On the morning of February 6, not only a day was lost from the calendar of this country, but also a piece of its conscience, memory and sleep. The clocks did not move that day. Time was buried under the rubble. Cold, darkness and silence... Not the heart of a city, but the hearts of millions stopped.
There was a father. He was kneeling in the rubble, among the stones and earth. No one could lift him up. Because the hand he was holding was now cold.
He wouldn't let go of his dead daughter's hand. “If I quit” he said with his eyes, “disappears again.” That hand was a father's last scream to the world.
Another was sniffing and crying over a shoe found in the rubble, because he recognized it...
It was her son's shoe. A mother was shouting not at the top of her voice, but in a whisper: “I'm here.” No one could hear. There were only late noises.
That day, the concrete spoke; the human was silent. And the state... It was too late. Not hours, but lives.
The first moments were life; the first moments were hope. But those moments were wasted. Those breathing under the rubble were faster than those waiting above it.
Then came the promise to heal the wounds. The promise was many; the wound was deep. A tent, a blanket, a hot soup... These did not heal; they only kept them alive. The real wound was at night. There was no home, no nest.
February 6 taught us this: Earthquakes are not destiny; they are a chain of negligence.
Concrete has no conscience, but man should have. Help that does not arrive on time is as heavy as lives destroyed in a second.
Today we still remember that father's hand. As long as that hand is not let go, neither should this country.
He must not forget. They must be held accountable. Because demanding justice is as much a debt as mourning.