Today as I was walking down my mud-river road to the tap tap station (a colorful public bus of sorts) I stopped to greet a child selling peanuts. I try not to buy from children as a general rule--a lesson instilled in me by a Zimbabwean friend and child labor expert in Liberia who said mothers take their children out of school because people think they're cute and want to buy from them, not the moms. But I didn't think of that right away this morning; I just thought of lunch.
As I was looking for change, I asked the little girl about school--questions she dodged with her eyes, making me feel like the purchase wasn't a good idea--like maybe she doesn't go to school, and maybe there is a similar child labor problem here. I didn't have any change anyway, and thanked her and said "another day". I walked on, but a man by the side of the road saw me and said--"you don't have money? Let me buy some for you. They are a gift."
Random kindness of a stranger happens every day here. I am learning to receive in Haiti.
Outsiders come to Haiti right now with the best intentions to give. People have been moved by the crisis here. People have been moved by crises here for many decades. Our compassion is a gift--but I am realizing compassion isn't only about giving.
My friend Djaloki is an expert in helping me and others find ways to interact with Haitians in a way that maximizes dignity. My first week here, he said: "2.2 billion dollars for Haiti, and it is stuck in our throats. We are choking on your 2.2 billion dollars--and this is not the first time. All we want to do is give you something. Let us!"
I'm learning to receive here--it's never been easy for me. My host sister spent 3 hours in the sun washing my clothes as a surprise for me. My host mom got the tin roof fixed where it was dripping on the bed (the bed she bought me while she continues to sleep on a mat on the floor). She was horrified that I was momentarily uncomfortable. She cooks for me, gives me the best of everything. The neighbors are patient as I stumble with my words and fail to understand them on the 3rd attempt.
Generosity doesn't begin to describe.
People ask me for things every day, too--but I have seen the looks on their faces when they receive the handouts of toothbrushes or "2 little old scratchy blankets" after standing in impossible lines, handed to them by beaming and well-meaning outsiders. There is a mask there, even if it's smiling. And I have seen people's faces when I say I don't have tents, I can't pay for their medical visit. When I say it in Creole, here is the strange thing--they actually light up at the 'no'.
I do want to give--but I am learning that charity is not the best option, even in an emergency. Engagement is. Equitable exchange.
Still not sure what that means for a 9 year old peanut seller, but I am trying. And for now, selfish as it may sound, I am receiving the most amazing gifts every day, and it is beautiful. I invite anyone who wants to explore compassion with Haiti to come visit me. Nope--I don't invite you, I challenge you. Engage.
May 17, 2010
May 17, 2010 - Port au Prince, Ayiti - Sweat
A week in Port au Prince, filled with mystery and some weight. It's hard not to be affected by the energy of the place. Haitians consider Port au Prince a "hot" place, whereas my home in Kay Jakmel is a "cold" place. This is not about thermometers.
Hot is aggressive, dominant, loud, active. The sounds of traffic and construction, the buzz of people trying their best to rebuild, the thousand heavy thoughts stuck to every crushed cement block--these make the place hot.
I spend the week with friends driving me around the hills and traffic-stopped roads, to women's organizations now operating out of tents or temporary buildings or alternate locations. I go there to humbly introduce myself and hear about their work. I listen all week, mostly to things not said. The unspoken and the energy of things are what are often most important to people here.
There is so much energy in Port au Prince, it fills you and heats you up, too.
The energy of the women's organization leaders is skeptical--the kind of heavy skepticism that people sometimes put in front of hope, to protect themselves from disappointment.
The energy of the priest is peaceful and kind, as he sits with grey-black hair and kind smile in a plain room full of spirits. Sometimes he just looks at me and laughs, not saying anything.
The energy of the party above Port au Prince, in a house full of artists and musicians, is alive--at least while the drums are playing and the songs begin.
The priest gives the best advice, in the end: "Do not separate yourself. LIVE. To understand people and function at a higher level of compassion, you have to sweat. Don't be afraid to make mistakes--you have to sweat! Jesus did this--you come from a culture that knows that. Buddha also did this. You must sweat! You will make mistakes, but none so serious that they will take you off the path of what you are supposed to do. Sweat! Do you hear me? Sweat!"
Not separating myself is uncomfortable. It means people laugh at my Kreyol because I am not only speaking to friendly people. It means people reject me sometimes. It means they tell me painful stories about the neighbor they don't know how to help--the one who lost his wife, his 3 kids, his house--the one who doesn't know how to go on. It means I have to open myself up and trust boys every so often; after all, there are some cute ones. It means I have to engage, especially when I want to be alone.
That--say all the various denominations of holy people I know here--that is what I am meant to learn here. I needed a hot place to learn how to sweat. And then I can do what I came here for.
---
Dear friends: Please send cold water and a fan when you are able.
Hot is aggressive, dominant, loud, active. The sounds of traffic and construction, the buzz of people trying their best to rebuild, the thousand heavy thoughts stuck to every crushed cement block--these make the place hot.
I spend the week with friends driving me around the hills and traffic-stopped roads, to women's organizations now operating out of tents or temporary buildings or alternate locations. I go there to humbly introduce myself and hear about their work. I listen all week, mostly to things not said. The unspoken and the energy of things are what are often most important to people here.
There is so much energy in Port au Prince, it fills you and heats you up, too.
The energy of the women's organization leaders is skeptical--the kind of heavy skepticism that people sometimes put in front of hope, to protect themselves from disappointment.
The energy of the priest is peaceful and kind, as he sits with grey-black hair and kind smile in a plain room full of spirits. Sometimes he just looks at me and laughs, not saying anything.
The energy of the party above Port au Prince, in a house full of artists and musicians, is alive--at least while the drums are playing and the songs begin.
The priest gives the best advice, in the end: "Do not separate yourself. LIVE. To understand people and function at a higher level of compassion, you have to sweat. Don't be afraid to make mistakes--you have to sweat! Jesus did this--you come from a culture that knows that. Buddha also did this. You must sweat! You will make mistakes, but none so serious that they will take you off the path of what you are supposed to do. Sweat! Do you hear me? Sweat!"
Not separating myself is uncomfortable. It means people laugh at my Kreyol because I am not only speaking to friendly people. It means people reject me sometimes. It means they tell me painful stories about the neighbor they don't know how to help--the one who lost his wife, his 3 kids, his house--the one who doesn't know how to go on. It means I have to open myself up and trust boys every so often; after all, there are some cute ones. It means I have to engage, especially when I want to be alone.
That--say all the various denominations of holy people I know here--that is what I am meant to learn here. I needed a hot place to learn how to sweat. And then I can do what I came here for.
---
Dear friends: Please send cold water and a fan when you are able.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 - Jacmel, Haiti
The poetry is inescapable, sitting on the remaining part of the second floor of the collapsed art school in Jacmel. The breeze passes quietly over my skin and scattered, forgotten canvass. Crumbled cement chunks grate against my shoes, broken wall revealing the turquoise sea. The sea and the courtyard below, filled with tents and bright sculptured masks--and artists with more hair and smoke and inspiration than clothes.
The waves mix with the wind sounds through mango tree leaves, mangoes at eye level now. To my left, the energy changes. Broken red door and stairway to the abandoned office, crumbled wall opening the view of the UN compound, soldiers overly armed, with vehicles outnumbering people behind a high fence.
I still haven't understood if the school's director died here or in his home.
A salamander wiggles along the broken wooden window;
a goat along the beach forages and bleats;
the men sit around, slapping down dominoes.
I sit apart, just for today, letting the spirit of what this place used to be touch me, hoping it can help me to better enter the energy now.
The waves mix with the wind sounds through mango tree leaves, mangoes at eye level now. To my left, the energy changes. Broken red door and stairway to the abandoned office, crumbled wall opening the view of the UN compound, soldiers overly armed, with vehicles outnumbering people behind a high fence.
I still haven't understood if the school's director died here or in his home.
A salamander wiggles along the broken wooden window;
a goat along the beach forages and bleats;
the men sit around, slapping down dominoes.
I sit apart, just for today, letting the spirit of what this place used to be touch me, hoping it can help me to better enter the energy now.
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