It seems that a luxury cruise line based in Florida is continuing to have its ships stop off in Haiti to let passengers “tour” the country and buy trinkets–in spite of the current devastation by the earthquake.  When interviewed by the BBC, and challenged by the reporter for allowing pleasure tours in the midst of the death and destruction, the spokesperson for the cruise line explained that it was important to continue the present practice, because the cruise ships brought much-needed jobs to the Haitians and spurred the economy of this very poor country.

Now on the surface of things, this seems like a perfectly logical position to take.  We’re doing the Haitians a favor, to pump up business!  To be sure, the country is poor–the poorest in the Western hemisphere.  So why was the reporter (and this writer) so clearly astonished and disgusted with this decision by the U.S. cruise line and by the justification articulated by its representative?

I think it is because we intuitively know that when great loss and suffering take place, the only appropiate response is grief–and then an outpouring of heartful help, in whatever way is possible for those of us who have had the good fortune to be spared by Fate this time around.  We know at moments like this that we are one human family, and our hearts are wounded, heavy with the vastness of the tragedy and distraught at our feelings of helplessness in the face of it.

If there are tourists on board luxury liners who can consider “touring” Haiti at this terrible time, they and the ship’s masters are drastically out of touch with their humanity.  They are denying their own flesh and emotions surely, if they can separate themselves from the suffering all around them.  There are so many dead that there can be no proper burial for most.  In fact, many may never be identified.  Huge communal graves are being dug with earth-moving equipment, and the bodies of men, women and children are tumbled in together, in a last embrace. 

What makes us human, at last?  Is it not the understanding that there are some accidents, some terrible losses, some acts of nature, some evil-doing that is so profound that we must be silent in the face of it?  Surely we will continue to eat our dinners and laugh over trivial things and wonder at the beauty of the sky at dusk–but at times like this, we must stop and notice, we must mark the moment.  There is no business as usual.  We breathe deeply, we know once again the fragility of our flesh, and all flesh, and our hearts are broken open.  The fantasy of safety is gone, we float into the unknown, on the edge of time, and we are one.