- Maude Froberg is the Communications Manager for the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies (IFRC) in New York. She recently joined the IFRC media team in Haiti.

Tonight - no shooting stars over Port-au-Prince,

Darkness has just fallen over the Red Cross base camp in the quake-stricken city of Port-au-Prince. Thousands of stars twinkle above us when we put up our tents and mosquito domes in the inner yard of what will become our Red Cross base camp. We, some sixty delegates, calmly share the one and only toilet and generously divide our food. The inner yard is surrounded by stores which will be used as warehouses, but which are still too insecure to sleep in. The quake has cracked the walls.

I arrived from the Dominican Republic after an eight-hour drive. I felt strange travelling through this holiday paradise, where many of my Swedish countrymen vacation. For a moment it felt as if I were back in tsunami-affected Thailand again.

A Norwegian field hospital, whose plane was not allowed to land in Port-au-Prince was also sent in over this route, after a rapid decision to load it onto trucks. In this emergency situation decisions often have to be altered and new ways sought to reach the people affected as quickly as possible. 

I would like to point out that many of the delegates deployed in this disaster are experts at this. I say this not to praise ourselves, there is no time for that in a disaster. What I mean is that there is professionalism, team spirit and a genuine care for each other. All who been recruited in this emergency phase are deeply knowledgeable about disaster response, including relief distribution and assessment, health and medical care, telecommunications, water and sanitation, to mention just a few areas.

Head lamps are wandering in the tepid night, and I am kneeling behind the cauldron of simmering water to make the first cup coffee for me and my colleague from the Haitian National Red Cross. We talk about the dire situation, and share our relief that the rapid deployment units, such as mobile clinics, field hospitals, logistics and water and sanitation teams are arriving. But at the same time: aid is slow. The scale and the scope of the disaster with more than two million people affected, and the lack of access and telecommunications put serious constraints in the way of our humanitarian work. I am still grateful though that the airstrip is functioning, and four cargo planes an hour can land, and aid is being unloaded as quickly as possible.

The curfew starts at six o’clock, and I carefully walk through the camp, and climb up into the rusty old truck with a flat-bed without edges. This will be my bed for tonight. I share it with my colleagues from Norway, Denmark and Finland, and we are better installed than I thought. The rats scuttling on the ground are big as cats.

While waiting for the stars to pale and the curfew to lift, my thoughts go to the survivors of the quake. People should never have to experience something this painful. Earthquakes, especially in densely-populated areas, carry a particular brutality in their short-lived passage. In only 30 seconds peoples’ lives are erased, and years of development with them.

I am searching the sky vault to try and see only one star, a ray of hope, but tonight, there are no shooting stars over Port-au-Prince. Instead, the earth trembles, and with a jolt I am sitting up, calling out: ‘Wake up! Aftershock!’ Instantly the air resounds with people screaming and the frightened barking of dogs. Homeless people flee their make-shift camps in parks and streets. We all lay awake in our sleeping bags and share the pain. After a while, the screams recede and instead a chant rises in the night, almost like an incantation.

At that moment, I wish I could embrace each of the survivors, and say that all will be fine. It shall be fine. But the reality is unfortunately different. Tonight I don’t sleep at all.