Haitian Journal: Arrivals and Departures

First Day:

My heart wasn’t prepared for what You showed my eyes… How is it possible to do something real and lasting amid this devastation? So many wide eyed smiling relief workers on the plane, not so sure of themselves, but still clinging to purpose in the heat and chaos of the airport bag retrieval. The BIG question that has lingered, unmouthed, scratching at our throats with the first onslaught of jostling “helpers” eager to make a buck off these naïve peacocks from America.

The relative safety of the bus, our steel and glass cocoon which shuttles us to safety. But it’s not safe for my too small heart and resolve – this unrelenting scene after scene…. Tent city,… the sudden realization that the plastic will disintegrate under a blistering sun when the cameras leave and the rains come. So much of the rubble has been cleared, but so much remains.

Our driver takes us past his collapsed parliament – the iconic symbol for a series of regimes that have fallen since the first black liberators fought and died for this.

Yet, there is life everywhere…. A child approaches and shields my camera with his hand, frowns then flashes a smile. First lesson learned from a people who know this place and live its story. There is no oasis hotel awaiting him tonight.

The hogs grow fat wallowing in the refuse that was once a river. I wonder what these people drink. A woman sits unmoved beside the twisted wreck of buildings. Home? Vignettes of survival grow and fade, giving way to yet more, as we pass by… Pass by…. Pass by.

Finally the road smoothes out and we arrive at the “Auberge”, its clean lines and luxurious cleanliness cutting straight through my humanitarian greed. I can taste the guilt of good intentions rising up, as my spirit sinks. Mercifully, we have two days here to regroup and prepare for the moments of contact that will come. We cling to words like, “look for their strength and resilience” to balm our hollowed out intentions. We try to be friendly to the local staff, but they’ve seen our kind before. Some manage to break through…

I read of “loaves and fishes multiplied” and begin to arm myself and others, as we submit to this “easy yoke” and “light burden”. Looking to a stronger source for sustenance.

Last Day:

Merci!

The rhythms of this country are so different from my own. They permeate with the heat and dust, or are transferred directly through outstretched fingers of tentative children, who melt in with a smile. Moments of contact breaking through the frustration and weight of knowledge of the separation between our worlds. We walk together holding hands, feeling close. Briefly brother, briefly sister. These children float butterfly-like from one to another “blanc”, seeking the nectar - that we also crave. Also seeking some explanation for the loss, and it is great, both of us wanting Papa to make it better.

But there will be no making it all go back to normal after a brief embrace. It is not possible to undo lives lost and undo trauma seared into ones dreams without an undoing of the daily souvenirs of the “tremblement de terre”, when solid ground is no longer solid and homes are no longer shelter and refuge. Insecurity made flesh and dwelling amongst us… And yet the children come out in joyful, sorrowful waves.

Je me souviens my children, (but not my children and not my memories). Yes, they know the game – and there might be some treat waiting at the end, but there is a bigger hope that brings them to us. To be seen, to be held, to be loved, to be assured that it will all work out….

This is my daily bread.

This is the air I breathe.

Your holy presence living in me.

I’m desperate for You.