Collapsed buildings spilled onto major roadways as a result of the Sept. 20, 1985 Mexico City earthquake.
What I saw over the next several days became the source of the nightmares that still haunt me.
Because of the overwhelming number of dead, a temporary morgue was established at a baseball field. People waited in a long line that led to right field to begin the grim task of looking for their missing loved ones.
What awaited them was a bizarre scene where a misty haze, caused by dry ice used to preserve the decaying bodies, drifted around the faces of the men, women and children of all ages who were laid side-by-side.
Off to the side was a Catholic priest who no sooner gave last rites to one person then he would quickly move to another as family members grieved over their loss.
My heart still goes out to people who endure the wrath of nature at its worst.
A difficult part of such an ordeal is that there is no one to blame or point an angry finger at. And there is no one to answer the question, why?
I do know there are journalists who will continue to be out there in the aftermath of disasters, searching for answers and telling the stories that will affect readers, listeners and viewers.
The few days I spent as a journalist in Mexico City during the 1985 earthquake brought me to the point of utter exhaustion and were some of the most memorable days of my journalistic life.
A. E. Araiza is lifelong Tucsonan and graduate of Pima College and the University of Arizona…
