kind of private activity: from using the toilet to making love. But, whatever you are doing, stop and make a run for it into the clear.

An onomatopœia, Goudougoudou mimics the sound that the buildings made when the earth shook everything on its surface and leveled structures that were not earthquake-proof. The mere mention of the word is sometimes followed with a smile or even bits of laughter. Goudougoudou doesn’t sound nearly as terrifying as the experiences that most folks will recount when you ask them where they were that afternoon when it happened.

Sandra would not tell me her story, at first. I heard it in detail from her mother Marie, whose voice rose several decibels when she recalled her horror: “Sandra was alone in the city. She went there to register for a course. She had just left the school building and crossed the street to take a tap-tap (bus). She saw it collapse with everyone still in it.” The school was close to the Christopher Hotel (where MINUSTAH¹ was based). Both structures collapsed. Sandra was hysterical during the entire drive home. A woman on the bus threw a piece of cloth over her eyes so she would not witness any more. Buildings were still crumbling, crushing bodies as she made her way home.

When Sandra finally spoke to me, she told an abbreviated version. She focused more on a former classmate who had been buried under the rubble for several days.

Along with her family, the young woman was bused out of the capital into the provinces, like many others who were put on buses that took them out of the capital into the provinces. Since her return, she has not been the same. “When you look at her,” Sandra says, “it’s like looking at someone who is no longer there. Her eyes are open but she is not there.”

Maggie could not wait to tell her story. She was in the city with her niece. They both fell down. With her wiry frame, she used every part of her body to recreate the moment. She said, “I didn’t know what was happening. The thing dropped me on the ground. Pow! Flat on my belly.” As she explained it, “I tried to stand. It dropped me down again and pow!” and she showed me where each arm landed.

Young Micheline was inside the house. Her father rushed in to retrieve her, where he found her standing disoriented. Subsequently, with each aftershock, she has become clingier, crying and screaming and asking her father if it will happen again.

Since Goudougoudou, the women refuse to sleep indoors, so the men built a tin roof shack in the yard where everyone still sleeps at night. Those who dare to remain under the concrete, as folks say, jokingly call themselves soldiers. For the kids’ sake, they call the shack a hotel. Micheline’s biggest thrill is going to the hotel at night. In the dark, she rushes to it. On the makeshift bed, she, her younger brother, their best pal, and a slightly older cousin all snuggle next to each other. When I arrived in Haiti for my first trip since the quake, one of Micheline’s first questions to me was to ask if I would sleep in the hotel.

When I asked her about Goudougoudou, she smiled with the brazen, timid defiance of a four-year-old who had no intention of answering me. These are stories of a few women in my family. Other folks I encountered were not as inclined to be silent. Whoever...