by Paul Farmer
At ten o’clock, parents of the sick children arrived. Tuesday was visiting day, and I could hear a crowd gathering outside. When the gate opened, mothers and fathers rushed to hold their children. The scene was heartbreaking, as I wondered how many of their babies would be alive when they returned next week.
In just a couple of minutes, all the cribs in the room had a visitor, except for one. One baby was left, a little boy. I walked over to him and looked down. He was tiny, too frail to be moved, I thought, but then he reached out to me.
“May I pick him up?” I asked as a nun passed by.
“Of course.” She smiled.
“How old is he?”
“Eighteen months.”
Eighteen months! He didn’t look older than five or six weeks. His skin wrinkled on his bones. His head wobbled like a newborn. I didn’t think he weighed more than 8 pounds. As I positioned him in my arms, he snuggled close to my chin. I rocked him back and forth and hummed a lullaby. He was silent, so silent I was afraid he’d stopped breathing, but then I felt his tiny chest rise and fall so I stopped worrying. Where were his parents? Maybe his mother died giving birth to him. Maternal mortality rates were high in Haiti. So were infant mortality rates. I wondered why he was sick—maybe cholera.
As I stood in the room holding that tiny child, I wondered about all the other children in Haiti and throughout the world whose lives are cut short from malnutrition or contaminated water. The statistics are overwhelming and discouraging. And now I was holding one of those statistics. The situation was palpably real, and I felt my cheeks flush with anger at the thought that these children were dying from easily preventable and curable diseases.
When Fr. Gerry arrived at noon, I kissed the baby’s gaunt cheek and laid him in the crib. I grabbed my bag and left, feeling my heart break as I watched him reach his hand out for me and cry.
I walked to the street and passed two women carrying sick babies in their arms, on their way to La Maison des Enfants in hopes there might be room for them. But every crib was full and the only way their children could be admitted was if another child recovered, or died. I ached to think that the next open crib might be the one of the little boy I’d just kissed good-bye.
Water
Manmi Dèt and I had just started climbing the hill to St. Clare’s Church for Mass. I was thrilled to be able to go to a service before Luke and I returned to Berkeley. Thick, black clouds were moving quickly over the mountains and seemed to be racing us to church. We grabbed each other’s hand and dashed for the sanctuary, while vendors rushed to cover their fruit stands, and those walking in the street ducked into the nearest shelter. Kids playing soccer with a crushed soda can stopped and took cover, too. Within seconds, the fierce storm drenched the whole neighborhood and turned the road into a river.
A young boy, about 13, walked casually across the churchyard, undisturbed by the wind and rain. He was carrying a bar of soap in his hand. I watched him stop at the corner of the church, and position himself directly under a stream of water that poured off the pitched roof. The water rushed down at the perfect angle for an outdoor shower. There, in the middle of the afternoon in the midst of thunder and lightning, he stood in his shorts and washed his hair, face, and body, rinsed off, and walked back home.
No one in the neighborhood had running water. Fr. Gerry told me the water pipes broke five years earlier, and the city couldn’t afford to fix them. Instead, women and children spent their days walking back and forth on the rugged roads to get water from a pump.
Most of the diseases that kill Haitian children come from drinking contaminated water. Bacteria thrive in untreated, unfiltered water, rusty pipes, and dirty faucets. Some of the kids I saw carrying water on the side of the road were using old paint or oil containers as their buckets.
It’s even harder to find potable water in the countryside. People climb up and down the mountainside to dip their jugs in rivers and streams. During part of the year, some of these natural water sources dry up, making the search for water even more difficult. Deforestation has turned much of Haiti into a near desert, where the rainy season is no longer predictable. No wonder Fr. Gerry said that water is the most precious, needed resource in Haiti.
The storm moved through quickly. As I sat next to Manmi Dèt in the second pew on the left, I looked at the women seated with us and wondered if they felt as thirsty as I did. They must have. Sweat poured down their faces and necks, but they sang and prayed and followed the liturgy with an attention and devotion that rose above thirst. I waited patiently for the service to end, wishing that I could stop thinking about water. But it was so hot, the humidity was thick, and the fans weren’t working. Later when Manmi Dèt poured me a tall glass of bottled water in her kitchen, I thought about the little girl in pink sneakers and wondered whether the water she was carrying was safe.
The next morning, Luke and I flew home. The scenes of the gift distribution, the schoolroom, the orphanage, and the afternoon storm remained fixed in my mind. I’d only spent a few days in the Tiplas Kazo community on my trip with Paul and my trip with Luke, but I felt a growing connection to it. There was something about Fr. Gerry, the Dêpestre family, the children, and everyone at St. Clare’s that nourished me and fed my soul.
As I watched the Haitian coast disappear beneath my airplane window, I wondered where it all would lead. I had no idea. But uncharacteristically for me, I didn’t feel the need to know at that time. I was content to accept the mystery.
Kenbe Fèm!
Every room in my house in Berkeley had something to remind me of Haiti. The painting from Cité Soleil hung in my bedroom. A stone carving of a woman holding a baby was on my kitchen counter. Pictures of Fr. Gerry, Manmi Dèt, Nennenn, and the children of the food program were taped to the borders of my computer screen. I thought about them all the time.
After the trip with Luke, I felt an urgency to tell people what I had experienced. Between packing lunches, driving Luke to and from school, and running my health and well-ness business, I sent e-mails and made phone calls to friends, describing the school, the boy who took his shower in the rain, and the children who came to eat at the food program. I wrote about Manmi Dèt and Nennenn and their dedication to providing healthy meals every Sunday. I shared Fr. Gerry’s words, Piti piti na rive, and his vision of hope.
I also told them I had decided to create a nonprofit corporation, with the help of an attorney friend, so I could raise the funds needed for the food program. It was clear from my visits that the members of St. Clare’s were determined to keep it going, and so was I. I needed to think of a name for the nonprofit, and one day while I was praying, two words came to mind as clearly as if they’d been written on a piece of paper: What if?
Before I could wonder what this meant, a stream of “what if” questions came to me. What if every child in the Tiplas Kazo neighborhood had three meals a day? What if every child had not only enough food, but clean water, education, shelter, and health care? What if providing these necessities to children was the world’s priority? What if the economic and political systems that perpetuate poverty were transformed? One “What if?” question after another entered my mind, pointing to possibilities and hope.
When I opened my eyes, I knew one thing for sure. The name. In January 2001, one year after my first visit to Haiti, the What If? Foundation was founded, and I became its volunteer director, administrator, and fund-raiser.
A friend sent an e-mail commenting on what a burden I must feel taking on the responsibility to raise the money needed to feed 500 children once a week. It was a huge commitment, she said, since whether they ate or not would depend on me. I hadn’t thought about it that way before. Sharing the story of the children in Tiplas Kazo and collecting funds for the food program didn’t feel like a burden. It was a fulfillment, the new purpose I’d been searching for since Rich died. It was an opportunity to help others in a very personal way, and it made me extremely happy. I didn’t worry about the future or what it might
mean to keep things going month after month. From the moment I met Fr. Gerry and heard his vision of a food program, I felt swept up in the flow of something beautiful. I didn’t feel the need to question or worry about it. I just went with it.
As the weeks passed, checks continued to arrive in my mailbox—$50, $25, $100. A friend’s daughter sent the contents of her piggy bank. Another friend sent the proceeds from a bake sale. Business associates held a raffle. My former church in Wisconsin sent $1,000 and made a commitment to support the program annually. A friend’s Rotary Club sent $1,500. Friends of friends, strangers to me, sent checks too. I deposited the money in the What If? Foundation’s bank account in Berkeley and then wired it to the food program’s account in Haiti. Fr. Gerry withdrew what was needed and gave it to Nennenn, so she could shop at the farmers’ market. Meticulous notes were kept describing how every penny was spent. Our simple system worked.
Each time I received a check, I multiplied the amount by two and wrote the donor letting them know how many meals they’d just made possible. Ten dollars fed twenty children. One hundred dollars fed 200 children. At 50 cents a meal, every check made a difference. Donors wrote that they liked the simplicity and intimacy of the program. By knowing me and hearing about my experiences, they understood the hunger of the children in a more real and personal way, and they were grateful to be able to help.
I forwarded e-mails from Fr. Gerry to keep them connected and informed.
Dear Margaret,
The food program remains a great help to the hungry ones. We may have to change the name Sun-day to Food-day. Food may be understood as both spiritual and material. Thanks a lot to you and to all the friends who freely and lovingly are helping. Kenbe fém! (Hold on firm.)
Gerry
Dear Margaret,
The Sunday meal is a standard program now for the needy children, teenagers, and some adults. After the church worship it is the greatest act of love for me—to help feed the hungry ones. It is tough some days, but it is a must. Jesus loves, loves, loves it. The children appreciate it so much. They come from all over. They walk miles for a hot, blessed meal served with God’s love within us all.
Gerry
Each time I heard from Fr. Gerry, I felt my heart longing to return to Haiti. On a spring afternoon, as I listened to an audiotape of the St. Clare’s choir that Fr. Gerry had given me and stared at a picture of Manmi Dèt, I got an idea. What if Luke and I went to Haiti for the summer? Manmi Dèt had invited me to come back for as long as I wanted, and assured me it would not be an imposition. I’d never before considered going for more than a week at a time, but the thought of being in Port-au-Prince with Luke for a couple of months intrigued me. I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, from a whirlwind pace that seemed to fill every second of every day—fund-raising, working on my business, and taking care of Luke. I felt drained, unable to find balance, and I could feel the onset of burnout. A summer in Haiti could help me rejuvenate.
The more I thought about it, the more I loved the idea. During a longer visit, I could learn some Creole and become more connected to the community, and it would be an incredible experience for Luke. But more than anything else, I just wanted to be with the members of St. Clare’s. I e-mailed Fr. Gerry, who wrote back that Manmi Dèt was waiting for us. “This is your home,” she said.
I started to write down what it would take for the trip to happen. As the list got longer and longer, it seemed more and more crazy. But it felt so right. I kept writing. Luke would be out of school in mid-June. Check. My sister could look after my house and mail. Check. With proper planning, my business could run on its own for a while. Check.
Family and friends were surprised when I told them my plans. They were supportive, but I could tell they were concerned for our safety. I reassured them that things were calm politically in Haiti. The majority of Haitians were very supportive of President Aristide, whom they had elected a few months earlier in a landslide victory. Although living conditions remained exceedingly difficult, there was relative security and peace throughout the country. It was a good time to visit.
I told Luke, who immediately started talking about introducing the St. Clare kids to his favorite sport—baseball. His Little League season had just begun, so he spread the word at the fields and started a collection for extra gloves, hats, jerseys, and balls. It grew every week.
The plans for spending the summer in Port-au-Prince brought a renewed sense of energy and excitement to my days. Time passed quickly, and before I knew it, Luke and I left Berkeley with a small suitcase of clothes, malaria pills, and four duffel bags packed with school supplies and baseball gear. I just knew I was doing the right thing. Everything had fallen into place.
Fruit Salad
We arrived at Manmi Dèt’s from the airport just as Nennenn was returning from the farmers’ market with baskets of ripe mangoes, bananas, pineapples, melons, and oranges. The family was getting ready to make a fruit salad for a special meal that was planned for priests visiting St. Clare’s. The air was warm and sticky, and the summer sun beat down with intensity. I quickly changed into my lightest sundress and joined Manmi Dèt and the others under the awning. We ate fried plantains, my favorite Haitian treat. I felt right at home, as though I’d never left.
Chairs and cement blocks were arranged in a circle, with the fruit piled in the center. Manmi Dèt motioned for me to sit next to her on the blue couch with no legs. She handed me a small knife and an orange. With their loving companionship, all the gorgeous fruit, and a slight breeze waving the palm fronds overhead, it felt for a moment like I was back in the Cayman Islands, except that I’d just come from the airport and had seen the miserable living conditions for the millions who lived in Port-au-Prince.
I studied the piles of fruit and found myself calculating how long it would take to prepare all this. Fruit juice dripped down my arms and beads of sweat formed on my forehead as I whipped through my mound of oranges, peeling the skins with focus and determination. I was excited about the progress I was making.
I finally took a break to sip a bottle of Haitian cola Manmi Dèt had given me, and looked around. It was obvious the Dépestre women and I did not share the same rhythm. They’d hardly made a dent in their sides of the pile. They laughed and joked and talked and teased. Slowly and carefully they cut each mango and melon into the tiniest pieces I’d ever seen. I couldn’t help but wonder why they were cutting them so small. At this pace, we’d be here all afternoon.
And then I remembered—that was the point. I remembered the poudre d’amour dessert that was served in 500 plastic bags. I remembered the reason I’d come to Haiti. There was no need to rush or to multitask. I took a deep breath and started again, this time trying to cut my oranges as delicately as Manmi Dèt cut her mangoes.
But I couldn’t do it. My hands just sped up, as if in a race. I was locked into a different speed, and realized it might take the whole two months just to stop my compulsion to check things off a list and find ways to do more things in less time. I was an expert at folding laundry while making business calls—with a headset so both hands were free—and monitoring dinner on the stove at the same time. I was always in a hurry, trying to get as much done as possible before Luke got home from school. But now I was in Haiti. I didn’t have a day planner or a list of to-dos or any major responsibilities.
I put down my orange, took another sip of cola, and observed my friends. Very delicately, with extremely dull knives, they cut into the succulent fruit and really seemed to enjoy it. Every seed was removed, every extraneous piece of pulp pulled out.
Manmi Dèt was in charge of mangoes. She positioned each one in a way that made it easy to run the knife down each side of the pit, separating the pit from the fruit. Then she held up a section and carved lines in it from top to bottom and then side to side, like tic-tac-toe. When she bent the mango skin back, the chunks of fruit popped right up. Then she cut along the skin, and the tiny squares fell right into the bowl. She made it lo
ok so easy.
I watched Magga, Manmi Dèt’s daughter-in-law, work on cutting pineapples. Instead of adding her tiny chunks to the bowl that held my cut oranges and Manmi Dèt’s mango, she poured all her hard work into a strainer and mashed it into juice. So much effort to make those tiny pieces, only to turn them into juice. With a wooden spoon, she gently pressed the pineapple against the strainer in a circular motion until the sweet drops squeezed out of the tiny mesh and onto the growing mound of fruit salad. When she was done, she scraped the pulp out of the strainer and into another bowl. Nothing was ever wasted. I was sure it would be eaten later.
Luke slipped in between Manmi Dèt and me on the couch for a snack. He’d just finished playing soccer with the neighborhood kids, who had been waiting for him in the yard when we arrived. Magga handed him a big piece of watermelon, which he devoured enthusiastically, placing his rind in the pile with the other discarded rinds, peels, and pits. Magga reached down and handed it back to him. She pointed to several pink patches still left on the rind. In broken English, she said with a smile, “Luke, you waste.”
Luke nodded. He scraped off the remaining melon with his spoon. As I sat there watching this interaction, I thought of all the times I’ve made fruit salad, throwing out half the fruit with the rinds and peels because it was easier than taking the time to really scrape it off or cut carefully around a pit. I thought about our abundant life and how we took food for granted. We had no real concept of waste or hunger.
Our fruit salad production went on for hours. I sat in awe, watching the Dépestre women work their magic without food processors or cutting boards, hoping my visit would help me become more like them. Finally, Manmi Dèt gave the final stir, mixing together the thousands of orange, yellow, and red pieces of Haitian fruit we’d sliced and diced into a rainbow of color and texture. Magga’s pineapple juice coated it all and glistened in the sun. We all stepped back to admire our work. This was the most magnificent fruit salad I’d ever seen—all the more so because of the loving way in which it was prepared.