“In my end is my beginning” Part 2

11/2/92           10:50 a.m.   We're home, but I'm still attempting to down-load material. I wish there had been time to write more when it was happening—but there simply wasn't. As it was, at night, we only got a couple of hours sleep—too much adrenalin pumping to rest.

In the doctor’s office, now—sitting in a paper smock. These are disposable, right? What a joke. Paper isn’t a minimal cost. How to describe the devastated landscape. Mountains stripped of hardwood trees—whole sides of mountains slid into huge rubble heaps, the insides exposed—a stark gray-white as though a giant knife had sliced open a loaf of stale and rotting bread. And the strange absence of birds—I saw four birds the whole time I was in Haiti (and five pigeons—at that point I was even happy to see pigeons)—and one of those birds ended up in my bedroom, flying in, bewildered in the lamp light. Sr. Ann told me that at one time Haiti was a harbor for wonderful birds—many never proceeded on the flyway to South America because they were so pleased with what they found in Haiti. But now there are no nesting places, no resting places—and the birds no longer come. And I remember the mornings full of the sounds of roosters and dogs, but eerily lacking the early joy of birds.

11/3/92          6:50 a.m.   I am in line waiting for the polls to open at 7 a.m. I will vote. I am thinking how much this would mean in Haiti. During the first election there, the army simply went in and sprayed the polls with bullets. The second election, a large number of U. N. observers came and the election proceeded without blood-letting—Aristide was elected. Seven months later a coup d’état forced their democratically elected president to flee. Gail and I met a peasant who had helped organize the voting out in the mountains. We talked to him in the small house where the balloting took place. Off to the side, sat the ballot box—lock broken, now. He still spoke of that time with a proud joy. Without exception, everyone we spoke with waited for the return of the elected president, Jean-Bertrand Aristide. Whether or not the real Aristide is the man these people believe he is irrelevant. If he is not, he will simply have to become that man—because he has become an icon. He is the personification of their hope.

The startling thing about quiet revolution is the diversity of men and women that it breeds—We met all manner during our week in Haiti: activists full of political strategy and overviews; poets who suffered openly when they spoke; young men fresh from organizing workers in the field; people living committed lives as members of Catholic base communities; a nun who spoke out courageously before of group of religious with mixed loyalties; labor union visionaries; professors who meet with human rights task forces at night; a starving, pregnant woman standing on a rural bridge with two papayas to sell; women whose husbands had been “disappeared”; men from the deposed government who now lead secret lives. Is it possible to love a hundred different men and women at once—I think so. With so much courage and heart, it is impossible to turn away from any of them. One old French priest picked wildflowers for me as we slipped in out of secret meetings in almost inaccessible mountains where the roads were mostly imagination. To be so full of the hope for the future and yet so full of the present fragile joy seems to me to be the hallmark of these individuals. We can’t walk away from this situation, these lovely, suffering, yet hope-filled people. The intelligence, the sweetness, the commitment nail us—and condemn us if we refuse to respond. We all felt it—and we all made the same response—each of us carrying our own patron saint with us—Beth remembers an orphaned boy who asked her to be his family, Gail carries the face of a blue-eyed Haitian priest, and I—I recall the woman in hiding and the old French priest. I will continue to hold them within in the days ahead.

There is something about Haiti. I can’t explain it. It’s a mystery and words don’t pry mystery loose. But, from the first moment I was there, I felt bound to it in some essential way. Later on in my trips, Fr. Freud Jean remarked to a gathering of delegates that I was Haitian inside. And, Fr. Antoine Adrian told a luncheon group at a Pax Christi USA National Assembly: “With Nancy, Haiti is a passion.” I’m not certain that I am all that different from others who went to Haiti. Haiti does something to a person—it’s like uncovering something lost in one’s self—something known but unknown. It’s a funny thing but I was changed—myself but more than self. One evening, I asked my friend, Father O., if he thought it was possible to fall in love with a hundred people and 7 million more by association. He just laughed and said, “Of course—you’ve been preparing for it your whole life.”   Now, I had to live it and live it with complete abandon. But, that sounds as if I had a choice. In truth, I did not because I had fallen in love, and this was only the beginning.

child

 

Diverse Approaches; One Goal

Another individual, Renaud Bernadin, Minister of Planning and External Cooperation, came to the Hospice to meet with us. His physical presence was that of a caged lion. He sat hunched forward, the power still obvious but his heart broken by the constraints of his circumstances. He echoed Evans Paul’s emphasis on the non-violent restoration of the democratically elected government. He, too, was in hiding. One statement from that meeting has remained in my mind—a poignant precis of that struggle.

His remark occurred when he tried to explain, in a small way, what life was like: “I’m living through this situation with pain in my heart. I’ve found solidarity with many others, but I also have much sadness. Because my life’s in danger, I live like a child—depending on others for food and shelter and getting around. Every time I meet with someone, that person’s a risk for me. Yet, I feel a solidarity with the Haitian people.”

He continued: “This solidarity makes some people accept death so that others may be saved. For example, there was a young girl with TB who received money for her medicine. She knew of two people in hiding who had no food to eat, so she gave them her medicine money for six months so they could eat! Her lungs split open and she died. Then, the two men in hiding had to leave the country. They tried to get asylum in the U.S. embassy but were refused. Beyond this kind of solidarity I find great hope—not a hope from heaven but a hope from how we work here on earth.” When I came back to the United States and began to give talks and interviews, this was one of the primary examples that I used as indicative of the determination and self-sacrificing love of the Haitian people.

We also met with representatives of the Ti l’Egliz (the little church—an outgrowth of liberation theology). The primary focus is to have the Catholic Church highly integrated in community life and to have the Church and its members live out of the basic Christian tenet of a preferential option for the poor. They and the priest who had accompanied them summarized that belief and dedication in this manner: “The problems of the people are our problems. The problems of injustice, security, and repression are our problems.” We had witnessed and I would continue to witness in the years ahead the transforming power of this commitment. It was a total integration of the true idea of Church into all aspects of life. The hierarchical idea so often associated with church was not evident here. Everybody was in it together.

Renaud Bernadin.jpg