The tragic consequences of the tsunami in the Indian Ocean boggle the mind and unleash waves of sorrow. They also recall a similar natural disaster during the 18th century that had far-reaching social and political consequences. An earthquake and tsunami off the coast of Portugal in 1755 caused horrific loss of life, reshaped the balance of power in Europe and reduced to rubble one of the world's grandest cities.
During the early 18th century, Lisbon rivaled Paris, London and Rome as the most powerful and extravagant city in Europe. A vibrant center of culture and learning nestled among seven terraced hills and boasting a quarter-million people, Lisbon was renowned for its fabulous cathedrals, museums and libraries. It was also the nation's capital as well as the seat of the sprawling Portuguese Empire, which governed far-flung colonies in South America, Africa and Southeast Asia.
The timing of the great Lisbon earthquake could not have been worse. Sunday, Nov. 1, 1755, was All Saints' Day, a major Catholic holiday. By 9 a.m. on the sunlit day, most of the residents of the devoutly Catholic city were attending Mass at one of six magnificent cathedrals or dozens of churches.
Around 9:40 a.m., a sudden, thunderous rumbling startled parishioners. The huge chandeliers in the cathedrals began to swing violently. The deafening roar of the quaking earth drowned out pipe organs and silenced choruses. Panic set in.
Those near the church doors rushed outside to witness the first of three ground-jolting quakes. The city's narrow streets heaved and cracked. Gaping crevices five-feet wide opened throughout the city as towering cathedrals crumbled, entombing thousands. Clouds of dust filled the air and blotted out the morning sun. By 9:45, when the earthquake's tremors had ended, the once-splendid city lay in a ruinous heap.
Many survivors unwittingly scrambled to the Mar de Palha, a great inland bay, to seek refuge from the devastation. There they witnessed an eerie scene: the sea had receded, revealing a bay floor littered with lost cargo and old shipwrecks. Then disaster struck again.
Around 11 o'clock, the first of three tsunamis measuring as much as 50 feet high raced up the mouth of the Tagus River and crashed into Lisbon's waterfront storehouses and docks. The colossal waves tore ships from their anchors and dashed them against the fleeing crowds that had congregated on the quay. Many of those who survived the initial crush of the first wave were swept out to sea as the churning waters receded.
Two more tsunamis followed shortly thereafter. The riverside Royal Palace was destroyed, along with its 70,000-volume library and priceless works of art, including masterpieces by Titian, Rubens and Coreggio. Also lost were the records of the initial explorations of the Western Hemisphere.
By noon, Lisbon's remaining citizens assumed that the worst was over. But they were wrong. Scattered fires, ignited by shattered oil lamps and overturned stoves and candles, were whipped into a major conflagration by the afternoon's high winds. The brand new Opera House was gutted. Flames also enveloped the Royal Hospital of All-Saints; hundreds of patients burned to death. Desperate residents fled to the surrounding hills, where for the next four days they watched Lisbon burn.
One witness coldly reported that the fire "was not altogether a misfortune. It consumed the thousands of corpses, which would otherwise have tainted the air, adding pestilence to the other misfortunes of the survivors."
The grim tally of nature's assault on Lisbon was staggering: nearly 90 percent of the city was destroyed, and officials at the time estimated that as many as 70,000 (a quarter) of its citizens had perished. The massive earthquake and the radiating tsunamis spread additional death and destruction along the coasts of Iberia and North Africa, killing another10,000 people.
Chaos reigned in the days following the earthquake. The catastrophe sent a seismic shock through intellectual and religious life. The destruction of Lisbon caused many, including the French philosopher Voltaire, to question the optimistic faith of the Enlightenment in perpetual societal progress. It also stimulated a wave of scientific research into the natural forces causing earthquakes.
At the same time, many Christians were convinced that the earthquake was not a natural disaster but a vengeful act of God against a sinful city. A Franciscan preacher argued that the quake was a form of divine mercy.
After all, he explained, Portugal deserved much worse. In the turbulent days after the terrible events, priests roamed the streets, hanging heretics on sight. Looting was rampant. With food supplies washed away or contaminated, disease and starvation were widespread. Inflation soared. A pound of bread was worth an ounce of gold.
Yet no sooner had the tremors abated than the prime minister, the Marquis of Pombal, systematically set about rebuilding the city. His first order was to "bury the dead and feed the living." He organized teams of firefighters to extinguish the flames and groups of soldiers to remove the thousands of corpses.
Lisbon was eventually rebuilt through an outpouring of international aid, most of which arrived from England. The new Lisbon was remarkable for its large public squares and broad crisscrossing boulevards. Today, Lisbon testifies to the resilience of the human spirit. Such resilience is already on display among the peoples of the Indian Ocean.