The Definition of a Hero

This morning, I excitedly walked to the new Kay Ste. Anne. I relish the fact that it is now just a 10-minute walk from St. Louis, and the best part of my recent mornings has been sitting and talking with the littlest members of the Angels of Light program. However, this morning there was a tinge of sadness mixed with my anticipation. I am about to travel Stateside for the month of August, and as ready as I am for a bit of a breather, I am also saddened that I will miss my babies for so many weeks. Crazy, is it not, that I could be in love with so many little ones – 184, to be exact! The laughter of little Erline as she sees me and the flap of her sandals as she runs down the corridor to wrap her arms around my legs – I do not know that there is a better sound or balm for my heart. The pack of little bodies that descends on me, eagerly tearing into my hair, commenting on its length and volume, arguing about who gets to braid it this time. Their hysterical shrieks as little hands pinch my nose and marvel at the change in my voice. Their sweet concerned expressions as I tell them that I am going away for a little while, their only question being whether I will come back, their smiles when I answer positively. The sticky, mango-laden hands and faces that I kiss goodbye at the end of the morning.

My little girl and me

 I have been reflecting on this year – yes, it’s a year – that I have lived this life, walking the dust-thickened streets, learning a new and evolving language, looking into the eyes of a broken people who cry for recognition, hearing stories of unimaginable courage and recovery from circumstances beyond definition. I spend my restless nights praying that in my imperfection, weakness and humanness I have somehow demonstrated a tiny glimpse of the perfect Love which called me here. I have been blessed to love dozens of children and be infected with the contagious joy that is an inevitable product of any time spent with them. I have learned grace and humor and gentleness as I have sat in awe of three extraordinary nurses who juggle the exhausting task of caring for 800 children. I have challenged their thinking, and they have countered with assertive questions and willingness to accommodate new approaches and interventions. They are tireless and courageous heroines.

I have been impacted by a series of pint-sized heroes as well. For a month, Ronald endured the daily irrigation and debridement of his infected legs, dutifully coming to the clinic and smiling despite the pain, strictly following his medication regimen and carrying the responsibility on his eleven-year-old shoulders. Mama, a thirteen-year-old with a past completely devoid of love, is passionately fighting a life-threatening disease, and every day she challenges herself to believe that she is worth that fight. Four-year-old Valson, abandoned in the cholera hospital and with neurological damage from a birth-trauma injury, hates to sit still. When I take his hands and he rises to stand, his smile is surreal. His mouth opens wide and he laughs as we walk together. Rosenie, five, holds tightly to my arm as she watches my every move. She yearns to be touched and held and wants my undivided attention. She mimics me but instantly drops the act to help me carry supplies as we organize the medical depot. Stanley, my six-year-old dose of human sunshine, is literally the happiest kid in the world. Just looking at him draws laughter, and he gently helps Stevenson navigate his way through a soccer game. They camp out in the clinic, breaking into Michael Jackson-esque dance moves and singing to the Christian songs on the radio. Seven-year-old Ubenson, attending the summer program, now makes daily visits to me, playfully demanding a vitamin and telling me how he saved the little packet of saltine crackers from yesterday. He begs on the street every afternoon after school, sitting outside the UN gates and eating the scraps from the food vendors. It is the only meal he will get today. We sit and talk, and he smiles hugely when I offer him a glass of cold water. “I want to live here with you,” he says. My heart breaks. 

Ruth-Love, Rose-Berline, Aquila and Djenni loving their new bedroom!

 I was privileged to spend this year with an amazing and generous roommate, my friend Dani. She came to Haiti with a determination and willingness to do whatever needed to be done. And she conquered – embracing her duties and organizing a literal mountain of donations and supplies. She befriended and honored her coworkers, encouraging them and challenging them to rise to responsibilities she knew they could fulfill successfully. She spent nearly every evening with the hospitalized children abandoned by their families, laughing with them, teaching the toddlers to walk, seeing the trauma behind their eyes and comforting them with steadfastness and gentleness. She was a patient and understanding confidante, who graciously broadened my cinematic horizons and always had a song to fit the mood of the moment. She has just returned to the States to join the ranks of the best nurses I know. She has changed the world and will continue to do so.

Dani and Marvens

After reading the previous paragraphs, you may be realizing that my journey here in Haiti is not over – The month of August will be spent doing substantial fundraising, attending weddings, being with some of my dearest friends and attempting to adjust to American life.  I will then return to serve the children, having tentatively committed to volunteer for an additional year. I say tentatively because, as Haitians well know, Si Dye vle (if God wills) is the mantra at the end of every day. There is still much work to be done, and for the time being, my heart remains here. I am excited to spend this next year empowering my nurses with education and support. I also hope to assist in starting a Palliative Care program at St. Damien hospital.

When I arrived in Port-au-Prince a year ago, I did so with the knowledge that I truly did not know what would happen when that year was over – although certain friends will tell you they predicted that one year would not be enough. I ask them to hold their “I told you so’s,” as every day is a series of emotional and physical experiences that would tire the most agile and fit of humans. Hope must be a permanent fixture in the heart and mind of any visitor here, as the blatant poverty and chaos are easy distractions from the steady, sometimes muffled drumbeat of progress. It moves perhaps at a slower pace than we instant-gratification conditioned Westerners might think necessary, but it is progress nonetheless. And when it seems that hope is lost for the moment, or that good will not win out over evil, the remedy is simple: a quick walk to St. Louis or Ste. Anne, and a glance at any one of hundreds of joy-filled faces. Their eyes reflect their determined hearts.

Heavy against the darkness the joyful dancing steps of the children, who embrace even the newest stranger with accepting arms too small to contain their excitement. The Light which will not be overcome has been set ablaze and presented to them, and they chase after it and stand in its warmth. Its radiance is infectious, softening my heart and opening my hands as little fingers intertwine around mine, pulling me forward.

The Haiti you Don't See

A dear friend sent me a few songs via iTunes, one of which struck me particularly. As I searched the artist and read about the song on her website, I was fascinated by the impetus behind it – it was written as a prayer to God, that He wrap His arms around the world and protect the little ones who are trapped in the horrible web of human slavery. Be it to the sex trade, to poverty, to ignorance, to abuse, to greed, to history, to the silly 8-track tapes full of lies which often find their way back into our conscience, we are all impacted by slavery of some kind. I have no intent of belittling the true, disgusting and very real issue of humans trapped in slavery to other humans – it is a part of the culture here in Haiti, the children who are sold or given into a life of forced service of every imaginable kind. But at the same time, the daily battle I know that I fight against the lies implanted in my mind by my own history, the fear of becoming numb to the desperate voices and scenes that pass my ears and eyes, the truth of that statement that those ignorant of their own history are doomed to repeat it – all of these are forms of slavery as well.

Haiti is a broken country. Haiti has been broken by years of regimes and foreign occupation which have, sadly, had similar endings. Then add a devastating earthquake and a cholera epidemic to the mix, and you have the makings of a terribly depressing story. But what never makes the headlines, especially two years after the disastrous events which brought images and stories to the forefront of the media and the world’s stage, is the freedom and the joy that is present in this culture, the happiness and redemption and healing that are happening. Scandal and horror stories sell; positive, quiet and gradual change not so much. Do a Google-search on Haiti and you will encounter images of riots, the earthquake and its aftermath, the garbage-flooded waters of Cite Soleil, the unrest of a desperate people. What you will not see are the photos and stories of new small businesses, the beginnings of sanitation projects, the grants given for agricultural education, the shrieks of joy and laughter of the children who receive their report cards and are thrilled to know they are admitted to the next year of classes at school. You will not see pictures of a brand-new home, just finished for the youngest members of the Angels of Light program, painted with bright colors and with massive space to run and play, a full beautiful kitchen and large bedrooms to accommodate up to 10 children. You will not learn of the fully-functioning hospital in the midst of the poorest neighborhood in the Western hemisphere, with a clinic and staff to treat the victims of cholera and poverty. You will not hear the determined cries of the newborns at the maternity unit in the best pediatric hospital in the country, nor will you witness the amazing transformation that occurs in the lives of the severely malnourished children who are served by the nutrition program. The abandoned children who know love through the dedication and daily visits of short-term visitors and long-term volunteers – these children will not be the next headline. But their smiles and uplifted arms as they take hold of the generous hearts which parade them around the hospital their determined steps damning the physical adversity which has threatened to stifle their opportunity, have a lasting impact on the few privileged people who take the time to meet them, changing the world and shattering stereotypes through the simplest encounters.

My heart is saddened by the ignorant comments and questions posed by those who, after a few days’ sojourn, believe they understand the people of this country and claim to fully know the feelings and emotions of a Haitian who has lived a life facing obstacles beyond an American’s imagination. Those who choose to visit other cultures while tightly gripping their own egos and insecurities, trying to justify ignorance or disdain by using stories of statistics and joining the “poverty tourism” bandwagon, with self-serving motives and intent to feign heroism while telling tales of chaos and posting exploitative images of a broken people – they are slaves. I have been humbled over and over again by the children who break my heart with the full impact of their hugs, who stand proudly in their kindergarten graduation caps and gowns, who fill the hollows of their metal dormitories with their yells of excitement at the arrival of new friends, who can be perfectly contented for a few minutes doing mathematics drills by adding and subtracting rocks, who use the stubs of pencils until they are absolutely decimated, who treasure the gift of a used matchbox car and score soccer goals using oversized Legos.

It is easy to observe the slavery that exists here, a people enslaved to years of repeated history, who are forced into a culture of dependency which has been promoted by organizations offering short-term solutions to long-term problems, who are trapped in economic poverty and living day-to-day, if God wills that tomorrow should come. It is easy to get caught up in the appearance and blatant effects of brokenness which are immediately observable. The challenge is to see past the presumed slavery of hearts and minds, and to work alongside the untiring citizens who refuse to be bonded by the captivity of material and educational poverty, to meet the earnest gaze of the children who smile infectiously and excitedly reach across the divide to touch your hands. They rise to meet each morning with its brutal heat and blanketing dust, and they march against the tide of the last two hundred years. They stand in solidarity with their friends, sharing the few resources they have. They sacrifice long hours searching for employment and selling wares on the street, so that their children can have a chance to break the cycle of history. They cherish each other and work at a slower pace, which can be frustrating to us, the American business-minded and frantic ones, but they are in a way more free than we are. They live life in the present, passionately and vibrantly. They treasure conversation and crave dignity. When asked, “How are you?,” their common response is, “I am very well, with God.” They face their tomorrows with a faith and resolve that puts mine to shame.

From babies hidden in the shadows

to the cities shining bright

There are captives weeping far from sight

For every doorway there’s a story

and some are holding back the cries

but there is One who hears us in the night

- Christy Nockels