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The streets are still filled with debris, smoldering tires and overturned cars. Few cars can pass, so transportation is limited to motorcycles and feet. There are still pockets of violence throughout the city, but it’s so much quieter today. Quiet enough for me to think. Which can sometimes be dangerous.

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I thought I was imagining it at first. I do have an overactive imagination, after all. But I couldn’t mistake the chanting. I crept to the window, and as icy cold water from the air conditioner dripped on my feet, I heard the city exploding. Nothing had blown over. It had blown up. I lay…

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I saw people begging on the streets, just as I thought I would. But I also saw a young man, profoundly handicapped, sitting in a dark alley, pounding his head against the wall. That single image of brokenness, of pain, sits in my chest like a stone. Haiti somehow breaks my heart.

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