On September 19, 2017
I was writing, in a cafe, in Mexico City...
Listen to me tell you the story by clicking ‘play’ above (sorry it’s a little ‘breathy’- going with the perfection in imperfection)
Seven years ago today, on September 19, 2017, I went to a local coffee shop in the Roma neighbourhood of Mexico City. I had just moved to Mexico City from Oaxaca three weeks before and was putting down tentative roots, finding my feet, feeling excited, probably a little overwhelmed.
The café was a longtime favourite of mine from before I moved to the capital. It was housed within a bookshop, with bookshelves from floor to ceiling and dishes on the menu named after famous writers. A wonderful place to write, surrounded by the words of so many others.
I wandered up to the second floor, found a table, ordered some coffee and a late Mexican breakfast, whipped open my laptop and began working on editing my first novel, Between the Blossoms of the Ceiba Tree. At around 11 am, I was pulled from my work when the earthquake alarm began to wail. We were all expecting it, every year on September 19, Mexico commemorates its most destructive earthquake in living memory (1985) when 10,000 lives were lost. It commemorates with the sounding of the alarm and office workers and school kids file outside, practicing what they need to do if a real quake strikes.
The waiters confirmed it was the ‘simulacro’ and said we didn’t have to go outside. An undercurrent crackled in the cafe. We were all a little jittery having just 10 days earlier been shaken from our beds by the same siren, due to an 8.2 magnitude quake that toppled buildings in Oaxaca and shook up Mexico City in the process. I met most of my new neighbours for the first time that night in nighties and hairnets, boxers and slippers, as the ground swayed beneath us, and green electric flashes lit up the sky like some kind of eerie Northern Lights. Once back inside, I’d ‘slept’ for the rest of that night on the couch, with my keys in my hands, in case of aftershocks.
Back in the café, I calmed myself and ordered another coffee, the writing was going well that day, I wanted to make the most of it and keep going.
I was swept into my novel, transported to the jungles of Southern Mexico in my mind, happily writing for another couple of hours. Until, a jolt made my computer judder in front of me. I looked up, locked eyes with a man sitting across from me and as I registered his panic, I realised the building was shaking. I don’t remember how I grabbed all my things, all I know is that I was up from my seat in a matter of seconds and moving with a crowd of people towards the staircase trying to get out of the very beautiful, but very old building as quickly as we could. Books were flying off the shelves as if possessed, and we were slowed in our pursuit of the outside world by having to climb over piles of words. Once outside, the intensity of the quake was even clearer. The ground sway was violent, the roads were rippling like waves. I made my way to the middle of the street and stood in shock, my soul no longer inside my body. People were wailing, staring, watching for cracks. We knew it was strong but we didn’t yet know the level of damage. That was the beginning of a very intense few hours, days, weeks for the city and beyond.
I would go on to write a novel about that earthquake. I remember writing the earthquake scenes for On Solid Ground and being so terrified I would somehow evoke another earthquake that I wrote them so fast and had to edit them in pockets. To be honest, even writing this gives me similar jitters.
“On 19th September 1985, an 8.0 magnitude earthquake hit Mexico City, causing mass destruction, and taking 10,000 lives. Thirty-two years later, as the residents commemorated the event, a 7.2 magnitude quake struck, toppling buildings and costing the lives of 370 people. Two fatal earthquakes on the same day, an act of otherworldly precision. The Aztec (or the Mexica to call them by their chosen name), refer to this current time as The Fifth Sun, a time characterised by the element of movement. This fifth and final sun, they believe, will come to an end with a number of catastrophic earthquakes. “ An extract from my book On Solid Ground.
As we reach the 7th anniversary of that day, I am still uncovering the effects that the earthquake had on me. I seemed to gradually develop a claustrophobia that became quite intense and I am just managing to remove it from my body with some amazing abdominal massage work (Chi Nei Tsang). The sound of the alarm still makes me leave my body.
Why am I sharing this? I’m not sure. It’s just on my mind as we enter this week that is now seen as somewhat fated in Mexico. And because writing about it has always been a beautiful outlet, a space outside of me, so not all of it has to exist within my body, so I no longer have to wear it as part of my identity.
My writings on the earthquake:
I wrote a few things at the time. Here are a couple of them:
An opinion piece I wrote for CNN the day after the quake (I remember being so grateful that I could use the one skill I knew I had to do something):
https://edition.cnn.com/2017/09/20/opinions/mexico-earthquake-recovery-opinion-rigg/index.html
And a piece about a mural made in honour of Frida the Rescue Dog who gave us some sweetness for our hearts on those bitter days:
https://www.cntraveler.com/story/frida-the-rescue-dog-now-has-her-own-mural-in-mexico-city
And a piece of flash fiction I wrote about how it felt impossible to rest, to do anything normal in the days directly after the quake:
Piece by Piece
(On that fated day, September 19th)
The kettle boils, the electricity thankfully still on. The gas shut off, in case of leaks. One tank exploded already, a block away. We’d feared an aftershock, prepared to run. I pace as the water takes time to rise to a boil. The kettle clicks off, startling me. I pour. Water climbs down over the teabag, it swells, a white foam rising to the surface of the mug. The dark liquid seethes out, muddies with the clear water.
I sit, try to take a sip, but how can I? Just a few hours ago, the ground shook. Just a few hours ago, buildings fell. Just a few hours ago, people were trapped alive.
Most of you are still there, entombed in your offices, your apartment blocks. Around the corner, just steps away. Your loved ones desperate, your own lungs even more. How can I sip tea?
I massage my hands, aching from shared rescue efforts. Citizens moving rubble, piece by piece. Frenzied, scared, numb, running on adrenaline, hope and empty stomachs. The least we can do. Desperate to find you. Repenting for our luck. Each rock cleared, a bead in a never-ending rosary.
Can you hear us from under the rubble, trying to find you? Do you know we’re listening out for signs- a whimper, a movement? Is the concrete muffling your cries?
“Take a break”, they said.
Do you know to hold on while I take a break?
How can I take a break?
When you cannot take a breath.
What you would give for this simple pleasure, water stewing over a mulch of leaves.
My tea steams, like the brew of any mediocre morning, yet every sip tastes of undeserved luck. Why you, not me? The cliché fractures hollow against my pristine walls. Not even one visible crack.
I slide my gloves over my raw fingers.
I cannot take a break.
When you cannot take a breath.
Wait for us. Piece by piece we will pull the city from your back.
This piece is in honour of those who lost their lives or their loved ones seven years ago…💜
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How can I take a break?
When you cannot take a breath.
I can feel this in my body, in my bones ~ thank you for sharing your experience rather than burying it within your bones.
Oh Susannah, this is such powerful writing! You conjured up my teenage experience of earthquake at 16 in Greece, that I really felt the sensations in my body. And the flash...How you addressed the earthquake victims under the rubble was soul-shaking. Thank you for writing and sharing💙