PORT-AU-PRINCE,  Haiti     (AP) -- The silhouetted bodies moved in waves through the  night, climbing out of crumbled homes and across mounds of rubble.  Hundreds of thousands of people made their way to the center of the  shattered city by the thin light of a waning crescent moon. There was  hardly a sound.
 It took a few moments to  recognize the great white dome bowing forward into the night. Another  had fallen onto itself, its peak barely visible over the iron gate. The  white walls of the 90-year-old mansion were crushed, the portico  collapsed. Haiti's national palace was destroyed.
 It  was clear from the first, terrible moments after the quake, when I ran  out of my broken house to find the neighborhood behind it gone, that  Haiti had suffered a catastrophe unique even in its long history of  tragedy.
 But it was not until reaching the  Champ de Mars plaza at the center of the capital, more than six hours  later, that I understood what it meant. Not just homes and churches had  succumbed. Haiti's most important institutions, the symbols and  substance of the nation itself, had collapsed atop the shuddering earth.
 The  people came to the palace in droves seeking strength and support. Some  wondered if President Rene Preval might emerge - or his body. They were  looking for a leader, a plan, some secret store of wealth and aid.
 But there was no news, no plan, no help that night. The president was not there. Nobody was in charge.
 In  the year since, crisis has piled upon crisis. More than 230,000 are  believed to have died in the quake, and more than a million remain  homeless. A cholera epidemic broke out in the fall, and in its midst a  dysfunctional election was held, its results still unclear.
 There  was hope that the quake would bring an opportunity to break the  country's fatal cycle of struggle, catastrophe and indifference. But  promises were not kept, and no leader emerged, within Haiti or outside.
 What little center there had been simply disappeared, and the void was never filled.
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 Among  those gazing at the collapsed palace that night was Aliodor Pierre, a  28-year-old church guitarist and father of two. Until that moment, he  had lived in the slum of Martissant. His friends called him "Ti-Lunet,"  little glasses, for the wire-rimmed pair he wore.
 He  was drinking beer at a corner store when the earth began to move. He  tried to walk into the street but the force knocked him down. A roar  filled the air, like a thousand trucks crashing through a mountain  forest. A friend tried to bolt but Aliodor shouted "No!" and held him  back. They lay together on the ground until it stopped.
 Aliodor  picked up his head. His apartment, a five-story building, was flat.  Everything he owned was buried inside. He didn't know where his wife and  children were.
 Then the screaming began all around him.
 Aliodor  ran to his parent's house a few blocks away. It had fallen. He shouted  and an answer came from inside. He smashed a window and pulled out his  mother, hurt but alive. Neighbors rushed to help rescue other relatives.  Still his wife and children were missing.
 His  heart raced. He and a friend ran through the neighborhood, pushing off  concrete and slicing through barbed wire with pliers. In one doorway,  they found a young girl who had nearly escaped before the house fell  forward onto her lower leg. "Save me!" she screamed. Aliodor looked for a  hacksaw to cut her free, but she died in front of him.
 Dazed,  he followed the crowd through the falling light to the central plaza.  People were shouting: The national palace, Roman Catholic cathedral and  Episcopal cathedral - where Aliodor sometimes played guitar - were gone.  He looked for the white domes, but couldn't see them.
 He sat down near a statue of Jean-Jacques Dessalines, the liberator and first president of Haiti.
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 Hours  later Aliodor had still not found his wife, Manette Etienne, their  7-year-old daughter, Sama, or their 3-year-old son, Safa. Pain wrenched  his stomach as he pictured them dead. He didn't know what had happened  to the nursing school his wife attended.
 He  started walking toward his neighborhood. As he reached a gas station,  suddenly there was Manette, walking toward him. The children had been  saved by a teacher who ran them out of school when the shaking began.  They had thought he was dead, too. They held each other and for a moment  the broken city disappeared.
 "It was like the earthquake never happened," he said.
 By  morning, people began carving up the lawns and plazas, marking space  with blankets, umbrellas and bits of cardboard to sleep on. Some thought  being near the government might mean being closer to the aid. But there  was no government there. When Preval came out of hiding, he set up shop  at a police station that backed directly onto the airport runway. Maybe  he was leaving, people mused.
 They wanted to  leave. The Champ de Mars plaza reeked. Stagnant fountains became  toilets, washing pits for clothes and wells for bath water. Bodies  trapped under the rubble started to smell. Those survivors who could got  surgical masks. Others painted toothpaste mustaches under their noses.
 Two  days after the quake, roaring gray helicopters dropped onto the  rubble-strewn lawn outside the palace. American soldiers of the 82nd  Airborne Division jumped out with their rifles, packs and armor - the  vanguard of what President Barack Obama called one of the largest relief  efforts in U.S. history.
 The soldiers took  over the airport and stood guard as U.N. peacekeepers handed out rice,  beans and water to a desperate crowd. Fights broke out and pepper spray  filled the air. Aliodor lined up once for food, then swore never to do  it again.
 He asked the soldiers why they had  come with guns. A young private told him they had been on their way to  Iraq when they were told to go to Haiti instead. Aliodor asked why he  wasn't carrying food, water or something to help people build houses.
 "He said to me, 'I'm just a sharpshooter. I'm very good at shooting,'" Aliodor recalled. "But I said, 'Haiti's not at a war.'"
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 On  the last day of March, donors at a United Nations conference pledged  nearly $10 billion for the reconstruction of Haiti, with its almost 10  million people. The United States alone promised $1.15 billion for 2010,  the largest one-year pledge.
 Days later, word  spread that the national palace would be torn down. Radio reports said  the government of France had agreed to help build a new one. On April 8,  people came to see the demolition begin.
 The  palace was the backdrop for the famous statue of the Neg Mawon, the  escaped slave blowing a conch shell to call others to fight for freedom.  But the palace's history, like Haiti's, was never simple.
 The  Beaux Arts mansion, designed in 1915, was torched while still under  construction by a mob bent on assassinating the president, Vilbrun  Guillaume Sam. It was completed under the U.S. occupation that followed  his death, and was the scene of successive coups and ousters.  Eventually, it became a symbol of terror under the father-son  dictatorship of Francois and Jean-Claude Duvalier.
 Presidents  ceased living in the palace after Jean-Claude's 1986 overthrow, but it  continued to host world leaders in its salons - and protests and coup  attempts on the lawn.
 The people of the Champ  de Mars watched as the backhoes tore down what was left of the portico  and, for the first time in most of their lives, they got a glimpse of  the grand salon and the crystal chandeliers inside.
 Then  the machines stopped. A Preval aide said there were disagreements over  how reconstruction should proceed. Demolition came to a halt.
 On  the plaza, aid groups had handed out plastic tarps and put in portable  latrines. Shacks went up across every open space. Someone tied a tarp to  the side of the Neg Mawon.
 Aliodor scraped  together most of the money he had - about $51 - to buy wood, sheets and  tarps to put up a little shack, a few feet (meters) from where he had  sat down the first night.
 The bonhomie and  spirit of sharing that had prevailed in the days after the quake  cracked, and then broke. Mugging, robbery and rape became facts of life.  Aliodor sent his children to his quiet hometown in the rural south to  live with relatives.
 Without a government to  organize them, the people began organizing themselves. In settlements  all over the capital, camps set up organizing committees in an intricate  bureaucracy. Aliodor's Place Dessalines was the largest. He was named  spokesman for its central committee.
 "I'm one of those guys who has little money but I have a lot of strength," he explained.
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 There was, at one point, a plan.
 As  the homemade camps swelled beyond 1.5 million people, the government  said it would relocate 400,000 to the capital's outskirts. Officials set  up card tables around the Champ de Mars to register people who talked  excitedly about getting new homes, better than the slums where they had  lived before.
 In April the first camp was  ready in the open desert north of the capital, designed by U.S.  military, U.N. engineers and aid groups. About 7,500 people living on a  golf course were chosen to move, encouraged by their camp's manager,  actor Sean Penn.
 It was a disaster. There were  no trees and the site was too remote. Also, it turned out that the  parcel belonged to Nabatec Development - whose president was head of the  relocation commission. And so the company stood to gain government  compensation for its land.
 Over the summer, a  storm ripped through a quarter of the camp's tents. People screamed and  cried as, again, they lost their homes.
 Only one more relocation camp was built. The rest of the project was abandoned.
 In  May, an old smell returned to the Champ de Mars: Tear gas. Parliament  dissolved because an election could not be held to replace expiring  seats. Its last act was to grant emergency powers to Preval and create a  reconstruction commission co-chaired by Prime Minister Jean-Max  Bellerive and former U.S. President Bill Clinton.
 Clinton was already the U.N. Special Envoy for Haiti. Aliodor and others wondered if he was now their governor.
 When  Preval announced that he might extend his term beyond February 2011,  opponents marched to the palace. Police and U.N. peacekeepers fired  rubber bullets and tear gas at rock-throwing demonstrators and into the  camp.
 Then Haiti settled in for a summer break. The World Cup was on.
 In  July, exactly six months after the quake, big cars pulled up to the  palace. The government was moving back in. News conferences, once held  under a mango tree at a police station, would now be in a new wooden  gazebo. A defiant Preval said the lack of massive disease outbreaks and  violence was proof that the quake response had gone better than people  were saying.
 Then came the medals.  Twenty-three honorees - including Penn and Clinton - received  certificates deeming them Knights of the National Order of Honor and  Merit. There was no mention of the dead, or the giant shantytown a few  hundred feet (meters) away.
 The officials then  announced that the previous six months of grinding inaction had merely  been the emergency-recovery phase. Now, they said, reconstruction would  begin.
 ---
 Aliodor and Manette were losing weight. Food was scarce and there was no work. The shack boiled in the summer heat.
 Every  day Aliodor woke up in their cramped bed and walked out to the sight of  a big rubber bladder, wider than his shack, that aid groups sometimes  filled with treated water. Above it stood the statue of Dessalines on a  horse, waving to his left.
 The sun beat down until it gave Aliodor a headache. He had an eye infection. He was starting to get angry.
 "The  government, the ones who are responsible for us, don't really want us  to go because while we are in misery they are enjoying themselves," he  said. "Every day they are making money on top of our heads."
 The  aid groups promised they would do this and that, fix a toilet, bring  more food. Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn't. The committee  squabbled. People stole what they needed.
 Behind Aliodor's shack, the backhoes and bulldozers at the national palace had been sitting idle for months.
 "The  country needs to have a national palace. But if it's under these guys  who are in power now, the palace will never be built," Aliodor said.
 He looked at Dessalines again, waving on his horse. Maybe he was trying to leave, too.
 ---
 Rumors  had been spreading for weeks. A strange disease was killing people in  the countryside: like diarrhea, but it could kill you in hours.
 In  mid-November, it arrived on the Champ de Mars. A woman everyone said  was crazy walked into her tent one day and did not leave. In two days,  the tent gave off a nauseating smell. A brave soul opened the tarp and  found her lying dead in her own filth. A fight broke out between  neighbors and police about who would clear her out.
 The  next day a young man was found dead in a toilet. Word came in from the  Cite Soleil slum that dozens of children were dropping dead. The  foreigners called it cholera.
 Then the news spread that U.N. peacekeepers might have brought the disease to Haiti.
 "I'm not supposed to be here, waiting for cholera to kill me in a public park," Aliodor said, jutting out his lower teeth.
 As  the year drew to a close, the international community pushed for a  presidential election. Donor countries provided $29 million, including  $14 million from the United States. Black-and-white pictures of the 19  candidates were hung on the palace gates.
 The  Nov. 28 election was, by most measures, a failure. Hundreds of thousands  who had died in the earthquake were still on the rolls, and untold  thousands of survivors were turned away because of disorganization or  alleged fraud. There was violence and voter intimidation. Nearly all the  major candidates called for the vote to be canceled.
 When  results were announced days later, the city was shut down with flaming  barricades. Gunmen wearing shirts of the ruling-party candidate called  for people on the Champ de Mars to come out and celebrate. Then they  opened fire. Up to three people were killed and several injured. Aliodor  and others took turns keeping lookout at night.
 Nearly 3,000 people died of cholera and more than 100,000 were infected.
 Clinton's  commission had approved billions of dollars in projects, but many  remained unfunded. Less than $900 million of the donors' conference  pledges was delivered.
 The United States  delayed the bulk of its $1 billion pledge of reconstruction money until  2011. So far, it has sent $120 million to a reconstruction fund and  provided about $200 million in debt relief.
 ---
 The guys hanging in front of Aliodor's house still call him Ti-Lunet, but his glasses are long gone. His hair has receded.
 The  afternoons are still baking hot, and tire fires from a daily protest  burn black, acrid smoke nearby. Aliodor has criticism for everyone. He  asks me to deliver a message to my country:
 "I  blame this on the United States, because the United States is the world  power," he says. "Why would you accept for us to be living in poverty?"
 If  Dessalines were alive today, Aliodor says, he would lead the people in a  revolution against the government, foreign soldiers and other  foreigners who aren't helping. He hopes the spirits of the ancestors  will come back and teach Haitians to be independent again.
 "God is the only one we have hope in," he adds.
 Aliodor  pulls out a photo album from under the bed and flips through pictures  taken before the quake. There is Manette, in a nursing uniform. And  there he is, fit and muscular, a gold cross hanging from his neck and  nearly brushing the guitar in his confident hands.
 He looks down at his stringy arms. They look like someone else's.
 Afternoon  shadows come upon the tens of thousands of tents in the central plaza.  Soon the people will be shrouded in darkness, just as they were on that  night almost a year ago.
 Beside them, the national palace lies cracked upon the lawn. There's a gaping hole in the middle.