More than the “twelfth”

July 20th, 2010 by Danielle

Emmanuel walked around for three days after the “twelfth,” which is what the January 12 2010 earthquake is frequently referred to as by Haitians. Cell phones weren’t working, Port Au Prince was in chaos, rubble filled the streets, injured people cried for help, bodies were everywhere, and he was trying to find his family members. Six months later, he took us on a tour of some of the most devastated areas of Port Au Prince. He has yet to hear from his mother.

I was surrounded by children: grabbing my arms, trying to hold my hands, tugging at my shirt. Their faces were turned upward, grins on their faces. As we walked, a few children ran out from their tents yelling “Hey you! Hey you!” When I responded with a wave and a “Bonswa!” they jumped up and down, clapping their hands. Most of the adults simply stared, but after a quick nod, smile and a greeting, they would respond back in kind. At one point, two women approached me, their clothing dirty and hanging loosely on their bodies. They began to speak in Creole. Not understanding the Haitian language, I called Emmanuel over to help me. A quiet man of twenty-five, he had taught himself English and now works as a “fixer,” helping journalists make their way around Port Au Prince by arranging drivers, meetings and showing them what they need to see. Through Emmanuel, I learned that one of the girls grabbing onto my hands is her daughter. I looked down at her, her bright smile beaming up at me, her hair pulled into little ponytails all over her head and wearing a pink dress. I told the woman she has a beautiful daughter. She smiled back at me and began speaking again. When she finished, I turned to Emmanuel to receive the translation. He looked at me and smiled a smile that was a bit sad and a bit amused. The woman wanted me to take her daughter home with me. I tried to explain that I couldn’t do that, that her daughter needed to stay in Haiti. Again, the woman insisted I take her daughter but this time pointed to two other children, indicating they are also her children and I could take them too. I had to blink back tears as I explained to Emmanuel to tell her that I couldn’t take her children with me, that her children need to be a part of rebuilding Haiti to make it a stronger country. I could barely bring myself to look at the mother, but when I did, I could only whisper “desole” – “sorry.” Both she and I knew that though what I said was hopeful, it was also naïve. This family, along with thousands of others, has been living in an internally displaced person’s (IDP) camp for the past six months, since the twelfth. A small tent serves as their home and would not be able to withstand hurricane winds and is probably vulnerable to flooding when it rains. They share bathroom facilities with hundreds of others. I don’t know what kind of education they are receiving, if any. They may be living there for a few more months or even years. The future of those living in this camp and the many others like it is so dim that a mother was willing to say goodbye to her children forever and hand them over to a stranger in the hopes that their lives would be improved.

Petionville is considered to be the “upper class” area of PAP. Built up on the side of a hill, its streets are often steep and, as with any road in PAP, are littered with potholes. The traffic was heavy at times when we drove and the air was thick with the exhaust from all the vehicles that were nearly at a standstill. People sat along the side of the road with various goods for sale. Others walked down the road winding their way through the cars selling plantain chips and bags of water. The hot sun beat down on us as we sat in the back of a pick-up truck. The Haitian sun is hot and there usually isn’t any breeze at midday and it is easy to get exhausted and dehydrated. I didn’t dare adjust my position as the moment I put my hand down on the metal I felt like I was being burned. I gulped back the warm water in my bottle in a vain attempt to keep cool. As we drove, I could feel eyes on me as Haitians in vehicles as well as those standing or walking on the side of the streets would turn their heads to look at the three “blancs” in the back of the truck. Slowly, we made our way to the other side of the hill and began to descend down into a lush environment. Trees with orange blossoms lined the road and every now and then we could see between the clusters of trees and the houses to see to the other hills surrounding PAP. After a while, the truck turned into a driveway and someone opened the gate for us. We followed the driveway down through the trees, clusters of tents visible on one side and a few buildings on the other. A few minutes later, we parked beside a building under the shade of a large tree. We had arrived at the site of another camp, this one much smaller and on the grounds of a church. Only Emmanuel and I walked up the hill to the entrance to the camp. After walking through a gate I turned and could see makeshift shelters, a couple hundred of them, squeezed onto less than half of a soccer field. Blue and grey tarps covered the shelters and one stuck out to me. Usually the image on the tent would bring a sense of pride, this time, it brought sadness. The red maple leaf that is Canada’s symbol, that is, to so many, a symbol of freedom, equality, of hope and home. Here, the tarp that had probably been intended for some other use was keeping a family dry as they lived their lives in conditions are the opposite of freedom, equality, hope and home. A reminder to me that while Canada – both the government and individuals – has done a lot to help Haiti, there is so much more can be done and must be done if Haiti is going to build back better.

Later that evening I tried to write about what I saw during the day and the people I met. It was a long day and tiring. My head was swirling with thoughts and emotions and while I attempted to put them down on paper, they were too difficult to sort out. I began to think about why it is I initially wanted to come to Haiti: to learn and to offer help. I have wanted to work in the area of development for a long time now and more recently have been interested in humanitarian assistance. Coming to Haiti was an ideal opportunity to gain experience to see if I can do this work and to learn more about how assistance is provided in a post-disaster zone. In thinking about this, I slowly started to realize that I had been thinking of Haiti largely as a post-disaster zone and also a country that has extensive and desperate poverty. In taking this approach I, along with many other people I feel, saw Haiti as interesting because of its suffering, because of the earthquake, because of its struggle to establish itself. Over the past few weeks, whenever I went somewhere or interacted with someone, there was always a thought in the back of my mind: “Where was this person on that horrible day? What was it like for them? These are the survivors that surround me.” In realizing this, I felt a sense of shame: Haiti did not come into existence on January 12, 2010. It is not an interesting place because of an earthquake. Its history did not start with the tragic deaths of hundreds of thousands six months ago. I had forgotten that Haiti is a country with a vibrant culture, with a rich, if tumultuous history, with millions of people each with their own unique story, dreams, and challenges and while the earthquake does and will continue to have a significant impact on each person, I, along with everyone else who does this, have to stop continuing to victimize Haiti and her people. This does not mean we should stop providing assistance but we should ensure that the aid we do give is done so by working with Haitians, by helping to build and support the capacity of the country to make it stronger and less reliant on outside assistance. Will it be easy? No. Will it be done quickly? Absolutely not. And while I know that Haiti’s history can be seen as a predictor of future events, I am an idealist, an optimist and firmly believe in the possibility of a Haiti that is more free, more equal, more hopeful and where that little girl in the pink dress and ponytails has a home.