Hands

I was thinking the other day that I miss being able to give good massages. As part of my curriculum back in the days of my first college major, Athletic Training, we were trained in massage. I absolutely loved being able to use my hands to alleviate pain and provide tangible therapy to the athletes under my care. But even more, I think now and realize, I treasured being able to touch them and offer that as a service as well. As I work here, and as I have thought before, there is a poverty of love in our world, and one of the ways we suffer is by lack of loving physical touch. A few friends of mine definitely possess the gift of touch. When I am touched by them, I can sense their love. But I also notice that because I am not in a place to receive regular physical affection from my friends, I may jump or startle when first touched. The kids I am with on a daily basis thrive on the warmth of physical touch. Their hands and arms and legs are intertwined with mine before I can react, and their hugs are given with all their strength. Just this morning I got to sit with one of my favorite little girls at mass, and she ran her fingers across my skirt, studying my arms and hands and then burying her face against me as we stood. It is only natural to hold her close, my hand on her back as she giggled against my waist. I finally had some baby time with our little Francheese, who is usually being passed from teen girl to teen girl. She clapped her hands against mine then cried to be turned and tuck her head into my shoulder as she then stroked my arm with her tiny fingers. 

Wasson, our new little baby boy! (We had no little boy baby clothes yet).

The time since my return to Haiti has been a constant sea of change, with volunteers leaving, a new schedule to keep, a return to hospital nursing, a crash course in pediatric oncology, a different culture of nursing to learn, new nurses to befriend, and most recently, a move into new volunteer housing. Our new places are very cozy, but a tad warmer than our previous ones – the challenges of being spoiled by air-conditioning, then having to leave it! My face is beginning to resemble that of my adolescent self; therefore the photos including me will be kept to a minimum for a bit! By no means are we suffering – just adjusting. And we are appreciating cold water, ice and cold drinks at an entirely new level. (Yet one more thing that we do not think twice about in the US, but that billions of people live without, so much that my nurses were taught that if medications are taken with cold water they will not work - it is such a rare luxury here).  I am now only a few minutes’ walk from FWAL, but a longer commute from the hospital. But I do enjoy making a house a home, and have enjoyed a bit of housekeeping. The walls are a nice warm yellow, which my friends will know I appreciate. The staff is working tirelessly to accommodate the nearly constant demands which we ex-pats are so good at making, and I now have a fabulous front and back porch to enjoy! 

The new digs, Villa Francesca

My new front porch!

I am now spending half my time familiarizing myself with the Oncology ward at St. Damien. This is the only pediatric oncology program in the entire country. Two passionate and assertive doctors run the program, assisted by a dynamic and straightforward nurse supervisor.  My mornings are spent rounding on each of the patients, reading up on their histories and working through their care plans, meeting with parents of new patients and observing the nurses as they work. I am learning massive amounts each day about the culture of nursing here, the demands placed on families, the sheer challenge and obstacles of a fatal disease in the developing world, the acceptance, submission and the simplicity of faith which are extraordinary.  Numerous cancers are treated here, including leukemias, lymphomas, retinoblastomas, (cancer of the eye), Wilm’s Tumors, neuroblastomas, and osteosarcomas (cancer of the bone). Sadly, however, many children are not brought to the St. Damien program until their cancer is in a very advanced stage, after parents search country-wide for answers to the mysterious symptoms present in their child. Therefore, I was asked to join the staff and help to form a Palliative Care program, so that the children who are determined to be in a terminal state can be treated and supported well.

Palliative care is essentially the support of the whole person and the numerous aspects of a patient and family’s life in the presence of chronic or acute illness. In the States, many resources are available and there is often a multi-disciplinary team consulted to begin planning and implementation of Palliative Care. The patient does not need to be in an advanced state of illness to benefit from Palliative Care – ideally, it will begin at the time of diagnosis, in order to provide for and accommodate the many issues which develop with the onset of illness. These include spiritual care, pain and symptom control, physical and occupational therapy, emotional support, continued schooling, art therapy, decision-making and social support, and the continuous process of educating the family.

There is, of course, a large disparity of resources and care available to the children and families here. But the directors of the Oncology program feel very strongly that this does not mean that the children entering the final stages of life, and even at the start of their treatment, should be forgotten or abandoned in such a state of weakness and pain. I am honored to be able to work with them and to begin training the nurses in this approach to care. This is a slow process, because before anything else, the development of a relationship must take place. I am getting to know the nurses, learning how they operate, observing the relationship between the nurses and doctors, asking oodles of questions as I learn an entirely new area of medicine, and my ultimate favorite thing, sitting with the kids. They are among the strongest, bravest people I have ever met, smiling and nervously approaching the pale-skinned lady as they laugh. They proudly show me their “picky” scars and are glad to oblige when I tell them to slap my hand and give me a picky too. 

Susanna, one of my newest friends

My buddy Christo

The hospitalized child is often very fearful, and carefully watches any approaching person wearing scrub pants or a lab coat. But there is gentleness and power in an outstretched hand. Too often we forget in the rush of tasks to pause for this, and we quickly begin examining a patient instead of approaching them gently. All of my relationships here in Mango, as the Oncology ward is labeled, (each room is labeled with an item, due to the very low rate of literacy, as to accommodate the large number of citizens here who can recognize a picture but not a number or letter), have begun with the simple gesture of that hand outstretched. The kids tentatively and slowly bring their hands to mine, explore my fingers, find my rings, smile and glance back for the security of mom’s presence, and then slowly start talking. The absolute highlight of my week was the sight of a new little friend, Christo, as he recognized me at the top of the stairs, and despite the huge tumor in his abdomen, leapt up the remaining steps to wrap his arms around my neck and hug me with all his might! We exchanged squeezes as we traveled down the hall toward the room where he knew he would have to receive chemotherapy and blood draws, but his smile and instant demand for candy, as he saw it last week in my bag, made me laugh. When we first met, he was terribly scared, but we played through the rungs of his crib and I offered him stickers, which he promptly placed all over his t-shirt. He then showed me his juice and his food. He screamed as he was examined, and then when his blood transfusion was started, and he reached for my hand to hold. What a thrill to gain his trust and then converse with him for the rest of the morning through the door of the office which adjoined his room – that was just the beginning! Now he comes to find me as soon as he arrives, demanding that I feed him his morning spaghetti and sit with him while he watches TV. We snuggle together as he sits on my lap while I work. I was able to sit with his mom and assess how much she understands about his disease, which helps me to understand what the parents’ impressions are of what they are told by the doctors, what they hear and what they interpret from the big words and scary prognosis. This is nursing – what is done in the minutes and hours between doses of medication and vital signs, the constant assessment of the patient and family, the sitting and talking and ministering to them, validating their experience and fears, meeting them just as they are, and providing the answers which we do have in our possession.  It is comforting and encouraging when the easy answers are not there, sharing from our experience, giving insight and counsel while respecting the uniqueness of their situation and remembering that we can never understand exactly how they feel.

I was always a little bit proud of my hands – I thought they were attractive and strong, and my nails have always grown nicely. Then when I entered the hospital setting in the US, nail polish was strongly discouraged and I had to give it up.  On a stupid impulse one afternoon, I grabbed a razor in our inventory room, and as I was opening it, it sliced my finger just so perfectly that a ridiculous series of events ensued. For two hours, a blood pressure cuff was fully inflated and cut off the circulation to my lower arm while attempts were made to stop the bleeding and my blood vessels were cauterized.  A nerve block was given, and the wound was then wrapped too tightly for the next 24 hours. This produced a massive wound resembling a burn injury, put me within days of receiving a skin graft, and deemed me unfit to work for an additional six weeks.  I was terrified that I would not regain sense or motor ability in that finger and that my hands would be forever stained by my incompetence to handle a tiny sharp object. More than that, though, I feared that I would not be able to use my hands to support patients through the most basic tasks, holding them, assisting them in movement, offering massage to friends, even typing on a computer keyboard or carrying equipment. Again, we do not think twice about using our non-dominant index finger, but it is a pretty necessary component of daily life! But now, two years later, I offer it easily to the tiny hands that timidly grasp it. It is held for security during a scary procedure.  I hold the bottle to feed our babies, I balance the numerous supplies and carry them from storage to the clinic, and my little Erline leaps into my arms. I hold Valson and he steadies himself before jetting away, I caress little faces and am led to a seat in the large waiting area and handed a spoon to feed Christo, and I adjust my camera to take photos of the endless poses the children eagerly enter.

Rosenie (r) with Stephanie, one of our newest little ones

Baby Francheese with Sonya, employee of NPH Germany

Some days I sit just craving a hug from a friend or the strength of their hand as it lovingly squeezes my arm and rests on my back. The volunteers hold hands at mass on Sunday evenings, reciting the Lord’s Prayer over the bodies of our recently deceased brothers and sisters. Any of 200 residents of the FWAL program will grasp my fingers as soon as they encounter me. Little Antoine tells me he has a “malade” (problem) with his finger, which is easily remedied with a kiss and a little bit of water. Fabienne and Mama lovingly make me bracelets. The cancer patients give me “five” as hard as they possibly can. I deal out the cards in our game of Uno. I examine the knee of a visitor who has fallen. I wash and dress the newly-burned chest of a school student. I cherish the delicious Haitian 7Up as I drink it.  We cannot possibly count the number of times we use our hands throughout the day, but perhaps we can be a bit more conscious of how we use them and to whom we offer them, outstretched in friendship or offered in prayer, holding pen to paper in the quickly disappearing act of a handwritten letter, dignifying others through acts that confirm the genuineness of our words.

Love Out Loud

“I love you.” Three words which, when said in sincerity cannot be heard too often; but only when actually demonstrated to be sincere and genuine. In too many relationships and situations, we forget to seek the best for the other, becoming too absorbed with ourselves. Then, how can those words be received with trust and believed?

It’s been a whirlwind of a two months, a bit surreal and yet all too present. I spent the month of August at home in Michigan, attempting to be present to my family and friends – and for the first two weeks I felt like I was in a dream state, searching for energy to function in such an ordered and organized society. Let me explain to you that this experience and life feels so removed from my life in the States that it takes days for me to realize that Haiti and the United States are actually on the same planet, let alone only a few hundred miles from each other. My body and mind were screaming for a chance to process this past year, and to discern whether and for how long I should continue to work here. The heaviness and sheer intensity of the last twelve months, coupled with my disbelief that a year actually passed so slowly and so quickly at the same time, caused me to pause and simply attempt to breathe once I got home. The modern conveniences of life in the States were a welcome gift, and yet the ever-present amazement at the overwhelming surplus of ridiculous “stuff” we Americans apparently “need” did cause slight nausea with occasional moments of dizziness as I re-entered the mall and supermarkets near my house. More than 300 types of cheese in one store? Fruit and vegetable spray – captioned “the soap you can eat,” even the menu at Starbucks (don’t get me wrong – I indulged in several fabulous Coconut Soy Mochas, thank you very much!), were causes for a step back and a deep breath. I did very much enjoy my delicious burger with goat cheese on my first day at home, and pretty much every meal I ate – the variety of foods and drinks is just plain stunning. And the shoes! I did not know that I loved shoes so much as when I had been away from the world of fashion for a year. I found myself looking longingly through my mother’s design magazines, wishing for walls to paint fabulous colors and for walks through the vintage stores to furnish a new place. These distractions served a two-fold purpose, I can look back now and realize.  I do cherish the freedom and stability of a life in the US, and when I am called to return there, I will have a wonderful time setting up house again and creating a cozy place to live and to welcome friends. But yet, I also know now what freedom is present in a world with very few possessions, where the emphasis is placed on not things and materials and the latest fancy phone or car, but on the moments spent with children and friends in relationship, moments which cannot possibly be bought or held in time by the amount of books or the most comfortable couch. 

Mangos! So messy and so delicious!

My awesome pupil Stevenson, who remembered all of his letters and numbers!

 It was wonderful to re-connect with friends and to hear their vocal support of my life and service. It is all too easy to forget that I am remembered and loved from thousands of miles away when I sit sweating in stifling heat and wonder if the internet is functional anywhere today, when my new roommate finds other work and the circle of volunteers grows smaller, when the same children are living in a hospital room labeled “Abandoned” for months at a time, when temporary tents are removed to make way for parking lots, when daily mass is most definitely a funeral for tiny bodies and the stench of death has permeated the entire chapel, when new security measures are present at the hospital due to escalating crime, when cholera spikes after Tropical Storm Isaac, when cancer patients cannot receive their medications due to delays in deliveries, when the groups of boys lie prostrate in front of the UN gates awaiting the soldiers’ leftover food, when hit with the total chaos of the Port-au-Prince airport upon arrival. To sit holding new babies only seen previously in photos, to be touched and listened to by hands and hearts that know me from outside this tiny island, was a massive blessing that I just wanted to somehow package up and bring back to Haiti with me. It is one thing to hear or read those three little words, but yet an entirely different experience to sit with those who say them and be tangibly loved, understood and pursued.

The two weeks since my return have been equally as surreal as my visit home. After only a few minutes in-country, it is hard to remember that I spent a month Stateside. The visits with friends, the weddings, the fundraising parties, seem years away already. Part of my dread in returning was that re-entry is like a blow to the chest – it hits hard from the outset, with the harsh sun and the blatant poverty, with the emotions and fatigue of my fellow volunteers, with the desperation which we work to empower our brothers and sisters to overcome. However, the endless stream of massive hugs and kisses and questions heaped onto me by the children who are overjoyed that I kept my promise to come back, serve to ease the sting a bit. Erline’s huge smile as she envelops my legs in her arms. Little Stanley’s constant presence every moment I am at St. Louis. The well-meaning staff which tells me I have come back fatter. The delicious corn meal with bean sauce that is served for lunch. The hospital staff as they stop me and tell me it is so good to see me again, that I am remembered by them, and as they ask after my family and if I had a good vacation. The concerned and gentle reprimands of more seasoned volunteers who tell me change is inevitable and to not be afraid: these are all serve as remedies as well. And as I sit in my house after a massive deep-cleaning of my roommate’s now empty room and unpack the groceries from a Sunday supermarket trip, where goat cheese (mmm!!) and filters for my new coffee maker were successfully found, as were bananas and yogurt and sweets for the kids, and I listen to the fantastic mix of current American music hits so lovingly put together for me, I am amazed that only a few days have gone by since my arrival.

Within the next few weeks, we will be moving to new volunteer houses, about ½ mile away from the hospital, and which are yet to receive electricity and running water. The tents that stood for nearly three years to house short-term volunteers have been taken down. My current house will soon be turned into additional hospital space for the overflow of chronic patients. I am now splitting my time equally between the Angels of Light Program and the Oncology unit at St. Damien, working with an awesome team of doctors and nurses, and dangerously at risk of falling in love with a whole new group of little heroes. I absolutely love being back in the hospital and am being inundated with new observations and thoughts as we begin coordinating a Palliative Care program and I sort through the differing cultures of the American setting and the Haitian patient and family. One of the things I have always loved about the developing world is that it is nuts and bolts – the basics at work, with limited resources but unlimited chances for relationship and critical thinking. This culture tests even the best assessment skills and challenges the provider to seek thorough answers with minimal information. There is no quick computerized result here, no available x-ray posted within minutes of its completion. If narcotic pain medications have been donated, there is a chance to control severe pain; otherwise it is the basics and the comfort of a mother’s or caregiver’s touch which must suffice. The staff here is stalwart, strong and amazingly resourceful, creative and enthusiastic but firm and determined. The kids have strength that puts mine to shame, smiling through unimaginable pain and enduring the daily blood draws and chemotherapy effects with minimal tears. They come from all over the country, having been referred from place to place before finally learning that there is a cancer treatment facility in Haiti. 

Do not mess with a boy and his beach ball.

Jessica and Sabine

 The FWAL nurses and I will soon moving into a much larger clinic space at St. Louis, with more autonomy and space to use. Oh – a quick aside – the three of them did a superb job of running the place in my absence, which was not a surprise to me but was still very gratifying to see on my return. They are anxious to learn more from me, and I am channeling my inner educator as I plan seminars for the nurses, staff and kids. My amazing pupil Stevenson remembered ALL of his letters and numbers and wrote them out beautifully for me at my first request, bringing me to tears. The kids ask me over and over again how I left and came back, unable to conceive that I took two planes to go home and that the US is such a large country that I did not see any of the American volunteers that have visited before. They sit with me and stroke my arms and legs, loving me out loud. Stanley has started singing, “All the children love Brigitte, and Brigitte loves all the children.” I pray that both he and I will know this to be true every day.

In this age of sweeping stereotypes and hatred-induced, prejudiced statements, with combative politics, violent attacks, and quickly drawn conclusions based on hearsay, I wonder sometimes if we have forgotten how to love. In the selection of scripture readings at one of the weddings I attended, Love was defined, and though I had heard the verses countless times before, they struck me more deeply as I heard them. Witnessing the poverty of the unloved stirs the spirit. I am afraid that in the Western, stimulation-overloaded world, love is becoming an afterthought. As I sat with my friends and family and laughed at shared experiences, as I attended the wake of a cherished daughter who chose to end her life because she believed she was unreachable, as I held friends in hugs not wanting to let go, as I watched new love grow and spoke with understanding souls, as I attempted to relate stories of Haiti in just a few minutes, as I let go just a bit and dared to puncture the calm façade that I somehow feel I must maintain, I had to choose to believe those words. But this is one of the most wonderful aspects of working with my Haitian children. They always hope, always persevere, always believe, and they bear the hardship of life while standing in determination and expectation that tomorrow will be better. They love out loud, actively chasing after life and vocally expressing their feelings. That is how I experience love here – in the woman who insisted on carrying my heavy box as we walked together, in the doctors who stand determined to care for their end-stage cancer patients as compassionately as possible, in the nurses who tell me they are noticing the good trends in our diabetic patient’s blood sugars, who rejoice when another one of our kids completes TB treatment, who excitedly ask me when I will start to teach them more and are equally as excited to share their time and workspace with me. It is in the little blind boy, previously terribly malnourished and timid, who now refuses to let go of my hands when I visit him and laughs when I tell him he is handsome and healthy. He strokes his new stuffed dalmation puppy and asks if I will come back tomorrow. It is in the little girl who bravely circles the hospital floor twice, with her arms grasping my waist, and tells me it doesn’t hurt. And it is my new challenge to myself – to love out loud, to drown out the noise of anger, misjudgment and impatience, to check myself when a negative comment is about to escape my lips. Perhaps if we consciously choose to actively and genuinely love, patiently, kindly, gently, wishing for good, compassionately and hopefully, we will live and demonstrate to this world that love can be louder than hate, even defeating the darkness altogether.

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