by Paul Farmer
St. Jude’s Chapel
AIlo, allo, hello,” Fr. Gerry said as he enthusiastically answered his cell phone. It rang often. I spent many days JL X driving with him in his jeep from place to place and was amazed by his energy and ability to coordinate dozens of projects. His parish stretched for miles, and he felt a responsibility to all the people in it. I wondered if he ever slept.
In addition to the daily Mass at St. Clare’s, he hosted a weekly national call-in radio program. It was lively and popular and covered social and political issues. Nennenn and Toto listened to it every Saturday on Radio Ginen during the long drive to market. He’d also been busy that summer planning a neighborhood party on the rectory grounds. There would be a band and dancing and hundreds of people. He told me Tiplas Kazo needed things to look forward to that would bring a sense of community, joy, and fun. A group of St. Clare’s teenagers he’d been encouraging, called the “young entrepreneurs,” would kick off a new soda-selling business at the event. In the midst of all of this, he was training a new group of altar girls and a dozen confirmands. He visited the sick and elderly, and said Mass for the Missionaries of Charity nuns at the orphanage. He always found time to greet the neighborhood children and pass out jellybeans.
“See what it takes to make a Haitian child happy, Margaret?” he’d say every time.
On one afternoon, he invited me to go with him to celebrate the first Mass at a new chapel a few miles from St. Clare’s. Overseeing construction projects was another part of his day. I imagined his degree in engineering really came in handy. He’d named the chapel St. Jude. The people it was going to serve lived too far from St. Clare’s to walk to Mass, so building a place for them to worship had been a dream of his for years. Now it was a reality. The first Mass would start in an hour.
When we got to the site of the new chapel, Fr. Gerry jumped out of the jeep, walked down a steep path of rocks, and exclaimed, “Here it is!”
I looked where he pointed, but didn’t see anything but a concrete shell—a floor, one wall, and a ceiling held up by exposed metal poles. The construction site was surrounded by small concrete-block homes. An old faded skirt and blouse were drying on a wood railing just a few feet away.
“Where is it?” I whispered, embarrassed to ask.
“Right here,” he said matter-of-factly as he stepped onto a smooth surface in the midst of piles of concrete blocks and rubble. Stretching his arms over his head, he let out one of his belly laughs and announced, “The St. Jude Chapel is finally here!” Then he spun around in a circle, beaming, and said, “We poured the floor yesterday. It’s dry now.”
As I stood in the middle of the small floor and looked around at the empty space, women in Sunday dresses, hats, and shoes started to arrive, bringing rickety chairs from their homes a few yards away. They lined them up carefully to form pews. A young man set up a card table on the edge of the floor. Then an elderly woman carefully smoothed a pretty white tablecloth over it. Fr. Gerry put on his robe and then reverently placed his Bible and communion cup on the table. A teenager sitting on a cinder block started beating a drum between his legs, signaling the start of the opening hymn.
Fr. Gerry led the Mass with the same love and intensity he always did at St. Clare’s. Whether there were 700 people or a handful, I didn’t see any difference in the way he prayed, preached, or reverently lifted the communion cup. Here we were in his new open-air chapel with no pews, no windows, no doors, only a wooden cross leaning on a pile of rocks.
The Man in the Street
Nennenn wanted to buy sewing supplies for Manmi Dèt after our weekly stop at the farmers’ market, so we went deeper into the city than usual. I’d been to this part of town once before, when Fr. Gerry and I drove to get paint for Paul.
When we got to the fabric store, I decided to stay in the car and wait while Nennenn and Toto ran in. Just a few seconds passed before a little girl walked up to my window. She held out her hand and touched her belly. Her eyes pleaded with me. I didn’t have any money with me, so I apologized in French, “Je regrette de ne pouvoir vous aider.” She walked away, disappointed. A minute later, another child walked up. This time it was a boy, no more than 6 or 7 years old, with a frayed Chuck E. Cheese T-shirt. As our eyes met and I tried to tell him I didn’t have any money with me, I thought about Bryan’s song, the one I’d heard years ago about the restaurant and the meal and the waiter pulling the shade down. Here was that hungry boy on the other side of my car window. We were only inches from each other and I couldn’t pull the shade down. But I couldn’t help him either. He stuffed his hands in his empty pockets and walked away.
My head pounded, and I started to feel depressed. I’d been protected staying in Manmi Dèt’s neighborhood. Life for the children in Tiplas Kazo was difficult, but they had a strong community, and there was Fr. Gerry, St. Clare’s, and the meals on Sundays. Here, in the heart of the city, it felt raw and overwhelming. So many people struggling to make a living. So many children begging for help.
Nennenn came back with a small bag of supplies, and we continued on our way. I was relieved to be moving again. But just a block or two later, the car stopped. We sat for several minutes and then finally inched forward. As we approached the intersection, I could tell that cars were driving around something. I leaned forward to see what was happening and fell back wishing I’d never looked. A middle-aged man was lying facedown in the middle of the street. Clearly, he was dead.
Maybe he’d collapsed from starvation. Maybe a car had hit him. Maybe he’d been shot. He looked like he had just been walking across the street. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? No ambulance. No police. Part of me wanted to jump out and run to him, move him to the curb and place a blanket or jacket or something over him. Another part was too scared to do anything. I had been sheltered my whole life. I’d never seen a dead person in the street before. Nennenn placed her hand over mine as we took a left and drove down a side street away from the congestion. I could tell from her reaction that things like this happened every day.
I closed my eyes and slumped down, leaning my head against the backseat.
“Margo, are you okay?” Nennenn asked, smoothing the bangs off my forehead.
“I’m just tired,” I lied. I felt increasingly weak and sick, with the urge to run. A dead man. Dozens of begging children. Thoughts swirled, giving me a pounding headache.
I was a 39-year-old white, middle-class woman who didn’t speak Creole, had never studied Haitian history or politics or global economics or grassroots organizing or fund-raising or anything like that. I didn’t know what I was doing. The problems were too huge. The number of people in need was too large.
My worries spun out of control.
The food program fed a handful of children one meal a week. It was just a drop. A Band-Aid. Plus, there was no guarantee the money was going to keep coming in. Telling a few family members and friends was not enough. What would happen if the money ran out and the food program had to end? I’d be seen as another naïve blan do-gooder who created expectations she couldn’t meet. Who didn’t know what she was doing. A failure. Besides, I wasn’t doing anything to address the reasons they were hungry in the first place, which I knew was the key to change.
My throat was tight. I struggled to hold back tears so Nennenn wouldn’t notice. I hated what I was thinking, but couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t belong here. I should get Luke and leave right now, this afternoon. There’d been a dead man in the street, for God’s sake. And there were probably hundreds of others. It wasn’t safe! There had to be resentment under the surface toward a visiting American. The U.S. government had played a big role throughout history in why the poor are so poor in Haiti. Cité Soleil was packed with misery. It could explode any minute. Another violent coup was always a possibility. My family and friends were right. Luke should be in Little League, not under mosquito netting. He was only 9. I was in way over my head. Fr. Gerry would understand. Manmi Dèt and Nennenn would understand. There was probab
ly a flight to Miami in a few hours. Luke and I could be on it.
Empty Pots
When I returned to Manmi Dèt’s house and saw her reassuring smile as she carefully chopped cabbage for the Sunday meal, my fears slowly dissolved. So instead of packing my bags, I picked up a peeler and joined her.
At noon the next day, hundreds of boys and girls gathered at the rectory, waiting patiently in the burning sun for their turn to sit at the table. Nennenn’s creation smelled particularly delicious. The children fidgeted, squealed, and hopped up and down with anticipation of the feast that was coming their way. I leaned against the cement wall in the kitchen and watched Nennenn and her faithful crew of women scoop out generous portions from their huge pots. Gravy overflowed the sides of the plates. Most well-fed Americans wouldn’t be able to finish one of these servings. But I knew that here, even the tiniest child would eat every last drop, like a camel storing away water.
As I looked at all the food and the steady stream of plates being passed down the volunteer line, I remembered a conversation I’d had with Nennenn when I’d visited with Paul.
“Do you ever worry on Sundays that you won’t have enough?” I had asked.
She smiled. “Many times, it’s like Jesus and the bread and the fish. Sometimes when I put the food on the plate, I see the pot never empties. The food … expands.”
“Until the last child is fed?” I’d asked, amazed.
“Yes.”
“Like the loaves and fishes miracle,” I whispered.
She nodded. “Yes, Margo. Giving food is miracle.”
The serving went on until 2:30. Finally, the crowd of children cleared and it appeared that everyone had been fed. The volunteers settled into their meals. Berry Philippe squatted next to me and dived into his stew with a big spoon. He ate quickly at first, but then slowed down, savoring every bite. When he finished, he leaned back against the wall, patted his belly, and smiled.
Suddenly, I heard loud voices outside the kitchen yelling something to the cooks. Nennenn shouted back a response in Creole I didn’t understand. It didn’t sound like an argument, but I knew it was serious.
In a flash, the kitchen was full of people—mostly adults in their 20s and 30s, but there were a few children too. With hands outstretched, they pushed toward the empty pots. Their voices begged for a meal. Nennenn motioned for them to leave. She said there wasn’t any more food. They pressed forward.
My heart beat wildly with panic. I was afraid a fight might break out. Where are you, God? I cried out in my mind. How could we run out of food at this crucial moment? What about the loaves and fishes miracle? It’s happened other Sundays. Why not today? Nennenn and the other servers dug into the bottom of the pots and pans, scraping hard to find something to give the crowd. I watched a woman with sunken cheeks reach out her hand in desperation. Thankfully, Nennenn found a small bit of burned rice and dropped it into her palm. The woman instantly gobbled it up.
A tiny girl in a yellow dress gripped her mother’s hand tightly as she was pulled into the kitchen. Pressed against all the other bodies, she looked at me and smiled. Her eyes were playful. Then she hid her head behind her mother’s leg and popped out the other side. Peekaboo! Peekaboo in the middle of all this chaos? I tried to smile back, but I was too scared to play with her. I stood on tiptoe to see if Nennenn could find anything to give her mother, but every last bit of rice was gone. The little girl’s bright eyes never left mine until she crossed the threshold and disappeared into the dusty street with all the others, empty-handed.
Here to Love
I climbed up the stairs exhausted, crawled under my mosquito netting, and tried to sleep. First the orphans, then the dead man, then we ran out of food. My fears returned, this time with more strength. We couldn’t feed all the children who found their way to the rectory. We’d never be able to feed them all. And with the world the way it is, they will always be hungry. When Luke came to bed, I was glad the electricity was off again so he couldn’t see me crying into my pillow. The distant cries of babies reminded me of the many others who couldn’t sleep either.
In the next few days, I had no energy to practice my Creole, no desire to play with Luke or the neighborhood children, no interest in hanging out with Nennenn or riding around with Fr. Gerry. I pretended to be reading, but my eyes couldn’t focus on the page. Images played over and over in my mind—the dead man, the little girl in the yellow dress, the woman with sunken cheeks eating rice out of her hand. The only thing I felt like doing was walking to Mass with Manmi Dèt. Since we spoke so little of each other’s language, it was easy to be with her. Most of the time, we shared a comfortable silence.
That Wednesday, Mass didn’t start at 4:30. Fr. Gerry was delayed, so Manmi Dèt led the singing while we waited. Instead of following along in the songbook as I usually did, I glanced over my shoulder at Paul’s painting of Jesus, hoping that his image would inspire me. Where was the hope, I wondered. Where was the help? It didn’t seem that anyone heard the Haitian cry of “Osekoooooooooouuuuuuu.” Our little food program had been swallowed up by the need. It was just too small and the problem was too big. The situation was desperate, and, it seemed, getting worse by the day. Staring at the Jesus painting, I asked, Why am I here? and waited for an answer.
I didn’t hear anything except Manmi Dèt’s voice and the pounding of her hand on the top of the pew. I fidgeted in my seat. I felt hot, depressed, and mad at myself for crumpling under pressure. I couldn’t seem to access anything I’d learned from Fr. Gerry’s piti piti wisdom.
The memory of the little girl playing peekaboo and then disappearing out the kitchen door empty-handed wouldn’t leave me. See! I cried out in my mind, I couldn’t feed her. I can’t do it.
You’re here to love.
The thought was just a whisper, but I heard it clearly. I turned around and looked at the painting again.
Fr. Gerry unexpectedly spoke in English. My mind snapped to attention. I hadn’t realized he’d arrived. He was in the middle of his welcome but it wasn’t in Creole. He was talking to me, which he had done in a service on only one other occasion.” …and we thank you, Margaret, for coming to Haiti to be with us. We thank you and all the benefactors in the U.S. who are helping us feed some of Haiti’s hungry children. We are glad you are here with us, in solidarity, Margaret.”
Fr. Gerry was welcoming me so warmly. The women in the pews were smiling and nodding and patting my arm and shoulder. Yes, they were glad I was there—even though I could help with just one meal a week for only a few hundred children, even though there was no guarantee of whether we’d have enough food to feed them all, even though I didn’t know how to address the underlying reasons they were hungry in the first place, even though I was going to leave them in a few weeks and go back to my house and car and full refrigerator and my life that was so packed with comforts and conveniences.
As I sat with Manmi Dèt, listening to her pray and sing, I started to think that maybe I wasn’t an impostor. It wasn’t about quantity or effectiveness or our different lives. It was simpler than that. It was about solidarity. It was about love. On that afternoon, in the front left pew, the words “You’re here to love” became my guide. I promised to myself to remember those words whenever I got swept up in the complexity of numbers and money and expectations and worry. I’d remember Berry Philippe and his smile as he dipped his spoon in his bowl. I knew the value of even one meal.
Pase Yon Bon Moman
Manmi Dèt said she wanted me to go to the beach. I love sand and surf—something about large bodies of water makes me feel calm and at peace—but the beach was never a place I expected to visit in Haiti. On a Saturday morning, Magga and Daphné packed a bag lunch and some towels, and we piled into the brown jeep—Dede, Magga, Nancy, Luke, Daphné, and Carla, Manmi Dèt’s niece, who had just arrived from Cleveland for a visit, and me. The beach we were going to was a two-hour drive away.
After four tries, the jeep’s engine turned over and started to ch
ug. I rolled down my window and waved to Manmi Dèt, Nennenn, and Fayla, Manmi Dèt’s sister, who had come with Carla from Ohio. They stayed behind to work on the Sunday meal. Just as we rounded the corner, Fayla waved and called out in English, “Margo, have a good moment.”
“Mèsi, Fayla,” I called back, soaking in her good-bye. I’d never heard that expression before.
Just outside the city, as the sky seemed to expand and the barren mountain range came into full view, we pulled over to buy two stalks of sugarcane from a street merchant. We each broke off a piece and sucked on the sweet cane juice as we bounced down the narrow road. Dede’s speedometer was broken, so I don’t know how fast we were going—probably not more than 15 miles an hour because of all the potholes and rocks. But I didn’t mind the slow drive. It gave me time to take in the countryside.
A toothless man carrying a machete nodded in acknowledgment as we drove by his wooden house. Young girls carrying plastic jugs chatted as they walked alongside the road to gather precious water. Boys played marbles in dusty yards. Occasionally we’d pass a family selling cassavas or mangoes.
The villages we drove through were tiny, only a handful of houses in each, and I wondered where the children went to school and how the families got their cooking oil, rice, beans, clothes, or tools. I imagined they had to go to Port-au-Prince or walk for miles to a larger town. I didn’t see any electrical lines or telephone wires. The level of poverty looked the same as in Port-au-Prince, but there was a wonderful feeling of spaciousness and clean air. Despite the vast deforestation, there were banana and plantain groves, a hint of the tropical paradise Haiti once was. The villages seemed peaceful and I imagined if given the choice, many Port-au-Prince residents would prefer to live in the countryside if they could feed their families and send their children to school.