*(Via LA Progressive.com) This is my second trip to Haiti after the January 12 earthquake that killed up to 300,000 people and left 1.2 million homeless, although neither of those cold statistics will ever be verified.

Boarding the American Airlines 757 at Miami International, the writer was confident that continuing the story would be much easier than the first time, After all, she knew her way around and had an agenda of people and IDP camps to visit, suggestions regarding places she had not visited, and a general sense of nuance about the challenges facing Haiti. The writer may have been confident, but she was wrong.

Something profound happened in the ten weeks since the writer left Haiti in March. Compassion entered the picture and became the lens that focused the dispassionate journalist’s eye. You see, compassion can be a frightening and somewhat debilitating emotion if one is trying to be neutral and stick to the facts.

Compassion is the earthquake of the soul that rocks the comfort of perception and shifts what once were solid foundations of reason. The writer thought that the words would pour forth with little effort, yet hour after hour went by and no words were formed.

Two 18-hour days passed, and still no sentences had formed into paragraphs when the writer stumbled into the lobby of the Plaza Hotel an hour ago. She had seen sights that no one should see, but two stuck in the mind. One was the sight of the withered, festering hand of an infant in a blistering hot tent serving as the critical care ward for Haiti’s General Hospital, and the other was of a dignified grandmother who had lost three of her children in the quake and who now lay in a sobbing heap on the floor of her flooded tent, tears mingling with the incessant rain that poured down upon the Champ de Mars tent city, located not a football field’s length from the ruined White House of Haiti in Port-au-Prince.

Read MORE of this article by Georgianne Nienaber HERE.