The Quiet

All has fallen silent in my parent’s farmhouse in Kansas. The babies are sleeping after a full day of entertaining grandparents, eating nutrient-rich foods, riding in tractors, playing with plastic and fuzzy toys, and splashing in bathtubs full of water clean enough to drink. One day looks so different from the next. There is no such thing as normalcy. Somehow this healthy routine feels just as foreign as days in Haiti looking for fresh water, hunting down cans of milk and formula, distributing supplies to communities and sleeping outside.

It has been one week since we stepped off the plane into the arms of stability. Friends and family greeted us as we walked in a sleep-deprived daze off the tarmac after our flight touched down in Denver. As their arms wrapped around us, tears fell and we gave in to their protection.

We wrapped ourselves in their warm clothes, fed ourselves with the food they shared, slept in their beds, bathed in their showers, warmed next to their fireplaces, played and visited in their living rooms. Our children were outfitted from head to toe in clothes, shoes, car seats and toys by the generosity of many.

In the last week we have reunited with a whirlwind of family and friends. There are too many people to thank, an overwhelming array of generosity spilled upon us, staggering displays of love and support. In the midst of it all, our little family tries to fabricate something of a routine. We’ve waded through sniffles and diarrhea while adjusting to a drastic change of temperature and the shocking availability of convenience.

We still live completely in the moment, unsure of a future as far ahead as a week and hesitant to look back at the past in our wake. It is easier to focus on the cries of our hungry child or catching up on the life of a long-missed friend than to let thoughts waver out of the here-and-now.

If we stay in the present, stay in “survival mode” we can better ignore our transient lifestyle, ignore the fact we continue to live out of a suitcase, sleeping our children in one house after another, introducing them to a new sea of faces everyday. We can ignore that we live completely on the generosity of countless friends and relatives who open their homes, their pantries, their closets to us, wrapping us in the security of their love. We can ignore the guilt that we’ve abandoned our friends and partners in their greatest hour of need, the anxt that comes from not being busy in the work we have done for the last year and a half, the restlessness of having to wait for official documents and a restructured plan to get back to the business at hand in Haiti. So we stay in the present.

Staying in the present, we don’t stop to contemplate how different this world looks from the one we just left. Manicured lawns, lights glowing from every window in 2-story houses, fresh and drinkable water gushing from every tap, neat rows of traffic pushing the speed limit over the highways and overpasses, neatly stacked fresh produce of every color and flavor piled in sparkling grocery stores bragging a dozen varieties of each choice of food or cleaning product, sterile skyscraper hospitals where the norm is running a dizzying array of exams to nail down the most precise diagnosis.

Patrick and I have both sworn we’ve felt aftershocks—in Denver. While riding with a friend to a pharmacy, my heart suddenly started racing and breath became short while passing a construction site and its pile of rock. Watching CNN brings anger at the slant being reported, frustration at the individuals picked to be showcased, and endless tears as we see the faces representing the people we love. Quickly channels are changed to something of no consequence.

We’ve skirted away from quiet. With quiet brings the realization of where we are and where we aren’t. With quiet comes the flashbacks to scenes of places changed forever, faces lost under the rubble and faces who survived and are left to rebuild their lives.

I find myself trying to remember each face, each mannerism, each talent of friends lost to the earthquake. The number of funerals to attend is too countless to conceive, so there will be none. So instead we go through the roll-call of students we will no longer teach, community members who will no longer lead, patients we will no longer treat, children who will no longer grow, mourning not only their lives but the impact that they were sure to make on their communities, mourning the talents that fall useless to the days ahead.

I mourn Madam Pastor who left 2 children and a high-energy husband behind. She helped augment my class lectures by her own experiences, brought children in for evaluation from her community in City Solei, asked advice on the medicines she had at her disposal for which to treat others.

I mourn Darlene who was the first medical student to take me by the hand and offer me friendship. With a smile she was the first to welcome me in a time when I felt completely out-of-place a year ago. While sure I was failing as an English-speaking teacher barely functioning with a teen-aged translator and a medical curriculum, she took me by the hand at the CONASPEH congress and insisted that I march with her and her classmates during our demonstration march through the streets of Port-au-Prince. It was that day that I found out for the first time that my students actually, beyond reason, liked me. Accepted me. And I’ll never forget that day. That hand-holding. That friend.

I mourn Beatrice and her smart sass from the back row, always having the right answers, always impatient for the rest of the class to catch up with comprehension. I remember our day driving into her neighborhood to treat a few people in her community she had concerns about. Outside of class, she was always begging me for a pill to make her fat, laughing when I called that magic pill “more food.”

I mourn Miss Altena and all the meetings we had planned, all the new ideas we’d shared and her endless kindness. On the day of the earthquake, hours before her death, she had walked into my clinic, given me a hug and welcomed me back from holiday break.

So many faces. I struggle to remember each one because there won’t be a service with flowers, eulogies, and elaborate burials. The loss is too large. The mass graves too full.

From this overstuffed couch in Kansas, I remember the faces of people who are still living, now with more challenges than ever. Miguelson was to start his first semester in medical school. Now he is a community organizer, trying to gather funds to feed his neighbors as they gather together forming security, shelter, and combining resources to survive. Who knows when he’ll be able to go to school, much less find work. Miss Joly was injured as she escaped the falling CONASPEH school. Now she alone is nurse to her displaced community without any supplies to aid her efforts. So many I worked with are now taking shelter with family in the country, awaiting the rebuilding of schools and clinics so they may return to work once again. As CNN and the world focuses on the immediate needs of food, water and medicine, I ache for the bigger needs of education, jobs and infrastructure that are ultimately needed to bring about true, healthy sustainability of life.

After a week in Denver, we now find ourselves in my parent’s farmhouse in Kansas, miles away from the nearest neighbor. Here the lights of the city are too far away to pollute the night sky. Quiet overtakes if we forget to speak. Here we will be forced to remember, to cry, to heal.

We’ll have to push aside the guilt of having the luxury of removing ourselves from the rubble and struggle to sit in the land of plenty and convenience, creating space for healing. We removed ourselves to take care of our family. We did so out of necessity. We do so in order to better serve in days ahead.

So we’ll face the quiet, drudge up the images, remember the faces, cry the tears, and question the heavens. We’ll humble ourselves to be the recipients of good-will and charity. We’ll heal ourselves and our family.

And then we’ll organize. Plan. Rebuild. Join forces. Get to work. Because the longer we are away, the harder our hearts pull us back.

Evacuation

Despite a week full of announcements to "get ready, we're leaving!" we never really felt "ready" to leave Haiti. Every day we didn't go was filled with opportunities to reach out, facilitate, deliver a few necessities, practice hands-on love and care. However Friday night, Patrick received another call from the orphanage. Eighty of the 135 children had secured visas, and 30 more were being processed. Arrangements were being made for a military airlift out the next day for those children, and follow-up flights would be scheduled to take the rest as more visas were secured in days to come. Thus Saturday morning we woke early, packed bags, hugged good-byes for the 4th time in a week and took off into the streets as the sun chased away the last remnants of night. In truth, we weren’t convinced it would be our last day in Port-au-Prince. We’d been fooled before. But Haiti has long ago prepared us to expect every possibility.

We found the orphanage a buzz with activity as children were washed and clothed, little arms marked with their names, and nannies hugged the children who had so long been under their care. By all appearances, it seemed that all were ready to proceed directly to the airport once the departure time arrived. That morning we welcomed news that we had received a visa for a little girl named Valancia, who had been matched with us as our new daughter. We would be going back to the States as a family of four.

With several hours before our scheduled departure, we stopped by to see Silvia and her family. They still were sleeping outside at night, but engaging in regular activities around their still-standing home during the day. With hugs and tears we promised to see each other soon, encouraged each other to Kembe fem, and parted. We drove by the camps of a few other friends in our neighborhood, letting them know we'd be gone for a little while, but back again soon. Our gracious Haitian friends seemed happy for us. I felt almost embarrassed at their selfless celebrations on our behalf, smiles for our safety to be ensured, our families to be reunited with. No one said, "take us with you." After together surviving the earthquake and slipping into the support, survival and problem-solving mode of life that followed, I couldn't help resenting a little our decision and freedom to escape to the land of milk and honey, leaving our friends behind. We gave away what we had left, a tool to one family, a pile of medicines to another, clean water for a pastor to distribute, a few dollars to another to help his community find and buy food. We passed it all out knowing it only bought them a few hours or at most days. We read in their eyes thanks for the Band-Aids we brought them, knowing that there was no long-term solutions in our pockets that day. But swimming with the fatigue in the eyes of our friends and partners always, consistently was resilience.

We headed to the Coconut Villa—a small hotel in our neighborhood that had stood to the earthquake and was rewarded by floods of reporters, cameramen and aid crews crowding its rooms and meeting in its restaurant. There we joined a CONASPEH meeting with Felix from Global Ministries. As Felix brought news of the prayers and support flooding in from partners in the States and abroad, CONASPEH shared its vision for the future. Amidst this sharing, Patrick’s phone rang alerting us to head to the orphanage as evacuation was imminent. Tears sprung loose as the sudden reality of what was coming to pass struck. Hugs goodbye. Our partners left us with the phrase, “M ap tann w” or "I’m waiting for you.” As we walked away, heaviness fell alongside feelings of desertion. Yes, we had to go. It was necessary for our family. We’d be back. Our work was only beginning. But the reassuring did little to deflect the guilt, to slow the tears.

The Cosmos has a sense of humor. As we drove out of the parking lot of the Cocunt Villa, through puffy eyes I saw a vaguely familiar face. “There’s Geraldo,” my voice said as my brain suddenly registered.

Who? Geraldo.

Patrick threw the car into park, jumped out with camera in hand (amazingly purpose-driven after our fog of tears and goodbyes), approached the TV celeb strangely out of place in our island neighborhood, and unabashedly asked for a photo. One of the 475,000 reasons I love my husband.

Really, all things considered, no less bizarre and random than most events in our lives as of late. As we pulled out into the streets, now all smiles and laughter, Patrick turned to me and said, “I think its going to be a good day.”
Valancia and Mom

At the orphanage, we were handed our new daughter. There was barely time to celebrate. We hadn’t allowed ourselves to hope in advance, told hardly a soul about the shred of a possibility of expanding our family ahead of planned time. And yet here she was, in my arms. I let this tiny waif of a child—the same age as Solomon but ½ the weight due to severe malnutrition—curl herself into my arms and rest her head on my shoulder; my heart was instantly hers. A good day indeed.

With 80 children and a team of accompanying adults, we filed onto an old school bus, sitting 3 or more to a seat. As the bus pulled out, nannies waved with tears in their eyes while the children left behind either watched in amusement or continued their games. My own disbelief of true evacuation began to dissolve. With Valencia on my shoulder and Solomon on my knee, Patrick attending to 3 tiny children in the seat next to mine, I watched the familiar streets and activity of Port-au-Prince pass by my bus window. The older kids on the bus sang as a soothing reassurance to the little ones scared at this loud mass transit. Volunteers passed out water and soothed babies. We were on the move.
Entering the Belly of the Whale

We arrived to the airport and were greeted by a host of American military personnel. We sat on the bus for a while waiting for the plane to ready. Soldiers dressed in grey camouflage escorted tiny Haitian orphans with well-hydrated and full bladders to port-a-potties nearby. Eventually our time to board the plane arrived. One-by-one we filed off the bus, each adult with several children in hand, and were counted by a dozen officials as we entered the belly of the huge military cargo plane and took seats along the walls or on the floor.
Strapping In For The Ride
Grabbing our "seats" for the journey

Once kids were strapped into side seats or positioned on the floor, other Haitian Americans filed in, filling in the spaces until the plane was shoulder-to-shoulder, foot-to-back full with evacuees. We then all sat as minutes turned to hours as one head count after another was foiled by restlessly moving children, grandmothers emerging from the latrine or shifting bodies as legs needed to be stretched and backs adjusted. After 2 hours, diapers started filling, children got antsy, and I started reconsidering my hope in departure. A role-call commenced to solve the problem of bobbing heads and moving bodies that complicated a simple procedural step.
Head Count

When all aboard were finally counted, the engines roared. The children covered their ears with both hands, half looking excited and the others a little terrified. As the huge beast of a plane accelerated with great force, we all leaned forward, cradling several children in our arms, while our abdominals flexed, our backs cramped and our stomachs lurched.
Sleep Where You Can

Patrick and I put on our happy faces, reassuring all the kids that this is what an airplane feels like, these are normal sounds, the normal dips and shakes and that WOW wasn’t this fun! Truth is, turbulence feels like an earthquake. Even our traumatized brains needed a little convincing.
Human Tetris

After awhile the aching in our backs required a change in position, so most seated passengers turned to a more horizontal position, fitting bodies together like puzzle pieces in a great human carpet across the floor of the plane. We lay with feet in faces, elbows in ribs, legs intertwined, children lying in the crooks of knees and arms. We passed the time with hand jives and songs, jokes and stories told. Kids asked us questions about strange places like Colorado, Nebraska, or Kansas, about the schools there, about snow. Fun was balanced by diaper blowouts and the massive diaper changing operations to follow. Nerves and parasitic infestation got the best of most tots, and soon diaper supplies were running low and the toxic gas level became choking. After finally (mercifully) landing in Florida, Patrick joked with a Lieutenant upon exiting " it might be cheaper to burn the plane than to clean it"
EVERYONE on diaper duty

We landed in Sanford/Orlando International Airport and stepped out into the cool (fresh) air. A team of customs agents, TSA officals and Red Cross volunteers greeted us. They escorted us into a waiting room equipped with snacks, drinks, toys, hygiene kits, diapers, and medical volunteers. Good-natured customs agents handled each tiny traveler with patience and humor as 80 children ran and toddled about. Army soldiers volunteered time to watch and play with kids. Photos and fingerprints were taken, files reviewed. We passed 14 long hours in that waiting room, not knowing how long the process would take or when we’d have to figure out the next step. As hours wore into deep night, sleep didn’t come easily. Cold, over-stimulated kids cried or giggled their way around sleep. We huddled together unknowing, but safe. Up most of the night like everyone else, Solomon entertained us by pushing people in wheelchairs, high-fiving army soldiers, and making mad dashes for the TSA barriers.

Medical teams worked their way through the group, evaluating each and every child looking for ways they could intervene in the present or plan for care upon arrival in the destination city. Not surprisingly, we met great concern and anxiety over baby Valancia and her chronically starved body. They pressured Patrick and I to allow for direct admission to the hospital upon arriving home. Understanding their concern but also recognizing how well she was doing despite the odds, we made concessions, too tired to try to make assertions on what we thought but couldn’t prove.

Night eventually yielded to morning, the time realized only by our watches as no sunrise was observed through windowless walls. Volunteers nurtured the adults with coffee, the children with milk and juice. We were then informed that the State of Colorado was flying all the CCAI children to Denver and their process would be finished upon landing. Exhausted, we gratefully boarded the United Airlines 747, delighting in the cramped cabin seats well stocked with pillows, blankets and amenities galore. I'll forever be grateful for the first-class treatment and TLC provided that morning by the crew. The children were treated like royalty.

We landed in Colorado after a 4 hour flight that felt luxurious and pampered compared to our military evac the day before. A bank of cameramen met us as we departed the plane, children cradled in our arms. Exhausted, we fell into the arms of waiting friends and family, handing over our welfare to people we have loved for a long time. Arrival at long last. Reunions. Tears. Relief.

Through the course of our evacuation, we felt so surreal playing the role of the “evacuee,” the recipient of my nation’s “good will.” Exhausted and numb, we sat and RECEIVED the kindness of military evacuation personnel, gifts of the Red Cross Volunteer’s efforts, thanking them for hygiene packs, fresh water and snacks, diapers and changes of clothes for the children. Strangers offered their services, their homes, their care to us if needed. For a year and a half we have been the giver of services, the relievers of pain, the volunteer response to need. Now, we sat with palms open. Humbling. Disorienting. Thankfully the incredible fatigue dulled the feelings of guilt that it was US being coddled on a late Saturday night despite the fact that millions of others in more dire straights huddled under tents around crumbling walls in a city we had just waved good-bye to.

Believe it or not, it is humbling and a little hard to be the recipient of charity. If given the option, we’d all be self-reliant. Without the option, you are grateful but at the expense of a little pride. I thought of the people of Haiti, so long the “receivers” of charity whether needed or assumed, the complexity of their situation and identity is now a little more clear to me.
Smooches

Valancia was treated in a top-of-the-line, no-expense-spared Children’s Hospital in Denver upon our arrival. Imagine my stunned disbelief as the nurse took me through an orientation to our room: plasma screen TV with Play Station, 24-hour room-service, laundry services, hot showers, gift-bag full of toys as well as the multi-specialty medical services Valancia would receive. In addition to her medical team, dieticians, therapists, “life specialists” and any other service Valancia might need were all a simple request away. We were visited by the hospital administrator who welcomed us and assured us of our privacy from reporters, the kind maintenance man who introduced himself before checking to see if all services were running smoothly, nurses who advocated for Valancia and her tiny, un-stickable veins, and a housekeeper who made sure we had fresh towels morning and night.

How foreign this place of all-options-available felt. How funny the staff seemed washing their hands 3 times in one visit, masking, gloving and gowning before touching my sweet little girl, for fear of the foreign infectious microbes she might pass on to their hands and clothes. This used to be my world. This used to be my frame of reference. And suddenly I felt more than ever like a refugee.

The medical team of students, residents and attending bantered in front of us about all the possibilities that could be complicating Valancia’s well-being, seemingly ignoring the fact that she was a fighter, a survivor, that she breathed, ate voraciously, drank, and SMILED in front of them despite her bony arms and swollen belly. My view that she was doing remarkably well given her severe malnutrition and likely belly-full of parasites seemed too simplistic. So much comes from frame of reference. And I’d like to think that we all learned a little from each other.

We were visited by a few hospital staff who had just arrived back after a medical mission trip to Haiti post-quake, who sat with us, loved on Valancia and shared impressions of their life-changing week in Port-au-Prince. It was good to be with people we had so recently worked with in Haiti, who so recently experienced what it felt like to be living in the place others were reporting about. In that surreal, sterile environment, they helped ground us by shared experiences.

After a night in the hospital, all tests have been deemed reassuring, and Valancia will soon be released. Our friends and family are waiting. We've had all camping in our hospital room, attending to our needs, running errands, entertaining Mr. Solomon and giving much needed hugs and support. Now we pack our bags, ready to head to the home of friends and start the first days of our healing.... through nutrition and medication, conversation and meditation, laughter and tears, noise and quiet, through love.
Family of Four

Thank you to all those who worked tirelessly calling their state representatives, harassing Senators and Congressman, advocating on our behalf and on behalf of the thousands of Haitian orphans with families waiting to receive them. Thank you for prayers, for sending money to organizations equipped to quickly respond, for faith and support in the organization of CONASPEH and its dreams and determination to rise up from the dust like a phoenix from the ash. Thank you for reading, listening, watching, and thinking about Haiti and the incredible people that make up such a dynamic country. With or without us, the Haitian people will persevere, will rise-up, will survive and rebuild their lives. We are honored and lucky to be invited to accompany, to stand in solidarity, to hold hands in this moment in history. May we, as outsiders, define ourselves well through honoring and respecting our Haitian brothers and sisters in all we do, all we give, all we receive. For life has chapters to teach, the work has just begun and the adventure continues.

Home

Dear Family and Friends,

A short updated noted. Patrick and I were able to join the orphans of Solomon's orphanage in a military evacuation Saturday afternoon. We arrived in Denver yesterday safe and sound into the arms of welcoming friends and family.

More details to come as we allow ourselves to let down and process.
Thank you for your thoughts, prayers and advocacy for safe transport to the States for our family and countless Haitian orphans.
We have been overwhelmed by the outpouring of support and love from our communities both in Haiti and abroad. The earthquake may have robbed us of some personal possessions, but reminded us how rich we are in the gifts that matter.

With appreciation, gratitude and love,
Kim and Patrick

Valancia Merlan

We are excited to introduce Miss Valancia Merlan.

She was born in City Solei to a very poor family, brought to Solomon's orphanage in August at 9 months of age and skeletal with severe malnutrition. The nannies at the orphanage gave love and special attention to her as she held her own despite the odds.

We met Miss Valancia earlier this fall and immediately felt pulled to her, partly out of the shock of her condition, but mostly thorugh her dark eyes, strong spirit, and the way she clung to the security she needed.

Valancia is actually two days older than Solomon, but severely malnourished and currently weighing in at 12 lbs. Kim and I decided to bring her to the States with us as our latest addition to our family. I am happy to report that after two days of love and care Valancia is smiling, laughing, and eating like a horse. She is well on her way to wreaking havoc alongside her brother. We are thrilled to have her in our family.

Patrick's Musings Today

Haiti has long been the victim of racism, notions of cultural and religious superiority, and capitalist greed. Numerous countries, companies, and even Christian missionaries have used and abused Haiti to the point that Haiti was a country struggling to survive long before the massive earthquake hit last week. While I am far from an expert on Haitian history, I would like to write a little bit about their history and the abuse and mistreatment of the Haitian people. I also feel it is important to give my perspective on who these people truly are.

The “abuse of Haiti” (Paul Farmer) started with the arrival of the great Spanish explorer Christopher Columbus who discovered the island 1492 and quickly named it "Hispaniola". Apparently an island that already had thousands of indigenous Taino Indians living there could only be officially discovered if someone of European descent walked on its land. The Spanish promptly began the arduous task of exploiting a land rich in natural resources. Unfortunately, their foreign diseases and not so friendly attitude toward the natives would eventually wipe out the majority of the work force they needed to effectively rape the island of its resources. Thus the Spanish began importing slaves into the island to help them with their endeavors. After word got out that Hispaniola was a gold mine, both literally and symbolically, the English and the French also started showing up. In 1697, the French would come to control the western third of the island, present day Haiti, while the Spanish would settle for the eastern two thirds, the present day Dominican Republic. Sadly, all English speakers would have to wait a couple hundred years more before they could really take advantage of the island to the extent that they desired.

The French continued the work the Spanish began by importing thousands of slaves into the island to work the land. The French colonizers were notorious as being particularly brutal slave owners. They killed, beat, raped and generally mistreated the slaves for over a hundred years. Eventually the slaves would organize and overthrow the French, Spanish, and English colonizers who were controlling the country. In 1804, Haiti became the first and only nation to gain its independence from a successful slave revolt. However, most of the world’s great powers, including France, the United States, and the Roman Catholic Church, refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of Haiti as a free republic, which hindered the nation’s ability to move forward in what was becoming an increasingly global economy. In addition, Napoleon threatened to send more troops and weapons to take over Haiti again if the country did not agree to pay an enormous amount of money to France in order to make up for all of the profits the French were losing due to the loss of revenue in Haiti.

The last 200 plus years have seen more abuse and occupation at the hands of European oppressors. International companies have set up sweatshops in Haiti, exploiting labor in a desperate country where roughly 80% of the population is unemployed. Foreign governments, such as the U.S., have supported and funded brutal dictatorships, which tormented the masses for 30 years (1957-1986). The United States even occupied Haiti from 1915-1934 where their military slaughtered thousands of Haitians while setting up oppressive economic systems that benefited the wealthy both in Haiti and abroad. In 2004, the U.S. and other powers, including Haitian elites, continued their commitment to freedom in Haiti by removing from power the first democratically elected president in Haiti’s history, Jean-Bertrand Aristide.

Haiti’s tragic history, in part, stems from deeply engrained beliefs that blacks are inferior, incapable savages who need to be “Europeanized” by the superior white man. The Spanish, French, and English were able to mistreat the Tainos and African slaves because they considered them animals whose purpose was to serve the great cultured white man and his superior religion, Christianity. Even today these attitudes and beliefs are manifested in such things as the portrayal of Haitians in the media. For example, you’ve all heard about Voodoo in Haiti. If you only watched the news and movies you would believe that Voodoo is centered on animal and human sacrifice along with sticking pins in dolls. Rarely is Voodoo portrayed as a religion with a profound belief in the spiritual world and a sense of deep connection to one’s ancestors. No, the savage Africans and their Voodoo are in great need of the one true religion Christianity. For without Jesus Christ the savages will be left to their destructive primitive ways.

Even after the earthquake these negative portrayals of Haitians continue. The media coverage, while admittedly not all bad, has often focused on the periodic violence and “looting” taking place. If one watches the news they are left with the impression that Port-au-Prince is a war zone where violent black Haitians are beating and killing anyone and everyone in order to steal supplies and feed their animalistic impulses. I would like to share a little about my impression of the Haitian people that stems my experiences here both as a missionary for the past 14 months, as well as what I have witnessed on the ground since last week’s earthquake.

If forced to stereotype the Haitian people I would use three adjectives to describe them: strong, generous, and compassionate. They are a people whose horrific history would have undoubtedly broken many others, but they have endured hardships and abuse with a dignity that is simply remarkable from my perspective. Most of the Haitians I know live on very little, have no access to healthcare or education, and find it nearly impossible to provide for their families. Yet they go through life with a faith and determination that I find both inspiring and humbling.

Since the earthquake 10 days ago, I have not seen one instance of looting or violence. This is not to say that neither of these things has not taken place, but only that they are the exception and not the norm. What Kim and I have witnessed are people reaching out to help their neighbors in need. Carrying the injured and bleeding through the streets to hospitals, trying to unbury those trapped beneath the wreckage, and sharing whatever few material things they may have with others. This is the Haiti I am seeing. When Kim, Solomon, and I have been reunited with friends here they have all expressed their great joy at our survival and given thanks for our safety. These sentiments have always been expressed before any rendering of their own difficult situation or experiences of destruction. One friend who works at Solomon’s orphanage told me how happy she was that we were ok. She asked about our friends, neighbors, and even our house. It was only afterwards that she told me that both of her parents and all of her siblings had died in the earthquake.

There have also been a few times when Kim and I have found medicine and water to distribute to people. Although nearly everyone is in need we are always lead to those who are most desperate. No one has ever attempted to steal the medicines or the water. We have also been fortunate to give money a few times to friends. They have always used it to help not just their immediate families, but also their neighbors in need as well. This type of generosity and compassion is what we see on the ground here everyday.

If there is something to be learned about the Haitian people in the aftermath of the earthquake, it is that they have shown the rest of the world how to live with courage, strength, and love. All of us, no matter where we reside, have an opportunity to enter into a new relationship with the people of Haiti at this moment in history. Without trying to be insensitive to the immense death and suffering that has occurred in Haiti, I believe that this may indeed be a “kairos” moment where the people of the world are being offered a chance to begin a new relationship with a truly remarkable group of human beings. Let us hope that we seize this opportunity and explore ways to be in solidarity with a country that not only needs our assistance, but also has a lot to offer and teach us as well.

Sharing Reflections from Others

I wanted to share the following with you all, a passage written by a Haitian woman living this experience.

Her words are reflective and beautiful, opening her experience and observations to all. I thought you would enjoy it.


Aftershocks

By ÉVELYNE TROUILLOT
Published: January 20, 2010
Port-au-Prince, Haiti

THE family has set up camp in my brother’s house. I live just next door, but it makes us feel better to be all in the same house. My brother, a novelist, is writing his articles; I am writing mine. From time to time a tremor will make us pause and run back outside, just in case, to be safe. I wonder how long we will have to be so cautious, and I long for normalcy.

We sleep; we listen to the radio; we exchange information. Mostly, we have been trying to stay alive and sane since that Tuesday afternoon a week ago when the earthquake changed our lives forever. It doesn’t help that the earth continues to convulse. Just this morning, we felt another tremor, the most violent since the earthquake itself. Let us hope it did not cause more deaths and damage.

I do not recognize the streets of Port-au-Prince. In front of what used to be a school, three corpses are covered demurely by a blue sheet. Feet and eyes carefully avoid the small cadavers.

A few miles down, the Sacré-Coeur church, where the upper-middle class used to be baptized, married and buried, is a big pile of rubbish.

Under the broken glass and bricks of the five-story Caribbean Supermarket — which carried the most varied imported products and where foreigners were most likely to meet one another — women, men and children lie trapped, given up for dead. On Monday, rescuers managed to free from the site a young woman who was still alive. That same day, a grief-stricken family identified the body of a 27-year-old mother of a 6-month-old girl, who was not so lucky.

In the evening, the digging for bodies ceases, as does the search for drinking water and food, for news about missing parents and friends. Tired; terrified of the dark and its dreams of tremors, of the morning and its bad news; secretly — or not — relieved to be alive, we try to sleep.

In the background, the few radio stations that can still broadcast convey the messages of agonized families and friends. A father comes all the way from a little village in the south of Haiti looking for his two daughters. Although his voice is breaking, he manages to enunciate their names and please could somebody, anybody tell him if they are alive? The newscaster quickly repeats the message and introduces someone else. There are so many of them, a litany of desperate voices.

Night settles. The stars provide the only light; the electricity has not been restored. We save the energy from our Inverter generator system to run the Internet, so we can stay in contact with friends and family. The telephone lines are unreliable.
But we Haitians are nevertheless connected — regardless of our social conditions, our economic status, our religious beliefs, if only because we share the same uncertainties, the same fears about the monstrous size of the task at hand.

Although the earthquake does remind us of our common and fragile destiny, the fact that the earth trembles and destroys with equal brutality luxurious and shabby houses, small and huge enterprises, does not obscure the inequalities that divide Haiti. Social and economic disparities, the unjust distribution of our resources and the dire poverty of the majority of the population cannot magically evaporate with the dust. But maybe this disaster will constitute a new beginning. Maybe the reconstruction effort that is now so urgent will also work to narrow the gaps between us.

It is with a sense of warmth that I think of all the messages of solidarity I have received from around the world. Like most Haitians, I marvel at the signs of humanity — fund-raisers, simple letters of sympathy, offers of help: “Just tell me what you need!” But it is our government’s responsibility to help those most in need.

I am focusing now on what is essential in life: love and friendship. Like most people here, I am not watching the news. We have limited power, and anyway it seems futile and even absurd to be a spectator of my own life, especially when the TV images highlight only the misery of our country. Many of us Haitians are offended by the coverage of the earthquake. Once more, a natural disaster serves as an occasion to showcase the impoverishment, to exaggerate the scenes of violence that are common to any catastrophe of this type.

No, I am not watching the news. I am too busy trying to find a way to keep my hope alive because the work in front of us is humongous. I am busy rejoicing in the laughter of the children in the camp near our house, smiling at the comical reactions of a passer-by after a recent aftershock. I am busy shedding tears at the news of a miraculous rescue of six students from the wreckage of a university building. I am busy collecting the fragments of life that reflect the enormous courage and resilience among us.

I am busy loving life and my country.

Évelyne Trouillot is a novelist whose short stories have appeared in English in the collection “Words Without Borders.”

Patience

I've often said that if I have learned ANYTHING in Haiti, it is patience. Now Haiti is asking us all to be patient once again, those both near and far.

We’re still here. Long story short and truncated: files for kids not yet finished, although progressing. A message reached the orphanage today (and us) that the embassy wanted to see all children present. The kids in the orphanage were loaded up into two busses and taken through hot, traffic-clogged streets to the embassy. Unfortunately, it was an unnecessary drill.

FHG board members at the embassy found an official who was able to thoroughly review charts and explain exactly the missing pieces needed. It would have been nice if the person they talked to YESTERDAY had done that for us, but we feel like we got reliable information today. In this official's opinion, we likely will be able to process most if not all visas sans the children's physical presence. Hopefully the next time we load kids into the busses, it will be for a ride directly to the airport.

Unfortunately for the children it was a difficult day. The vans had no air-conditioning and the kids got hot. Some, who were sick prior to mounting the bus, had a particularly miserable ride. However FHG from the States had asked a medical team be present to escort the children. Thus fevers were promptly treated with Tylenol and kids with signs of dehydration were quickly given Pedialyte. Essentially the bus went to the embassy and returned, but the ride was long due to horrible traffic. For the older kids, the experience was as if Christmas was put on hold.

But the kids are resilient. The staff diligent. Everyone is ok.

Patrick and I salvaged the day by cruising the UN compound and registering CONASPEH as a potential distribution organization to receive emergency supplies coming in. In their meeting on Tuesday, the board had already discussed putting a system in place to distribute emergency aid to the various regional ministers so that they could in turn distribute to their communities hardest hit. The UN has organized information and education classes for such organizations, and we hope to get a few board members to attend those debriefings so that they can proceed with their goals of emergency relief, utilizing the stacks of supplies sitting on the airfield.

Driving along the airfield is a new experience all together. Picture boy-scout camp on steroids. Every square inch of grass was covered with relief and military tents bearing flags from around the world. It was remarkable, really. We found a helpful American Lieutenant who helped us load up some unclaimed drinking water into our truck when certain people weren't looking. “People are getting possessive of their supplies, but the way I figure, its all going out to people in need, and isn’t that the point?” Yes, that’s the way we see it too. The lieutenant informed us the water had been sitting there all week and they were getting ready to use it for showers if not claimed. So we made claim. Hopefully, as more organizations register with the UN and get on a list for distribution, less supplies will sit baking in the sun and more will get placed into the hands of those whose life depends on them.

So we made a couple of water drop offs to houses of pastors in two distinct communities who haven’t sceen much relief come by. Again, we put the pastors in charge of distribution. As community leaders, they were happy to do so and can carry it out in a more peaceful, controlled way. Thanks to cash arriving from a friend of CONASPEH, we were able to also provide the pastors with a little cash in order to buy food to help feed the community. One pastor told us that his tent city hasn’t eaten in 3 days. I pray tonight they at least eat rice.

Tonight our inbox is full of messages from people who believe us to be leaving tomorrow. We will continue to take each hour at a time. In the meantime we are putting our radars out for a stable and safe home to relocate more permanently to upon our intended re-entry into Haiti.

Good night to all. Thanks again for your prayers and support.

on the move

We woke before sunrise to a chorus of roosters, cock-a-doodling the darkness. Jumbo jet engines roar overhead. As soon as our senses are engaged, we are up for the day, no matter the hour.

This morning the FHG board returned to the embassy. We just received word that all children's presence is requested at the embassy. The loading of the busses has begun. This may mean we will be getting evacuated today. Don't know if it will be a FHG plane, a CCAI plane or a military evacuation. Bags are packed and off we go... again.

More soon.

Orphan Evacuation Update

Last night Patrick and I received encouraging e-mails from CCAI (our US adoption agency). Paperwork seemingly is coming together quickly and with the new passage of Humanitarian parole for Haitian orphans, the evacuation of the kids in the orphanage (and thus Salomon) is looking all the more imminent. “Get ready!” they told us, encouraging us to stay close to the crèche because when the evacuation happens, there likely will be little lead time (hard to believe in Haiti and its uniquely relaxed sense of time). We talked to Pierre at the orphanage last night to confirm that they were indeed getting ready to mobilize the kids.

Wow. All at once. It seemed too fast, too sudden. We had made plans to help CONASPEH, to deliver water and medicines to communities. And yet now in the dark of night, we had to pack bags and get ready. A strange sense of shock took over. Are we really leaving? Now, when there is so much to do? Feelings of joy in the anticipation of seeing family and friends intermingled with the sick ache of abandoning our Haitian friends at their darkest hour. Sure we'll come back, but it is hard to leave regardless of homelessness and dwindling supplies.

This morning we answered a phone call at 5am from Pierre explaining that the orphanage was planning on mobilizing the children at 7am and we were to meet them there. Groggy with sleep, we shuffled through the darkness, no electricity to check e-mail to see if our friends in the States could confirm it was all really happening.

At 6 this morning, Tara and Troy were down to help us get sent off. Suddenly I felt my head swimming. Again. The dishes rattled, the floor pitched. We ran for our sleeping children, and soon the house emptied itself of its sleepy inhabitants with one of the biggest after-shocks since last week’s quake. Later we learned that it measured 6 on the Richter scale. Once again, thankfully, the Livesay home held strong.

However all our nerves have just about had it with such trembles. My legs shook long after the ground stopped moving. Flashes of all that came to pass a week ago were hard to shake long after the earth settled once again. Thanks to a few housemates running out in little more than a sheet, we were able to wriggle out of the lingering nerves with laughter.

Patrick and I arrived at the orphanage today to meet 3 of the For His Glory orphanage board members who arrived last night. They were interested in heading to the embassy to put pressure on the bureaucracy from this end. Patrick and I offered to drive and off we went.

The scene at the embassy is growing more obnoxious as the days stretch into weeks. Hundreds of Haitians, from newborns in their mothers arms to the elderly toting walkers, stand in overlapping lines in the heat of day without food or water, waiting to be issued travelers’ visas. Securing a border around the building stands a mix of US military troops and guards from the embassy. Traffic sludges by the embassy as waves of people pour in to join in line or take their chance at the gate. We ran into a CONASPEH student while there who told us that he was here to get a visa because the US was letting all Haitians in. We explained our doubts, but he was not to be deterred.

We were able to get into the embassy relatively quickly as American citizens working with orphans, and were escorted by an assertive official with a gun strapped to his thigh and another to his back. We waited in one line after another and eventually found someone who knew of the orphanage, reviewed the paperwork and sent us out after only short consideration with instructions that each file needed a picture. Files weren't complete. There was nothing else to be done today.

Typical, I thought. Bureaucratic delay. The news came as more of a blow to the board members who had high hopes of securing visas in one fell swoop.

So we drove back, a little defeated, in the same stand-still, stifling traffic, but this time a little quieter and devising what to do next.

The exhaustion following the emotional marathon starting at O'dark hundred is weighing heavy on us tonight. We'll await more official news from CCAI or the embassy tomorrow. We have to coordinate Solomon's exit with the orphanage kids while securing visas and plan to help fly the children into the States on the "orphan plane" when the magical visas finally come to be.

We know many people have been busy State side advocating on behalf of Haitian orphans and their adoptive parents-to-be. We know certain Senators and Congressmen are doing what they can to put pressure on the State Department and USCIS. We thank you all for your prayers and advocacy as we tread the thick waters and jump the hoops to get our children home.

Hopefully tomorrow the only moving and shaking that goes on is with papers processed and aid distributed. I don't know how you Californians do it. I'm so over the quakes. Give me a tornado any day. :) (There's no place like home *click*click*)

A Week Gone By

*Little Care taker

One week.

I can't believe only 7 days have passed since the 45-second earthquake that so drastically changed life as we knew it in Haiti. Our days have felt like a constant stream of problem solving, coordinating and searching which has left little time for emotions processed or true grieving.

Yet Patrick and I have never felt more committed, more energized, more purpose-driven in our daily efforts. Critical presence has taken on a whole new meaning. Our former routine has been replaced by anything but. As helicopters beat the air overhead, cargo planes come in for landing, aid vehicles roam the streets bearing the patch of dozens of countries around the world, media correspondents interview our friends and bring Haiti to the forefront of the world’s attention, we hardly recognize life here anymore.

We continue to seek a visa for Solomon in order to leave for a short time to re-group, re-stock and reorganize ourselves (you know, buy a few extra changes of clothes, a pillow, etc), yet we have every intention of returning to our lives and work here. Now, more than ever, we feel strongly pulled to work for CONASPEH and the people of Haiti. Although our jobs were redefined in a minute’s time, the urgent need for continued presence, solidarity and hard work are all the more pressing. We are excited to take part in processes of healing, rebuilding, growth and redevelopment in months and years ahead.

Today we started the day by meeting Patrick Villier and the board of CONASPEH under a tree in the middle of a vacant lot to catch up on news of people lost and found, churches and schools crumbled and standing, support from partners abroad and plans for steps forward. Patrick is blogging more about the meeting for you, our partners who are invested in heart and prayer. Through the course of the meeting Patrick and I watched a group of men and women arrive with heavy hearts and leave with new determination and lighter spirits just by having a plan of action to pursue, work identified, movement to take forward.
*Kids at Pastor Saint Tilis's orphanage

*Makeshift baby bed

After our meeting, we headed to Kwadebouke to check on Pastor Saint Tilis and the children he keeps in his orphanage. We were able to deliver to the children rice, beans, oil and fresh water found in the mountains. I was able to do some evaluations and Band-Aid skinned knees. We found the children to be infested with scabies and intestinal worms, but still resilient goofy kids making faces for the camera. The orphanage's cistern was bone dry as finding water has become a critical problem for the family running the orphanage. As a result, the children’s hygiene suffers after a week spent sleeping in the empty lot outside of the building. We pledged to help find a water truck to deliver water and bring medicines to eliminate infestations for the time being.
*taking time for cuddles

We later passed by Solomon's orphanage to for any updates—found none—but relaxed for a bit loving on babies and playing with funny kids who took to braiding both Patrick and my hair, and delving into conversation about what strange places like Kansas, Nebraska or Colorado are like.
*tent city

Our last stop of the day took us to the community where Miguelson and his family live. He had called to ask if we could swing by evaluate a few sick members of the community. Patrick and I pulled into the neighborhood with its labyrinth of twisting and turning streets to find an empty lot now housing a tent city of displaced people. Miguelson reported that they’ve had problems with thieves in the night, so the community has joined together and selected several men to act as security detail; they are organizing each other to keep all safe. We were introduced to the wiry man in charge of the security efforts—a previous member of the Haitian army who had a warm smile and gentle demeanor. Haitians taking care of Haitians.
*Smiles

Upon our arrival we were greeted by a large group of people who haven’t yet received outside aid like so many pockets of communities deep within the city’s walls. I was first ushered to a young woman lying on her stomach under a tarp. She had superficial wounds on her shoulder, back and buttocks, but what was disturbing to the women attending to her was that she couldn’t feel or move her legs and couldn’t control urination. She had been evaluated at the hospital after cinder blocks fell on her back to only be sent home as the doctors there had nothing to offer her. My exam confirmed a broken back with paralysis and early wound infection. I spoke frankly to the women who surrounded the young patient who were eager to know what they could do for their daughter and friend. We talked about vigilant hygiene, safe transfers, pain control and what her diagnosis likely meant. “I’m only 27,” the girl said to me. Her eyes told me that she had already resigned herself to her condition.

I then was introduced to one person after another to check blood pressures, evaluate fevers, and examine wounds, aches and pains. The crowd soon had made a claustrophobic circle around me with people anxious to see if I had medicine to relieve their particular form of suffering. I did a lot of reassuring for those whose wounds were healing well without signs of infection, for people with colds and other normal constitutional symptoms. With people all around, education for one was education for all helping expedite attention giving to the large crowd of people. Several leaders rose out of the crowd, helping explain what I was saying, and reiterating instructions. This community was keeping care of each other and I believe will continue to do so.

Thanks to a year under my belt and my new adjusted sense of personal space, I knew the crowd to be a friendly one and never felt fear as bodies pressed in around me, choking the air as they listened and watched each quick patient evaluation I was able to do. Oh the sweat on my brow poured. I certainly can see how some teams new to Haiti may feel like the pressing urgency of so many people might feel overwhelming and potentially hostile. Once again I noticed nothing more than community concern, curiosity and ever-respectful welcome.

Patrick quickly became the pharmacist of the hour and searched through our meager stock of medicines (thanks again Team Marilyn!!) for antibiotics to treat infected wounds, hypertensive medicines for a few with staggering blood pressures, children’s Tylenol mild fevers. It seemed the entire community had muscles and bones hurting after a week sleeping on the ground. We found a pastor and a nurse in the community and gave them several bottles of Tylenol along with instructions on how to distribute the analgesics thus saving many hours in the waning light of day. Despite the ever-growing crowd, the pastor and nurse gracefully accepted their new jobs and agreed to take over treating peoples aching bodies.

By the time we left, darkness had fallen. The kind community was quick to order us back into the car for fear of our security, sending us off with loud thank you’s and waves of appreciation. Can’t deny it, it felt good.

After such catastrophic disaster, surgeons and anesthesiologists are most needed in field hospitals. But today I got to be a family practice doctor, educating, figuring out some creative solutions to complicated situations with the help of the people of the community and giving basic treatment to a group of people who needed a listening ear as much as they needed a health care provider. Happy end to the day.
*our little comedian

Tonight we found Solomon in little boy heaven having played with kids all day, taking advantage of space to run, a big dog to pet and toys to play with. He has adjusted amazingly well to our transient life these days, and I am so grateful for it.

With that, we call it a day, knowing tomorrow will likely be as unique as the last week full of days have been.

The last 7 days have ushered in fear, tragedy, despair. They also have revealed relief-filled discoveries, evidence of communities coming together, global attention and response to disaster, and new definition of the lives we live and the work we are here to do.

But first, sleep.