Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti

by Ted Oswald

— It’s…it’s too big a question to answer.

  — Well, let’s answer just a part of it. Why are you here? In Cité Soleil. Tell me more about that.

  — I was brought here to live with my aunt and uncle, to be a restavek.

  — Ah. Interesting. And what is Cité Soleil?

  — A place people live. A city. A slum. I don’t know.

  — Don’t become frustrated. You’re right. It’s all those things. And who else lives in Cité Soleil?

  — People like you or me.

  — How did they get here?

  — By cars. Trucks. Buses.

  — Not the means. What brought them here? And why didn’t they go elsewhere?

  She shrugged. They had nowhere else to go.

  — Not true. Haiti is full of villages, towns, and cities. Why here? Why not somewhere else?

  — There were homes? Cheap homes? Or they knew people already here?

  — And how long has Cité Soleil existed? How long have people lived here?

  — I don’t know. She had never thought about it before. Always? she ventured.

  — We know that’s not true. Everything has a beginning. I don’t like to give easy answers, Libète, but I want you to understand what I’m getting at.

  Libète’s eyes widened and shoulders rose in a subtle shrug. Tell me then.

  — Inequality—it drives everything. This can be said another way. Power, or differences in power, explain why a rich person lives among green hills in Pétionville or a barren village on the top of a mountain. It’s the distribution of power over generations and generations that underlies our circumstances.

  — That’s not true. I’m here because my mother died.

  — Ah. And what sickness did she die from?

  Libète hesitated, ashamed to say. AIDS, she uttered, as if a curse word.

  — Well, I don’t know much about AIDS, but I know there are treatments that can help people with the disease. Why wasn’t she treated?

  — Because we had no money. Because there were no hospitals nearby on La Gonâve.

  — But both of those are rooted in differences of power. If she was rich she could get treatment. If more money had been invested in better roads and institutions in La Gonâve, rather than invested in Port-au-Prince or stolen by politicians, there could have been better services. Haiti is a small picture of the whole world. Certainly accidents happen. But many accidents have their roots in inequalities. On the radio, I heard that an earthquake just the same strength as ours happened in the United States a few decades ago. Do you know how many died?

  — No.

  — Three. Three people. While we’ve seen over hundreds of thousands of lives lost in our quake. Why the difference?

  Another shrug.

  — Where resources lie. We invest little in our construction. We use the cheapest methods possible, while in the U.S. they had standards and rules, and the money to build structures that comply with the standards and rules. Inequality at work.

  Libète looked sullen. Inegalite, she intoned.

  Elize could see that he had made his point and was saddening the girl. He changed the subject. Libète, I am going to teach you one true skill in our time, a fundamental skill that will aid you in gaining every other one you desire.

  She tried to think of what it might be, coming up short. What is it?

  — You must question. Question everything. Even what I tell you. You cannot be satisfied with easy answers, half-truths, and superficiality. You must push, and continue pushing, until you reach the heart of the matter, until you reach the truth. We’re confronted with inequality at every turn and we must question until we understand it thoroughly. Then we can act against it.

  **

  The next day’s lesson proceeded similarly, and the day after that. They spoke, asked, and answered. Usually Libète hit a wall and Elize would explain the point he sought to make. It was not until their fourth day together that they began working on the proper study of a subject.

  — Today we will study French, Elize began. Libète was perched on her stool, eager. Elize paced in front of her, leaning on his cane for support. But first I have a grave warning.

  — What…what do you mean? What could be dangerous in studying French?

  — Tout d’abord, pourquoi avons-nous parlé français? he asked. Why do we speak French?

  Her reply came entirely in Kreyol. You’re asking me more questions? How is this going to teach me French?

  — Bear with me, he said in French. Please, Libète, speak French.

  — Fine. She thought through her response and stated it as best she could. We speak French because French men started Haiti.

  — That’s put indelicately.

  Almost everything Libète could say in French was “indelicate.” She understood much better than she spoke. This came from learning in classes of forty students. She tried again.

  — Because French brought Haitians to Haiti.

  — Ah, because the French imported Africans to Haiti to work as slaves in their colony.

  — Of course. This what I mean, she said, stumbling over her grammar.

  — So why do we speak the tongue of the people who enslaved us?

  She shrugged. We just do, reverting back to Kreyol.

  — Libète—speak French.

  — Because we always do. Have done.

  — But why?

  — To talk to the world? To others outside us?

  — Maybe that’s right. Who speaks French in Haiti?

  — Schooled ones. People who go school.

  — And who goes to school in Haiti?

  — People with money.

  — Right. Only fifteen out of a hundred people in Haiti speak French. And fifty-three out of a hundred can read anything in Kreyol or French. What do you think about that?

  — I see what you are say. People who no read or speak French—these people not rich. They aren’t on top.

  — So why do you think I am making you speak French?

  — To put me at the top?

  — I see why you say that, but no. The complete opposite.

  — I not understand.

  — I hate the French tongue. I hate that I can speak it, that it occupies the space it does in my brain. It does not deserve to be there.

  Confused before, she was now baffled.

  — It is an example of those same French slavers who brought our ancestors from Africa, reaching from the past through time to the present, still enslaving me, this time with bonds of words rather than iron. And it is even worse because today, we Haitians can use it to enslave one another so that those on top use it to trap those below.

  — I still not understand. Why you teach me then?

  — I teach you to use it as a tool. The most obvious reason is that it has a precision that Kreyol sometimes lacks, and it is a means of unlocking knowledge. Few books are published in Kreyol. So to learn from great minds, at least those who have recorded their thoughts, you need to read and understand their words. The other reason is that I want you to use it as a weapon, but not in a way that injures others, but one that sets them free, that can break the bonds placed on us. Speaking truth to the powerful using their own language, redeeming it from something oppressive and turning it into something just.

  — When would I do this? How would I do? I’m eleven.

  — Growing closer to twelve, and then thirteen. You are getting older every day, and a time will come when you aren’t treated as a child. Even if you don’t understand all I’m saying now, I ask one thing as we go forward.

  — What is it?

  — That you never grow comfortable with the language. Remember, it is one written and punctuated with the blood of our fathers and mothers. Do not use it lightly, and by God, do not use it to oppress.

  **

  The following week, Libète came to her morning classes yet again.

  They always began with a new barrage of questions, always more obtuse than Libète preferred. This c
lass started the same, and after an hour or so they resumed their study of French.

  Elize had few texts from which to work. Libète had seen the authors’ names, Montesquieu, Ellul and Foucault, and then the Bible itself. Foucault is a bit beyond you, Elize had said. For the time being at least. And though the Bible is difficult at turns, we shall use that to inform our studies. When Libète protested and asked for books like those seen in normal school, Elize cut her off. I have high expectations for you, he said. You needn’t spend time on picture books.

  And so they studied the Bible, its grammar and stories. This had turned into more sessions of questioning, something Elize seemed to enjoy much more than teaching the conjugation of verbs. But this did not last long.

  — Elize! a voice shouted from outside, interrupting one of the teacher’s questions. Elize, it’s me!

  The voice was familiar to Libète, but she couldn’t picture the face that accompanied it. Discomfort flashed upon the old man’s face.

  Suddenly, a head peeked through the space between the doorframe and curtain to see what was going on.

  — Come in, Boukman. I have another with me.

  The boko from Project was sweating heavily. His eyes adjusted to the low light, and he saw Libète. She looked away.

  — A guest, eh? He cocked his head. I know you from somewhere. Who are you?

  — You’re mistaken, mesye.

  The man stepped inside and revealed a bulging burlap sack he had carried, letting it fall to the ground. She still avoided his eyes.

  — Oh, but I do know you! I don’t forget those I meet—I have them all up in my brain, like cards in a deck. Let’s see, let’s see, let’s see. Ah, I remember! You came in a few weeks ago, before the quake. The one with the mother—the mother with the gout. The imaginary gout.

  — The mother was imaginary, too, she added.

  — And I remember telling you and your friend to leave this man alone. Not to bother him! I don’t like when I’m disobeyed!

  Libète shrunk at his growing menace, wishing to seek shelter under Elize’s cot.

  — Boukman, don’t scare the girl. I have agreed to teach her. Any past wrong on this front has been undone.

  — Your student, eh? Well, she’s fortunate to have someone like you teach—

  — That’s enough. He rubbed his hands nervously atop his cane. Please.

  Libète looked at Elize, surprised. He’s so uncomfortable. But why?

  Boukman, put off by his cold reception, stood with hands on hips.

  — Thank you, Boukman, Elize added. As always.

  — Well, I’ll talk to you later. Outside the presence of this little liar, he said, signaling to her with two thrusts of his head. He turned and left. Elize did not speak nor look at Libète.

  She took it upon herself to trespass on the silence.

  — How is it you know the boko?

  — He and I have known each other a great many years. He helps me now that my health is poor. And that’s all you need to know.

  — Come on, Elize—

  — I said that is all you need to know! His agitation cracked through his normal affability. He locked eyes with her. He quieted. No more questions on that subject. Alright?

  She nodded and slapped a nonexistent mosquito on her wrist, all to avoid his eyes.

  — Now, picking up at verse 5, tell me, of who did Jean’s clothing and manners remind the Jews?

  **

  When she left Elize’s home that day, there was a lightness to her step. Something in her was changing, something imperceptible to anyone looking on, not even understandable to her. There was something in the lessons, something that seemed to transport her from daily drudgery and hardship. When she saw the government’s failure to install treated water, she knew it was not fate. When she saw young men lumbering about the camp and community, out of school and out of work, she knew the lack of work was not random occurrence. When she saw a child’s head marred by untreated scabies, she knew it did not have to be this way.

  What had started as a means to avoid boredom was transforming Libète and, it seemed, transforming the world around her. She was beginning to pull back the world’s veil of inevitability, and it thrilled her.

  The music swells and sweeps and falls in the background. The lamp has nearly burned the last of its kerosene, and the two sit in near dark. Libète speaks this time.

  — You see why I wanted to discuss these matters with you, Elize, just as we used to. To get to the roots, and pull them up.

  — There’s much to weigh here. I’m troubled, no doubt, by Toussaint Laguerre’s reappearance. We know he is ambitious and dangerous, traits that don’t die easily. Your cousin and his friend working for him can lead to nothing good. They must be careful. And chief among these concerns, I am disturbed by the stolen girls. It is what we see too often, women treated like possessions, used and discarded by others. These abductions are certainly connected. He harrumphed and stirred in his seat. Very troubling. Very, very troubling…

  Libète nodded before noting the time on the radio’s digital display.

  — It’s nine thirty.

  — Ah! Thank you for reminding me!

  He lifted the small radio and twisted a knob to change the station, churning through crashing static, music, and talk until finding what he sought.

  — Welcome back to Radyo Celeste. In this half hour we are joined by our esteemed friend and resident poet laureate, Stephanie Martinette, speaking into being one of her word creations.

  — I thank you as always, Monsieur Gerry, for this opportunity to visit, to share, to vision. I have just a few words for our friends listening at home and abroad.

  — I hope they are good ones.

  — I do too.

  Stephanie began to recite her lines in Kreyol, her sweet voice casting a spell over both Libète and Elize.

  Our body politic is a body neglected

  Infected by dual sicknesses of selfishness

  And greed

  In need

  Of purging and exercise

  But too preoccupied committing suicide

  The head, the seat of power

  Plays the body’s parts against each other

  Dividing to conquer

  Until it slays itself

  And so the head is numb to the heart

  The heart far from the hands

  Like a knife unstitching that

  Garment God wrought

  In favor of individual gain

  Conspicuous consumption

  And justice bought

  Why is it so?

  The affliction is not solely physical

  It has roots in the spiritual

  When the body ails the soul sets sail

  Cruising to distant places to avoid the pain

  The body’s natural systems for

  Healing itself simply

  Fail

  Outsiders, experts, that educated set

  Invited in then supplant, taking over

  Dictating cures

  Enforcing remedies

  Forcing aid

  And unwanted sympathy

  Once all problems became theirs to fix

  The body’s parts fall into learned

  Helplessness

  All immunity now passivity

  When the sovereign people

  The cells in this corporal story

  Stopped agitating

  It left us as a corpse

  Fetid, putrid, fading

  This decomposition is not inevitable

  But the logical consequence of

  Power and rank and poverty taken to extremes

  Reordering our priorities with

  The command to compete

  In zero-sum games

  Now

  With so much extracted by those on top

  At the expense of the whole

  The only recompense

  Is knowledge that it can be reversed

  Through the restoration of our soul<
br />
  We wish to see a generation regenerated

  The body resurrected

  By words of loving insurrection

  Speaking Truth to Power

  And Life to Death

  Accepting we are

  Shaken by the quake

  But not broken

  Humbled by our burdens

  But not hopeless

  Forged by struggle

  But not forgotten

  Helped by relief

  But never

  Ever

  Helpless

  This new body is not theirs

  But ours

  Not yours

  But ours

  Not mine

  But ours

  In this new body we are changed

  Renewed

  Better together

  Than alone

  Better known

  Than unknown

  Elize and the girl sat, allowing the words to push in deep, to spread throughout their beings.

  He quieted the radio. Libète knew she should go.

  — I thank you for coming, Elize said. That break…lasted for too long. Far too long.

  She offered a pained look he could not see. She wanted to tell him everything, the full story of what had happened since they last spoke, the unspeakable things. Still not yet. But soon.

  — Would it be alright, he asked, and it’s fine if not, but would it be alright—if we started our lessons once more?

  Libète offered a tight-lipped smile before moving toward the door. I’d like that. Very much.

  She patted Titid on the head, lifted the sagging curtain, and gave a parting wave before vanishing into the pitch night.

  I AM

  Nèg pa fye nèg depi nan Ginen

  Black people don’t trust each other since Guinea

  News of its arrival broke a week before landfall.

  A heavy tropical storm called Tomas is on a direct course for Haiti. The skies already pour everything they can, and camp life is a sodden mess.

  “Move to a safe place,” the international organizations blare from loud speakers. “Stay out of the open,” the camp leaders say. “Beware of mudslides and flash floods,” the radio broadcasters admonish. They do not have to live in the muck, mud, and wind.

  When the rain relented, other camp residents busied themselves with disassembling tents and struggling to protect their meager possessions. Libète had other concerns.