by Paul Farmer
We left for Haiti in July, seven months after my first visit. As promised, Father Gerry greeted us at the airport. I wasn’t as scared this time.
“Welcome Home”
As we exited the airport, we drove past the thick crowd of men waiting for the opportunity to carry someone’s suitcase. I remembered how overwhelmed I’d felt the first time I landed. This visit felt different.
“I have the perfect place for you to stay,” Fr. Gerry said as we inched along the rugged streets in his jeep. We’d only exchanged a couple of e-mails about my visit, and the details of living arrangements hadn’t been mentioned. All I knew was that Paul and I would be staying with members of his congregation. “You’ll be with a wonderful family. They are waiting for you.”
It took about ten minutes to get to the neighborhood of St. Clare’s. I’d been there once before, for Mass. The passionate prayer to St. Jude came to mind as we bounced in and out of potholes. The area looked like the rest of Port-au-Prince, rundown and without basic services like running water or electricity. Most homes were sparsely furnished one- or two-room concrete-block structures. There were no sidewalks or grassy lawns—just a few scraggly trees. Tiny shops and merchant stalls lined the main street, selling tires, canned goods, mangoes, fabric, charcoal. I spotted a barber shop without walls, with a man getting his hair trimmed under the sun.
Half a mile from the church, we turned left down a dusty road. Fr. Gerry expertly maneuvered around boulders and a family of goats and pulled into the dirt driveway of our host family—the Dépestres. They were at the heart of the food program, Fr. Gerry told us, devoting every Saturday and Sunday to the project since it had started in March.
When I stepped out of the car, a woman in her early 70s rose from her rocking chair and walked toward us, waving. She wore a bright-orange patterned blouse with a green-andwhite skirt. Her silky black hair was pulled back in two braids that wound into a bun. She walked toward me with her arms outstretched and kissed me on both cheeks. “Welcome home, Margo,” she said warmly, looking into my eyes and smiling broadly. Her words gave me goose bumps. Welcome home—what a beautiful greeting. And I already had a nickname. I’d always been “Margaret.”
Fr. Gerry introduced her—she was Manmi Dèt. He explained that manmi meant “mother” in Creole. Odette was her first name. She was called Manmi Dèt because she was regarded as the mother of the community. Everyone loved her.
As Paul gathered our bags, Manmi Dèt put her arm around me and led me up freshly painted red stairs to a bedroom. I waved to Fr. Gerry, who was backing out of the driveway. He’d just dropped my brother and me off with a complete stranger, but I wasn’t worried. I felt comfortable with Manmi Dèt. I could feel warmth and love radiate right out of her, like the nun I’d met at Son Fils.
Her house had five small rooms that she shared with her son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter. It was about 1,000 square feet, much larger than most of the homes we passed. Manmi Dèt’s other children, including her daughter Nennenn, the food program’s chief cook, had their own houses just a few yards away. Manmi Dèt knew a tiny bit of English, so we communicated mostly with smiles and hand gestures.
“Yours, Margo,” she said as she opened the door to one of the rooms. In it were two neatly made beds covered with thin brown bedspreads. There was also an orange plastic chair, an old wooden dresser, and a bureau. She led me to the adjoining bathroom and pointed to the sink. “No water.” She frowned, turning the faucet handle all the way around. I nodded. She pointed to a large bucket of water and a sponge. Sponge baths. Then she scooped out a small container full of water and poured it down the toilet. It was a weak flush, but it flushed! She smiled, and I clapped in relief.
Even though it was clear that Manmi Dèt was well-off compared to most Haitians, by U.S. standards she lived very simply. She didn’t have a phone or a washing machine or air-conditioning or a couch. There were large cracks in the walls, and the brown jeep in her driveway was old and rusted. I was worried we might be a burden, but she put me at ease. She joyfully handed me the keys and said, “Your home.”
After helping me unpack, Manmi Dèt smoothed the bedspreads and motioned for me to come with her. She took my hand and led me down the stairs to a small kitchen under the bedroom. Mismatched cups and plates were stacked neatly on a shelf. In the center of the room was a wooden table covered with a red plastic tablecloth and four chairs.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“No, merci.” I said, not wanting to eat unless she ate.
She poured me a glass of bottled water and led me to the porch. Paul joined us. One by one, family members stopped by to say hello. Manmi Dèt proudly introduced us, never letting go of my hand.
When Paul and I turned in for the night, we discovered a tray of rice and beans waiting for us on the dresser. A plastic cover was placed over each plate to keep the flies away. Fresh-squeezed juice filled two glasses. We sat on our beds and dug in, hungrier than we’d thought. Suddenly the electricity went off. My heart skipped a beat, and for a second, thoughts of a possible coup d’état or burglars filled my mind. Looking out the window, we could see that the whole neighborhood was pitch black. But then I heard Manmi Dèt through the grate in the wall chatting and laughing with her family. My concerns faded as I listened to her move effortlessly around the house in the dark. Just another power outage.
Roosters crowed, dogs barked, babies cried—the sounds of night filled the room. Under my pale blue sheet, as I lay awake, thinking about the events of the day, I felt surprisingly relaxed and present. The frenzy with which I wrapped up work, packed, and drove to the airport the day before seemed a distant memory. The frantic pace of my life in Berkeley somehow vanished as soon as I got into Fr. Gerry’s jeep. I fell asleep thinking about Manmi Dèt.
Meeting her was one of those rare and wonderful times when I felt as if I’d been reunited with someone I’d known forever. We spoke only a few words to each other, but the way she held my hand and smiled when she looked at me— it was like a mother welcoming a long-lost daughter home.
St. Clare’s
Fr. Gerry leaned out his car window and pointed to the peach-colored church sitting on a hill a few blocks in front of us. “Look at the roof, Margaret and Paul. Could you see what we painted on it when your plane landed yesterday? You flew right over us.”
I hadn’t noticed the church from the plane, but now that I could see its roof, I wondered how I missed it. In gigantic blue and red block letters (the colors of the Haitian flag) “St. Clare’s” was spelled out for all to see—from the planes above to the entire neighborhood.
“It’s fantastic! Isn’t it?” Fr. Gerry exclaimed as he admired his creative advertising. “Now everyone who comes to Haiti will know where to find us. ST. CLA-A-A-A-RE, ST. CLA-A-AA-RE,” he called out. An elderly lady sweeping her front stoop looked up at the sound of his voice and waved as we chugged by. He said something back to her, and they both laughed. He seemed to know everyone in the area.
“Bonjou, mon pè!” (Hello, Father.) A dozen boys stopped their game of basketball to greet us as we pulled in front of the church.
“See the new hoop I got for the children? They stay close now, so I can keep an eye on them.” Fr. Gerry chatted and joked with the boys, who were thrilled with their new metal rim and pole.
“And look at our bell tower, Margaret. It’s on its way.” The “tower” sat to the left of the church building. It was only 3 feet tall. I assumed lack of funds had temporarily stalled the project. Even though it was far from complete, it looked beautiful. Cream-colored rocks of various sizes were carefully arranged to fit together like a mosaic. “We’ve made lots of improvements since you were here in January. We also have two fans and a new microphone. Someday we’ll have air-conditioning. Oh, the congregation will love that! Come inside.”
Paul and I followed down the center aisle. The sanctuary, with its white tile floor, butter-colored walls, and blue-tinted windows, seemed much bigger and brighter than I
remembered it. I guessed that the pews held at least 700 people. A sexton nodded hello from behind the lectern. He was coiling microphone wires and arranging chairs for afternoon Mass. As I walked down the aisle, my mind replayed the scene from my only other visit to St. Clare’s—the time when the little boy collapsed right in front of me during the service. The thought sent a shiver up my spine.
Today the plain wooden pews were empty except for an occasional Bible or songbook. In the front of the church, three steps led to a communion table draped with a white tablecloth. A vase filled with purple and yellow plastic flowers was placed on it. On the front wall was a crucifix, a picture of Mary, and a small white statue of St. Clare. As I approached the communion table, a gentle breeze blew through the open doors. With the sun streaming in and with its airy, fresh feeling, I imagined St. Clare’s provided a welcome respite for its parishioners.
“We’re repainting the saints.” Fr. Gerry pointed to twelve glass window paintings that were positioned side by side, up high on the front wall of the church. I could make out the shadow of an artist who was painting one of the panes of glass in a second-floor room just behind the paintings. “Right now, we’re working on St. Luke. His glass cracked, so we have a brand-new piece.” I was surprised at the European look of the saints—just like my picture books from Sunday School. They seemed out of place in the sanctuary, and I wondered if the artist was making any changes to St. Luke’s face and hair.
As we looked up at the paintings, Paul casually mentioned to Fr. Gerry that he was an artist, too.
“You’re an artist? That’s fantastic!” Fr. Gerry’s eyes sparkled. He put his arm around Paul and pointed to the back wall. “Tell me what you think about the balcony, Paul. Just this week I had an idea.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “We need something on that back yellow wall. I was thinking that a risen Christ would look perfect there, don’t you?”
Paul nodded in agreement.
Fr. Gerry held up his hand, moving it from side to side as if measur ing the imaginary painting. I could see that it was already complete in his mind. “This is perfect timing! You’re an artist. You can do it. We’ll get you some paint and you can paint this weekend, okay?”
Paul looked stunned. “But Father Gerry, I’ve never painted anything that big before. I’m an oil-on-canvas painter. It usually takes me over a year to finish a small painting, and I’m only here four more days.”
Paul had a good point. He’d been working on the same paintings for years. I loved his work. It was always worth the wait. It was Renais sance style, usually with a spiritual theme. Jesus was in sever al of his paintings. But Paul was definitely not a painter who cranked things out. He seemed to obsess over the tiniest details. The process seemed almost painful to him. His pace and the fact that he hated marketing his work made it tough for him to make a living as an artist. But from his talent, it seemed clear that he was born to paint.
My eyes moved back and forth between Paul and Father Gerry. I hoped Paul would say yes. A gigantic Jesus at St. Clare’s—what an amazing opportunity!
Still staring at the blank wall, Fr. Gerry smiled and said, “No problem, Paul. Whatever you do will be great.”
Paul glanced at me, a look of concern in his eyes, and I nod ded encouragingly. “Well ... maybe I can do an outline .... And then another artist can finish it. Do you have a piece of chalk?”
Fr. Gerry called out to a young boy who was peeking through the side door. He dashed off and returned with a piece of charcoal and a wooden ladder. It was as easy as that. In a matter of seconds, Paul had his assignment for the weekend.
As Fr. Gerry and Paul talked about the painting, I wondered what my assignment would be for the weekend. Normally, I planned out every detail of a business trip, complete with a typed agenda neatly placed in a folder. But I didn’t know where to start with Fr. Gerry and the food program. That morning’s visit to St. Clare’s was a surprise. So was the painting. I had no idea what we were going to do next. I could sense that asking for details wasn’t appropriate. Fr. Gerry seemed to operate on another level—as if he was following inspiration, not an agenda. I decided that my plan was to have no plan and simply follow Fr. Gerry’s lead.
“Margaret and Paul. This is Berry Philippe.” Berry shook our hands enthusiastically. He looked about 12 and was dressed in a faded gray T-shirt, shorts, and plastic flip-flops that were too big for him. “Berry’s one of my altar boys. He’s a great helper. He will stay with you, Paul, so you can get started. Margaret and I will be back later, after we go to the paint store.”
Leave Paul behind? I wasn’t so sure about this idea. We’d promised Mom and Dad we’d stick together. What if something happened when we were gone? I was pretty sure Berry didn’t speak a word of English. Before I could offer another suggestion, Father Gerry’s cell phone rang and he stepped outside.
“I’ll be fine, Margaret. Don’t worry.” Paul said, as he and Berry lugged the ladder up the winding metal staircase to the balcony. I could see Paul was starting to get excited about painting Jesus.
I held my breath as I watched Paul slowly climb to the top of the ladder, testing each step to make sure it wouldn’t break. The ladder looked ancient. Its steps were loose, held together by rusted nails. It wasn’t a stepladder; it just leaned against the wall. I was sure it would slip to one side or the other if it weren’t for Berry, who braced his body against the bottom legs of the ladder, holding it in place. When Paul got to the top, his six-foot-two-inch body looked tiny against the huge yellow wall.
Fr. Gerry honked the horn, signaling it was time to go. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” I whispered, looking over my shoulder as I walked down the stairs. Paul smiled and waved me on. He looked calm and confident. I felt that way, too, even though I knew I should probably be more worried or at least more careful. I couldn’t explain it, but something about St. Clare’s gave me a feeling of safety. Of course, being “PKs” (pastor’s kids), Paul and I felt at home in a church. But it was more than that. Maybe it was the friendly sexton, or young Berry, or the daisy-colored balcony wall. Or maybe I’d started to change. The feeling of being overwhelmed that I had experienced throughout my first visit to Haiti had faded to the background. Miserable conditions surrounded me, but the food program was on Sunday, and with Fr. Gerry and Manmi Dèt I felt hopeful and excited about what was possible.
Miracles
Bumping down the hill to the paint store, I started to regret not giving Paul Fr. Gerry’s cell phone number. I pictured him teetering on the top of the ladder. What if he fell and broke an arm or leg? What if he was kidnapped? Someone back home had warned me of kidnappings. “You never know ...,” they said, ominously. I brushed these fears aside, reminding myself that I felt safer in the Tiplas Kazo neighborhood than in certain parts of Berkeley. Plus, violence throughout Haiti had dropped to a tiny fraction of what it had been before the Aristide and Préval governments. It was a good time to be there.
I reached into my bag for my notebook and pen. I’d created a long list of questions for Fr. Gerry. Some were weighty—thoughts that had been troubling me since my first visit to Haiti. Even though I barely knew him, I felt I could ask him anything. This was the perfect opportunity for a private conversation. So, right there in the jeep as it pitched and creaked along—I started in on my most pressing question:
“How is it, Father Gerry, that Haitian people have such a deep faith in God? When there’s so little food and few jobs and no doctors or running water, I’d think that after a while, a person might reject the idea of God, or at least a loving and just God.”
He smiled. I could tell he liked this question.
“God is the first and the last resource here. We feel God’s presence more and more, because there is nobody else some days who can sustain us to allow us to survive. It’s only God sometimes.” He paused to drive around a stalled car. “Because the neighbor doesn’t have enough, the friends don’t have anything, so we’re praising God. God makes miracles. So
we live by miracles, and as we live by miracles, we need faith. Our faith sustains us.”
He beeped his horn and waved at the people standing along the road. “Ki jan w ye?” (How are you?) he called out. “Pa pi mal” (Not bad), they responded, smiling and waving. I wrote his answer down quickly in my notebook, trying to understand the depth of what he was saying.
“You will observe that wherever there is a lot of misery, there is less suicide.” I looked up, surprised at where this question was taking us. Suicide was not on my list. “The suicide rate is very low in Haiti. Poor people don’t kill themselves. They always have hope. Something, something is coming.”
He was quiet for a minute, and so was I. I looked out my window at the rows and rows of dilapidated homes. Stagnant water pools full of garbage baked in the heat. The smell was nauseating.
“In the midst of trouble, the presence of God is felt more and more,” he said softly.
That had definitely been my experience after Rich’s death. When I was really struggling, my whole understanding of God shifted—from a God far away to a God close, present with me in my darkest hour. But I felt uncomfortable making comparisons between my life and the life of Haitians. I’d been through a very painful time, but the worst of it had passed. The people I saw outside the car window had a lifelong struggle with the basic necessities of life. They’d lived not only through the deaths of spouses, but the deaths of children, siblings, parents, and friends. They’d lived through coups, brutal military regimes, devastating hurricanes, and drought. I was visiting during a relatively peaceful moment in Haiti’s political history. The country was preparing for another presidential election as Préval’s term ended. Jean-Bertrand Aristide was running again and had the support of the masses. He was expected to win by a landslide. Fr. Gerry said that the country was hopeful that his election would bring new schools, hospitals, and cooperatives. Still, life seemed miserable for most Haitians. I didn’t know if I would be able to have hope and belief in a loving God if I lived under these conditions.