Haiti, the island of contradictions
On this anniversary of the devastating earthquake that hit Haiti, I am on a plane, ten thousand feet in the air, more nowhere than somewhere. The book I grabbed as I ran out the door this morning (cutting it too close as usual), the book that was on top of the nearest stack and had the smallest trim size so as to better fit in my handbag, the book I had been meaning to read for months but never quite got around to it was A Wedding in Haiti by Julia Alvarez. It's her account of her first trip to Haiti and of its people that she came to love, the country she, a Dominican native, calls "the sister she never knew."
Even if you aren't intrigued by Haiti, I'd highly recommend the book. Her journey is funny, suspenseful, thought provoking, and moves quickly. If you are intrigued by Haiti, you will find she expertly captures its contradictions, the most baffling of which is how a place that can be so frustrating, unreliable, and heartbreaking can also be so beautiful and inspire such devotion. One repeated phrase illuminates this condition: "Now that you have seen it, what then is the obligation?" Once you see all that is Haiti, you can't unsee it. You can't forget the astonishing poverty, made even worse by knowing it is just a few hours, even minutes, from excess. You can't forget the children's faces, their radiant smiles or their vacant stares of hunger. You can't forget the breathtaking mountain view of sparkling blue Caribbean water juxtaposed against the tent city that sprawls across acre after dusty acre. You can't forget watching people who you think have nothing find something, anything to share with those who have less. Reliving their journey, Julia asks of her husband, Bill, "Now that we have seen this, what do we do?" He answers, "We do what we can." Like Mother Theresa when asked how she carries on in the face of the unending poverty on the streets of Calcutta and knowing the problem may never be solved, she said, "We do what is in front of us."
As much as I would love to be working in Haiti today, I have other obligations that must be fulfilled. In doing so I will have more food than I need, clean water in abundance, and my only hardship will be the distance from my own, well-fed children. But what I can do, what is in front of me, is to share a story.
There are moments when you forget you are in Haiti. Sitting on the roof in the evenings, breeze rustling the palm tree tops, fading sunlight playing across the mountainside, you could be on any Caribbean island. Reading to a roomful of enraptured children, watching their faces light up when they see the first colorful picture, they could be all children everywhere.
There are moments when you could be nowhere but Haiti. In the middle of concrete rubble, a walled courtyard painted in rainbow colors and hung with fairy lights. Riding back from Repatriate slum in a battered pick-up truck through a cloud of gray dust, a tire dropping into a drainage hole in the middle of the alley, rebar pressed against it, then a dozen local Samaritans appear to lift you out and send you on your way.
Haiti is this juxtaposition, the universal and the unexpected, those to be rescued and the rescuers, not always readily identifiable. It is calm and chaos residing side by side.
This afternoon I held a child fighting off death by starvation. Earlier in the day, a mother had brought her dying child to the Sisters of Charity for help. But they were not able to save him. This morning I danced with children who would suffer the same fate if not for this HOM school. Each evening when we bless our meal here, we give thanks knowing there are those nearby who have none. That means something different to me tonight.
There are people doing remarkable work in Haiti, not least of whom are the Haitians themselves. There are children going to bed hungry while our children are sleeping. There is much good work still to be done and those ready to take on the task. Will you help?
