Taking Bearings

Today is a sad day, not only for the people of Afghanistan but also for the people of Haiti who suffered a strong magnitude 7.2 earthquake on Saturday. Within 24 hours the reported death toll stood at 1,297 people dead with 2,800 injured. Both numbers were expected to climb as rescue and recovery efforts, now hampered by Tropical Storm Grace, proceed.

Despite billions in aid of the years, Haiti has long been a failed state. The poorest country in the western hemisphere, and one of the poorest in the world, an estimated 59% Haitians live below the poverty line, with 24% living lives in extreme poverty.

I spent most of Sunday fruitlessly trying to reach my fixer, a local journalist in Port-au-Prince who helped arrange logistics and acted as a my driver — and drinking friend — when I was in Haiti covering the recovery efforts following the magnitude 7.0 earthquake that devastated the island in January 2010.

Excepting areas ungoing war or civil fighting, Haiti is among the most challenged places I have ever visited in terms of difficulties women must surmount daily to survive, find shelter, and food, medical care, and education for their children. Regardless, I have rearely encounterd a more magnificent and proud people to whom personal dignity in the face of extreme poverty is an ingrained cultural value.

Haiti: A Lesson In Dignity
Taking Bearings [Column]
K. Lee Lerner
Pétionville Internal Displacement Camp, Haiti — Unaccustomed to comfort, the young woman roused herself from the shade and shelter provided by her tent. She shifted her nursing baby to her left hip, and swept back the remaining bit of flap serving as her front door to step into the heat, dust, and din of Haiti.
Displaced Haitian mothers still struggle to ensure their children have food and access to medical care, often spending a considerable amount of time each day traveling between aid distribution sites and clinics. Life in the displacement camps places an extra hardship on women, who are still expected to assume responsibility for domestic chores, cooking, and child care.
Carefully picking her way down a rocky hillside worn of grass and strewn with trash, her right hand shot upward, reflexively seeking to shield her eyes from the brightness of the early afternoon sun. Her hand then vainly attempted to wave away clouds of dust and flies, first from the child’s face and then her own.
Called by the clamor of our jeep, now parked along a road through a sea of tents, she walked slowly, stepping around exposed rocks once a hazard only to golfers that were privileged to play on the once-lush golf course.
Our journey through the former fairways was easier. After negotiating a hilltop dotted with homes and diplomatic compounds guarded by security details, my driver and colleague, a Haitian journalist, simply waved at guards sitting by open gates that previously protected the Pétionville Country Club.
Passing tennis courts–restored since their use by the U.S. 82nd Airborne Division during rescue and relief efforts following the deadly 2010 earthquake–we plunged downward into a patchwork of shanties, tarps, and tents still serving as homes to those displaced by the disaster.
Shorn of topsoil loosened by wear and washed away by storms, the road was hard.
The woman carrying her child turned and quickly closed the distance between us as we reached our road. Standing erect, her right breast exposed, she starred at me with a stern face, frozen as she focused intently on interpreting my halting French into her native Creole.
Asking her name and the age of her child, my colleague’s patois saved the awkward moment. Thereafter, he served as translator.
She spoke softly, at first barely audible above the noise of excitement stirred by our appearance, then with a gathering strength.
She wanted to know what we had to offer.
We carried no food or medical supplies. The cannons of journalism ethics precluded offering her what could be construed as cash for an interview. Carrying only a camera and notepad, all I could offer was to record her answers and opinions.
I expected her to turn away in anger. Instead, she smiled as though given a precious gift.
She articulated a sentiment shared among the displaced people I had recently interviewed in India and Chile, “People who come here usually tell us what we need instead of asking us what we want,” she said. “I want to be asked what I think about how we are to live.”
Despite rough living, she otherwise offered no complaint. Her answers did not reflect extensive education, but never attempted to evade. Only pregnant pauses interrupted thoughtful and generous comments.
She told us about her child, and was happy her baby was healthy.
She said she did not mind the walk to the clinic, nor the waiting that could consume a day.
She said she was thankful for doctors, nurses, medicines, and vaccines.
“More medicine and care than before the earthquake,” she said.
She missed her home, but was thankful for water, food, and latrines.
“I have enough for today,” she said. “Tomorrow there will be more, there is enough here.”
She told us there was violence in the camp, “but less than before.”
She pointed down the hill toward a blue-clad U.N. patrol working its way toward us. “It is safer when they are here, but they can not be here all the time,” she said.
I asked her when she thought she might be able to go home again.
“This is home now; this is what I have now,” she said. “We hear that houses will be built soon.”
She did not know if or when she might receive a house, but a bit of hope seemed enough to satisfy and comfort her.
I asked if I could take her picture. Her eye caught mine drifting down toward her exposed breast.
In contrast to many Haitians who seem instinctively camera shy, often throwing up their arms to block their face when a camera appears, she did not flinch.
I again asked her permission, and in the silly ritual practiced by those not familiar with a native tongue, I spoke slowly, this time raising and quickly lowering my camera as though a signal for her to cover herself.
She did not move.
Shaking the camera, I asked, “Puis-je?” instead of the Creole, “Mwen I?” I had yet to learn.
She nodded, but I still hesitated.
Turning to my colleague, I asked him to make sure she understood what I was asking, and also that I was asking her permission to take a photo of her child.
A flurry of Creole passed between them.
“It is okay to take a picture like this; she is proud her breasts can feed her baby,” he said.
I took the picture and thanked her for her time. She turned to leave, but we called her back. Without consultation my colleague and I simultaneously dug in our pockets for cash and offered it to her.
“For the baby,” my colleague told her.
Only enough money for a few days of food I later learned.
She took the money, thanked us. The young mother walked down the road a bit and then turned to climb back up to her tent.
“We won’t tell anyone about the money,” my colleague said.