A Minor and Force Majeure
In the aftermath of Hurricane Andrew (1992), the township of Homestead, Florida was a shambles. A lifelong resident of Chicago, where—other than cultural reminders of The Great Fire—nothing compares to the effect of a hurricane and, between jobs and with little to do, plus complete discretion over personal movement, it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to survey a disaster. Friends advised checking-in with The American Red Cross upon arrival.
Arriving a month after the hurricane made landfall essential services were restored without apparent disruption. Those who meant to stay, stayed, and those who didn't had not returned. The heroic phase of the relief effort had passed. It was still far from normal. Accommodations were to be had in Miami. For an avid camper it was a new challenge. That notion was quickly revised as the ancient vagrancy laws had been put into effect by the local constabulary.
Understandably, as residents, they resented the apparent disregard for the suffering of their community. For intruders upon a disaster area—even with best intentions—the utmost tact and discretion is required. The Red Cross always makes a timely appearance—then knows when to discretely withdraw. Property issues—damage, clean-up, recovery—were as yet a long range mobilization. Able body workers—many, and for minimum pay—were needed.
Only the faint impressions of the work of the Red Cross remained. The coffee is notoriously bad. Seriously, organization is forever loose—predictably so for a volunteer effort facing almost insurmountable difficulty. It was, nevertheless, an important personal experience. In the 1903 publication A Story of the Red Cross: Glimpses of Field Work by Clara Barton, founder of the American Red Cross, the full personal meaning of timely disaster response is told.
Without incentive other than humanitarian relief the true effects of the work of the Red Cross might not otherwise be known. Numerous incidents of on-the-spot success are recounted. The only moral of the story is always to expect the unexpected. With characteristic modesty, Clara Barton disclaims interest in fame, reminiscing about how it all began, having been asked by a child what it was like to be present at a human disaster area.
“For twenty-five years I had labored to explain the principles and uses of the Red Cross; had written enough for a modest library of what it was and what it meant, but, lest I seem egotistical, not a page of what it did. The child had given me an idea that I would for once put into practice, and write a few pages of what the Red Cross had done, leaving principles to present themselves.”
Which was to remain in the background, so to speak, both as a writer and a leader. This is the moral of the account—ever relevant to humanitarian concerns: to put those in need, first.
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