I look forward to an ever-better future.
I believe that as long as we persist,
hope will always be at our side.
One day when people look upon what has come to pass,
they will remember not only the beauty of Puli,
but also the perseverance of its people.

On the fifth day after the massive earthquake struck central Taiwan, I came back to Puli at night. I hopped into a bus in Taipei heading for my destination. As it crawled along the highway, I saw an endless stream of vehicles carrying relief items all going in the same direction--the direction of my hometown, Puli.

The traffic inched along in fits and starts. Taking a moment when rescue vehicles traveling alongside our bus were stopped by the heavy traffic, our driver opened his window and waved at them. "Thank you," he yelled. "Thank you for coming all the way to help us. I thank you on behalf of the people of Puli." The rescue personnel responded with understanding smiles and encouraging words.

The enthusiastic bus driver turned his head to us. "What a hard time we Puli people are having," he said emotionally. "It's painful just to think of it. But seeing all the people rushing from all over the island to help us is very heart-warming."

"Was Puli hit hard?" I finally asked the question I had been too afraid to ask until now. Having been on a business trip abroad since September 21, I didn't have the least idea what condition my hometown was in.

"The earthquake gave our town a violent shake. Almost all the houses are in ruins now. Take my own house for example--the columns and staircase were seriously cracked and twisted. It was completely destroyed." The driver continued, choked with sobs, "I don't even dare to go back to my own home now."

Then, what about my home?

When I descended from the bus and walked into Puli, the scene before me, enveloped in the gloom of the night, was a blur. But a few dim car lights still allowed me to get a rough picture of what a desolate waste the town had become. The town that used to welcome me home with bright streetlights was now a land of darkness. All the residents had left their homes and taken shelter in either the local schools or open areas around the town. The only thing left to the deserted streets was total, dead silence.

As I walked past dilapidated and collapsed houses which looked so menacing and sinister in the dark, I felt a shudder of terror run through me. When I reached the end of a street, stepping over the rubble, I finally gave up hope of finding a house still standing. Though I was unwilling to believe it, the town where I grew up and which I was emotionally attached to had become a ruined, ghostly place.

I wanted to call my family and ask them to pick me up at the bus station, but all the pay phones were out of order.

I could fly from a foreign country to Taipei and rush from Taipei to my hometown. But now, with only a short distance left to go, I couldn't make it home! At a complete loss for what to do next, I walked toward the only source of light, which came from a roadside car repair shop. The shop owner pointed to his phone and said to me, "You can use that telephone." The goodwill of a stranger was the only thing I could rely on now.

After talking to my family on the phone, I waited at one corner of the empty streets. Not far away was a foreign rescue team looking for survivors in the debris. I suddenly became aware how close I was to death. This was not a dream I could wake from. This was something that would definitely change people's lives.

My brother came to the station for me. He was the first family member I saw after the disaster. Feeling as if we had been separated for a long time, I embraced him tightly. He told me that our newly built home downtown had collapsed in the earthquake and one-third of our old home was crushed when the building next door fell on it. All the villagers had gone to the plaza in front of the village temple. No one dared stay in their homes.

When we arrived at the plaza, Mom was not in their tent. My big brother said that she had gone to the temple with one of our neighbors to pray for blessings. My younger brother told me to wait in the tent and said he would go bring her back. "I am afraid that you and Mom will cry and make a big scene in public, and that would be too embarrassing."

He told me that early that morning after the earthquake, he had hurried home to look for Mom, but he didn't find her at our ruined house. In a panic, he looked everywhere for her. When he finally met poor, terrified Mom on the road, she broke down completely and sobbed in his arms.

I was too eager to see Mom to wait any longer, so I went straight to the temple and proved my brother wrong. I didn't cry when I saw mother, because she cried first. I immediately hugged her and tried to soothe her. "Everything is fine now. We are all here with you. Everybody is safe and sound, so it's all right." I regretted not having made it home the day the earthquake hit. Poor Mom! She had had to face the greatest terror of her life all alone.

Our neighbor, who had gone with Mom to the temple, looked at us and smiled fondly. "You're back," she said and handed me an incense stick for worshipping in the temple.

Amid the sounds of chanted sutras, mother told me what had happened that night. In the deep stillness of the night there suddenly came thumping, crashing noises and shrieking voices. Villagers who had been shaken awake ran for their lives out of their houses. Terror-stricken, they stayed outside all night long, unable to believe what had happened. However, some less fortunate ones had failed to escape: the old woman who lived next door to us, my classmate's mother, and many other elderly friends and relatives were all killed in the disaster.

"Mom, were you afraid?"

"Yes, and I'm still afraid now!"

I felt a sudden sadness. With none of us by her to keep her company, how much must she have gone through that night? No matter how hard we tried now, it was impossible for us to erase the fear that had taken root in her heart. The incense smoke wafting through the temple made my eyes bleary. As the sounds of bells and drums reverberated through the temple, I prayed in silence. I prayed for safety for every one of us. I asked for nothing more--I just wanted safety.

That night, looking at the sleeping faces of my family, I couldn't bring myself to sleep. So I crawled out of the tent in the chilly night and began to grope my way toward our home. I wanted to take a look at the place which had witnessed my growth from a baby to an adult.

As I stood looking at the partly destroyed house and yard, I knew that temporarily it would be impossible for us to go back there. What would happen to us tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and then the day after that? What could we, the children of the town who made our livings elsewhere but were worried about our families here, do to help?

Tears raced down my face. I remembered that it would soon be winter. And in the mountains during winter, it gets very, very cold.

During the morning of September 26, an aftershock hit that measured 6.8 on the Richter scale. I witnessed how frightened people ran and dodged for safety in the tremor. Everyone rushed out of their tents and frantically called out to their families, insisting on seeing for themselves that everyone was safe. Home had become the most dangerous place. People were like startled birds, unable to settle anywhere.

After the commotion subsided, someone cried, "Somebody's hurt, call an ambulance." We soon found out that one of our neighbors had been hit in the leg by a brick in the temblor. Looking at his face twisted in pain, I deeply felt what a threat earthquakes pose to our lives. It suddenly occurred to me that there ought to be something I could do. Was I capable only of sitting there, trembling, scared out of my wits?

I took my camera from my bag, but then I still hesitated, unsure as to whether or not I should try to record and document the disaster. I didn't know if I would be able to press the shutter button, because this place was different from any of those I had visited before as a reporter. This was my home. Here there were people that I knew personally.

I finally got on my motor scooter, having decided to force myself to confront reality by visiting every scene of devastation. I knew that if I failed to do so, I would surely regret it in the future. I must always remember my hometown's most tragic moment. I must never forget the misery that we had gone through.

Driving past Hungren Junior High School, I couldn't believe what I saw. My alma mater now lay in waves of twisted buildings. Not a single classroom was whole and intact. I would never again be able to sneak back into my old seat and try to bring back the memories of my high school days.

I arrived at the playground of Yuying Elementary School. I knew my cousin and his family were staying there, and I thought of paying them a visit and telling them I was home. But how could I find them amid the hundreds of tents there? I finally knew what it felt like to be "so near and yet so far."

Further on, I came to the Chunghua Market, now completely destroyed. It was said that over ten people were still buried under the rubble. Not far away was a house that had entombed a family of five, who had also yet to be excavated. No one was sure how many were still buried beneath other shattered buildings. Under the hot autumn sun, an odor of death permeated the air. My hands holding the camera began to tremble. What a catastrophe this was!

The only pleasant surprise amid all the gloominess was an unexpected encounter with an old classmate on the road. "Oh, how nice to see you!" With our homes lying in ruins, any more words seemed unnecessary as whatever we said would only add to our sorrows. "Take care" was the only blessing we could wish upon each other.

Leaving the main street behind, I drove in the direction of Puli Junior High School. I knew that on my way I would pass the bustling town hall, the quiet library, and then after turning a corner I would see two rows of trees that made a pleasant shade. Under the trees there would be hardworking street vendors smiling at me… But today none of these were there.

I knew no one could help it when a natural disaster hit. I should consider myself lucky because none of my family was hurt. Therefore my heart was not broken--but it was buried in the rubble along with Puli, because what the earthquake destroyed was not simply a town, but my memories and my past.

What depressed me more was that after this earthquake, when people talk about Puli, what comes to their mind will not be its beauty, but "that town where an earthquake once killed and destroyed so much."

I went back to the plaza feeling forlorn. Mom and her neighbor were preparing lunch. It was really comforting to see people taking care of each other at a tough time like this. Nobody said much. They just found things to do. It seemed that people could temporarily forget fear when they kept themselves busy doing something.

Although the villagers had already taken their pick, donated old clothing was still piled high at the temple. Mothers in the neighborhood couldn't bear the sight of the clothes lying there wasted, so they worked together to sort them out. "These clothes are proof of people's love and concern for us. We shouldn't allow them to go to waste. Let's fold the clothes and put them away. In the future when other people need them, they can be put to use." At a time like this we should cherish each and every good intention and try to pass them on.

Time seemed to have gone back to my childhood as I sat nestling against my mother. People hadn't just sent us clothes, she said. Some drove their trucks here, unloaded bags of rice, and then drove away again without uttering a single word. Wearing worn clothes, those men didn't look very rich, but they were so generous in giving help to people whom they didn't even know.

There were others who came all the way from Pingtung, southern Taiwan, just to erect canvas awnings for us so that we would not be exposed to the sun and rain. People also drove from Taipei and Kaohsiung to deliver rice, water and moon cakes [a traditional delicacy for the Moon Festival]…

"You must never forget this moment," older people told us youngsters. "One day when you are able to help others, remember how others helped us when we were in need."

Although my hometown had come crashing down overnight, life elsewhere still went on. So, no matter how unwilling I was, I still had to say goodbye to the town and go back to Taipei, my workplace.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of myself and find time to put our house back in order. Look after yourself when you're away from home. I heard that a lot of people in Taipei lost their lives in the earthquake too. You must be careful." Mom said this to me with a firm voice, but I still wasn't reassured.

"You don't need to worry as long as we are here," our neighbor promised. "Go back to work. We'll take care of your mother. She won't starve as long as we don't." I was so grateful to her that I almost burst into tears.

Even though they hated to see us go, the old folks at home still encouraged us members of the younger generation to go back out and make a living. The last thing they wanted was to see us walled in by our worries. As for the job of reconstruction, they will take it up first. None of them want to leave the place where they have lived all their lives. No matter how broken down it is, it's still home.

I went back to Taipei with lots of things weighing on my mind. Part of me told me to stay, and part of me told me to run away. To stay because I was so concerned about my family and hometown; to run away because I didn't have enough courage to face the fact that things would never be the same as before.

What my brother told me before he headed back to Taichung crossed my mind: "Let's work hard and make as much money as possible to help rebuild our homes."

Yes, with so many things to do, we have no more time for sorrow. We may not be optimistic or strong enough, but with a grass-roots perseverance that is inherent in us Puli people, we believe that we will pull through.

When I took leave of Puli, I knew that a part of me had died. Walking on the bustling streets of Taipei, I found my mind wandering back to my hometown all the time. At such moments, tears would well up in my eyes as a sense of deep regret gnawed at me. My hometown was suffering great pain, yet I was not there to share it. I felt as if I had betrayed my own people and my behavior was unforgivable. But I also knew that I had to take good care of myself before I could do anything to repay the town that nurtured me.

I became emotional and moody. My unstable emotions left me absent-minded and made me irritable and disturbed. Things went on like this until I went home again at dusk, sixteen days after the earthquake.

I arrived home with a heavy heart. But I was soon cheered by lights twinkling just a short distance away--one, two faint lights flickering in the deepening dusk. They were the lights of the street vendors. They had started their business again!

All the things that had come to a stop because of the temblor were set into motion again. As people stepped out of their corners and started to involve themselves in normal activities, the town moved forward again. The vigor of the local people breathed new life into the town. It was really amazing to see it happening.

I felt ashamed of myself! I was still deep in sorrow while all my relatives and folks at home had risen to the occasion and were already working hard to bring their lives back together, and in less than twenty days!

This time I did not have to grope my way home in the dark. More and more people and cars moving on the road made the scene brighter and livelier. My pent-up emotions could finally find an outlet in the hustle and bustle of the streets.

People were still living in tents, but in the daytime they would go back to their houses to put things in order. The door to my home was open again. The last time I was there, the furniture and floors were all covered with dust and things were scattered around. But now, after mother had cleaned it up, the house was shining clean and tidy. If you kept your eyes away from the damaged part, you would think that nothing had ever happened.

When I finally sat down facing my mother in the living room, all kinds of emotions crowded into my mind. It was as if the good old days had come back. But we both knew in our hearts that life was no longer the same. This catastrophe had taught us what it was like to fear, to lose, and to regain something after we had lost it. We had also learned what was the most important thing in our lives.

It will be a long time before our lives can reach the standard they used to have. We are not so naive as to believe that things will work themselves out miraculously. After all, reality is harsh and complicated, and government policies are also a challenge. But we will persist, be it five years or ten years. We will persist as long as we can still stand on our homeland, because it is our home and no one can cherish it as much as we do.

I often think of those people who trucked relief supplies to us, the man who came a long way from Pingtung to erect awnings for us, the foreign rescue workers who would not give up hope in their search, the tired but determined soldiers and policemen, and the doctors who provided free medical care to us.

I will always remember that when we were unable to watch over our homes, other people took up the responsibility. When we could not take care of our own people, others did it for us, and did it so naturally, without asking for anything in return. So much love and concern has been showered over us. Now it is time for us to again assume the responsibility and stand up on our own.

I look forward to an ever-better future. I believe that as long as we persist, hope will always be at our side. One day when people look upon what has come to pass, they will remember not only the beauty of Puli, but also the perseverance of its people.