Of late, what with all the earthquake coverage, I have felt enormous frustration listening to the Talking Heads and U.S. news anchors speaking about “what should be done for Haiti.”
It is a complicated question—-an even more complicated country—-but I don’t think the people asking the questions think it is. They seem to see Haiti as another Iraq or Afghanistan, somewhere we can go and Do Good, to improve the lives of the people there. And that is a laudable goal. The only problem is that Americans, more often than not, blunder into situations assuming they understand the people who live there. As Madison Smartt Bell says in his incredible triad of essays about Haiti: “It’s hard to forget that the First World can destroy a culture more thoroughly with money and good intentions than with knives and guns. Our great weakness in the First World, and particularly in the States, is that whenever we look in a mirror we always assume we are seeing ourselves.”
When we look at Haiti we see the poverty and the misfortune, but when I listen to Haitians speak about their country I don’t hear that. I hear pride and love for the people and the country. I also hear an acceptance.
The news reported this morning that many thousands of Haitian children are being airlifted to the United States. The news anchors are calling them orphans. Here is a misunderstanding of a culture in its most blatant form. Haitians, like Latinos, Africans—in fact, most non-western nations—do not see their families as the simplistic nuclear family we live with. They see a more holistic approach to raising children. Children are the responsibility of the whole village, just as it was in Africa, and not simply the property of their parents. So, in our Do Good attitude are we separating families from their children, and by so doing are we not robbing the country of their future? Would it not be better to empower the country, let them sort out how they want to live without our interpretation overlaid as a condition?
When I was in Haiti in the late 1970s I was appalled at the poverty of the place, thrilled by the people’s enormous hearts and artistic talents, and helpless to change anything. I was bombarded by beggars, saw children with the bloated bellies of Africa, and yet heard humor in every child asking me for money: “Hey, Missy,” they called, jogging alongside me, “you give me one dolla?” When I refused they continued , undeterred: “Hey, Missy, you give me TWO dolla!” And yet, I realized, that even if I had a million dollars and handed each kid a “dolla” it would not change a thing.
I had gone to meet my parents who lived aboard a sailboat at the time. They were cruising the Caribbean and Cap Haitian was where we met. At first, I could hardly get off the boat I was so conflicted about the place and the grinding poverty I saw everywhere. Also, there was the highly visible corruption at every turn and the lurking presence of Duvalier’s Ton-Ton Machoute. The place was palpably dangerous, and yet, once into the stream of traffic there was no time to be afraid. The whores who worked the port were gracious and kind to my toddler son who had been attacked by mosquitoes in the night, giving me suggestions on what kind of medicine to use on the bites so they would not become infected. While helping me they took a moment out to heckle a hippy tourist for a) not buying their wares, and b) not wearing shoes. “You crazy, child. Get you some shoes!” Even the poorest of the poor in Haiti wore shoes of some sort. They knew about parasites and other dangers of leaving the feet bare. My father was pick-pocketed one night. It was Mardi Gras. Crushed against the walls of houses by sweaty crowds, we watched mesmerized as the parade pulsed passed us, people dressed in homemade costumes and accompanied by generator driven bands in the backs of trucks. The drumming rang in my ears for days afterwards.
The town itself was a colonial beauty, although it has been burned to the ground by the residents at least twice in their violent history. I walked the streets with some determination, always with a distinct destination, so I would not appear as the vulnerable tourist ready to be plucked. Often it was to eat lunch at the Hotel Mont Joli high on the hills above the town. On the way the air was filled with the aroma of orange peels hanging to dry on every back stoop. I heard they sold them to a dealer who distilled the rind for their essential oils. As it is in many poor countries, I saw very few dogs and no cats whatsoever. At the Mont Joli I sat around the sparkling blue pool and ate cold salads and tidbits and felt excruciating guilt at my fortunate life. Then I made my way back through the streets to my parent’s sailboat.
Huge cruise ships docked in Cap Haitian once a week. The monstrous ship would disgorge its passengers who climbed into air-conditioned buses destined for the Citadel. Those who stayed behind shopped in tourist trinket shops or, high up on the Lido deck, tossed coins into a shit-filled harbor and watched as desperate kids dove after them. It made my heart bleed.
We went to the Citadel, a truly incredible engineering feat. From high in the mountains we could see 180 degrees and I understood how the rebels were able to spot any enemy ships long before they arrived. It is also amazing to think of that small country conquering their colonial masters about the same time as the United States was emerging as a unified entity.
My mother fell in love with Haiti and I think, had her life been different, she would have stayed there. And that is what happened to Dr. Paul Farmer, the director of Partners in Health and now, Clinton’s right hand man in the U.N. mission there. He refused a permanent position, he said, because the Senate confirmation hearing on his appointment would take too long, and he has no time to waste. (Note: the Obama administration currently has no head of TSA because the appointee’s name is held up by a key Republican senator–check the Huff Post I can’t make the link work) There is a remarkable book about Paul Farmer’s life, his dedication to Haiti, and Partners in Health called Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder. It is a wonderful read about a difficult, curious, and very gifted man.
And, please give to his organization.
They need the money! Currently the best functioning hospital in Haiti is operated by Partners in Health.
To truly understand Haiti, and the people who live there, try reading these remarkable essays by Madison Smartt Bell. He spent a great deal of time there and came back with journals stuffed with his experiences. From those journals and his copious notes he wrote three historical novels about Haiti and their revolution.
It has been almost 40 years since I was in Haiti. That little boy of mine is now a grown man, but I remember that trip and all the people I met there as though it were yesterday.
[A note to my loyal readers: I have been inundated with Spam of late. When I posted last time I changed to "moderated comments", and then forgot I did that. I thought, Oh, no. No one loves me anymore, and then I found four of you (among the Viagra and other sexual hawkers) who commented. I'll try to check in on that more often. You are all now showing up on the previous post. ... and thank you for your comments!)
