Haiti: the right blocks

There are so many things you take for granted. Even the most simple things you can think of. Having a flat street to walk on or drive on. Having water at the tap for your cooking or washing or flushing. Having electricity at the tip of your fingers, ready to light your room or run your stove or maybe even charge your phone. Having a clean space in which to live. Having air that is clean and free of disease-spreading mosquitoes. Having a roof above your had that will not fall down. And these are all good things. Not excessive.

Think of a place with none of these things (at least none that are reliable or wide-spread).

Now imaging driving down a street in this place in our city, in your worn, hand-me-down four wheel drive, slowing down now for the speed bump, now for the traffic jam, now for the small crack in the road, now for the pile of trash on the street, now for the pile of rubble on the street, now for the larger crack from the earth. What had started out as a scene of poverty (whose root causes are many including financial burdens from historical colonial powers, dictators, a history of coups, limited island resources with poor environmental management, and misguided intervening influences of external countries), this scene of poverty has taken an additional dive into the suffering seen from a natural disaster. An earthquake that shook all things. A ‘goudou’, one who took over two hundred thousand lives from this earth. The crack in the earth makes you look up, look to the right and left at the buildings. Concrete, almost fully. One standing, the next cracked and tilted, one pancaked with floor lying upon floor unevenly, one a pile of rubble. The next wall may have spray paint with ‘Adieu’ to a lost loved one.

In the midst of this destruction and poverty, there are many beautiful smiles, open hearts, and hopeful friends that you will meet.

As you head toward the small sliver of flat ocean that you can see in the not-too-far distance when standing on the staircase that goes nowhere, you walk across the field. Then a little girl comes up and takes your hand to walk with you. Later you learn that she is 11 years old and that her name is Victoria, and she tries to teach you a little Creole (kabrit, goat) as you converse a little in French. Her younger friend comes up and takes your other hand, and together they help you navigate through the field, by the stream, to the shade of the trees, and along the curved path to the shortest distance to the ocean, the mer. They are living in the IDP (Internally Displaced Persons) tent camp nearby. Alas, you do not make it to the sea this time, maybe next time.

In the little town of Ganthier (gan-thee-yay), a few hours east of Port-au-Prince, there is a small blue house with a red gate to create a good space, an open courtyard out front for playing, a space out back for the goats and pigs and chickens, and a great home inside for ten beautiful kids: five boys, five girls, all without parents, but all loved and raised by a lovely woman named Dada with the help of her sister and others. Dada is almost always busy, but always has time. She will offer you her bed to sleep in, and make you an unexpected pancake breakfast with eggs. As she serves breakfast to the kids, she will be singing, and she will keep singing when cooking or cleaning. If you ask, she will teach you her song, her prayer. Se pou gro roeh yo roule, se pou gro roeh yo roule, se pou gro roeh yo roule, aswa a. If there are big rocks in front of you, may they move away, tonight. Se pou malade yo geli, se pou malade yo geli, se pou malade yo geli, aswa a. If you have sickness, may it go away tonight. Se pou probleme yo resoul, se pou probleme yo resoul, se pou probleme yo resoul, kunye a. If you have problems, may they be resolved right now. You can remember this song, and sing it throughout your time, teach it to others, and bring it home with you, saved to memory in your heart. Sing it with the girls; they will like to hear you speaking Creole and will work more on their English with you. Mesi Dada, and thank you Larry.

As you take your turn with your partner, swinging the ten pound sledgehammer, counting out loud in Creole (which luckily is the same as counting in French), you start to think more about the story behind who lived at this house. It has a pretty big footprint, half of which is pancaked to the ground, the other side waiting for demolition. Was this the house where the woman escaped and only lost her toes? No, that was the one from yesterday. The hot sun is beating down and you’ve been working for five straight days. Then a bunch of folks round the corner: it is the whole of the Wenke family men coming to help sledge away, come to help in the rubbling process! They step up, and start swinging away, putting more force into each blow than you were, turning the concrete slab into tiny pieces, even when sometimes supported underneath. And they don’t want to give up their ‘turn,’ but rather keep on working. We talk some, learn that Wenke is actually the given name of the head of the family, and not the surname, as we had thought. After a time, and some good progress, the group heads off on their original journey, headed to work. And we return to ours at hand, with Hands On.

As you sit in the very back row of the packed church, trying to avoid the sun coming in the back window, but too close to the fan above to feel any of the artificial wind, dressed in your finest of your travel clothes, you will see the large choir file in and set up themselves at the front. A few minutes later they will erupt in song, and you will smile to hear it. Their voices are powerful, and about fifty strong. They do not need accompanying music, they stand on their own. They carry love in their voices. Joyeux mèveye.

At one time it had been an empty field. Then it had become a school, built up of river rocks and concrete and tin. It was a place where one hundred and fifty little kids would come to learn, happy for the privilege to be there. Then there came a day in January, at first no different than the last, but then like no other. The place had seen its own share of tragedy. The walls were no longer there, the rubble was cleared away. And in its place a temporary UNICEF tent had been erected so that school could continue in the spring. Now it is summer, and it is time to build a more permanent school before the fall comes. The Director of the school will be there everyday. As will the Second Director. Ready to help. Ready to swing the sledgehammer taking down the remnant concrete walls and posts, or move the wheel barrel full of rubbled concrete from the house next door to help form the base of the new foundation of the school (later to be filled with concrete to form a platform). Ready to work side by side with you, telling you their story in a mixture of English, French, and Creole. The kids will be nearby, also ready to pitch in where they can, helping to move parts of the UNICEF tent to the street to be later taken to its new location. Ready to save the intact blocks from the wall that just came down. Ready and eager to learn in the new, slightly bigger than originally-designed school, come September (if the build goes according to its new schedule).
Even the two little shy girls, hiding behind their mothers when you try to take their picture or video, even they are ready for school. Ready to change the statistic that only half of the population is literate, ready to change that statistic one person at a time.

This is Haiti, and these are Haitians. Our brothers and sisters in this one world we share. We are blessed to live where we do, to have been born where we were. We are all blessed to be in this world. And we are blessed to know one another.

Getting down to the base of things, removing one layer after another after another, this is a hard thing to do. It is hard to peel away what is not useful, hard to get rid of what is harming you (or could). But there is a wonderful opportunity there. Then you can rebuild using the right blocks.