Give me freedom, give me fire

The Haitan boys love hiphop. They always ask me who I love. My hiphop days were when I was your age I tell them. I try to sing the younger ones the lyrics from the original version of Wavin Flag by K’naan. Oooohh rings through the house. The kids are addicted to the soccer matches. Cheers and noise are heard throughout the house when the match is on. There is a earthquake remix that sounds like beats from a club that resonates throughout the house. Akon plays in the kitchen everyday. The words from his song freedom glue to my head. We celebrate fourth of July with the group from Atlanta and Denver who have come for a week. Many of the boys here have been trained by professional dancers in theatre. They do an entire show for us. The boys in the house are lean and in shape. Their bodies are toned and their muscles defined from hard work, dancing and sports. They end with a play about George Washington. They always amuse us in different ways. We sing the house song, Peace on earth starts with me and eat cake and drink soda. I am happy they are happy. The guests have brought much life with their projects to the house. The house was already loud enough with 25 boys and another 10 staff with house rowdy and much awake and alive from at 5am to 9pm.

I know many of my students from the home learned different English words from hiphop songs. One of them writes lyrics for me on the board after class. I wonder if he realizes how violent they are. Another time he asks me certain phrases. Other than a meshing of negative promotion I feel hiphop has touched different parts of the world in different ways. Just like a waving flag remix and Akon songs that we hear everyday.

Panic

One of the boys busts his chin earlier. They stitch him up. Only so much blood is enough to make one panic. I wonder if there were pools of blood during the earthquake. I wonder if there was enough time to soak it up.

I thought there was no external panic here. I thought people just moved on. I was not alone. I wonder if the man, who left pools of blood at the hospital floor may die tomorrow. I wonder if he is the only one who may die the next day. I wonder what it was like during the earthquake. I sit in the waiting room peeping through the OR door. His mother is held by two men and taken to him as he is loaded into the ambulance to be transported to the capitol. Blood leaks out of his new bandage. He eases me. He sits calmly. I am calm. Blood drips, even after he is bandaged, fast then slow. He is taken away. I write a poem about him.

Learning creole

Language barriers make life hard. Perhaps they are also a good thing I tell myself, especially when it comes to teaching English. I stand the second day in front of my classroom. Today is the fourth. I feel like going back inside the house. I ask the students to open their notebooks. I show them what this means. I show them again and again. Nobody moves.. The students, half of them sit outside the tent blue tarp along the tree to their left that gives them a makeshift wall. A broken chalkboard stands behind me. The chalkboard behind me is already half broken. A crack runs along the left side cracking half way up, inching to the middle There are four bench tables. Luckily we are all in the shade. This is makeshift schooling post earthquake. Some students return with their books, some without.

Stars shine like white teeth

Hurricane season has brought much rain. But just simple rain. My mother used to say that she was told that rain washes the streets. The foam it brings is soap cleaning the streets and left a trace.

I have waited to see a Haitian person with unorganized teeth. They all seem to have been born with aligned brilliant straight shining teeth. I have yet to see one person with ugly teeth. I am on a search though.

One of the boys, Tr, has a smile, it is heaven sent. The first thing he asked me was why I always smile so big. I asked him to look at himself. Radiance resonates radiance.

I finally look up during the clear nights. The stars glow like white teeth in the dark. They are so bright and clear. I don’t remember the last time I saw stars sparkling like a painting in the sky. I am fascinated. I try to tell one of the boys, A, as we walk back. My arm rests over his shoulder. His smile is like the stars in the night sky. There is something about the Haitian smile. I wonder if I would have fallen in love with stars if they were always there.

"Children are a poor man's riches" - Haitan proverb

Most things in Haiti are imported. Paying ten dollars for powder milk and shampoo and conditioner at a grocery store is a bit much I think. Third world standards don’t really seem to apply here though. I wonder how such things are afforded by the local people. I wonder if they even care for powder milk. Gas costs five US dollars a gallon. I see a Texaco on our way back through the city one night.
We stop by a local organization to get some information for students on families and growth. Most organizations set up in Haiti are about sex education.

I wonder if sex education and awareness have positive outcomes in Haiti. There are many programs and foreign NGOs aiming to educate people especially woman. AIDS is common. Households have multiple children. Birth control isn’t really a reality here. Monogamy is not common. Infant mortality is widespread. This is the Haitian culture. It is not one to consider inferior. It is inferior in the eyes of those who don’t understand the ways others live. It is what it is. I wonder if it was the same before. I wonder what it will become.

Education has a different concept here. There are many outreach programs to create awareness on nutrition and sex education. To reach an entire population is a outrageous task. To reach out and change an entire society is generations worth of effort, maybe forever is not so far away.

Relief Tourists

I wonder how many tourists Haiti has attracted after the earthquake. Jacmel is a tourist town. I think zero close to none. I read on a blog about tourists being in a hotel during the earthquake. So perhaps some have still existed in the recent past. I wonder if their sole purpose was tourism. I’m told the concept of tourists now for last many years in Haiti has become relief working tourists. I see American college students eating buffet dinner on the patio after their stay at the beach. They make a prayer before dinner. They talk about random things. I feel they are tourists, but I know better. We are also relief workers making a stop at the hotel to visit friends, for a nice night out.

I wonder if in life we ever imagined the idea of combining our relief work with the luxury to move away from the suffering around us. I wonder if this is fair. Rather, I wonder if this is possible. I wonder if I would want that life. There are many moments here where I feel like the UN or military, helpers by day, relaxers by night. Perhaps the limits of sanity have been expanded.

Don't panic

It is always interesting to study mental health conditions within certain societies. I wonder what it is about the American life that stirs mental health conditions within its people. I understand that other societies suffer from similar disorders, that remain in the dark and unreported. But even so, I feel they do no compare to statistics we present. They say one in every six Americans will be depressed by x age. Many Americans also suffer from anxiety disorders and attention deficit hyperactive disorders. What part of the American lifestyle leaves one feeling a lack of fulfillment and satisfaction and what part of the American life leaves one feeling overwhelmed and unable to regain control of priorities? Given what we have, there is much to ponder. Perhaps that and everything else is not enough; perhaps selling our souls to the dollar was not enough.

I lay on the bench upstairs in the open room without put in windows. I sit against the wall upstairs. I lean my head where the window is supposed to be on the upstairs. I stare out into the mountains and aquamarine turquoise waters. They seem so pure. I close my eyes. The breeze is fundamentally perfect in such heat and no electricity. There is no anxiety here. There is no panic here. I feel at ease; I am ease. Yet people are poor here, they suffer from PTSD and much much fear, one unfamiliar to us. The people also suffer from trauma. They live in the now. Yet their resilience transcends all. It's indescribable. There is is always never-ending hope. And for many there is God. The Haitian people don’t panic. They have only one choice - to move on.

Through God all things are possible

I was hesitant for a few seconds about going to a home called Trinity House. I do not believe in proselytizing. They did not really proselytize either. I wondered if preaching about God was the way to go to help immediate problems and long term problems. I did not believe in enforcing religion upon others. I still have the same views. I feel differently about bringing God to these boys in the home. It reinstates hope. None of the children in any of the three homes died during the earthquake. There was a celebration with the boys. Two of the homes collapsed and are torn down. You can rebuild a home, not a child says the founder. The founder has taught these children through God anything is possible.

My travel buddy leaves Sunday. We go to chapel. I talk to the director he shows me the 25th anniversary celebration album. They never had the scheduled celebration; it was scheduled for a week after the earthquake. But survival of the children was celebration enough.

We take motorcycles closer into town. The eldest boy, M, in the home talks to me as we wait in the streets of Jacmel for a spot in the internet café so I may for first time reach out to the other world. He talks to me about God. His English is grand. He speaks not as a brainwashed robot but as his own person with utmost sincerity and openness. He says when people speak about God he feels so strong and so happy. His life is about God he tells me. God is the light. I am surprised to hear such things. I feel a special bond with his opening up to me. I tell him how I pray, he asks if I pray like the people in Iran. I’m glad he has God. I know God changed my life at an age close to his. They say he has changed and matured tremendously within the last two years. He says as long as we all believe in one God we are fine. We walk across the city, I take pictures of some of damaged houses post earthquake. He tries to bend down to tie my shoe, I quickly stop him. I am the one in a position of servitude to such people. I start tying all the younger boys shoes.

This is the day the Lord has made - Arrival, Day 2

I had a feeling our journey to Fermathe from the airport was along rich neighborhoods. We drive from Fermathe to PAP to Jacmel, a three hour van ride. We encounter the real ghettos. Trash piled up to create new islands separating traffic on the road, as we saw rubble do the day before. Interesting unique system I tell myself, works to be pragmatic and creative. These are the ghetto’s I think. Much is to come. We pass by makeshift housing. It is lined up in a row like a lego town. These people seem to be living this way pre earthquake. There is a line of houses, perhaps 5feet by 5feet with blue tarp held up by thin wood logs, and carpet and curtains for the doorway and no windows. A naked girl bathes right outside. She lathers herself in soap. We pass by heavy construction areas, UN dominates the road. I want to say thank you, you provided locals with jobs. I do not want to say thank you, I’m not sure why other patches have been neglected. Perhaps they haven’t made their way down south yet.

We arrive in Jacmel, I think the driver is just reversing yet he is going into the metal gates. We are greeted by the Haitian director. He hugs us and says welcome. We walk onto the house patio, the boys have lined up. We are told to wait. I think we are going to walk by and shake each of their hands and introduce ourselves to one another. They start clapping, the sing a song. I feel emotional. “This is the day the Lord has made, let us be rejoice … ” the rest is in Creole and French. The all come and hug us one by one. We are given a tour of the house. We see the tents outside where I will be teaching for the outreach school, free for town children in poverty, and a makeshift tent for the slave children. Two ladies take pictures of the children and wave a peace sign saying Merci. I don’t quite understand how we operate as Americans sometimes, we dislike our governmental policies, but we treat others as projects of our own. I feel the common bond in humanity has been loosened.

The icon painting class has started, I meet the other teacher/guest at the house. I awake to drums. The neighborhood girls have come by for dance class. The dance instructors move in very different ways, each muscle rapidly flexing, torso and back in different directions. One boy is shy, J, I feel he may become my favorite. We read on the second floor, it is cooler there. The second level for schooling is uninhabited; the school children who come Mon to Fri aren’t allowed to be in buildings post earthquake until approved by government for foundational support purposes. I read more of my book, Darfur Diaries. The director of the house takes us to the beach. We swore it would be two minutes away not half an hour walk. Each beach we see is a striking calming beauty. I want to bike here daily, pray, read and reflect. They want to take us swimming tomorrow. It starts to rain as we head back. We eat mangoes. I wash dishes outside with the boy in the raincoat. I have only learned 2 names today.

“Rocks in the water don’t know the misery of rocks in the sun” Haitian proverb- enroute to Jacmel

My sweater gets caught in the luggage. I try to fix it. My sweater then has a hole. This is just the beginning.

We arrive overnight in Fort Lauderdale. I think of Santiago as people check in for a midnight flight. I think of Karachi. I panic. Haiti is worse than Karachi. The last 24 hours disturbing thoughts ping pong in my head. What are we doing I ask myself each time.

The plane might be our first and last exposure to well off Haitians I tell myself. I’m going to Jacmel I had told the guy on the plane, will it really hit 110degrees? Yes. Okay, I respond. We read travel prayers together, we land. It starts. The first question I’m asked in Haiti is if I’m from here. I wish I said yes. We do not speak French. We do not speak Creole. We are taken to a warehouse makeshift airport. My travel buddy and I acclimate fast.

I have a high tolerance for culture shock. My adjustment seems to be natural. My travel buddy says she feels this is like home. I walk out, we see a sign with Fariha. I tell the driver I am Fariha he smiles and says wait and continues to hold up the sign. I just sit and wait for whoever else claims to be Fariha. We walk by to the parking lot with our other guide whose nephew will drive us. We pass by our one armed porter, I wonder if that is Jackson who we were supposed to find. Here it starts, as David P. said it would, “Sister, please give me a dollar” as we walk along. We jump into the shafty third world van.

We see dirty shifty streets. We see tents. We see street vendors. There is no culture shock. I thank our third world journeys. Haiti is like the ghettos of Pakistan. I wonder if Pakistan will turn into Haiti. I think of that during our van ride. We pass by USAID tents. They are labeled everywhere, like branding. I think of a slogan that should be printed on all their tents. “We’re back” is a good one. I do not mean that in a sincere solidarity spoken way. The city is hustling. Everyone is out and about. Street vendors flood the streets. We see much rubble, it doesn’t seem out of place. Rubble seems normal. We see some new buildings. We see some broken buildings. We see a beauty salon and two men in business clothing. We see people on cell phones with backpacks. We see ladies carrying live chickens in a bag with their head sticking out the bottom. At least it’s all organic here. I keep saying these are the rich areas. But there are patches of poverty interspersed everywhere.

The country is so beautiful, aesthetically; so lush. We make our way up through Port-au-Prince through the mountain roads. They are labeled, the roads. I wonder if this was done before the economy came crashing down many ages ago. I cannot stay awake as we climb to the mountaintops, I doze off. I did not sleep at all the night before, my back Is sore. One trickle of sweat trickles down my chest, I feel it. We arrive. The weather has changed progressively. We are in Fermathe at the Bungalow for a day and night. This is probably the only home to harbor disabled children in all of Haiti.

The dog greets us, he is pretty healthy. I wonder if the mountains are scattered bungalows of mainly rich people. We meet the directors. We nap. I call my mom. We gaze the balcony and see children dancing to the drum. The soccer match is over, and normal has resumed for the remainder of the day. We walk up the wheelchair ramps. Two of the disabled children hug us. There hugs last two minutes. The first one says something, I do not understand so naturally I kiss his cheek, then I lean my cheek against his lips incase that is what he desired. I have a rule about properly stopping and kissing someone’s cheek. I believe it holds a unique quality of intimacy. I do it kneejerk. He continues to hold on to me. I wait. Another child hugs us. Another one plays with my watch, then shows me his, he has dragged himself back onto his walker and has followed us. We shake hands, one girl screams in joy and shakes her hands as we walk into the dormitories. We go back and share stories with the directors. The weather remains phenomenal. We have one night here.

This is an ideal summer life I say, lets just stay here... I can read all day, write all night.