During those final two days in Port-au-Prince, we made a sort of pilgrimage to the other places and people who are representative of the repression of and the perseverance of the majority of the Haitian population. The church of Sant Jean Bosco, a burned out ruin, was an awful and, yet, inspirational experience. Located in the Port-au-Prince slum of La Saline, it was the church where Fr. Aristide had lived and ministered. One Sunday during one of his heavily attended masses, the military, armed with guns and machetes, had overrun the church. They slaughtered the people as they knelt in prayer. Afterwards the church was put to the torch.
What remains of the building is chained off and barricaded, but we went up to the old wrought iron gate and peered in. It defies all reason and goodness that people could be martyred in the very spot where sanctuary should be guaranteed. Stark and black—worked into the wrought iron—was the poignant phrase of Sant Jean Bosco: “Give me souls, you take the rest.” The words remained. The military may have taken the bodies but the souls remain as a part of the bravery and determination and faith of the Haitian people. In this case, the dead have added strength to the democratic cause. Clasping the gates, we said a prayer and then sang a song associated with Aristide:
Aproche, vini antoure mouin; (Come here, come to me;)
Aproche, vini pou-m bann Lavi. (Come here, come so I can give you life.)
We also went to the orphanage, la famni se lavi, founded by Aristide prior to his becoming President of Haiti. The orphanage was designed to take in the male street children. It was a meager set up but far superior to the life the boys had been forced to live on the streets. But, of course, it had been targeted by the military and on election night. As Aristide and his supporters saw hope of a new life for Haitians, four of the orphanage residents, teenagers, were murdered by the military. The June before we visited, the de facto government burnt down the orphanage—five more boys died in the fire. The remaining boys still live in the ruined building and courtyard and spread their meager belongings among the debris and wreckage. Heartbreaking.
In addition to Fr. Jean-Juste, we met with Evans Paul—the mayor of Port-au-Prince—who was young, intelligent, energetic, committed to his city and his country . . . and, as with so many, in hiding. Every subsequent trip I made to Haiti, I visited with him and had him tape a message to the Haitian population in the United States, in particular that portion living in South Florida. Each time I returned to the States, I had a standing appointment with several of the Haitian radio stations, to come by with the tape so that it could be played over the air. Then, I would be interviewed for a live up-date on conditions in their beloved homeland.
On several of the trips, Mayor Paul would ask me and, if I had brought a delegation with me, the delegation to go out and check on particular areas or institutions in the city. Sometimes what we had to report back was almost too much to bear—as it was with the conditions in the city run old people’s home.
Mayor Paul had formed an organization called FONDEM which was dedicated to the education of the populace and support of organizations designed to return Haiti to a democracy. When the arrangements were made for a visit, he was never referred to by name—I was always told that “Our Friend” would meet me at such and such a time. The place of meeting was seldom the same. Although he was surrounded by security, the truth was that he was never really safe. Meeting with people in secret became SOP for me in my future observing trips—just as it was for most of those who were engaged in human rights observing or related activities.