New Year's Eve Reflections

We’ve reached the end of a year. And what a year it has been. Times of change and struggle are times of growth. A year ago, I was in the midst of interviews, searching real-estate adds in Denver and in the foothills. And when 2008 hit, so did the opportunity to come to Haiti. The year began with an intense decision-making process, the finalization of residency and seminary, and celebrations to follow. We underwent a massive purge of everything we owned, packed up our lives and hit the road traveling for vacations with friends, quality time with family, church itineration and Global Ministry orientation. We said goodbye to a way of life we’d always known for a chance to experience life looking through a different lens.

There is no one-word sentence to summarize our time thus far in Haiti. Words that come to mind: intense, mind-blowingly frustrating, deeply-moving, heart-wrenching, full of laughter, adventurous, hot and sweaty, and profound moments of peace. I've never felt more bipolar in my life. A day often holds moments of elation, fiery frustrations or tearful despair.

Part of it all is the acclamation process. Language barriers are difficult to navigate, cultural barriers are complicated to understand. And we learn, we make mistakes, and try again.

Often, Patrick and I feel like we've been dropped here from outer-space, and left to fend for ourselves. Loneliness and frustration are daily battles. But little by little, we meet new people, we fall in love with the uniqueness of the culture, we step a little further into the relationships with our Haitian co-workers, and find wonder in the encounters on the streets, in the school and in the clinic.

I've never been among a culture that laughs so much. Teasing, joking and guffaws fill so many conversations. They laugh at us. They laugh at themselves. Our partners always joke how serious Americans are. And certainly Patrick and I have been guilty of taking ourselves too seriously here. But we are learning to relax a little and allowing humor to help transform defeat into hope.

The children are beautiful, funny, and space-invading; they are interested in touching, lingering, peeking, conversing. The people are full of spirit and swagger, determination and resolve. Everyone moves slow, takes their time, but keeps moving.

The environment is completely intense, and sometimes I want to scream in the midst of it all. The city is polluted and hot, filthy and dry, and poverty is painted into everything and is inescapable. Yet there are places--stretches of landscape, of humanity, of ocean, of mountain top or spray of flower--that can provide a break from the dust and remind you that you are on a beautiful planet that strives to ever live, breath and heal.

My work is terrifying. I've never felt so alone or incapable. I'm used to taking care of people without resources, but I always made myself, at least, feel better by spending time counseling, educating, listening. And at this point in the game, I have a long way to go with language and culture learning to have that kind of interaction. I focus on doing the best that I can with what I have, and simply being present with the people, holding hands, listening, even if I don't know exactly what they are saying. I strive to find patience with the process, with myself.

If we can find patience and have enough luck to survive this "acclamation" time, there is potential to do great things, and learning from Haiti. I wish even the smallest things weren't so incredibly hard, but it is teaching us a ton about ourselves, if nothing else. And Patrick and my relationship has evolved into an entirely new being: more close, more intimate, completely interdependent in a healthy way. I am in awe of him in his abilities here. I am grateful for someone here who understands my needing to pound my head or fist against the wall, picks up a conversation I have to drop if I'm near tears, who makes me laugh out loud at the bizarre of our days, and who allows for quiet moments I need just to let go of it all. So if nothing else happens, at the very least we will know ourselves and each other better. For all practical purposes, we are indeed stranded on this island together... and if not always tropically romantic, it has brought us closer than ever.

From start to finish, 2008 has been packed with more emotion, more self-reflection and discernment, more frustration, more communicating and connecting, more reaching out, more challenge than any other year of our lives. We’ve come away with new thoughts on materialism, social and political justice, on balance of wealth. We have been humbled. We have found an even deeper appreciation for friends, for family, for community. Absence makes the heart grow fonder indeed, but the efforts so many have made to reach out across the boundaries of distance and border to hold our hands, to welcome us, to listen, to help us laugh, to remind us of home through this year have been the most incredible part of the year.

So as 2009 approaches in a matter of hours, we take the lessons learned from 2008 into the new year. May we leave behind the fear, the doubt, the anger, the mistakes made and start again a little wiser, a little stronger from the journey thus far. May we take with us a new understanding that we are hear to try, to do the best we can with our gifts, to be present in the moment, to work for something better, to develop friendships new and cherish those that have been with us all along the way. No need for resolutions, just recognition of where we’ve been and where we want to go. May a new year take us a little deeper into spirit, may it challenge us to look outside of ourselves, and may it be colored with hope, with gratitude and with love.

Street Dining and Fame

Today we found out that we are now Haitian TV stars, or rather, we made our first TV appearance. I doubt it was Emmy winning quality, especially since we were completely unaware of being filmed (that’s never good). Pastor Guy told us about it this morning. Yesterday we attended a large assembly of Protestant Church organizations that CONASPEH is apart of. It was a particularly formal meeting, and we weren’t savvy to the main purpose of the discussion. But apparently the Haitian media who should have been pointing their cameras only on the speakers caught us. I fear that our faces were contorted into the pained looks of attempted comprehension. Either that or the spacey looks of a mental check-out when meaning just isn't coming, and resignation takes over allowing a nice little mental holiday. Regardless, we haven’t yet cashed in on the fame and fortune of such an appearance; no autographs have been requested, no movie deals waged. Ah well, the life of Hollywood--or Haitiwood as it might be—was never a part of our aspirations.

In other news, Patrick and I are now so brave we occasionally treating ourselves to food from street vendors: fried meat, plantains, rice. They aren’t always the most healthy of food options in Haiti, but tasty. Essentially meat and plantains (or balls of dough) are fried in big pans of sizzling oil: Haitian fry-daddies. I figure flaming hot oil aught to kill most parasitic hosts.

Today we had fried chicken and rice at a "restaurant" on the street. Where most places we stop are pick-up and go, today we sat and ate in a sidewalk café Port-au-Prince style. Essentially an entire Haitian family ran it. Two women stood over giant pots of cooking food heated by charcoal fires, their daughters—lazing in the shade of the tent—asked us what kind of rice we wanted, a man offered us beverages, a child took our money and made change, a dog slept at our feet. A tent of raggedy tarp supported by branches covered a picnic table positioned next to the open-air kitchen. Patrick and I and about 8 Haitian men ate lunch together around the picnic table in the middle of a busy market. We were very popular there. Especially when Patrick informed the waitress that he was “mentally ill” (attempting to say he was excited about the food). But as always, people seemed forgiving and amused. The food was delicious and plentiful for the price. More importantly, such excursions for the price of a dollar buy you a moment of cultural immersion that can only be achieved when you hit the streets.

Helping Hands

Monday December 28, 2008

Today I had a meeting with a Haitian doctor who works in a clinic and small hospital near the guesthouse. The connection was made through a German couple staying at the guesthouse who have a long history of working in Haiti through frequent visits over the years. The physician I met has built quite a clinic system. I talked to her about the CONASPEH clinic, its current state and visions for the future, plans on public health education and needs for community networking. She voiced a lot of words of caution, reigniting my earlier fears of the risks of practicing medicine too soon before language and appropriate referral/lab systems were in place, especially since I planned to have a long-time presence in the community. –sigh-- I didn’t need help with doubt and fear. Although she didn't offer any specific advice during our meeting, she did seem interested in establishing a working relationship. I fear such a relationship has a price and I’m not convinced CONASPEH has a budget and/or interest in such a relationship. But its worth a try.

I’m finding difficulties in making true working relationships here. I suppose it has to do with limited resources and the need for any connection to be profitable in some way. I think of all the times when specialists during residency offered their advice for free, taught in the hallways, took questions over the phone during their busy clinic day with no price tag attached. But of course this comes with the luxury of systems that continue to generate patient flow, income, and where networking has proven to be profitable. I haven’t found the same here, thus far from Haitian colleagues. American colleagues have been helpful but also are working within the context of their individual NGO's. With the “people you know” networking system that I’m functioning within, it’s a slow process of discovery.

Walking home, I was lost in thought… considering my next move, how my meeting brought me any closer to providing good medical care to the community of CONASPEH, struggling with fears re-stoked from our conversation, and fighting those lingering feelings of isolation. I must have been quite a sight, lumbering along the side street, hair pulled back, big blue backpack strapped to by back, sweating, head down in concentration as I pick my path around rocks and mud holes, trash and people while deep in thought. I entered a busy street market filled shoulder-to shoulder with women and their baskets and their mats full of produce: rice, nuts, beans, fruits, greens, fish, chicken, crabs and slabs of other red raw meat all entertained by a swarming cloud of flies. At that moment, a man in a huge truck thought he could somehow crowd through the incredibly busy street market (where you can hardly walk through without stepping on someone's toes). So as he inched his giant vehicle down the road, women had to move their baskets and their mats to create a slightly wider path, shoppers squeezed to the side, dogs ducked behind baskets, everything condensed like trash in a compactor. I huddled next to a stand as the truck inched closer and closer. Clearly my toes were going to be pancakes. A women from one of the stalls looked at me with panic in her eyes, jumped up and grabbed me pulling me into her stall screaming, "blan, blan" (white, white) and rescued me from a lifetime of wafer toes. She had me in a full-on body hug as the truck inched by, and I started laughing. I hugged her back, and then she started laughing. "Meci anpil" (thank you so much) I said. She patted my turtle backpack and sent me on my way with a big open-mouthed smile, a nod of the head, and a wave.

I had been removed from the world in thought, feeling alone and lost. And then I woke to arms around me, pulling me out of harm’s way in a busy, bustling, congested city market full of life, full of humanity. I had been alone only in thought. And the arms of Haiti reached out and pulled me back into the noise. I was reminded that help was available, it just might not come in the form I’m anticipating. So days in Haiti continue to teach, and remind me to trust in the unexpected, in the community I find myself in. I forge ahead with what I know, having faith that what I don’t know will come in time... in Haitian time.

Sun and Sand for Christmas

December 24-27th,

Merry Christmas to our friends and family.

The Christmas holiday in Haiti, we are told, is quietly celebrated with family. Patrick and I, partly escaping homesickness, partly relieving our partners from any obligation to entertain us, left for the beach Christmas Eve. With us we took the closest people to family we have here: the French couple who have been in Haiti almost as long as we have undergoing one setback after another in the adoption of their beautiful Haitian child, Christanor. They are without easy transportation or an organization that can show them the ropes, so when we offered to drive them to the beach and take them to an affordable hotel by the ocean for the holidays, they eagerly accepted.

I’d like to mention here that in the matter of 2 or 3 weeks since our last trip north, Haiti has done remarkable things to the National Highway. We quickly noticed a smother ride, less potholes, new asphalt, less dust than our previous endeavor that left the Galloper limping badly.

We spent Christmas by the ocean, letting the marine breezes wash away feelings of homesickness, inviting the hot sun to bring feelings of warmth and relaxation. The ebb and flow of the tides, the waves licking the beach were the perfect meditative background to a time of reflection.

We enjoyed spending time with the Soulier’s, learning a bit of French as they learned a bit of English, together delighting in Christanor’s tactics and mannerisms. He is child that is eager to please, dances to any beat, and loves cars and the swimming pool beyond all else. He is child that is easily affectionate, yet carries a lifetime of separation behind his eyes. Silvy and Jerome tell us of the nightmares he has in his sleep, of his crying and head banging against his pillow. It must devastate them in the darkness of night. But in the day, Christanor comes to animated life. He makes us laugh, and recognizes when he is funny. He pretends to have a mouth full of water, and squirts us instead with air. He walks like a clown, and shoots us with crazy-man-eyes to watch us dissolve into laughter. How can a 3 year-old be so accommodating? But he is. He is heartbreaking and delightful. And the love of the Sulier’s trumps all others. I trust that their love for him will heal the wounds of his earliest years. Christanor seems willing to try. He is vying for an audience, and he has found an easy one.

We spent many moments in the ocean, on the beach finding countless perfect seashells. On my trips to American beaches, we felt lucky to find a perfect shell… they were always so expertly combed. But Haiti has yet to find the consumerism of the beach industry (well, lets say the consumerism was cut short by political upheaval which sent consumers running to different Caribbean islands that didn’t throw poverty and violence into their sunny island vacations.) The beach was full of perfectly spiraled seashells… a Floridian beach shop on sand without teller or price tag.

We spent hours just floating. I let myself lay back in the salty Caribbean sea, easily buoyed by the ocean, my hearing dulled by the acoustics of water, meditating on my body feeling weightless, warm water carrying me on a wave, sun kissing my face, insecurities, fears and frustrations dissolving into the salty depths.

We watched sunsets together with the reverence that comes with a spiritual moment recognized, a togetherness celebrated, a visual feast to the end of day noted.

And now we are back home, sun kissed, more relaxed, with a bright new perspective.

Today we were asked to attend a meeting for with an unknown agenda and an unknown audience. We arrived at the time we were asked, but apparently an hour late. My initial flair of frustration subsided quickly. It didn’t’ matter if we’re late. The meeting isn’t about us. We were introduced in the end and welcomed heartily. The subject of the meeting, largely lost on us without a translator, didn’t matter in the long run. This was Haitian business for Haitians. We are here in solidarity. We are here to help when asked. When it is important for us to know, we have to trust that we’ll know. In the meantime we take the peace of the ocean with us. We learn from the ebb and flow of the tides. We hope that the fuchsia splashed colors of the Caribbean sunset keep us humble in our expectations, remind us to be a presence of service, not demanding of information.

Ah the New Years resolutions. To take the lessons of yesterday and apply them to tomorrow. To foster the positive, the hopeful, the capable and the shun the doubt, the frustration, the teeth grinding. To leave self-interest at the doorstep and enter with an openness to learning, to seeking, to serving, to entering into relationships.

Any time of difficulty at best can be times of self-reflection. If we are honest with ourselves, we can look at the dirty parts of our soul and do some spring-cleaning. There is always work to be done, always growth to be fertilized, always fruits to be harvested if we are willing to be that honest, to be that dedicated. And hopefully out of a dive into the depths of self, we can arise and bring a better gift to the people around us, to our partners, our friends, our family, our neighbors, our community.

May the resolutions begin.

New Encounters

December 23, 2008

Today was a day of new encounters, a day of community building and discovering new hidden treasures of this country.

If I was a better person, or maybe just less honest, I might be able to say I entered this new journey and have lived day-by-day in Haiti with a sense of pure selflessness, in the spirit of giving without question, of faith that what we do here is enough and is God inspired. Certainly, I strive for that. But the truth is, I still measure my work in images of “success” that have defined my education up until this point. I still struggle with my own needs, my losses, my desires. Little by little, I’m recreating new definitions. But it has required some time, a lot of tears, ample frustration, and battling doubts galore.

Patrick has had his own internal battles as well. His biggest has been with his own spirituality. I think Patrick is the most spiritually honest person I know, and he ever strives for that “Ah Ha” moment in his life. He has struggled here, I think, because of the role he has been thrown into, the title he has to shoulder. “Pastor” was never a goal on his life’s to-do list. His studies into theology have always sparked a desire for communion with all peoples, regardless of creed or dogma. His passion is for social justice and walking in solidarity with marginalized populations. Patrick’s gift is that he makes all people feel comfortable, he laughs easily; he breaks down barriers before people recognize there was a wall between them. And he does it all without effort, with a smile, a joke, an understanding nod.

But here he is Pastor Patrick. Not only that, but he pastors to a set of the most conservative Christian churches we’ve ever been a part of. His gift with people serves him well in this role, but his relentless honesty with himself leaves him questioning how he can stand at a pulpit preaching from a book that the conservative churches he ministers to take as literal what he believes to be contextual at best. And although his sermons have been beautiful in their simplicity, a call to the connection of humanity rather than the elevation of Christian Dogma, inside he still sees himself as a Christian Pastor without enough passion for the Bible. The disconnect feels false to him.

Several weeks ago, we met an interfaith minister who is also a Voodoo priest living here. We both found him to be an incredible spirit, the kind of person that spirituality seems to flow from every pore. He, too, was easy to be around, and conversation easily flowed on subjects traditionally hard to talk about. Patrick felt that maybe Dja could be a mentor of sorts. So today we sought him out.

We found Dja’s home nestled in a grove of trees and climbed the stairs to his apartment with vaulted ceilings and brightly colored walls. He and Patrick spent some time together talking about spirituality, about the discipline of the spirit and the quest for inner knowledge and peace. It was the start of a relationship I hope will help Patrick reconnect with who he is, to feel comfortable with an arbitrary title knowing he brings a unique bend to his role in the church. I think of my own mentors in life, those who were able to see the world as a whole, nature as part of that whole, who encouraged thought, questions, imagination and allowed for a little healthy doubt on rules set forth in the pages of our religious texts written centuries ago. I see Patrick easily being such a mentor, but he has to realize it for himself first.

After two magical hours at Dja’s, we headed to the small village of Gwo Jan, along a deeply rutted country road up the mountain. Our destination was the home of an American couple who have lived and worked in Haiti for 25 years. We drove there in hopes of finding at most a friend, a mentor, and if nothing else a colleague in the work we do here.

We found their house perched on a hill next to a stream. We arrived there with the help of multiple people along the way encouraging us that yes, Carla lived just up the road, that no, we weren’t lost.

We spent an absolutely magical afternoon with Carla and her husband who work with cultural immersion for visitors, and who currently have a vision for a remembrance village to document the history of Haiti and the wounds of slavery. Carla had invited us up to see what they do. Today they were working with a woman taking part in a 3-day immersion weekend with them. We sat in on her Creole lessons, took a walk through the village with her, met a voodoo priest who introduced us to a voodoo temple and explained the symbols, the essence of the spirits within, and the rituals for connecting with those spirits. We walked along fields where Carla’s Haitian partners pointed out names and uses of plants, discussed farming techniques and food preparation. We stopped by to greet people in their homes, were welcomed inside to watch hair braiding and to play with their children.

The highlight of the day came with a walk across a steep mountainside to visit a friend of Carla’s--an elder in the community--who was ill. We walked up steep rocks, along a narrow path through fields and past little homes nestled along the way. We finally came to a cinderblock home high on a hill overlooking Port-au-Prince down in the valley.

In the yard were 3 young adult women, 2 teenage girls, two toddlers and an infant all engaged in activities of life: washing clothes, playing with rockes, breast feeding, braiding hair, soothing a scraped knee. The matron of the two-room cinderblock house, a woman who looked to be in her 70’s or 80’s, greeted us with a large wave and a swaggering walk that screamed, “I am fulllll of character.” She gave us--complete strangers--big hugs, kisses on the cheek, and welcomed us into her home. We obliged by ducking under a curtain that blocked the doorway into a cool, shaded room with concrete walls. In the room were one chair and a double bed. On that bed was her husband of 40+ years. He was tiny. A thin white t-shirt hung from his skeletal frame, his hair had grown out a bit without any grey, but his eyes shone with warmth and welcome. He sat up with strength that came from somewhere deep inside. He had been sick for a while, unable to eat or drink much. He knew he was at the end of his life. Although never meeting him, he offered me a seat beside him on the bed. My hand went to his back instinctually, and I felt the bones of his skeleton beneath the thin cotton. The fragility of his body did not represent the depth of his soul. He spoke to us of his life, of his children and grandchildren. He welcomed us, the strangers in the room, to his country and reminded us that there was no black and white, that there were only people. “Tout moun se moun” translated “everyone are people.” He talked about looking forward to the New Year, being glad for friends, proud of family to carry on his ancestry. However even short conversation made him breathless.

It was interesting for me to sit beside him. I was a doctor without my bag or stethoscope. There were no treatments he could afford or diagnostics that would save him. And sitting there, honoring him, listening to his wise words, respecting the end of his life was the most honorable thing I could do as a physician in that moment.

It is a powerful thing to be welcomed into the home of a stranger, especially when that stranger is dying. Words are chosen carefully. All the senses are engaged. Time is sacred.

Recognizing his fatigue, we departed with handshakes and blessings. As we were leaving, his daughter placed his grandson—a 3 month-old baby—on the bed with him to sleep. The final scene as we departed was of an old man curled up on his side in his last days of earth, thin and wearing the story of his life in the creases of his skin. Next to him was an infant, chubby and drowsy with breast milk, at the beginning of his life, with lessons to be learned, memories to be made and the gift of his ancestors to guide him along the way. Both lay in the same position on the bed. The scene was striking.

As we waited for Carla to say her last words of goodbye, Patrick and I squatted with the children of the home. I was overcome with peace, tranquility, a happy sense of being in a place where I wasn't born, but where I was welcomed. I felt honored to share such a moment with these people. The children laughed at us; surely we seemed ridiculous with sweat beads running down our foreheads, with a sense of awe and reverence painted all over our faces. And we laughed at our selves too. Because finally we are learning to take ourselves less seriously, and are allowing ourselves to be caught up in the moment. Life takes us to miraculous places if we pay attention. Today we paid attention. And it did wonders for our soul and for our perspective.

Today a part of Haiti opened up to us. An intimate, beautiful, rich party of Haiti was exposed. Perhaps it was being in the country, a fresh break from the polluted air, constant noise, and hustle-bustle of the city. Perhaps it was being in the presence of and American couple who had weathered 25 years here, and had become all the richer for it, who seemed to look at us with a glimpse of understanding, some good humor, and potentially a little hope? Perhaps it was engaging in conversations about the spirit. Perhaps it was the sacred opportunity to share a moment in life with a family from a village not our own, who spoke a language we are newly learning, but whose humanity was deeply connecting.

All people are people. We get frustrated, we get tired, we are sad and occasionally confused, we feel lost at times and struggle to find our identity in the milieu. But we have the potential to love, to work hard, to create connections, to build families, to laugh, to sing, to dance, to make love, to rejoice in this chaos of life and to nurture hope for an even more beautiful tomorrow.

Today was a good day. I wanted to share it with you.

Last Day of School!

Monday December 22, 2008

Last day of school before Christmas break. The students have been taking exams all week, and were clearly overjoyed to be finished today.

Santa came to the school passing out toys to the youngest, letting children sit on his knee and tell them their Christmas hopes of a doll or a truck or a Gameboy. Even though the kids may not have big bright packages under a tree to look forward to, they still nurture, with bright sparkles in their eyes, the childhood dreams of Christmas.

Patrick and I worked on re-painting some chalkboards while the kids bent over their studies. The group visiting from Massachusetts in November had brought paint to spruce up the worn chalkboards, so we put their generosity into action today. Some of the children, after finishing their exams, lingered behind to watch and to help. We dressed a few in some protective old clothes and let them help us sand the blackboards. They were all smiles as the fine green dust filtered down with their efforts, standing in over-sized clothes happy with a shared responsibility. We finished 5 boards and have many more to do, but hopefully over the holidays with the absence of classes in action, we can finish the face-lift for the classrooms for a new year.

After painting and sweating in the afternoon heat, Patrick and I returned to the guesthouse hungry for cool thoughts. Not able to summon any snow from the sky, I turned instead to sheets of white paper and scissors. After dinner, I sat with my French friend Silvy and taught her how to make paper snowflakes. Silvy returned the favor with a lesson on how to make paper mobiles. So tonight around the tables in the guesthouse, Silvy and I created a snowstorm of elaborate snowflakes, dazzling Christmas mobiles, and colorful chain paper garland. Now Christanor—their adopted child—will have a room decorated for his first holiday with new parents. I thoroughly enjoyed reverting back to skills I learned in elementary school, decking the halls with boughs of paper. Maybe the snowstorm we scissored to make didn’t send a chill through the air, but it brightened up the walls of our room and offered a moment of holiday community in the making of a winter wonderland.

Happy Holidays.

The Trappings of Christmas

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Today is the 4th Sunday in Advent, the last Sunday before Christmas. I was looking forward to church today, hoping to be a part of the celebration of the season with the people of Haiti. For obvious reasons, a lot of the glitz and commercialism that colors so much of our celebrations in the States is absence here. In Haiti, Christmas, we are told, is specifically a time for family. If there is any extra money, it is spent on fixing up the house or home at the year’s end. A truly bountiful Christmas allows for a good meal and possibly small gifts. However most families don’t have the luxury for a celebration.

The drive to church this Sunday morning took us through streets bustling with urban life. We turned to the outskirts of City Solei where green pasture and marshland stretch between settlements. The road passed a large open field filled with thick pasture grass. Several donkeys, loosely lassoed to trees nearby were munching blades of grass lazily in the morning sun; goats picked their way through the green. In the center of this field nestled in the city was a church. The building was in the shape of a large, simple rectangle. Its floor was a cement slab, the walls and ceiling constructed out of thin wooden beams and tin panels. Inside were benches filled with people, chanting out the phrases from the Psalms they were learning in Sunday school. Silk flowers hung from the ceiling splashing a bit of color on the grey interior, and a single table sat at the font of the church covered by a white tablecloth.

I was glad to be there this morning. I find the simplicity of the City Solei churches deeply spiritual. I appreciate the lack of electricity, lack of amplified voice over the people. The air that stirred was provided only by the wind, free to come rustling in the windows. However no special ornaments or decorations were placed in the church to demarcate it from any other Sunday. No candles, no holly, no evergreen, no cross, no nativity. I felt myself secretly yearning for a little symbol of the season. I merely had to learn to look for them differently.

As I had my head bowed during prayers, I noticed spots of light filtering through holes in the tin roof. Pinpoint nail holes or rusted areas in the worn tin above our heads allowed for sunbeams to sneak into the shaded space. The floor was decorated with many spots of light, nature’s own string of Christmas lights creating a Cosmo sphere on the earth and cement floor. I meditated on these spots of light, a familiar symbol of Christmas for me strung in a different place. No electricity was needed, no tree. Just a few tiny gaps in the tin to let the sun filter through and dance light in shaded spaces.

The congregants were dressed simply, but in their Sunday best. The women wore pieces of lace over their heads, the little girl’s satin dresses looking far from new after many a Sunday walking over dusty roads. During the offering, the children came forth, knelt down in front of the table and smiled at us before putting their coins in the dish.

Francois led the congregation in song. The music started slowly, prayerfully, almost mournfully, but picked up tempo in time. The last hymn carried a fast Caribbean beat driven by a single drum. Patrick and I smiled at each other when we spotted the oldest member of the congregation, a little hunched woman sitting on the isle. She sang, face raised, eyes closed, a look of joy spread across her wrinkled face, and her shoulders shimmied to the beat.

My sweet Patrick gave the Christmas message. He spoke of the weeks of advent and what they represented: hope, peace, love and joy. He spoke of the good news given by the Angel Gabriel: that Jesus would be born among the people rather than in the palace of kings. He described the historic scene of Jesus’s birth, the simplicity of the accommodations. Historically we know Mary and Joseph to have been peasants who likely had little education. Jesus was born in a stable, with animals as his nursemaids and straw for a pillow. Looking around the sacred space we found ourselves in this morning, Patrick’s descriptions of the nativity seemed to be illustrated in the very walls that rose around us, by the surrounding field with animals grazing outside the door. I had to blink back tears when he talked about the meaning of the season, the importance of coming together in the spirit of advent. His message was profound in its simplicity and he connected it with the very place, the very situation we found ourselves in. The message of Christmas here is that God lives among all people of all backgrounds, of all social status, of all dogma, and sent his son to be born in a place much like City Solei. In such a profound symbol of love, God speaks that all people have value, that God exists in all places. But especially among the poor, the spirit moves, and is born.

Patrick offered the people the gifts of the advent that are renewed with every new season. Peace that comes through justice, Love of family, friends and of our fellow brothers and sisters of this human race, Joy in the gift of life, and Hope that needs will be met, opportunities will open, suffering will end so that all people may live together in an advent that knows no season, has no calendar date, but that defines every day of our lives.

This church did something different that the others we’ve visited. The pastor of the church, toward the end of the service, introduced the congregation to us. One by one, the congregants came up to shake our hand or touch cheeks. It was beautiful. After a day yesterday of fighting feelings of being quite alone in a foreign place, the intimate introduction to this community was overwhelmingly beautiful. At the end of the service, those who hadn’t been formally introduced came up anyway, bringing their children who giggled as they held out their hands for a shake. We were the recipients of a hundred hands and bright smiles, gifts of friendship and welcome.

Today I moved past my need of my own traditional symbols of faith, and found them in everything surrounding me. Such observations brought a Christmas story from a time 2000 years ago into the present. A stained glass picture of a biblical story is instead replaced by a living, moving scene of palm trees, blue sky, bright sun and green grass surrounding the church. Candles aren’t needed when spots of light create their own dancing light through holes in the tin. Instead of a manger scene, we see the Christ child in the infant carried in by his mother, nestled in the pews among the community in which he was born. A cross isn’t needed to symbolize ever-living faith… it radiates from the eyes of the people, raises up in their voices, and is palpable through the holding of hands and smiles shared. As Patrick mentioned in his sermon, under this simple building in the middle of the field, the church was filled only with the spirit of God who rode in on the wind, who rose up through song in one unified voice, who beamed from the faces of young and old that sat together shoulder-to-shoulder in the pews. We prayed in a field where animals lazily grazed, where the wind stirred the air, where people came together. This morning the spirit of advent saturated every face, every detail in the simplicity of the church we prayed in. This morning gave us a Christmas moment unlike any other we’ve had.

Tonight, we just returned from another radio show. Questions volleyed to us asked what Haiti can hope for with the election of a new American president, what our impressions are of the country and how they differ from what we expected or had heard prior to coming. Patrick was asked to give an abbreviated form of his Christmas message, and he did so beautifully. We were then asked to share our own hopes for the Haitian people over the radio waves. As always, we felt humbled as we tried to represent not only ourselves, but the country, the people we come from. We were reminded of our responsibility to make people aware, to challenge systems of oppression within our own country that discriminates through racism and exclusionism, through economic sanctions and closed borders. The Haitian people are looking to us, as Americans, to open our eyes to their plight, to reach out in friendship and hear their story. They look to us for hope in the future, a hope in finally doing things differently.

Driving home after the radio show, darkness had once-again fallen. I love the city after the sun goes down, the energy that continues to flow regardless of night. And tonight, we were surprised to see Christmas lights wrapping themselves around many a building, music pulsating through churches and night clubs passed.

After struggling with being able to share in the traditions of our family’s Christmas, today we were happily filled with a tropical spirit of the holidays… through the simplicity of faith rising up above the poverty in City Solei, intertwined in the conversation about hope over the radio waves, and in the vibrancy of life after dark accented with the twinkling of lights.

Merry Christmas from Haiti. May you also find your own Christmas joy in the unexpected, in the simplest of moments. May you fall in love with the interconnectivity of life, in the energy that moves us. May you be wrapped in the peace of the spirit, on the earth that you walk on, the air that you breath. May you recognize the Christ child in the faces of all you meet, and may you turn your conversations and meditations to the hope in the future for all people.

Patrick's Musings #7

December 17, 2008


1) Our Creole instructor is not only fluent in English and Creole, but he is also an expert on a variety of issues ranging from Voodoo hexes to the New Jersey judicial system. Today he once again dipped into his infinite well of knowledge and shared a juicy piece of information with us about Haitian women. According to our beloved professor, Haitian women can, and do, carry out revenge on their poorly behaved spouses to a degree that would make even Laurena Bobbitt incredulous. Our professor prefaced his lesson on the intricacies of Haitian women with the statement that wives in Haiti are notorious for going to extremes when extracting revenge on their husbands. He told us a few tales including one about a man that apparently mistreated his wife at home. The man ended up being stuffed into a barrel by his wife. This barrel was later filled with acid. All the authorities ever found were his bones. I sensed a warning in our professor’s voice as he shared this story: beware of Haitian women he seemed to be saying. However, after spending some time with this man it’s relatively apparent why some women would resort to such measures. Interestingly enough, I noticed Kim taking a large amount of notes while we were being told this information. Coincidence?

2) Did you know that there are only two countries in the world that do not have a McDonald’s? They are Bhutan and Haiti. Bhutan is a Buddhist country just east of Nepal and the northern tip of India. While I cannot speak about how Bhutan is fairing without the golden arches, I can say with complete confidence that Haiti seems to be managing. In fact, Haiti has it’s own fast food chain called “Epidor.” Epidor’s food is pretty darn good actually. Their burgers are somewhat lacking, primarily in meat, but their fries are not bad and their sodas are cold. My favorite part of Epidor is their logo, which is a French fry with a large smile on its face. Granted it looks more like something Bob Marley might have smoked than a French fry, but McDonald’s fries don’t have faces. Way to step it up Haiti.

3) This week in my Hebrew Bible class as I was wrapping up a lecture on the book of Exodus, I asked the students how they thought the stories spoke to the people of Haiti and how they might use Exodus in their future ministries. As I was bracing myself for profound answers that would demonstrate the power of my teaching and the depths of the connections that I was making with the students, a hand quickly shot up. The student went on and on in Creole for nearly two minutes. I was intrigued and eager to hear his thoughts. My interpreter turned to me and said, “He want to know why man in Iraq throw shoe at George Bush?” These are the moments when I know I’m truly touching lives.

4) Poverty manifests itself in so many different ways. One of the ways it surfaces in Haiti is in the large amount of stray dogs that roam the streets of Port-au-Prince. These dogs are everywhere and can always be found in large garbage heaps and anywhere else they might find food. As many of you know, I have a special affinity for humanity’s best friend and one of the sites that really shakes me up is seeing one of these dogs run over on the road. It is a relatively common site in the city and something that is unavoidable as long as there are tons of unneutered and non-spayed dogs living alongside the dense traffic of the city. In the grand scheme of Haiti, I know it is only a minor thing really, but I think it is another sad example of the pervasive nature of poverty.

5) As missionaries operating out of a model of “co-mission,” Kim and I are constantly called to open ourselves to receiving gifts from the people of Haiti. This is perhaps the most important aspect of our work in Haiti, but it can also be the most difficult to carry out. This past Sunday was a beautiful example of how co-mission can take place. Kim and I attended a worship service in Cite Solei, which can only be described as powerful. Kim documented this experience well on our blog, so I won’t get into details here. I will only say that there was a song that had so much spirit and soul-force in it that I nearly wept from happiness. Needless to say, this is not a common feeling for me in church. But last Sunday I felt so moved by the singing and dancing of the people in Cite Solei that I felt like I received a gift that I can never fully give back. I think this experience epitomizes “co-mission.”

6) The random t-shirt of the day goes to a man who entered our bank with a blue t-shirt that had a picture of a hockey player and read, “Finally a sport middle-sized white guys can play.” He seemed surprised to actually run into one in the bank. Little does he know that I am currently dominating the CONASPEH after-school basketball league.

7) Jesus allegedly said in Matthew 25:36, “I was naked and you gave me clothing.” This may seem like an odd statement until you live in a place like Haiti. Everyday Kim and I see naked children playing and standing alongside the roads. This morning, however, we saw a grown woman standing at a busy intersection with only a pair of shorts on. She was clearly suffering from some severe form of mental illness and was in a lot of distress. She had scabs and blood covering parts of her body, which told the story of just how rough her life must be. It was a disturbing, but powerful site to see. We decided to circle back around and give her a t-shirt we happened to have in the car. I think I speak for Kim too when I say that we didn’t felt particularly great or empowered by giving the women our t-shirt. Let’s face it; her life is not exactly radically different after the act. Yet, I can’t help but think about Jesus’ words in Matthew. I believe that Christianity does a disservice to itself and the world when it portrays God as an omnipotent and omniscient force. The God of Jesus that I am drawn to suffers in the “least of these my brothers and sisters.” It is not a God of unparalled power and knowledge, but a God of vulnerability and one who is present in all places and with all people, including on the street corners of Port-au-Prince. With that comes today’s quote of the day from historical Jesus scholar John Dominick Crossan, “The Church gave unto God the attributes which belonged exclusively to Caeser.” Will we continue to do the same?

Dick and Jane Go To Haiti

Wednesday, December 16, 2008

I have been known to exaggerate in my day. I come by it naturally as I hail from a family of drama lovers and expressive personalities. If we’re hot, we’re MELTING. Embellishments are often thrown into stories to add a flair for entertainment. But I can honestly say Haiti has trumped my ability to exaggerate. No matter the words we try to string together to describe what we see, feel, experience, they seem to pale in comparison to reality. And when bizarre things happen, only describing them exactly as they happen can convey the bizarreness; embellishments are distractions.

For example, today’s Creole lesson. Our teacher started the session by composing a short story for us to translate. He started writing out this story on the blackboard on the main room of the guesthouse where we have our lessons. Mind you, people are trafficking in and out during our lesson--it’s not private. The main character of the story was a school-aged girl who ought to be in school, but wasn’t. Instead, she is meeting someone her age for a ride to the beach. On the beach they run, they throw sand at each other, they jump in the ocean, and then they make love without a condom. 2 weeks later she is pregnant, but she doesn’t know who the baby daddy is because she does this with lots of guys.

In summary: Dick and Jane go to the beach, and now Jane’s pregnant. But she doesn't know if Dick, Harry or Mo is responsible. This is our Haitian bedtime story.

You can imagine Patrick and my sideways looks at each other.

The teacher then started asking us questions to test our comprehension. “Why is the girl pregnant?” Because she didn’t use a condom. “What do you think about the girl?” My eyes narrowed. Teacher was dancin’ with fire. Loaded question, teacher. Judging his swagger, I came to a defensive conclusion that he had his own opinion, and the hairs on the back of my neck were bristling. I was trying to formulate a sentence asking him if he thought it was only the woman’s responsibility that she was now with child, and where was Mr. Hot Pants now? But Patrick stepped in diplomatically with, “she should be in school so she isn’t on the beach.” With irresponsible men, I wanted to add.

And through the day, Patrick and I have been finding endless humor in the bizarre choice of “story time” we had today. I have to admit, though, I wasn’t laughing during the lesson. I had my mental dukes up.

The truth is, “what do you think about the girl” was a bag of worms I doubt the teacher had any idea he was unloading. Why is this girl in the story not in school? Likely because her family, if she has one, cannot afford to send her to one. Maybe she went to the beach to exercise her right to love anyone she wants anytime she wants. Maybe she went under the guise of innocent fun and left fulfilling an obligation, satisfying a romantic whim, succumbing to force, or financing a meal? Did she act in ignorance of the dangers of sexual promiscuity or take a fully informed risk? Was she searching for a man to help lift her out of her poverty, a father for a child, a source of support? Or was she selling her body to feed herself, her family, using the only resource she has to make money? At the best, the story he told today was a glimpse into the hard realities of poor women and an opportunity to discuss systems in place that allow for single parent families. At the worst, the story was an insensitive attempt at humor or judgment. Perhaps our Creole teacher was attempting his skills in sex ed and public health, or he may have thought he’d give us a more entertaining story to perk our interest in language learning. Maybe its cultural: maybe such a story is so common place it carries no hidden meaning. Or maybe he had no intention at all… that this was just a story, a common story to help us learn vocab. But boy did I given teacher a mental talkin’ to. I imagine my internal reactions were colored by my worries over my burned patient, the victim of a power play, lack of respect for women, for life. I've felt defensive for the Haitian woman after the week's events.

The Haitian woman is certainly taking care of herself, and I have met many a female Haitian leader, both of the home and of an organization, that makes me proud to be a woman. Poverty opens the door to vulnerability and lack of education fuels reckless behavior. These are hard truths. And despite my attempts at cultural observation and acceptance, I find it hard to tolerate any perceived notion that somehow the woman is the crazy, irresponsible being in the Garden of Eden condemning men with her poisonous apple.

Today rather than shooting daggers or taking off with the defensive rant boiling in my brain, I asked the teacher what the cultural role of men and women were in Haiti when it comes to relations. And with whom in Haiti, culturally speaking, does responsibility lie for health precautions and family planning? I think he picked up on my slant oozing through my words for he then started talking only to Patrick. “Well you know, with guys… “ Lets just say my questions didn’t get answered.

Oh the questions that have been running through my brain: how to encourage strong, intelligent, independent woman in the face of repression and poverty, how to encourage men to look at women as equals, not as things to be used or to be feared (for their poison coochie) but as partners, how to be an opinionated, privileged white woman showing proper respect in a culture that doesn’t see the world through my own eyes. I am all the more proud to work with women like Francois Villier who exude strength and confidence, who say by their very stature, “watch out, I’m here and I will be heard.” I’m proud of CONASPEH for investing in young women, giving them strong role models to follow, encouraging thought. Education, I believe, is the key to strong people, men and women, who break free from the bonds of ignorance, racism, sexism, and injustice. In the meantime, I will work on my skills on balancing diplomacy and tolerance while leaving no question as to my thoughts on justice and equality.

To finish on an upnote, my patient showed up in clinic again today for her bandage change. She asked me for a print of the photo. “I’d like to take it to the police.” Maybe she is ready to make a case for herself. Maybe she just needed a little time to process, or time to work up the courage to do what she needs to do. Who knows, but I'd like to think she found courage through the support of her community. And maybe her daughter will grow up with her example of strength. I can only hope

Making Connections

Tuesday, December 15, 2008

Home tonight after a long, but gratifying day. I met with a physician from the States who has been working in Haiti for the last 5 years. She works two big health-care organizations in Haiti: PIH and GHESKIO. Today’s visit was to get to know the people and services of GHESKIO, a facility that specializes in TB and HIV diagnosis and treatment. They also offer sex education and the diagnosis and treatment of STD’s One of our partners in the States helped make this connection, and I am extremely grateful for it. Networking makes up such a huge part of our work here, and any help in the process only expediates the connections made.

During the day I attended a seminar on multidrug-resistant TB, met with staff and leaders of the organization, learned about their commitment and resources for the community. They asked about CONASPEH and recognized the huge potential for public health education with such a large network of churches. I was glad for their enthusiasm. They also may be a resource for auxiliary training for our nurses, potential training for a lab tech, and certainly a great resource for our patients. It was a good day for CONASPEH, for networking and for my own sense of connecting to a medical community outside of our little school walls.

The adventures of the day came in the form, once again, of trying to find where we were going. Patrick and I needed to find the hotel where the conference was taking place. On the website, "location" was only defined as “Petionville” which sort of points us to a general, broad area. In all honesty, street names wouldn’t have enlightened us further since there aren’t signs on many corners clueing you into the identity of the street. Street sense comes from try and fail for foreigners or relying on the innate familiarity by the locals. We rely on the locals to get anywhere, to do anything, to find any place. We’ve learned that just following one street or another only wastes gas, and never helps us find the location. Even large stores hide unmarked behind walls, so for the unfamiliar driver, they are certain to miss. But the beauty of Haiti is that the locals are more than willing to help. Today, we drove to the main square of Petionville and asked a local artesian where the hotel was. Oh yes he knew, and he would show us. So he hopped in our car, and instructed us along a maze of turns and curves until, sure-enough, we arrived at the hotel entrance. Patrick drove the man back, tried to thank him with a tip, but it was refused. Instead, the man asked Patrick to look at his art. So Patrick obliged and found a souvenir necklace from Napolean, our new guide and friend.

Patrick had a similar challenge at finding me at the day’s end. We were supposed to meet at a different location to share dinner with a couple of people from GHESKIO. I had been with the physician’s group all day, and therefore could only tell Patrick the name and general location of the fancy hotel where we were to meet. I worried. The sun had set, it was Aristide’s birthday and demonstrators were hitting the streets. It wasn’t a time for Patrick to get lost. Being separated from him always leaves me a little uneasy. Although growing more comfortable with our community and our ability to get around in it, I still have a healthy fear of the unpredictable, the unsafe that is a reality of this country. Patrick made it to the hotel eventually, but not without adventure and a lot of help from people on every corner.

So often in travels we find we are taken care of by random strangers, good people reaching out to us in friendship and care without any reason to do so outside of simple kindness. Our experience speaks that Haiti is full of such people; daily interactions, directions, and help arise out of the Haitian hospitality. The poor share their doorstep, the man on the corner shows us the way, organizations offer collaboration, street children help fix our car, a woman in a tap-tap orients us to our surroundings, a child takes our hand. These kinds of encounters make us feel a safe and encouraged in a new community, connected through our humanity. They renew the belief in the good in people, and how beautiful our world can be when we work together, fear aside, for a nicer place for all to live.

a burn

MONDAY December 14, 2008

Today started like any other: my hand searching the darkness to silence the incessant beeping of my watch alarm, a sleepy shuffle to the bathroom, a bracingly cold shower that brought me whipping into consciousness, and an easy breakfast of fruit and coffee. After our Creole lesson, we proceeded to CONASPEH.

Shortly after arriving and just having laid down my bags, one of the kindergarten teachers from the school appeared in my doorway. She held up her arm to show me her injury, asking for assistance. “Burn.” She said simply. Clearly it was a burn. But not from an innocent graze on a curling iron, or a grease splash from frying bacon. This was no accident.

I lead the woman into the clinic, trying to formulate questions as I surveyed the weeping flesh that wrapped her entire forearm leaving it denuded, pink and blistered. I strove to keep my voice quiet and calm as I asked, “who did this?” “My husband. With an iron.” No elaborate story. No tears. Simple facts stated. “Bad husband,” I offered. She smiled. I fumed.

While I photographed the wound (hoping she would be convinced to go to the police), gently cleaned it, and dressed it, Madame Fano came in. She shook here head. “This is grave.” She helped me gently remind our patient that this was not ok. That this kind of treatment was unacceptable, that she and her 3 month-old baby were in danger. She certainly deserved to be safe. I asked if she had anywhere to go. Her parents were dead; she had no siblings. “With you?” she asked. My heart broke. If I had a house, I’m not sure that I could have said no. Of course she would come live with us with her child. I don’t know what it would have solved except kept her safe for a few nights.

I went to Francois and Patrick. They, too, had heard the story. They had urged her to go to the police. The police would arrest the husband, and the woman could safely return to her home. There were advocates for women’s rights here, she would be taken care of. But she had to agree to reporting the crime first. And she wouldn’t agree. “His mother is ill, and I don’t want to kill her.”

I’ve seen this before: denial, protection of the abuser from the victims of domestic abuse. Usually emotional and mental abuse has ripened the soil long before the wounds of violence take shape on the flesh. Domestic violence is not limited to place or time, but certainly is reinforced by poverty. I’ve had many female patients, and some friends who have bared to me the wounds and scars of such violence. And it never gets easier to see. I never stop feeling anger surge into my throat.

I was proud of CONASPEH. Francois and Patrick reached out to their employee, they counseled her, and they warned her of the danger she was in. They also honored her autonomy to make her own decisions. I felt nothing but warm acceptance and compassion. Again, I was proud to be a part of such an organization. And with such a showing of support, I can only hope that the young teacher will find strength in the solidarity of her employers, will one day find courage to recognize her abuser does not have the right to abuse. I can only hope that she’ll come to the realization that she has options and has the support to make hard decisions for her safety and the safety of the child. This is always my hope. And sometimes, miracles happen.

The children today entertained me by reciting their Christmas wish lists. Each child wanted only one thing; a doll, a toy truck, a Gameboy, and a pretend pair of glasses were some of the desired treasures. “When will you bring us our toys?” one boy earnestly asked. Apparently today I resembled a bearded man in red with a belly like a bowl full of jelly. I had to break the news gently that I wasn’t Father Christmas, but helped cheer them up with a diversion. Like the pied piper, Patrick drew the children to him with a ball and engaged some of the younger kids in drills for passing, dribbling and shooting. I was happy to see some young girls take interest, and I joined in the game to encourage their participation. We laughed, we sweat, we encouraged team play. The children laughed and ran and tumbled, all smiles. They helped heal the ache in my stomach for my patient, the powerlessness I felt in my ability to intervene, my fear that she might not show up tomorrow.

A game eventually formed, and I retreated to the bench to play happy observer. I watched one of our kindergarten students sitting on the bench next to me in the red smock of her class, her hair in braids with bright ribbons. Her foot was propped up on her knee to support the book she was reading. She hunched over her papers studiously, and with her pencil outlined the syllables she was sounding out. Her husky little voice practiced the phonetics of her language as she sounded out short phrases. She hardly noticed my presence, so deep was her concentration. I smiled. I can only hope education will empower this little girl, help her think for herself, help her develop a strong identity so that she can build a unique life. I hope education can offer her a future that is as broad as her dreams, that she will find a voice to stand up for herself, to recognize injustice and refuse maltreatment.

We stayed late at the school this afternoon, thoroughly enjoying time with the kids. The girls got a hold of my camera, and because miniature photographers, capturing each other’s faces, taking turns posing, letting the silly faces of childhood be captured in a digital flash. Driving back to the guesthouse, Patrick and I agreed that the children make it easier to get up every day, to keep a smile when it would be easier to cry. They help us heal. They offer perspective. They are the faces of hope. May we love and nurture them well.

Church in City Solei

OUR CHRISTMAS TREE--at least an abstract representation~

December 14, 2008

Today we went to a church in City Solei--the notorious neighborhood that has some of the most extreme poverty, harbors gangs that do most of the kidnappings, and where rumors run abound. A pastor we met Friday at the HACNAPH meeting invited us there. So we went with Patrick, Francois and their children.

City Solei is devastatingly poor-- the kind of place that causes your heart to sink as you drive through. You want to rescue everyone you see, but instead you are resign yourself to observing a world with realities so different from your own. Our realities don't fit in a place like this. City Solei is so poor that it doesn't have walls. I didn’t notice that on my first drive through last week. It felt strangely intimate in its suffering and poverty, but today I realized it was because I was looking INTO homes, looking into shops and neighborhoods. There weren't walls blocking my view of life. The realization made me appreciate the lack of barriers while struggling with feelings of trespassing somehow on the intimacies of peoples’ days. Life and hardship are exposed to all passersby.

The little church we came to was simple. Tin roof, one open room filled with pews. A few artificial flowers were nailed to the walls. No big ornate cross, no pictures or stained glass. Essentially we walked into a large plain room. No electricity, no fans, no synthesizer, no microphone. The faces were its only decorations, voices its only music. And it was all the more beautiful for it. I think it was God's most perfect church... an assembly of people passionate in prayer, not shy in song. No organ was needed, no amplified voice. All music, all sound, all energy came from each individual on their own accord, with their own strength. It was all so incredibly real.

The minister came alive. He led most of the service and we quickly fell in love. The prayers were real and carried a political edge. He prayed to a God who understands hunger, illness, the tragedy that afflicts these peoples’ lives every minute of every day. He didn't mince words or try to flower up reality. He prayed to a God who walks in the dirt, who can't afford to go to the hospital, who has lost a child, who hasn't eaten in days. Yet he did so not with anger, but with hope. And the people prayed with equal hope, with joy. I was completely overwhelmed.

The music was less a celebration and more a form of heart-felt prayer. Some songs unmistakably carried pain, lifted sorry out of hearts into the room, cleansed. During the time of prayer, people got on their knees. The pastor lead a prayer, but refrained from speaking for the individuals. Each person spoke their own prayer in whatever voice they needed to speak. Some sobbed, others cried out. Words came in whispers, others came in song. The discordant sound of hundreds of voices talking to God was jarring and deeply spiritual. And in the white noise of the community prayer, I found my own need to speak with God.

In honesty, church hasn't yet been a spiritual place for me here. The worship style isn't my own. I've enjoyed the dance with a new culture, the observation of faith practices. The music has made me happy and smiling at new faces is always my favorite part. But my own conversations with God, my own nurturing of spirit happens elsewhere... often on the roof at night, or in my room, or on a drive through the country. But this morning, my spirit stirred in church. I was pulled in, I felt connected. I was no longer the observer, but felt a whole body need to send my prayers up at that very moment. Mine were sent through my thoughts, silently, in the way I've most often prayed. But they were sincere, and felt safe in the moment of such spiritual honesty, such a moment of sharing. It was a time when the air between God and people was thinned.

The voices slowly died down. People returned to their seat. Eyes flipped open. The minister, his voice a bit softer, started to speak. And the church quietly listened. Then from somewhere in the back, a woman was sobbing. Maybe she was still in the middle of her most intimate prayer, maybe she had more need. But I was amazed at the minister’s instincts. He acknowledged her, not by calling her name out or asking what was the matter. He stopped himself mid sentence and listened, looked, an expression of understanding came over him... and then he turned to the congregation and started a new song. It started slowly. I think it was a way of giving the woman some privacy. She could cry out in the comfort of song rising around her. I think it was an effort at wrapping the community around her, giving her strength in the noise to let go of the pain that was wrenching her body. And the congregation sang, they sang loud, they sang in love.

The song had a life of its own. Although starting slowly and with a mournful tone, it quickly gathered tempo. A few men picked up drums, tambourines and a rhythm stick and started accentuating the rhythm with a new beat. The tone of the song went from somber to joyful. And then pastor started leading the congregation in a dance of sort. Clapping together for a while.... raising hands straight above the head, to the right, leaning forward, leaning back, spinning around. It was one massive accapella line dance. And we couldn't help but join in.

Again, I always have been an observer in church. When people raise their hands in the air, I bow my head in respect. But today the spirit and the fun of the moment took hold. Patrick and I were dancing to the Simon-says song in minutes, much to the delight of the congregation. Francois and Patrick were joining our laughter. We didn't understand the words of the song, but felt the meaning, and were able to celebrate as a community. It was liberating, it was exercise for the body and spirit, it was communal. It was the most fun we've had.

Patrick gave a sermon. I can't speak about it, because I was pulled into a room full of children during the sermon. They wanted me to meet them, greet them. Then the children sang for me. I can't help but wonder what I've done to earn such beautiful gifts. I didn't have my doctor's bag, I didn't bring food or candy, our offering was a token at best. But everywhere we go, we are given something for our presence by people who have so little. Today the children sang for me. One little boy reached up and dusted off the back of my shirt. He smiled. I had just been thinking how I wanted to wrap children up and take it home and feed them until they no longer looked like they existed in a daze of hunger. But mid-thought, a child reached up and instead took care of me.

After church, we got in the Villier's car, but the battery was dead. I'd like to say that a little healthy fear came over me. A stalled car in city solei should instill some healthy fear. But I had none. A large group of men (and boys) from church surrounded the car, and started pushing it to the main road. Popping the clutch didn't work, so we had to hail a tap-tap to try to get a jump-start.

The fixing of the car quickly became an activity for many a man. Francois and I walked along the street, between houses, finding shade. Our first rest stop in a shady alley wasn't ideal as it was filled with poop. So we ventured into the yard of a woman and sat on her porch. She came out and greeted us, asked if we'd like chairs or something to drink. She told us about recently loosing her husband and the challenges of raising her six kids alone. The fact that we were strangers taking advantage of the shade of her porch didn’t seem to phase her. She recounted the difficulty of her days with courage and a smile. Children from the street quickly surrounded us. After we disappointed them by telling them we had no money to dole out or sweets to give, they found ways of amusing themselves with us anyway. Patrick entertained them with showing them his thumb trick and at the freakish flexibility of his joints. I showed them how to whistle with their knuckles and how to a snap clap gallop with their hands. The kids were joining in with our "how to make fun sounds with your body" session. It was too funny. A man from the street wandered up and greeted us. "Bad car?" He asked. "Yah, think we'd be better off with a donkey." Patrick said. The man laughed. "I'll let you ride mine!"

Its hard to be intimidated when people embrace your presence so easily, when they make you feel like you belong on their front porch, that you are at home in their streets playing with their children. Maybe it was the church service that did it for me... the undeniable feeling of connectedness that happened today... and lingered with me into the streets in the hot afternoon sun. Whatever it was, I was intensely happy. I wasn't nervous about the car, wasn't impatient to get home. We were in good hands, and the day was unfolding in remarkable ways.

Eventually the men got the truck roaring back to life. We all piled back into the cab, and the bed of the truck suddenly was filled with precious cargo--men, women and children who desired a ride in the direction we were going. We obliged our new friends... they'd given us so much today, a free ride was the least we could do. So off we went bustling down the streets. The children in the back peered in at us through the window. We made faces at each other and laughed. I was having a ball. When we came to our car and had to get out, I felt a little sad waving good-bye to this amazing community of people. I hope to play with them again someday; I hope to pray with them soon.

A week in review...

Saturday, December 13, 2008

Saturday night, on the roof. There is barely a breeze stirring. The leaves hang motionless from the trees. Above us the moon hangs in the sky like a solitary Christmas ornament, glowing orange through the dust in the air. Patrick read that the moon is as close to us as it will be all year. Sure enough, it looks as if I could reach out and pinch it from the heavens. After a week that felt rather bookish, its nice to waste away a little time on the rooftop watching night drape itself over the city.

The week was largely carless as the automotive shop kept finding must-fixes that took a lot of manpower and extra parts, apparently. Not that I doubted them. We were just about ready lead the Galloper to the barn and put it out of its misery. After our first go-with-the-flow tap-tap ride that almost took us to a new city, we have since mastered the art of pick-up travel. It isn’t highly time-efficient, or the best way to preserve that early morning crisp and fresh look, but it is a wonderful way to immerse yourself into the community. We have become quite assertive, pounding on the side of the truck when we see our stop coming, verifying we are indeed heading to the desired road, and conversing easily with our fellow travelers. Funny how the more comfortable you feel with something, the less gawky stares you attract. Uncertainty must radiate off us at times. I came to truly enjoy the adventure of tap-tap riding despite the edeu-de-exhaust-fumes-and-dust we wore on entering the school or the fact we ended up getting to work late morning no matter how direct we chose the path. But it gave us insight into “Haitian time.”

Days of the week were spent largely with our heads buried in books, or surfing the net. Patrick emerged to teach some English classes, and attempted to teach his Old Testament class, but was a little less effective since the translator was a no-show. But ever the student, he had outlined his notes in Creole, so at least he could write a few things down to guide the student’s studies for the week. Aside from memorizing Creole vocab, reading several books on the history and culture of Haiti, and reviewing texts on nursing and tropical medicine, I was able to make a few appointments for next week in efforts to learn more about the community of health care in Port-au-Prince.

Friday, we joined Patrick and Francois at the first meeting of the central organization of protestant churches: Haut Conseil National Protestant D'Haiti (HACNAPH). The night before, Patrick was asked to give the sermon at the meeting. I guess we’ve acclimated because the last minute bomb barely caused an eyebrow twitch from my husband.

The meeting was filled with heads of churches and church organizations in Haiti that are now coming together in a united organization in order to gain recognition from the Haitian government. The air of the meeting was jovial—not the power play we were worried might emerge given the diverse mix of people. I think the fact that the group symbolizes the first state recognition of the protestant church, and that now a place in the national budget will go to protestant church social outreach unified all there in celebration. Patrick—who continues to amaze me with his foresight—gave a beautiful sermon from Ephesians on Paul’s call for unity through patience, humility and gentleness. He kept the message simple, and it was all the more powerful for it. I have to admire my husband. He looked so pale and skinny compared to the large black men all around him. He spoke with a quiet confidence, humbled by the fact that he spoke to an audience of seasoned preachers. But essentially his very presence represented his message. He earned endless handshakes and shoulder pats. People quoted his message during their own turn at the mic. I would have loved a little translator at our side to let us know exactly what was being shared. We got a general overview from Patrick and Francois, but knew a lot of subtleties were left out since their summary was in once sentence and the meeting lasted well over 4 hours. ☺

We are to the point when our word recognition gives us little glimpses into a story told. But we have a LONG way to go before f word recognition couples with the cultural peculiarities of language. For instance, I heard something to the effect of big pastors eating little pastors. What? I can only assume the context would have defined the phrase better. Perhaps it was a commentary on the need for lifting all pastors up and not being the kind of leader that crushes the “little people” on the road to the to,p. Then again, it might have been a commentary on the voodoo belief that when you ‘hex’ someone you “eat” the soul? Ah, the danger of peep-holes from completely oblivious unknown to partial understanding.

Today was a good day. Did some reading, picked up our first care-package from my mom full of all sorts of goodies and mementos. There is something really special about a hand-written note… it brings not only the voice, but the familiar script that only a loved-one’s hand can create. A treasure. A closeness. We also entered the bank for the first time as real-live customers, made our first deposit and withdrawal without a snag. I told the cashier that it was my first time, and she laughed at me, at my pride in my small victory. But it makes a community feel more your own when you can go to the bank, go to the store, navigate along now-familiar streets, even recognize people along the way. Little by little, a bit of the foreignness is replaced by subtly familiar. And a peace enters to replace angst.

Because errands were going to have us miss the regular dinnertime at the guesthouse, we went to the restaurant Patrick discovered last weekend. Although we were the only two diners in the vast place with white tablecloths and Christmas decorations hung from every wall, we enjoyed a quiet and delicious meal of Haitian cuisine (and ever so affordable despite the fancy trappings). Tonight we met the landlord of our future rental unit. She is a lovely woman who welcomed us into her home, discussed a likely move-in date and the things she needed to do to our future home before we arrived. Driving through the neighborhood that will sooner than later be OUR neighborhood made us both happy. Especially when Patrick recognized one of his students walking in a street. Already, we had a community, and we haven’t even moved in. ☺

Now the moon has climbed a little higher in the sky. The traffic is thinning a bit, and a good Caribbean beat thumps from some hidden nightspot down the road. Time to say good-bye to the cool night air in favor of a restful sleep.

Our First Tap-tap Ride

December 8, 2008

Friday we dropped the Galloper—our vehicle—off at the mechanic finally after every application of the breaks (happens quite frequently in PaP traffic) resulted in squeaky complaint. Not wanting to wait for our car to one day go careening out of control, we found a nearby auto-shop and left it for a good look over, tune up and break check. Lets just say they have been thorough, and our little vehicle has been undergoing intensive work for the last 3 days. I fully expect to pick up a transformed machine, life breathed back in, ready to gallop off into the Port-au-Prince sunset when the work is done. But in the meantime, we walk.

The garage rendering us carless, we’ve been forced to get to know a different part of Haiti… either that or resign ourselves to being dependent shut-ins until we can re-connect with wheels. So in efforts to stay mobile, we had our first exposure to the Haitian tap-tap system. To access the pick-up taxi’s, we first have to walk 10 blocks to the main road from the guesthouse. And the simple act of walking in Port-au-Prince brings you up close and personal with life on the streets. The dust of the streets kicks up around the shoes, the smells of cooking, of urine, of dirt, of car fumes swirls in the air. There is no quickly passing by piles of trash. Instead, we pick our way over streams of dirty water, around men welding metal furniture, past women selling hygienic supplies, shoes and fried plantains. We follow dogs foraging for scraps, children playing alone with a rock while their parents busy themselves with tasks of the day or sit idly by waiting for something to happen. And with the mild exertion, sweat beads up on the brow baptizing our freshly-showered bodies with the first sweat of the day.

We didn’t have much of an “introduction to riding tap-taps.” There isn’t a manual or bus schedule. So, with an air of adventure, we hopped on one facing in the general direction of the school. Mashed together with people not operating under the social constraints of “personal space” we were off, bumping and lurching through the busy early morning traffic. I maintained a death-grip on the metal cage keeping us from being thrown from the truck-bed. After some initial outright stares at our presence in the truck, general friendly conversation and inquiries broke out. Everyone crammed into the tight space seemed to engage in conversation, as if we were sitting around a coffee-table in someone’s living room.

Of course the conversation kept us from hopping off the truck at our needed transfer place, and unfortunately, the tap-tap took us in exactly the opposite direction of the school. Not wanting to jump off prematurely, and confident we’d eventually come to a road we'd recognized, we tried to maintain cool. Patrick definitely goes with the flow better than I do; the highly acidic Haitian coffee I had with breakfast wasn’t taking too kindly to our early morning jostling and circuitous route to work. We eventually hopped off one truck at a familiar intersection, poured our coins into the outstretched palm of the driver and hopped on another truck pointed back toward the side of the city where CONASPEH is nestled. Our bearings were a little out of wack given the new perspective riding in the back of a truck allowed. Instead of looking ahead, we were forced to scan the businesses already passed, looking for something familiar, a clue to where we needed to turn, a glimpse of a familiar landmark. I did my best to swallow the emerging panic that we were possibly heading out to the countryside and becoming hopelessly lost. Apparently I didn’t mask my worries well enough. Several of our seatmates looked concerned and asked if we knew where we were going. We answered with where we WANTED to go. One woman’s eyes got wide. Clearly we weren’t close. But just when I was ready to succumb to the whimsy of the tap-tap driver, we recognized a filling station and the road that would eventually lead to the school. TAP TAP TAP we banged on the window. Its our stop. So once again we hopped off, and back onto a third truck after verifying it wasn’t planning on veering off course from the familiar road. We were found. And sure enough, we soon were deposited at the entry of the CONASPEH school, a good hour after we had left the guest house. Late, but happy with our accomplishment and being saved from complete disorientation, we wandered up the drive. Patrick Villier joked with us asking if we road a donkey to work. I think a donkey would have been easier. Hopefully next time we’ll be a little more assertive, and attentive, and ensure we are headed in the right direction. But in the true Haitian way, we adapted to our environment and emerged not so worse for the wear. Piti piti. Day by day we learn. I’ll be glad to reunite with the new-and-improved Galloper after its all said and done, but am ultimately thankful for the experience we were forced to navigate, one of many “firsts” checked off our list in our Haitian emersion. As with all new experiences here, it allowed us to experience a part of the daily routine for so many people. And that was worth getting lost for.

Sunday afternoon catch up

December 7, 2008

Today has afforded us a surprise day off. Due to some car trouble requiring us to leave the Galloper at the car hospital for a while, our Sunday engagements had to be canceled, and suddenly we find ourselves with a little unexpected time.

The last few days have been a blur of activities and insights. Friday, we had planned to go to Jacmel, but the noisy breaks on the car inspired appropriate concern for our safety given the mountainous roads we would have to traverse. So we delayed our trip, and dropped the car off for repairs. Friday night, in response to an invitation by a Canadian group staying in the guesthouse, we attended a dialogue the group had with a Haitian guest speaker. We really didn’t know what to expect. We were told that there was an interesting man coming to visit who would certainly inspire us and make us think. We were not disappointed.

We were greeted by a man with long dark dread-locks woven with silver, a Confucius style beard jutting from his chin, and a warm, welcoming light in his eyes. We soon found out that Jan was an interfaith minister, an intellectual, and a Voodoo priest. He spoke of his identity being comprised of his ancestors who created who he is and inspires his work. His lineage is comprised of a unique assortment of peoples whose roots trace back to Africa on his fathers side, and France on his mother’s side. He wisely recognizes the dichotomy of his ancestry, and the unique perspective such mixings of two very different social and cultural classes affords him. And I think he represents his ancestors well.

The evening was filled with rich dialogue, about the history of his ancestors intertwined with the history of Haiti. He discussed the complexities of the Haitian culture and mindset. He touched upon Voodoo, some of the misconceptions and misrepresentations and clarified its coupling with Catholicism and the saints. We had one of those rare, enlightening conversations that made you want to talk the night away. He welcomed questions and thoughts, received our own observations with grace and interest. Jan exuded an open, welcoming, intelligent air and spirit seemed to pour out of every word as well as out of his physical presence. We felt privileged to have come across his path.

Early in the evening, Patrick and I had dragged our feet a little as we faced giving up our date night in exchange for another meeting. But as we walked back to our room, our minds swimming with thoughts, our hearts inspired, our curiosity perked, we recognized that the timeliness of this exchange and the discoveries it allowed couldn’t have been more perfect.

Yesterday I spent the day with an American medical volunteer group that came down for the weekend to hold a free clinic in the poorest part of Port-au-Prince--City Solei. Accompanied by a guide from the neighborhood, we felt safe venturing into the neighborhood notorious for harboring gangs and some of the most abject poverty in the city. It was my first venture into City Solei—into the heart of it all. I was anxious to see with my own eyes what has been described by so many first time visitors.

Although there was no city gate, no official entrance demarcating our arrival into the neighborhood, the change was obvious. People were everywhere, populating every nook, cranny and walk way. The density of bodies was the first change in the scenery. Although Port au Prince is densely populated and alive with human activities, City Solei takes crowded humanity to a whole new definition. The vast city of tin and stick structures spread out before us, representing some of the poorest conditions a human has to exist in. And poverty cloaked the people here. Children ran naked, dirty, with snotty noses alongside the truck. I watched an older child—an age where nakedness becomes less socially acceptable here—who was clearly mentally retarded, dance naked after a UN army vehicle full of men in full combat fatigues with guns at the ready. The contrast was jarring. I watched a man bathe in his underwear on the roof of one building, sudsing himself using a bowl of water and a bar of soap under the mid-morning sun. The difficulty of life in this part of the city clung to every person we passed colored by the ragged appearance of clothes, the dirt that covered everything, the reddish tinge to the hair of babies signaling malnutrition, the hunger in every eye. The maladies dripped from noses, coughed from mouths, were dirtily bandaged around limbs.

The clinic was set up in a building normally used as a school. I joined two other physicians, a paramedic, 2 nurses, a pharmacist, and several other willing helpers who organized and ran a day that allowed over 400 people to be seen. In a room with a gentle breeze and a bench where people lined up, I saw one face after another aided by a very competent translator. The symptoms ranged from head to toe, but always existed in the background of hunger. The group brought with them a formidable pharmaceutical supply, and we took advantage fully of the coveted resource. Children were given worm medicine, vitamins were dispensed to everyone, hypertension and fever and infection were attacked, pain was soothed. My translator was incredible. After having him translate several educational points several times in a row, he quickly picked up his new role. I would turn to him and say, "tell them about iron-rich food," and he would jump into the shpeal he had translated multiple times before, sometimes addressing everyone who sat in the room waiting their turn for evaluation. I could have hugged him. And he was one of those Haitians furious with the inequalities of his country, but also deeply in love with it. A young man, his energy was inspiring to me and filled me full of hope for Haiti's future.

I am not trained as an Emergency physician, and on some level I think it would suit me better for these brief intensive outreach days. I have to stop myself from saying, “… and come back next week so we can ensure that the medicine is working.” Although gratifying that so many people got to air their concerns and describe their illnesses today, that a lot of good was dispensed, I was still restless with the recognized need of a more permanent presence of health care here. It only fortifies my own will to prepare for a clinic that can modestly serve the community it sits within on a day to day basis.

The day was exhausting, challenging, but rewarding. I fought feelings of not being able to do enough with reassurance that at least we were doing something. And it was lovely to work amidst the energy of medical professionals fresh from the States, radiating the energy and passion for bringing care to people desperately in need.

Patrick returned recently from a jaunt through the neighborhood. He came bearing surprises. He had ventured to our neighborhood little mom-and-pop grocery (actually the whole--family-plus-pen-pals-grocery) in search of a mid-day snack. The grocery was running really low on supplies. He bought peanuts and milk to tide us over till dinner. One of the men hanging around the store saw his curious purchase, and told him about a restaurant upstairs. Clarification: restaurant and discotheque. Apparently the music was bumpin’, but only the workers of the empty restaurant were groovin'. So Patrick ordered from their reasonable menu, got the tour of the (empty) hotel, discotheque, restaurant and hair salon that nestled in the building up the stairs from our neighborhood grocery. We had no idea. Patrick said the establishment was nice, but empty; he quickly became extremely popular. They insisted he bring me back for a date soon.

Patrick surprised me with my favorite Haitian dish: rice and chicken in Creole sauce. Incredible. He added to the surprise with some Christmas decorations he found at the grocery: two little packets of tinsel streamers and a little packet of tiny ornaments (drums, candy canes and pine cones). I love Christmas. The holiday for me is steeped in tradition that my family nurtures with faithful vigilance and love each year. Although far-removed from the cold winds that have always prompted the changing seasons, from the Christmas tree farms and the smell of evergreen, I’ve been determined to celebrate my favorite holiday someway this year despite doing so a long-distance from my family. Using Patrick’s sweet surprises, I busied myself getting REALLY creative. I used some string from a sewing kit, and tied up the green tinsel in such a suspended way that it hangs in the shape of a Christmas tree, the ornaments hanging in the general area of its branches. It’s a modern interpretation, an abstract representation, but it is undeniably our first Haitian Christmas tree. Its one of those kinds of decorations that would never make it in my shopping basket at home... I'd settle only for lights, classic ornaments and evergreen. But you do the best that you can with what you have. And I'm pleased with my little suspended tree. It shakes its "needles" when the fan stirs up the air, almost like doing a little tree shimmy. Makes us laugh a little. True, it lacks that evergreen scent that fills the air with smells of the great outdoors, but in a country that feels like perpetual summer, our room now reminds us that its Christmas time. Maybe I’ll find one of those Pine-tree car fresheners to add to the ambiance. Or not. ☺

So as we all deck the halls using sentiments from the past, and tokens of the present, engaging in the traditions old and new of the special season upon us, we send our sleepy Sunday greetings to you. May the Christmas spirit weave itself into your days, and remind you of friends near and far who join you in the collective consciousness of the season.