On Kindness

Lewis (fellow doctoral student and researcher recently returned to Haiti) brought to my attention that in my efforts to keep this blog impersonal that I tend not to write some of the really amazing things have happened here. The focus on the social level rather than the personal level leads to me omitting beautiful moments. Let me recount the small story of my birthday. It was my fourth day in Port-au-Prince and I was starting to hang around the camp more. Darly was showing me around and left me with his brother James and some friends at Twenty's tent, where people regularly kick it in the shade of the porch he constructed. That was the first time I met Billy or Twenty, both of whom have become friends and intermediaries in for my research. We all started talking, and Billy told me about the frustrations of being a college student who couldn't afford to go back to school because of all that he lost in the quake. No jobs, no vision of the future. Sometimes in camp people don't find the means to eat everyday. During our conversation, it came out that that day was my birthday. Really? Today's your birthday? Congratulations! What do you want? You want some cookies? What kind of soda to you want? I was soon handed a cold bottle of soda and people feted the first day of a new year of my life. I tried to pay for it, but they were having none of it. Minutes before we were discuss the frustrations of poverty and feeling of hunger, and yet even with nothing they found a gift to give to a stranger. I was warmed and astonished by this small act of generosity. That soda I think is the best birthday present I have ever received. A few weeks later, I am still warmed but not longer astonished. People with so little grasp the importance of sharing. I have entered a stranger's house for just a few minutes and already the matron had begun cooking me a small bit to eat. In the house where I am living with Sandra, I am regularly humbled by the grace of her hospitality and selflessness. I have definitely learned a thing or two about acts of kindness from Haiti. I just hope when I go back to the States I will know how to to justice to that knowledge through action and not just through recounting little stories like this one. I hope it infiltrates me.

Photos

On the off chance that people read this blog who aren't my facebook friends, here is a link to my "Bonjou Blan" photo album:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2023025&id=9701372&l=84598a3095

We Will Have Our Backs to the Sea

Last night I saw another face of Haiti, the really filthy rich one. I have to say, I feel a bit dirty spending time with the enemy, but I'm here to try to understand Haiti and that means all sides of it. After watching a new friend of mine sing jazz on the patio of a Petionville club, we headed up the mountain in someone's enormous white pickup truck, to a techno festival. Basically as close to a rave as you can get in Haiti. First of all, I am amazed I made there in the first place. The guy who drove Kenya and I there took these mountain roads at 80 miles an hour. I buckled my seat belt and relaxed my body, preparing myself to survive in case we hurled off the mountain. (A thing about Port-au-Prince: poor people live in the centre-ville, on the low lands. Petionville looks down over Port-au-Prince from the mountains, and even wealthier people live in mansions in the hills above the city. Basically, elevation=wealth). When we finally rolled up, alive, I was surprised by all the light skinned people with popped collars and stiletto heels. Are these all foreigners, I asked? No, these are the mulatres, the mixed race people of Haiti that have controlled wealth since the time of independence. These are all Haitians? Really? Again, I fell into the cliche of thinking that being Haitian meant being dark. Anyway, yes, nice cars, expensive tickets, swank drinks, a DJ from Miami. Luckily for me some guys here think pretty girls shouldn't have to pay for anything. Not really my scene too much, and I asked one of the people I was with if they were happy there, with the beat of the music shaking bones. No, not really, he said. Why are you here? Because it's another world, he said. Because its not down there. This place had absolutely nothing in common with the women selling mangos and hairbrushes on the sidewalk. There were no thin children with distended stomachs and outstretched hands. Women dressed like hookers and men wore pointy shoes. Lights flashed, drinks were spilled. That drink cost 250 gourdes, (about 6 American dollars), the same that my friends in the camp make in a day at a Cash for Work program. Who are all these people? They are young Haitian elite, educated in America, run businesses and drive SUVs. I met a young man who works for the electoral committee, another who owns several apartment buildings. I finally see what people having been telling me, the money and light skin are inextricable here, for reasons that are both immediate and centuries old. Amazingly, I made it home too, again preparing for death in a white pickup truck. I ended up having to slap the fucker who drove me home in order to get out of the car. Apparently when men buy you drinks they think they are buying you.

Suffice to say, what the fuck was I doing there? That place was so contrary to my values, to my project. But maybe it's something I just don't want to see. It hurts to witness such flamboyant excess in a place where people don't have regular access to potable water, but who am I to judge? If we had been in Miami and not Port-au-Prince, that place would have been more or less normal. And it's not like the US is a bastion of economic equality. Excess like that isn't thought of as excess in the United States, who am I to judge people who can afford it to have a little bit of a metropolitan life? I guess what made me so uncomfortable is that I doubt there is any dialogue or mutual understanding between these people inhaling cocaine and dancing till dawn and my friends in camp. The people in the hills hate the people in the city, and the people in the city hate the people in the hills. All I know is that if a second revolution comes while i'm here (an unlikely occurrence) I know which side I will be fighting on if they'll have me and our backs will be to the sea.

6/25/10

There has been a pregnant wind blowing through the streets for the past few days. It builds up during the days, slapping the tents and stirring dust. Last night it was vicious. Makes me feel like a hurricane is coming. I've never been in a hurricane before. What would happen to all those tents? Two night ago I was invited to play poker with my friend at the Associate Press and his buddies, a sunburned group of UN employees, diplomats, US military personal, and reporters. Since I lost all my money almost immediately, I profited to drink beer and pick the brains of the people around me. It's refreshing to speak English, to use nuance and make jokes. Ah...language. I inquired about the subject of my last post: what Haitians with ideas can do to get international support for their own projects. One person responded that the big dilemma for the NGO world was whether they wanted to include Haitians in the rebuilding process or whether they actually wanted to get things done. Incorporating Haitians is hard, he said, because Haitians will say they are qualified to do just about anything if there is the potential to get a job. Another contributed more helpfully that the practices of letter-writing, soliciting, project planning that are necessary to attract attention and money to a certain project just aren't that well known. Crashed on the couch, took advantage of running water and microwaves. The next morning one of the AP reporters drove me home, but on the way we stopped around so he could get footage for a piece he is putting together on the reconstruction effort. Trying to find signs of reconstruction was hard. A few places here and there we saw work teams shoveling rubble or building scaffolding. But really, nothing. There was a group of French police officers who had set up some kind of blockade in the street, maybe a check point. Can you imagine what would happen if French police officers showed up in New York City uninvited and started setting up check points? That would be a serious international crisis. But here in Haiti... But it's not like people don't notice that their national sovereignty is in crisis. There is graffiti everywhere crying for the end of the "occupation". There is the idea circulating here that the reason the international community is so interested in taking control of the reconstruction effort is because Haiti is rich in unexploited deposits of oil and minerals. The US is trying to make sure they control the Caribbean basin so that when oil in the Middle East is used up, they can move into their own "backyard". Might explain the occupation of Puerto Rico, the anxiety about Cuba. This idea was put out, if I'm not mistaken, by Hugo Chavez shortly after the quake (he also proposed that the US had an earthquake machine and caused the thing in the first place) A lot of people are talking about this, especially in light of the recent discoveries in Afghanistan. Pretty suspicious, that was. But when I mentioned this to the AP dudes, they just burst out laughing. Haiti is nothing but a rock. The only thing the international communtity wants from this place is to contain the problem. Oh yeah, I also met a Haitian dude with skin as white as mine. Not all Haitians are black, did you know? There's a fairly large Lebanese and Syrian population here. They control a lot of the economy but don't really integrate into culture or politics. Also, all those international community folks come here and make babies! This guy in particular seemed to be unhappy about the situation, other Haitians considered him a 'blan' even though he's lived here his whole life, and people abroad refuse to accept him as Haitian because he doesn't fit into their idea of what a Haitian is. Since independence, the Haitian constitution has legally defined all Haitians, regardless of color, as "noir". So at least in theory, to be black is a kind of nationality rather than skin color. Although many Haitians themselves conflate the catagories. The word "neg" (black) is used like we would use "dude". In the culture the generic person is black even if that doesn't reflect the real make-up of the population.

grassroots movements need access to funding

I don't want these open letters to be like the news that rolls into my inbox everyday: "reconstruction stalling" "disease widespread" "orphan dead after failed surgery". I recognize that so far I have tended to focus on the more depressing aspects of Haiti, is a material condition, but it is not a state of mind (corruption, however, might be a different matter). Joy can poverty can inhabit the same moment. So can generosity and poverty. What is amazing about Haiti is that in spite of the state, life goes on. Some people might call Haiti a "non-functioning society" but how can that be possible when society keeps functioning despite the state? Yes, the state might be absent, or even predatory, but that doesn't prevent people from waking up, chatting with friends, cooking, making love, watching TV, visiting family. There is no state sponsored public transportation system, so people have created on for themselves. What I am most impressed by, and which I do not see being talked about elsewhere, are the Haitians that are taking the initiative to address their the problems Haiti faces without the support of the government, the UN, or any of the 4,000 NGOs that work here. I've had conversations with a woman, Gerola, who tells me about her fifteen-year old daughter who organized a school shortly after the earthquake, teaching reading, writing, math, and dance to the local kids in her neighborhood. She was doing it everyday until her classes resumed, now she does it once a week on the weekend. Gerola also, even before the earthquake, was writing a play about sexuality to educated adolescents about safe sex, abstinence, birth control and fidelity. The project got postphoned with the quake, but now with so many kids living homeless in the streets she sees an even more pressing need for that kind of information. Two days ago I met Franz, a young psychologist who had created a mental health program that operates in nine different camps around Port-au-Prince. He trains people in the camp to be able to respond to the emotional needs of people still dealing with trauma, and once a week they go around to the camps doing workshops and therapy groups. Unfortunately, Franz has being paying for his program out of pocket and next week is the last week he can afford to do it. Gerola too worries about how long they can keep the school up without some funding, since they try to provide some kind of food or snacks for the kids, all sixty of them. There are thousands of international organizations represented in Haiti, that are here trying to help. Yet Haitians themselves who have brilliant projects in mind don't have any idea how to access international support or funding. Well-meaning people come here from abroad with ideas about what Haiti needs, impose these projects, and then they may or may not stay around to see if it worked, to be responsible for its upkeep. Yet while there is a certain good in that, it would be much more productive for society if funding was made available for Haitian organized and Haitian run projects. Haitians and foreigners alike accuses Haitians of not being capable of leading themselves (and maybe the political class is corrupted to the point where this has truth) but who is giving grassroots Haitians a chance? The whitewashed wall of NGOs and UN soldiers seems impenetrable. And people like Franz and Gerola don't feel like they would be taken seriously even if they tried to approach them. Gerola told me I would have more luck getting funding for my project than she would have for hers, just because the color of my skin would give me access to circles she could never go.

What I Do Here

You might wonder what exactly I am doing here in Haiti. I conceived of this project a few weeks after the January 12th earthquake. When I first learned of the earthquake I felt the impulse go to Haiti right then and help dig people out of rubble and bring water to those with none. Luckily for all, my friends made it clear that as a grad student, not a doctor, I would have very little to offer to those with lost houses, lost relatives, broken limbs. In such a disastrous situation, I would probably have need to be cared for more than I could have cared for anyone else. But after reflecting for awhile, I concluded that being a historian did not make me totally useless. It seemed to me Haiti future(s) were going to be shaped in the crucible of the earthquake and its aftermath, that whatever was coming in these next years would only make sense it light of this particular present moment. But of course, what you read in the newspapers and in UN press announcements doesn't seem like it could be real. That's because it's not. Most mainstream media sources, in my opinion, are paying more attention to what the audience whats to hear and read about Haiti than what is actually happening on the ground. I decided that I can try to create non-institutional documentation of this present moment so that researchers in the future can have alternative voices and opinions about the earthquake and reconstruction. By trekking around Port-au-Prince with a notebook and a tape recorder, I am creating what I hope will become an archived collection of interviews with all kinds of Haitians about their thoughts on the earthquake, conditions of living in Port-au-Prince, the international occupation of Haiti, and what is being done to move this country forward.

Three weeks in I can say with confidence that this is easy to say, and very hard to do. First of all, access "all kinds of Haitians" is a joke. I mostly hang out in one refugee camp close to my house where I have made some friends. What does that say about my the representativeness of my samples? While it is easy enough to get interviews with people, few people are willing or comfortable sharing their true perspectives with me. In regular conversation people are open and animated, but as soon as we are in "interview mode", answers to my questions become brisk, a few words or a single sentence. Or people say what they think they should say to a "blan" like me. For example, recentlye I saw people come to blows over aid distribution, but each time I ask if there is ever any conflicts between people in the camp, people say "no, never, we live together like brothers and sisters." Part of the problem, I know, is that Darly is often my translator, and he is one of the camp leaders. Thus people often makes comments about how the leaders of the camp do a great job keeping people safe and organized, or how Darly himself is personally to thank for their well being. While there might be a certain degree of truth to that, hjs presence definetely influences responses. I know they see things they won't talk about with me because I see them too. But my observations doing matter in the frame of an oral history project, it's all about the perspectives of the people I interview. I can't add a footnote to the interview transcription that reads "untruth". If I was an anthropologist I could do a whole schtick on the per formative aspects of the interview and the image of camp-life that people want to project for whatever reason. But I'm not. Of course maybe in the future the line between history and anthropology will have been worn thin.

The other problem I am realizing I face is that I never really chose what exactly I am here to find out. I can't document a whole society. I lack focus, or maybe am realizing I never had it to begin with. Since I am spending so much time in the refugee camp, I find myself trying to document the conditions of life there, and the local history of the camp. But I also am meeting dancers, poets, and artists, and want to have a series of conversations with them about the artistic community in this city. I am talking to Evangelicalists and Vodou priests about religion. And everyone has a story of the earthquake. In conversations among Haitians, "are you a victim?" follows shortly after "hi, what's your name, how are you?". I'm also interested in documenting the various ways people invoke history to explain the present situation: either they say nothing has changed, it's always been like this; or they blame or bless the Revolution; or if Duvalier was here things would be different; or the Holocaust is connected to the earthquake through roundabout ways. This is why I suspect I will be a shitty academic: I can't privilege one question over all the others that animate life, plant my flag and dig my little intellectual hole. I'm interested in everything.

Before I got here I thought society was a deck of cards and the earthquake was 52 card pick-up. I thought I could get here and document how everything was falling into place in new Haitian order. Document the variety of possibilities that were being shuffled through before the powers that be settled on one. But now I'm here and I realize that even though everything seems unstable and up in the air, this is in fact the new Haitian order. No one is going to come and remove the rumble. No one will be picking up these cards. Some people plan on staying in these tents for years. Aid money trickles in with bags of rice and malaria pills. But no one is going to build houses for these people, or factories for them to work in. No one is going to pave the roads to keep the rubble and dust from settling in the lungs. It's just like this now. On the socio-political level, things are pretty depressing. But on the individual level, life just goes on. I am in awe of the human resilience I encounter on a daily basis here. People here are so strong, especially the women. Guys mostly just sit around in the shade, listen to the radio and joke among themselves. Women on the other hand are constantly busy: are selling vegetables in the street, carrying gallons of water on their heats, cooking for the family, constantly washing clothes. That's really what I want to document. How in a place where the state does absolutely nothing for its people, people continue to do things for themselves.

Vodou afternoon

Ligba Albo is a unabashed Vodou priest. I visited him yesterday
afternoon, tape recorder in hand. He lives in a refugee camp about a
mile from Camp Trazeile. Before our conversation began he opened the
Bacardi bottle and offered libations to his ancestors at the threshold
of his tent. I did not have to pose a single question, since Ligba
already had in mind the things he wanted to say to me. I am speaking
on behalf of my ancestors, he said, for Dessalines, for Boukman,
Macandal, for those who fought with Vodou and with force to defeat
the French armies that had come to return us to slavery. His words
were thick with history. Slavery, revolution, magic. When the black
soldiers who fought against Napoleon's army grew tired, they invoked
magic that gave them new ferocity. Dessaline was chosen by the Gods to
lead Haiti to freedom, much like Barack Obama was chosen by the Gods
to lead America. These are very special men. Vodou is the roots of
the Haitian people, it is what gave them freedom, and what has stayed
with them since their ancestors were torn from Africa. Haiti is
Vodou. Yet Christians, those who share the religion of the
colonizers, attempt to suppress the expression of Vodou. Originally
the European colonists pushed Christianity on the slave population in
order to pacify them, give them a doctrine of servitude. Many
accepted. Under Francois Duvalier there was a state-led campaign
against Vodou that destroyed shrines and outlawed gatherings. While
now freedom of religion is protected by law, the reality is that more
and more Haitians are ashamed of Vodou and try to expel it from
themselves and their culture. Nowadays, practicing Christianity and
rejecting Vodou elevates you closer to the status of American and
European cultures. But according to Ligba and co., that's just a form
of false consciousness. Haitians are denying what they really are in
order to play at something that they are not. Yet the various
Christianities have deep deep root in Haiti. Many people here believe
that the earthquake was God's way of punishing Haiti for their sinful
ways, and has renewed the efforts to squash Vodou. I didn't get the
chance to ask Liga what he thought of the earthquake, why the gods
would do that. Maybe I will be lucky and there will be a next time.
But I do know that he thinks the only way Haiti can heal itself is
by returning to its roots, by reestablishing identity by seeking what
is truly Haitian and rejecting the ideologies imposed by those who
seek to oppress. There must be a returning to the roots.
What is Vodou, exactly, you may wonder. I'm not entirely sure
yet. A system of beliefs that sees gods and spirits in all things,
that believes in the feminine benevolence of the earth. In Vodou,
life and death are two truths that compose each other, and the lne
between them is smudged. Magic is very real, and exists on a daily
level. You can use magic to find a cell phone, to secure the
faithfulness of your lover, or to speak to the gods. The magic can be
either good or evil. He can cure or kill, depending. It doesn't take
very much. Even if in discourse, many Haitian are Christians, the
structure of their thoughts, their mentalite, shall we say, is
informed by Vodou. Or so I am told.
After about an hour, Ligba grew tired, and the conversation
slowed. He took the opportunity to sing a few songs of prayer for
me, that might help me remember Haiti after I am gone. They were songs
that invoked Africa, and asked his brothers to invoke it too. Before I
left he put a stone in my hand and stood over me, spraying me with the
a fine mist of scented water. My hair, my face, my shoulders. He took
the stone from me and sprayed my hands so that I might rub the water
on my arms, feet, and stomach. There was another libation poured to
the dead, the bottle passed around. The water evaporated from my
sweaty skin as I wove my way home between the merchants and the cars,
but a finely scented residue remained.
Haiti is a profoundly religious country, Hanging out in the camp,
I regularly listen to heated religious debates about the nature of
God, the meaning of the Bible, or the role of Christianity in Haiti.
People often ask me what church I go to. I stopped trying to explain
that I am not a believer, since that closes more doors than it opens.
Instead, I am Episcopalian, and I go to church on Christmas and
Easter. There are myriad sects here: Bapist, Catholic, Vodou,
Evangelical, Russian Orthodox, Jehovah's Witness. After the
earthquake even the scientologists came down here and opened up a
church. What the religion of money is going to do in Haiti is beyond
me. Yesterday I talked with a French journalist doing a piece of the
religions of Haiti. In his opinion, the scientologist are starting in
Haiti in order to get a foothold in the diaspora. He was very critical
of all the missionary groups that come down here to help, since they
ask people's souls in return. But its not just missionaries who want
something in return. There is oil here, did you know? Minerals and
precious metals too. I think that's why the US took such decisive
moves to secure control of the country after the quake. And NGOs often
led for profit operations despite themselves. Where is all that money,
people ask. The millions that people abroad assembled to help us?
Where is it? What sign has it left?

World Cup in the Refugee Camp

The World Cup is, shall we say, a really big deal here. Brazil, or
Argentina. No one else matters. I met an isolated Germany fan, and she
boasted her victory the other day against Australia, but she is more
or less alone. The streets are decorated with strings of green and
yellow soda bottles, flags fly behind motor cycles. Children without
pants sport Brazil jerseys or tie their braids with green ribbon.
Yesterday in Camp Trazelie, the camp inhabitants worked together to
find a way to watch the game. People pooled together crumpled bills to
purchase gas for a generator that would power the television someone
brought into the 'church', a large open tent shaded with blue tarps.
Children while others people set up a bench with cinder blocks and a
plank, other people brought in chairs or pieces of burlap to lay over
the ground. When the television finally flickered on, people cheered
"BRAZIL! BRAZIL!" and pressed together around the screen. Ten, then
twenty, then thirty people. Lillian, an older woman who had told me
the day before about losing four of her children in the earthquake,
showed off her jersey and green skirt. The image on the screen faded
in and out, but we caught all of the important moments. Every time
Brazil got close to the Korean goal the crowded held its collective
breath, fingers gripping knees. And then, Goal!!! Joy exploded in the
tent, beads of sweat flying everywhere, with children dancing and men
punching the air. The whole tent vibrated with a vivacity and
happiness. Women held their babies up in the air, dancing. Brazil's
victory is their victory, which is a beautiful thing in a place where
large victories are rare. Out in the street cars and tap-taps honked
vigorously, people hollering at one another with pride. The camp has
more than its share of misery, but misery does not define the
everyday. There is still occasion to celebrate life and solidarity, to
forget for a while hunger and illness.

gods chosen people

The interviews have started. Let it be said, there is definitely room
for improvement on my end, technically, linguistically, and
methodologically. But hey, gotta start somewhere. As soon as I put in the earbud and start to hear my own voice (far more nasal than I had ever imagined) I self-consciousness and my French falters, which provoked a kind of downward spiral in one of the interviews today. I'm sure that's something I grow accustomed too, but I just have too keep doing it, regardless. It was silly of me to write my question prompts in english, because then I have to translate them spontaneously, which can be graceless and occasionally incomprehensible, particularly with the more subtle questions. So far, the interviews have started with the earthquake itself, what the person was doing before, how the experienced it, what they saw, what they did immediately after, that night, the next day. Then in the weeks that followed leading up to their presence in the camp. Then I pose questions about the camp itself, the conditions of living, level of health, nature of the community, etc. My goal at this point is two-fold: to collect testimony about the quake itself, its immediate aftermath, and how it is interpreted; and to document the living conditions in Haiti since. I've started in one particular refugee camp because I had an intermediary, and now I've made a few friends there and I think people are habituated with my presence. But I know I have to reach out
eventually to other camps, and to the people who aren't living in camps at all, whose homes weren't destroyed, but who nevertheless have perspectives on how what it means to live in Haiti now as opposed to before. Yesterday I did an interview with a 19 year old girl who didn't live in the camp, for her life had more or less returned to normal. She realized it was an earthquake as it was happening, she said, because she had recently watched the movie 2012. She was sad, sometimes, but nothing in her immediate life had changed. She said she wasn't particularly a believer but she invoked God over and over again, giving thanks for her life on this earth. I don't think 'believer' means the same things here as in the US. Either the basically level of non-believer is much more spiritual in the US (in the circles I frequent) or the frequent fervent praise of the Christian God its just a manner of speaking here. Don't know yet.

Dugeunson, for example, is a believer. I met with him to arrange an interview for later so that a translator could be present, and as we said our goodbyes he just started talking. Unfortunately for me I didn't turn on my recorder, because this man has some very carefully thought out ideas about religion, history, and the earthquake. His story starts with the Hitler's Holocaust. Hitler, unsurprisingly, was doing the work of the devil. After the war, America opened its doors to the Jews, and God was happy, since the Jews are God's chosen people. God bestowed blessing upon America for this, and helped it rise to superpower status. Haiti, too, did good things for the Jews after WWII. Haiti was the last to cast a vote for the state of Israel, and so Haiti was responsible for the Jews having their own state. God was very pleased about this too, and wants to bless Haiti like he blessed America. But there are too many other gods in Haiti, and the Christian God is jealous. Haiti is a mystical place, practically a portal to the spiritual world, and that means many many gods come and go through Haiti. Before God will give Haiti the blessings it deserves, the Haitians need to kill the other gods. Hence the earthquake. Now the way he explained it, the earthquake worked in two senses: the earthquake was violence against the other gods, and it was a brutal call to repentance. Haitians need to repent Vodou and their other sinful ways, and then Haiti will be like America and the Jews. God's chosen people.

And those other gods? Are they dead, buried like so many human bodies under the rubble of their shrines?

goudougoudou

Imagine you are say, in a barber shop. Or walking on the street. Or in the courtyard of your school. Maybe you are in your house. You might standing, talking on the phone, fighting with a market woman over the price of a mango. And then from beneath your feet comes an enormous rumble. For a few seconds you don't understand what is happening, but then you lock eyes with someone whose fear reflects your own, and you realize this is real. The end of the world has finally come, and you didn't go to confession. Or maybe the electricity surged so much that it broke the building around you. Or perhaps someone exploded a bomb in your school. If you are inside, you try to run out into the street.. If you are in a car, beware the walls falling around you that may crash through your windshield. Together with the others around you, you scream out for God. Maybe you were never God-fearing before but you feared her then. You pray and pray and pray to have just another few minutes on earth. But then friend who escaped danger with you lets go of your hand and turns around. Maybe her life's work is a document left inside. Maybe it is her sister's baby. She is only a few steps into the building when you see the cracks in the walls start to splinter off. A tremendous moan releases from the building as four floors of concrete begin to heave. For a brief moment she raises her hands above her head as if she could hold the ceiling in place, and then the building caves in on itself. Your friend and whatever it was that was worth her life are buried deep beneath the ruins of a shopping mall, a church, her uncles home. You friend is dead and yet it doesn't register with you yet because the ground is still a trampoline and you can't stay upright. Maybe God doesn't hear you. You scream louder.. People in the street are sobbing all around you. Many are on their knees praying in the dust. Some are bleeding. Finally, it the shaking stops . You notice that not all the people who fell are rising from the ground. You walk a few steps this way and that. Was it just your school that blew up? Or was the whole world shaking with the end of days? There are bodies everywhere. Nearby the alarm of a flattened car rings out aimlessly. You see a man lying with his legs beneath a rock, screaming. Maybe you stop to try to help him, or maybe you just stare in horror and disbelief. Finally you think to call your mother. Busy. Call again, no answer. After a few minutes you start to run in the direction of your home, even though its more than ten miles away. You have to climb over toppled building and weave between cadavers. Everyone you meet on the way is broken. A man stands outside of the remains of his home, sobbing and beating the cement with his hands. The body of his newly-wed wife is inside. On the way home you might stop and help a group of people dig the rubble off of a old woman's body. Maybe you work to save people all afternoon, using you tee-shirt to wipe up blood and sweat. You might not make it home for two days, with no word from your family. Or instead you might make it home that night and surprise you mother praying in courtyard by candlelight. You can read in her weathered eyes that she thought you were dead. The two of you sit together through the night, crying and praying that God be kind when she takes your souls. It might not be until the next morning when you turn on the radio that you hear the word: earthquake.

There is not a word in Kreyol for earthquake. They say goudougoudou, which is the word used to describe the sound of helicopter blades, but now is borrowed to describe the sound of the shaking earth. Mostly they use the French word "tremblement." "Ki kote ou te prann tremblement-a?" That's how you ask "where were you for the earthquake". A common question in these parts. Everyone has a epic story of where they were, what they saw, and how they managed to stay alive. Many have stories about those who died. The above is a composite of just a few of the stories I have heard since I have been here. Six months later, people still talk about it everyday. Early in the morning there is a man who walks beneath my window, ranting. I don't understand anything he says except when he starts shouting "douz janve! douz janve!" That's Kreyol for "January 12". January 12 is like Year Zero. The Earth broke time. The way people talk it is clear that there are few continuities that the survived the "before" into "after" (Some people, like my UN acquaintance, will say tents? houses? what's the difference?Haitian suffering is forever, corruption is forever, but people don't think like that when it comes to their personal lives). This society has experienced loss on such a profound scale. Is it possible adequately mourn the loss of your husband when you also have also lost your cousins, you coworkers, and a childhood friend? How do you grieve? I'm sure people quickly callous to individual death. You cannot do everyone the justice their lives deserved. But some people, I've been told, couldn't find the strength to take the loss and lost their minds. Others committed suicide. Shortly after the quake, there was an official week of mourning, but I haven't heard much about how people used that time. I don't think it was sufficient. Even though the corpses have been cleared from the streets, death is everywhere. People pass by crushed buildings, causally speculating how many bodies are still underneath. An institutions were victim too. Schools, museums, hospitals, and government buildings were all destroyed. Yesterday on our way into town we passed by a building of several stories whose walls had fallen off. Sandra told me it was a hospital that had been built two months before the earthquake. The National Palace, crouches, still wounded, in the center of the Champ de Mars. And yet tent city of several thousand people has sprung up in its shadow, a busy reminder that for all who have died, the vibrancy of everyday life persists, and we must pay attention to the living. People told me Haiti is a place where the line between the living and the dead is hazy. I am beginning to understand a bit of what that means.

Food and Interviews

On Monday the food distribution truck from CARINTAS arrived. For this small community of people, it was a momentous event. Food! Lot's of it! Food for each family! There were concerns about security, since last time a supply truck came to the camp people were so disorderly that it left without distributing anything. The chefs de camp brought in a few policemen to help keep things orderly. First they gathered everyone behind a rope well away from the truck. Then they called all the women over fifty to the front, and let them line up first. These little old ladies were loading 50 kilo sacks of rice on their heads! I don't think I could even pick one up without a struggle! There was some shouting from the rest of the group that it wasn't fair for the women to go first, but I guess the thinking was they are the ones with the most family responsibilities, and the least likely to sell it on the street. AftOer the older women, they let the younger mothers line up, and finally, the men. In the end there was enough for one sack for each family. There were a few sacks left on the ground at the end, Darly told me they were for the families from the camp that weren't able to come that day, but later I saw them loading the sacks along with flats of water into the policemen's cars. Payment rendered, I suppose.

Today I start my interviews. The questions I have come up with are meant to find out how people interpret the earthquake of January 12 and to document the living conditions in the camps. Obviously for people outside the camps the questions will be different, but I am starting in camp Trezelie with Darly. When I asked a few people what they thought the most important questions I should be asking were, they all recommended those dealing with practical life in the camp. How do people eat? Can they stay healthy? Is their shelter sufficient? Are they safe? They want people to pay attention to the miserable living conditions, to try to do something about it.  What I am going to do with this information? Who am I going to share it with so that action can be taken? Talking about the earthquake will be hard. I've already met one person who said he nearly committed suicide after the quake. When the earthquake happened, people thought the world was ending. And why not? A city falls down around you, people dead and dying, mutilated limbs hanging at odd-angles. Even though the news says this is an earthquake prone area, no one in alive in Port-au-Prince now had ever lived through an earthquake before. The last one major one was over two-hundred years ago. And now it is six months later, and the earthquake hasn't stopped. Longest earthquake ever.

UN: Unlmited Nonsense

June 5: For lack of transportation, my friends and I found ourselves stuck a dance club in Petionville until dawn last night. Dance clubs in Petionville are a somewhat sordid affair, it seemed to me. Inebriated middle-aged foreigners rub up against scantily clad young Haitian women, some of whom agree to have sex with them for money. There were some young Haitian couples, but not many. I talked to a few of the UN and NGO workers there. The most memorable was a young Indian man who after asking me to dance proceeded to tell me how he has become disgusted with the UN over the five years that he has worked for it. For three years he's been in Haiti, before that he was stationed in the Congo. If you wanna go somewhere even worse than Haiti, he advised, you really ought to spend time in Congo. The UN is really quite talented at spending money, but they have no idea how to actually use it. The monthly budget is two billion dollars, and yet there is nothing to show for it. With that kind of money you could really rebuild this city, but it's not going to happen. Instead they pay their employees ridiculous amounts money and they don't even get taxed (just saying what I heard here)! In India he might be very decent salary of around 2,000 a month to be a computer geek there, instead he comes to Haiti and gets paid several times that amount to do basically nothing. He's here only for the money. Most people in the UN is there for the money. And while on the public front they maintain a very diplomatic front, from within the organization is ramp with racism. Nothing has changed, nothing is going to change. Nothing has ever worked. Haiti is the same before and after the quake, except now people live in tents instead of houses. In fifteen years, maybe, things will be different, but all of this post-earthquake stuff, this is just for show. UN: Unlimited Nonsense.

I don't know what bothered me more: his complete lack of respect for Haitian dignity, or the possibility that he might be right. There is a general consensus that nothing has improved, and that for all the money that was donated to Haiti, no one can really account for where it has gone. But there is no one to hold the UN accountable for its action or inaction. They drive through the streets in white SUVs or armored tanks with machine guns mounted on top (who are you going to shoot?!? I cried), but what is it that they are actually doing here?

Money Can't Buy You Kreyol

Friday, June 4th: The truck was supposed to come at eleven. People started milling about around ten, perched on the rubble or sitting in the shade of the tree. When I was wandering through the camp a woman approached to ask if I was there to bring the aid to help them. No, I'm not able to bring you aid right now. Those are the other blans. The camp was full of life that afternoon, since many stayed in to wait for the aid rather than go into the street with their plastic goods and pots of oil to try and make a bit of money in the street. The sun beat down harder as the hours passed: noon, one, two. The people waited patiently, listening to the radio while drinking sips of water out of small plastic sacks. Around 2:30 Darly got the news: the truck with aid that they had been expecting for days wasn't coming. The group had poorly planned their day and now they didn't have time to go to the depot, fill the truck, and return to distribute it at the camp before nightfall. The people would have to wait until Monday to get food. Darly reluctantly picked up the megaphone and began announcing to people that food wasn't coming that day. There wasn't much of a public reaction. People picked up their things and dispersed, some back to the camp, others into the street, maybe to try to make some money before the day was through. "That's just fucked up," Hence said. Hence used to live in Brooklyn before he was deported, pretty close to where my apartment is now. "Why they do that? In the US, if you say you come, you gotta come!" Haitians are a calm people, someone told me. Are they calm or are they patient? Well, to be patient you have to have hope, and there's no hope here.

Really, what is a truck full of food really going to change? It will fill people's bellies, but then they will be empty again and waiting for the next truck, if there is one. How long will there be trucks? I met a member of the Mexican embassy last night who said they are withdrawing aid next week. One by one most of the NGOs will leave, and the people will still be living under tarp. Congratulations, you help keep these people alive for a few months, but in the end you are still leaving them to die. Not directly, of course, but most of the money seems to be going to the metaphorical bandage, while no one seems to addressing the more endemic problems that perpetuate poverty here. The general consensus, from what I gather, is that no one is fit to address it either. While waiting for the truck I had a long converation with a young man named Billy who lived in the camp. He studied psychology in school and wanted to leave Haiti to work as a psychologist, but at the moment his plan is to buy cases of beer in Port-au-Prince and go to his hometown of Port-au-Paix to sell it during the World Cup. The only way to get a good job is to leave the country or work for an NGO. For him, there is a vast crisis of leadership in the country, since the elite classes are thieves and the government is corrupt. It's our own fault, really, he said. We were the ones who elected Preval a second time. It's because everyone can vote in Haiti, even if they can't read, so canidiates with means can buy votes with a couple of dollars or a bag of rice. One of the most important things is to raise the basic level of education in the country so that people are so easily bought by the government. "We are suffering the consequences of our inconsequence."

There is young man there named James, Darly's brother, who taught himself to speak English by listening to Jay-Z. In French he speaks completely normally , but as soon as the conversation switches to English he starts moving his hand about and saying things like: "yeah man i'm just chill up, you know, i'm chill up aight?", "i'm not feeling you"  or the slightly concerning "i want you by my side i'm gonna hold you in the sun until you die."  We agreed to do some kind of language exchange, because, as pointed out to me, "money can't buy you kreyol."  Kreyol is coming little by little. My ear is able to discern more and more words from the musical flow of conversation, and I can carry on basic conversations, provided no one speaks too fast. I should be working on it a lot more if I want to be able to carry out interviews on my own by the end of all this.

Livres en folie

June 3: I met Dany Laferrière today! Well, only briefly as he autographed my book, but let me explain (Laferrière is an esteemed Haitian author who is based out of Montreal. I don't know a ton about Haitian literature but he is definitely my favorite). This afternoon Coutecheve and I went to livres en folie, Port-au-Prince's only book fair, and probably the only fair in existence exclusively for Haitian authors. The fair was hosted at La Canne a Sucre, a former plantation-turned- national park.. The ruins of the sugar mill lie scattered here and there, and the large water wheel is still turning. But it was difficult to regard the ruins since today the grounds were covered with tents and people lounging in the shade. Historians, novelists, children's book authors, linguists, and poets were making conversation and signing autographs. There were so many books to chose from that I ended up only getting one, L'engime du retour. Dany Laferrière was the guest of honor, and there was a small mob surging around his table, reaching out with books, cameras and audio recorders. He looked exhausted by the time I pushed my way up to the front at the end of the day. I gave him my name, he signed, drew a little tree, and wearily reached out for the next book.  Hard work, being famous.

   Luckily for me I had the opportunity to talk at length with other Haitian artists about what it means to make art in Haiti. Coutecheve's friends are a raucous group of poets, actors and painters, who come mostly from Carrefour, I think. Coutecheve and I met in New York when he came to read his poetry at CUNY. His friends drank and laughed and admiringly read each other's work out loud. Several among them already have published poetry collections. The poetry slam got so animated that one of the fair staff came to shut them down.  Muscadin, a young rasta painter whose home was destroyed in the quake, told me that the art that he and his friends create is meant to denounce the the situation in Haiti. What exactly is the situation in Haiti, I asked. First of all, Haiti is occupied by the UN forces, MINSTAH, and they are doing whatever they want here without much concern for the wishes of the people. But ultimately, its a class struggle, but class here is defined by skin more than money. If you have light skin, you can get away with anything, and neither the government or the UN will do anything to stop you. If you are metis, you can get away with some stuff. If you have dark skin you better watch your back.  I mentioned that I had been told that money trumped color, and that if a dark person had enough money that would be treated like a blan. Nope, it's not like that here. Money never trumps color. Black is black and white is white.

   But the problem with making art in Haiti, according to Muscadin and co., is that there isn't much emphasis on culture here (I'm guessing by culture they mean fine art). Part of it a matter of illiteracy (only around 50% of the population is literate). But Coutecheve and friends have been trying to address this through popular theater: over the past few weeks they've been touring the refugee camps with a children's play meant to help people talk about the earthquake. Another one of his friends is working to put together a regular radio program that would feature poetry and literature (but talking about politics can only get you in trouble). But in general, if there is a cultural emphasis, it tends to focus on French and not Haitian culture. That's why this book fair was such an important event: it's difficult to find large collections of Haitian authors elsewhere, or even bookstores in general.  Hopefully I'll be spending more time with these folks and I'll  get a sense of how Haitian artists are organizing to address Haiti's devastating problems. How lucky am I?

Travay, Manje

 I arrived in Port-au-Prince yesterday afternoon. Sandra and Darly met me at the airport and took me to Sandra's house in Delmas 33. Delmas is a pretty authenic slice of Port-au-Prince, it seems. Electricity is spotty, water comes from a well in the front. There are people sleeping in tents outside of Sandra's house.  It's sweltering hot, and even hotter after the rain that turns the streets to muck. Definetely wishing I had brought those boots after all. Going to the supermarket is like navigating Times Square, except instead of sunglasses people are grilling chicken and selling bars of soap.

This morning I went to the camp Trezeile with Darly, which is also in Delmas, not far from Sandra's house. He works there and is on the governing committee, but he lives in a house nearby.  There are over two thousand people living in Trezeile in these tents made out of tarps. Some of the tents are better constructed than others, but it takes a bit of money to build something more stable. Even the sticks of wood you need to construct a frame have doubled in price since the earthquake. But none of them are really sufficient to deal with the storms that sweep through daily. "What do people do when it rains?" "They get wet." Mud washes through the floors of their homes. Food is scarce, since few people have any money and there is no regular delivery of aid to the camp. Some people had planted gardens and were growing corn outside of their homes, and some women had set up cooking pots and were selling to the others. I spent the morning wandering around, making conversation with people. Mostly French, some English, even less Kreyol. People seemed pretty open to talking with me, showing me around and answering my questions. They want to know what I'm doing there, how I plan to help. People are really frustrated and don't have much hope that things will improve any time soon. They anticipate living in the camps for a year or two. One guy, Blan, was angrey with the Americans for not doing enough. If only they would come in, take charge of things, lay down the law, then the situation would really turn around. I pointed out that to do that would mean occupying Haiti another time; he was very enthusiastic about this. Things are much more complicated then they seem. No one has any faith in the Haitian elite to do anything for them, and President Preval is little more than a spineless sap. I met a Haitian, Pierre, who had lived in the United States for many year, served as a Captain in Iraq, and now works in Haiti as a missionary for Samartian Purse, a group that had come with a mobile clinic for the day.  According to him, it is a problem of vision. No one has any idea what do to next, and no one is in agreement as to what direction Haiti should go. How can you envision a future when you can't envision tomorrow? Also, he believes real change in Haiti has to come through a change in the Haitian heart. Vodou is the service of the devil, and as long as it remains in Haiti and influences people, Haiti won't be able to progress. Although he was concerned with the devil-worship part, he emphasized more strongly that vodou is a mentality of suspicion which isn't condusive to cooperation between people.  This is intersting to me since many of the Haitians I have met profess a devotion to Christianity (which isn't incompatible voudou, though) Also, there is a mentality that it's okay for men to have a dozen kids with a half dozen women even if they can't support them all. He was very upset about that. This guy was intense in his army fatigues and sunglasses telling me that God had a reason for me coming to Haiti and it was not the one I thought. While our conversation did not leave me particularly convinced, I respect him because he at least he has a vision and a method for helping this country, even if it takes the route of religious suppression.

"Travay, manje."  Work, food. These are the needs that came up over and over again. In the States we are critical of a plan for economic reform that depends on opening up menial labor factories that produce tee-shirts or baseballs for a dollar a day because we see how little that ultimately will offer the country. But the people I spoke with today don't care at all about that. They need a job, whatever job, that will give them what they need to eat and will help them find shelter that keeps out the rain. Bill Clinton, I was told, is the president of this country now, and they don't seem uncomfortable with his vision. While not ideal, it is better than the nothing they have now. Is Haiti hell, I asked, like some people in the United States think? No, there is fire in hell. And in hell you don't have friends.