12 Noon   Back in Port-au-Prince and the whole group is now at Sans Fils—where Gail and I had visited earlier in the week. The others have gone inside—I can't because I'll just spread more germs since I’ve managed to pick up a upper respiratory infection somewhere along the line. So I'm in a small spot of shade in the courtyard. Sweating has become my middle name.

We had a meeting with a priest in hiding, Fr. Gerard Jean-Juste, this morning. (Later, when I began to meet with him, trip after trip, I would simply call him Gerry—as did all his friends.) The determination of the clergy here is unbelievable. He sent a message back from his hiding place—“We will make it—There is no other way.”   In a letter that he had us hand deliver, back in the States, to my friend, Father O, he wrote: “I’m in good shape. I’m in hiding. It is true my name is on death lists, and I have received death threats. But I have great hope that I will make it. In case I don’t, we will see each other someday where God is.”

The courage, the tenacity with which these priests persist in fighting for the rights of the people is amazing. They hide, they are beaten, they are jailed, they die—but they persist. I don’t think the de facto government can possibly understand; if it did, it would give up now. The resistance is so deep, so ingrained, so much a matter of being that this illegal regime will simply never be anything but a superficial association—the people will never accept it. And, their priests will support them in this and give the structure and strength they are unable to provide for themselves. Gail and I are both moved by the open handed acceptance of these men. They share their beds, their food (meager, in most cases) in a wonderful camaraderie that accepts you not because they know you, but because they know what you’re about and why you’re here. Afterwards they do it because they love you. There don’t seem to be any intermediate stages. As one man said, “To say is to be.” I have a small bunch of flowers pressed into my journal pages. Mon Pere (Pierre Salvetti) an older French priest picked them for me in the mountains above the Artibonite. He and the driver, Sylveste, had taken us there to meet and talk with the people—even a voodoo priest in his sanctuary (of course, by that time, Gail and I had both used the last of our film, so I guess people will just have to take our word for it). We saw the voting venues and spoke with those who had been poll workers. Interviewed three women we met on the road. Listened to a small group of men working fields, fields held by absentee landowners, fields that would provide food for the world market but not for these men. In every interview that day, one thing was incredibly obvious: Even in this remote area where eroded mountains and rivers full of that erosion isolated people into small settlements, the populace was dedicated to return of democracy, symbolized at this time by the return of their elected president, Aristide. Although this dedication came at a terrible price—disappearances, murders, tortures, dispossession, rape, and all types of repression, these people were determined. It was not an uninformed decision. They knew what it had cost and would continue to cost them.gerard jean-juste

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