by Paul Farmer
Every once in a while, we stopped to allow a family of roosters and hens to pass. I saw a few farmers trying to break the hard ground with a spade. I don’t know how they watered their plots of land, but in some places, I saw seedlings breaking through the harsh earth.
After two hours, we arrived at the white sandy beach, and we were the only ones there. It was state-owned and required a small fee, prohibitive to most Haitians. The water was a smattering of turquoise blue and emerald green, clear and warm. Mountains with jagged cliffs surrounded us. The beach reminded me of the Cayman Islands or Mexico— breathtakingly beautiful—except that it was empty.
We swam and splashed and ate watermelon and bread with jam. As I sat on my wooden beach chair and watched Luke and Daphné play in the waves, Fayla’s words, “Have a good moment,” sung in my ears. I asked Carla about the translation, and she said that her mother had translated word for word the Creole expression “Pase yon bon moman,” which was used like our “Have a good day.”
That night the whole family gathered at the house of Manmi Dèt’s daughter Marjorie to talk about the beach. Marjorie lived with her husband and 5-year-old daughter just a few feet through the trees. Without TV, computers, or phones, there always was time to gather and talk. This was a big part of Haitian life and it was precious.
If there are such things as past lives, I must have been a member of the Dépestre family. Being with them was so natural and easy for me. Our trip to the beach in the jeep reminded me of trips my family took in our station wagon, all seven of us piling in, to spend a day out of Chicago.
Feeling tired after all the sun, I was ready to turn in for the night when Marjorie pulled out a boom box, turned on some Haitian music, and started dancing. The music had an infectious Caribbean beat. Nennenn joined in. Then Nérie. Their hips moved in sync with the drums, their movements fluid and graceful, beautiful to watch. They looked so comfortable in their bodies. I sat in awe as they twirled and laughed, their skirts swinging.
“Come on, Margo. You too.” I tried to resist, telling them I didn’t really know how to dance, but they pulled me out of my chair. “It’s easy. Just feel the music and move your hips.”
Easy for them to say. My hips didn’t shake like theirs. They were stiff, almost stuck. The sisters laughed playfully as they watched me try to copy them. “Don’t think, Margo. Just move to the rhythm. Relax. Have fun.”
Don’t think. Have fun. Those are two of the hardest things for me to do. Pase yon bon moman, I reminded myself. Nennenn took my hands and guided my steps. Slowly I started to relax. I closed my eyes and tried to feel the music. Within a few minutes, it was working its magic, as my muscles loosened and thoughts of how silly I looked evaporated. My hips began to sway and my arms flung from side to side. It was great fun. Nennenn clapped with excitement. “You’re getting it, Margo. Good. Good. Just like a Haitian sister.”
We danced in a circle under the stars, sweat dripping down our faces and backs. As we twirled and laughed, my throat started to tighten and my eyes welled up with tears. It was as though emotions trapped in my body were being released. Like the night in Nennenn’s pool, feelings of both joy and grief overwhelmed me. I fought to hold them back, afraid that once they started, they wouldn’t stop. I was so happy, and so sad. Allowing myself to laugh and dance seemed to unlock the full range of feelings that had accumulated since my first trip to Haiti—the tears I couldn’t cry when I first arrived, tears for the butterfly lady and the other women at Son Fils, tears for the babies at the orphanage and Cité Soleil, tears for all the children who are hungry, and the incredible joy of feeling the love from the St. Clare’s community. Emotions of each extreme lived within me and it seemed the more I let go, the more I felt them.
The music ended and we kissed each other good night. As Nennenn kissed my cheek, she whispered in my ear, “Dancing is good for you, Margo.”
Giving and Receiving
It was the last Sunday of my visit. Boys and girls dressed in their best clothes danced and clapped to the beat of an old trumpet as they waited patiently outside the rectory door. The St. Clare’s neighborhood was abuzz with the anticipation of another meal.
I helped unload the jeep, carrying pots and plates into the kitchen. Manmi Dèt and Irène were already positioned, ready to dish up the hot rice and stew. When the door opened, the youngest children ran into the front rooms and slid into position on the benches. Fr. Gerry greeted them in his red-and-white-striped apron. He squeezed into the middle of a packed bench in the main room and began a chant.
“Jezi te di bay timoun yo manje.”
Over and over the children repeated the sentence, playfully pounding their fists on the table. Fr. Gerry laughed and encouraged them to shout out the sentence even louder. Soon everyone in the rectory joined in.
“Jezi te di bay timoun yo manje.”
After the children started eating and the room quieted, I asked Fr. Gerry what they were saying.
“Oh, they love this chant. They’re crying out, ‘Jesus said to feed the children. Jesus said to feed the children.’” He laughed and took a bite of rice and beans. “They deserve to eat, Margaret. Jesus said, ‘I was hungry and you fed me.’ That’s what we’re doing here. We’re feeding the children and God is so happy and so are the children. Look at them!”
The room was packed with kids digging into their food. Hundreds more waited anxiously outside the front door. Overflowing plates streamed down the line of volunteers and up the stairs to the second floor. With the trumpet outside still belting out tunes, it felt like a celebration.
“It’s greater giving than receiving, Margaret, don’t you think?” Fr. Gerry said as he finished his plate. “A person would rather be the giver. But sometimes you’re born in a country where you’re put in a position to receive. Others are born in a country in a better position to give. Both the giver and receiver need each other. The giver can sleep at night because she has the satisfaction that comes with giving. The receiver can sleep at night, too, because his belly is full.”
I thought about all the What If? Foundation donors and what their giving had resulted in. Hundreds of full bellies. But their giving had also created the opportunity for more giving. The faces of the people in the packed kitchen and in the shoulder-to-shoulder chain of plate-passers were lit up with the joy that comes from serving others. We needed each other to give. The donors’ gifts wouldn’t result in full bellies unless the St. Clare’s members also gave their time and love.
Fr. Gerry pointed to the fifty adults waiting in the sun in hopes there would be food left over for them. Some were elderly and frail. Others were young adults. “This community would like to participate in the life of this country and the rest of the world. They want to give. They want to contribute. They would like to have their share in education, their share in infrastructure, their share of work, their share in health care. Many of them think they’ve been forgotten by everyone except by God, who’s sent some messengers-some friends to help them meet their basic needs.” He patted my shoulder and returned to St. Clare’s for a meeting.
When all the children had finished eating, I felt tense, waiting to see if there would be enough food to feed the adults standing in the yard. I was more emotionally prepared for the possibility we’d run out again, reminding myself to focus on love and piti piti. But I didn’t want to see them walk home disappointed. One old man looked as if he would pass out if he didn’t eat soon. I looked at Nennenn sitting in front of a huge pot. She kept reaching in with her spoon and more rice kept coming out. The plates were flowing out of the kitchen. On that day, everybody ate.
As I watched the children and adults file out of the rectory grounds into the dusty street, I tried to capture every detail so I’d remember it when I returned to Berkeley. Gabriel Joseph, a student who lived on the second floor of the rectory, walked out of the kitchen and joined me. He looked up to the sky, put both hands on his belly, and sighed. Gabriel spoke English, so he had been an invaluable tra
nslator during the Sunday meals.
“We don’t know how to thank you, Margo, for this food,” he said, looking at me earnestly. “I don’t have anything I can give you. We don’t have anything to give you, we are so poor. But…” He smiled and his eyes sparkled. “We can pray. And we do, every day. We pray for you and for all the people who are giving us this food. Prayer is what we can give you, because we want to give you something back.”
I thought about the gift of prayer flowing out of St. Clare’s to all the donors. They didn’t even know they were receiving it. And I thought about all the other intangible gifts I’d received from my Haitian friends. My heart ached with the thought of leaving them in a few days. The giving and receiving flowed between us continuously. To me, the two felt balanced, one part not more important than the other. We needed each other.
Map Tounen
The plane lifted off the runway and, within seconds, Port-au-Prince disappeared under the clouds. Luke’s hand was in mine, as it always was during takeoffs and landings. In ninety minutes we’d be in Miami. Staring out my window, I didn’t see the dark blue sea below, but instead saw the faces of Fr. Gerry, Manmi Dèt, and Nennenn. I didn’t want to say good-bye when I left—it felt so final—so instead I used one of the Creole phrases I’d learned, “Map tounen”— I’ll be back.
I loved the Dépestre family and all the people at St. Clare’s. Spending nearly eight weeks in their community had cemented my connection to them. Knowing I’d be back many more times made my departure easier. I was already thinking about when I might return.
The flight attendant brought us a turkey sandwich, juice, and a cookie, and Luke dived in. He was ready to go home. He missed his friends and was excited about starting third grade. But he loved the Dépestres, too, and said he was happy we spent the summer in Haiti. I knew our time in Port-au-Prince had been one of the most important things I’d done for him.
I didn’t feel like eating. The food placed in front of me only reminded me of the children in Tip las Kazo who could never fly out of Haiti on a plane. I stared at the clouds and prayed I would never forget their hunger, that their daily prayer to St. Jude would always sing in my ears— “Ose-kooooooooouuuuuuu’’—and that, one day, their cry of S.O.S. wouldn’t be needed.
As I looked at the sweets on my tray, I remembered the “powder of love” coconut treat and smiled, picturing Nennenn mixing the ingredients, Nancy patiently spooning the mixture into 500 tiny bags, and Manmi Dèt tying each bag carefully at the top. I thought about the importance of Pase yon bon moman. I’d never felt more grounded or present, thanks to their gentle guidance and example.
I leaned my head against the seat and closed my eyes, trying to remember more details. I could see Manmi Dèt peeling eggplants, protected from the scorching sun by the awning, and Nancy rubbing lime on each piece of chicken. I saw Nennenn and the careful way she watched over every pot, tasting with a wooden spoon and adding her delicious spices. Then the way Irène balanced overflowing plates of rice and stew and placed them on the kitchen ledge. I would never forget the look of satisfaction and relief on Berry Philippe’s face as he dipped his spoon into his plate of food.
The meal at St. Clare’s had become so much more than I could ever have imagined—from Fr. Gerry’s original vision of feeding the children to a celebration feast every Sunday, fueled by love.
As the plane approached Miami, I braced myself for the shock of reentry into life in the U.S. What would the future hold for the What If? Foundation? I didn’t have a detailed plan. I wasn’t even sure what the next step would be. “Piti piti.” I heard Fr. Gerry’s words in my head. Little by little. One step at a time. Then I had an image of Fr. Gerry at the first Mass at St. Jude’s, standing on the freshly poured cement floor, his white robe blowing in the breeze, his arms outstretched, and a smile on his face. He reminded me I don’t have to have it all figured out. Piti piti na rive.
Epilogue
APRIL 2008
Nearly seven years have passed since the summer Luke and I spent in Port-au-Prince. I’ve been back to visit many times. The summer of 2001 remains fresh in my mind, fueling the lifelong commitment I have to the children in Tiplas Kazo.
The years since then have been extremely difficult for Fr. Gerry and the members of St. Clare’s. Their prayer to St. Jude has grown stronger and stronger as families struggled to survive through an aid embargo, a coup d’état, and the current global food crisis that has sent rice prices soaring and created a near famine throughout Haiti.
In 2001, international loans to the Haitian government worth hundreds of millions of dollars were blocked, including $500 million in preapproved support for health care, education, potable water, and road improvement. The U.S. government led the loan freeze. A minor electoral dispute regarding eight parliamentary seats (out of 7,500 total offices) in the May 2000 elections was cited as the reason. But even though seven of the senators in question resigned in 2001, and the term of the eighth expired shortly thereafter, the blockade did not end until 2004.
The toll on the population was devastating. Inflation skyrocketed and the economy collapsed. Throughout the aid embargo, Haiti was required to pay millions of dollars in interest on some of the frozen loans—even though the country had not received them! This, combined with other debt payments, left the Aristide government with few resources to improve the lives of the poor majority.
Throughout this period, Nennenn, Manmi Dèt, and others from St. Clare’s never missed a single Sunday afternoon serving meals at the rectory, and the number of children fed increased during this time from 500 to 750. The What If? Foundation also started a small education fund to pay for scholarships, beginning with ten students in September 2002. In 2003, a summer arts & crafts camp was organized, initiated by Manmi Dèt and Nennenn. Fr. Gerry’s guidance, “Pinpiti,” helped me stay focused and hopeful.
Then, in February 2004, there was a coup d’état and things got even worse. Former members of the Haitian military (which had been demobilized by Aristide in 1995) marched through the country. President Aristide received no help from the U.S. or other international powers to preserve his democratically elected government and was, instead, forced onto a plane and taken out of the country and into exile by U.S. military personnel.
Immediately following the coup, U.S. Marines entered and occupied Haiti. An interim government, backed by the U.S., was installed. Its police force targeted supporters of President Aristide and his Lavalas party. The jails, which had been emptied during the coup, freeing even convicted death-squad leaders, were quickly filled with political prisoners. Fr. Gerry e-mailed me reports on the crisis and its impact on the community:
It is a tough place to live in these days. The new de facto government cannot satisfy the urgent basic needs of the population. It is becoming panicky. Armed criminals, [who] escaped from jails during the coup, are running the streets causing insecurity… People are going hungry and are putting a lot of pressure on the new de facto government. The assistance promised has not been delivered. The public workers cannot be paid. The trash remains uncollected. No water from the State company. No more electricity. Lack of money, claim the new officials ... We have lost some of our basic rights, such as freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, particularly in the evening. People are scared. I also feel the pressure. If our food program was not taking place, Tiplas Kazo could become like downtown Port-au-Prince, where living is impossible for all. I have to preach louder and give more services. My heart is bleeding for the people ... May more of us on the face of the earth hear the call of Jesus through Matthew 25 ... God’s blessing always!
Gerry
A few weeks after the coup, we took a leap of faith and started a meal on Wednesdays. We had collected enough donations to pay for stoves in the St. Clare’s rectory, and tables, benches, and a roof for the “outdoor cafeteria” Fr. Gerry had envisioned years earlier, so a second cooking crew from St. Clare’s was lined up. Although we were not sure if there would be enough mo
ney to keep the second meal going more than a few months, we started anyway.
In June 2004, U.S. troops began to withdraw and were replaced by multinational UN forces. Repression of Aristide supporters continued. More than a thousand opponents of the new regime were jailed. Fr. Gerry, who had consistently and visibly spoken out against the coup, calling for the return of democracy and President Aristide, was among them.
One Wednesday afternoon in October 2004, while Fr. Gerry was serving meals at the food program, hooded men working for the interim government’s police force circled the St. Clare’s rectory. When Fr. Gerry refused to come out, the men stormed the building and demanded that the children lie facedown on the floor. They dragged Fr. Gerry through a window over broken glass and sped off with him in a truck. When they drove away, the police shot into the crowd that had gathered outside the rectory, wounding three children.
Never have I felt so helpless and far away from Haiti as on that day. I received a call just as Fr. Gerry was being taken from the rectory. He had called from his cell phone to alert friends in Miami, who then called me. I sat stunned as I took in the news, my stomach getting tighter and tighter. I had the same all-over heartsick feeling I experienced after Rich died. My hands trembled as I typed out an e-mail to What If? Foundation supporters pleading for them to contact their congressional representatives, the State Department, and Haitian authorities. Other organizations did the same. Thousands of e-mails, faxes, and letters were sent. Fr. Gerry was immediately listed by Amnesty International as a Prisoner of Conscience. Throughout Haiti, Aristide supporters were disappearing— being arrested or killed—so I feared for Fr. Gerry’s life every day he was in prison.