Susan LaffertyThe day ash fell on Surabaya in 1963 and turned day to night, I hardly noticed. Bali’s Gunung Agung had erupted—one of the largest, most devastating eruptions in Indonesia’s history—but my nose was in a book. It was only after I reached up to turn on the lamp that I realized it was pitch dark outside early on a Sunday afternoon.
“Be strong and courageous.” The message is repeated over and over to Joshua. And to me.
We stepped off the train from Jaipur at 11 p.m. in New Delhi and joined a moving river of fellow travelers. It was August 2009. The air was thick with heat and dust. The stench of garbage and urine hit full force.
I struggled to breathe.
All of us were streaming through and around various groups camped out in the train station, walking past dusty forms of men, women, and children asleep on the ground or on benches. The masses flowed up metal stairs and crossed the tracks on a walkway overhead.
Our family of five tried to keep up, pulling and lifting our suitcases, attempting to stay together.