A month after the earthquake, I saw a deep impoverished poverty in Haiti. The sun was shining, people was smiling and dancing when hearing music. Kids on the streets begged for water or american dollars to white people. Foundation Francesca Rava NPH Italia's Saint Damien Hospital was the oasis of charity, professionalism and dedication. I have meet people whose had put away their needs to devote theirself to the needs of that precious structure, the only one still standing. It was pretective, organized, clean and in there the doctors had to face thousands of amputations for day for the past three weeks. In the hospital there was dozens of premature birth and critical case that intensified helplessness. Father Rich, a churchman, was in charge of the mission. He completely devote himselft to love and helping that people. Taking a tour along the streets in Port au Prince seemed like the whole city was cracked down. The smell of the corpses was diffused in some built-up areas mixing-up with the smell of urine, feces and garbage. I spent most of my time walking in the slums and the kids were laughing fit to burst. Despair, hunger and poverty in that country are the substrate on which the nation grows daily, for a long time. The earthquake is been like a ploughshare, but nobody was seeding. I was reporting the slices of Haitian life thirty days after the disaster, while the remembrace day was getting close; calling everybody in a massive preyer. It would last two days: impressive and touchable sight of a large crowd united by pain, grief, but also by hope. I realized that it was the story to tell: Haiti in its abnormal normality, thirty days after.