Thursday, April 29, 2010

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 2, Trip 4

I arrived very early yesterday and am once again, am struck by the flood of "etranje" who have invaded Ayiti. Between these trips, I have found myself feeling great concern that Ayiti will be trampled underneath the well-meaning--and, sometimes not-so-well-meaning--inundation of outsiders who position themselves as experts, despite many (most, perhaps) having no previous experience in this complex cultural and cosmological context.

I almost wish someone would stand at the airport with a sign that says: THANKS--BUT NO THANKS. PLEASE GO HOME UNLESS WE INVITED YOU. There is no monitoring or control process here; I recall Rwanda where all NGO's wanting to operate went through a vigorous approval by the then controlling RFP; or Kosovo, where after several significant blunders by NGO's, stricter entry and control measures were established.

Ayiti needs this. Apparently much of the control has been signed over. If this is true, it will simply mean another and equally destructive tragedy to this beautiful country.

A friend shared the recently discovered original deklarasyon l'independans that was discovered in England. One of the principles it emphasizes is "Live Independent or Die."
Once stability has been restored here, I hope:

1. The Declaration will be returned to Ayiti, to the place of its birth
2. The world will read it, and respect it.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 15, Trip 3

In the early part of this week I resumed staff support/counseling sessions for another NGO who contacted me in January, and who have waited since then for my availability.

As I begin to write, I wonder who I am writing for. I believe I initially began this blog so that anyone interested might receive some first hand information from Haiti. Later, it seemed to me that I wrote for myself; to share the images, stories, words I cannot carry alone. Now, I believe I blog for every Haitian who has courageously opened up and shared with me----and for those ho might still be waiting for someone to listen.

These stories take up residence in our bodies. Unshared, they can begin to form and shape us from their hiding place inside. No-one should bear the weight or shape of these stories alone. One man, whose story I will share later, only wanted to speak what he had seen, smelled, touched, heard, felt—and never spoken. Then, he was finished. He didn’t seek advice, or a promise that things would be better. He didn’t even seek “therapy”. He sought a place to rest his story.

Many Haitians share how previously, it was not customary, or culturally common, to open up with a stranger and share emotions. Psychology was stigmatized by many, and inaccessible for most. I have been reminded many times in the many trainings and group sessions I have held since 1998 that “Haitians don’t cry in public”, that “Haitian men don’t cry so as to remain strong”, that “sharing personal, private information with people outside family or community is simply not done”. Since the earthquake, I have been asked these questions many times:

Am I normal if I cry so much?

Am I normal if I sit with a psychologist and share my thoughts, feelings and experiences?

I don’t understand why I still cry, feel fear, feel alone – why have I changed? What has changed for me?

Everything.

Haiti is not the same. Her heart has broken, into many pieces. There is no apparent leadership to comfort, reassure, rebuild. As one man who has spent his entire professional life devoted to rule of law and governance in Haiti told me yesterday: “I can never share this with anyone else, but I have to say this to you now. There is no-one here who can lead this country. We cannot lead or direct ourselves into the future. My heart is so broken; I am bereft for my country. Our Father cannot take care of his children. Haiti can not do it.”

I have known him for almost 10 years, and this was the first time I saw him sit in silence for an extended time, and weep.

It is customary when I begin a new assignment that I meet with the Director and get a briefing and overview of the organization, and the needs of the team, from his or her perspective. When I sat down with the director earlier this week, I heard his story, because his story was so intimately woven into his teams’ story. He was in a major government building when the earthquake happened, and it fell, instantly. For three days, he and the others he was with pulled bodies—some alive, many dead—from the heavy piles of rubble. They spent much of those 3 days trying to get a woman out who was still alive. Her feet were pinned and crushed; her head was caught in between the metal base of a chair. They had only a crowbar to work with. They freed her head before they freed her feet. She was bleeding and weakening. At the end of the third day, he described having made the “moral decision to amputate her feet” in order to free her. They did get her out without an amputation, then drove the city for 6 hours looking for someone to treat her. There was no-one. Finally a doctor took her to the Dominican Republic. Attempts to find out what happened are futile. Her family has never heard from her. He fears she did not make it.

Following her rescue, he began to walk the city to find every member of the staff. He walked 25 kilometers in less than a day. He went to every house to know who was alive, who had a house to live in, who was gone. At the crushed house of one of his senior team members, he helped him dig, barehanded, through the debris to locate his 1 year old son. He was dead. His tiny feet and legs were crushed.

I spoke to that Father later. He is the one who asked only to “rest” his story. He ran to his home after the earthquake to find his wife and son. She had been out, so she arrived too, distraught. They dug and dug until they found him. He showed me his photo. An angel. He was a child they waited for, for years. After many years and multiple failed attempts to become pregnant, they adopted. Their adopted child is still alive. Shortly after they adopted her, they had their birth-child. He was a dream come true, a gift, a treasure. When he found his body he had to hold him tightly through the night to keep a growing circle of dogs from eating him. He had been napping on his mat, and died instantly. His Father wandered with his tiny body for 5 days, looking for a small coffin. He passed piles of dead bodies. He described the stench as horror-as unforgettable. He finally left the small child in a makeshift box at a morgue. He “fights” to go on. His wife lost her work as the school she taught at collapsed. She is bereft; spends each day in despair. Each time she cries, which is often, their tiny daughter reaches for her face and wipes her tears away and says “Mommy, Mommy—don’t cry”.

He pauses as he reflects on this.

“She comforts us with her tiny hands.”

He cries. His eyes have black circles of exhaustion under them as he fights to keep the tears back. He holds his head. He shakes his head. He looks at me, holding my gaze for a long period of time. He says “I am living for my daughter, for this love. For my wife, for this love. For the gift of my son, even though it was for only a brief time. I am holding on to the knowledge that he did not suffer. I think he is still sleeping; he just kept on sleeping.” He describes himself as “fighting” the immensity of grief everyday. We talk about the importance of knowing our beloved children do not suffer when we cannot protect them—and how protecting them is our deepest longing and mission.

He looks at me and his eyes are a question.

I don’t know.

All I can say:

“If your grief were the ocean, these are your anchors. Your wife. Your daughter. Your love. Your son did not suffer. He is sleeping, eternal.”

There is nothing else I can say.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 12, Trip 3

This seems like a much busier trip, its difficult to find time to write. Things in Haiti are very accelerated. Similar to Aceh after the tsunami, the second wave has arrived---here they are referred to as the second earthquake, or the invasion of the "extra terrestrials." There are so many ekstranje (foreigners), or blan ("white") as we are called. As someone who is not Haitian, but is considered local, I am privy to the sometimes humorous and sometimes distressed musings and rantings of my Haitian brothers and sisters. We all hoped that the inpouring of aid would somehow be tailored to the Haitian people, and context. This does not appear to be happening.

Its actually mostly the NGO's that people both appreciate and express concern about. There are many, many new NGO's operating here, without any prior history, and apparently, without much interest in taking the time to listen. As the initial groups of emergency responders, military etc begin to withdraw, there is talk of a transition to the transition phase--transition between emergency and some return to a development focus. This seems both necessary and premature--premature because there is still so much destruction, post earthquake. Necessary because no-one seems to be thinking long-term, global, inclusive, strategic. As tragic and horrible as this earthquake has been, as is always true when things are torn apart--there is an opportunity for change, renewal, new beginnings, rebirth, transformation. The transition phase must take this into consideration, or Haiti may not benefit from the world's generosity.

We spent time with a few members of my Haitian family last evening. The wisdom re: how to move forward is in the minds and hearts of the local community. Many of them work at a grass roots level. They have their ears, hands, hearts to the ground. Yo gen konesans..they have the knowledge. I wish we could have a conference--required for all ngo's, especially the newly arrived-- with these dedicated, community-level brilliant people who know--KNOW---Haiti.

Sunday we took a day to visit the beach. A most interesting apropos scenario occurred. At the end of the day as I was looking at some beautiful paintings sold by local artists. They were arranged around a lovely garden of trees and stones. Suddenly, I heard the sound of a helicopter preparing to fly. Moments later, a UN helicopter transporting some of the many UN workers to a well-deserved beach break lifted into the air, and the intense gust of wind generated by the lift off knocked all the paintings down. I helped the artists restore their paintings to their display--then, again. A helicopter landing and all the paintings fell down. The artists laughed and shook their heads in frustration at the same time. "This happens a lot---we know they come to help us, but they always leave something behind we have to clean up."

Today I had a session with a woman who describes herself as middle class. She told me about a dilemma the working class is experiencing that I had not heard about before. Much of the aid coming in is going to the poor--most appropriately. The wealthy have access to resources (i.e bank loans, credit, etc.) others do not. The middle or working class is caught, well--in the middle. Because they have jobs, many assume they have the capacity to get the same credit the wealthy do (which they do not) or to take care of their kids. Many of them are struggling to sustain their household economies because they are suddenly paying extraordinary fees to send their children to schools in the US. They cannot get loans, or credit. They are maintaining professional level positions and are still sleeping in tents, on the streets, bathing in public places, eating food cooked over a fire, spending sleepless nights listening to mosquitoes or trucks roaring by or the sound of someone crying, snoring, shouting. They are the group of people Haiti will depend on to mache devan--move forward----and, many of them question remaining here with so much insecurity, challenge, and such drastic changes to their individual, familial and collective homes.
Who can blame them?


Saturday, April 3, 2010

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 10, Trip 3

Yesterday we worked with our new staff support team, who gave their first "wellness presentation". They were marvelous. I was ecstatic all day. After -- and along with -- so much destruction and suffering, the pure pleasure of training, teaching, sharing, inspiring a team is absolute joy. People ask me all the time why, or how, I do this work. This is why.

I am certain our team will serve our program brilliantly. And as one of the first comprehensive staff support teams/programs to be implemented after the earthquake, they will serve Haiti by inspiring the same types of support at other organizations. The feedback from training participants -- especially other NGO's -- was that the training was original, and well contextualized for Haiti. Everyone felt ready to begin this process; essentially, to develop programs to take care of their local staff -- which means taking care of the Haitian people.

Today, Trauma Resources International's "HANDS ON HAITI" team of cranial-sacral therapists arrived and are already at work. I just went down to their work space to see how they are doing and to see if any interpretation is needed. The space where they are working has become pure prayer. There is a line of people waiting for sessions.

The idea for this occurred to my dear friend Karen and I after my first trip here. So many of the complaints I heard focused on pain and tension in the spine, neck, head, and the "de-equilibration" of the nervous system. Working somatically was very helpful; we knew that this type of work might also provide much needed amelioration of these more physical complaints.

Last night I ran into one of my dance teachers here, and didn't recognize her. I admitted this, as I have known this for many years. She simply said: "I'm tired." A good friend of hers, who also happens to be a good friend of a person I counseled today, lost his baby in a home near the Hotel Montana. Because the parents were traveling, the child was in the care of an Aunt, who was at work when the earthquake hit. The babysitter charged with the care of the baby ran out of the home, afraid. She left the baby. The house collapsed. The baby hasn't been found.

I cried when I heard this story for the second time today. I thought about the idea of "6 degrees of separation" and how connected we all are. I think about the enormity of this tragedy, of the many, many stories I---one solo person--has heard and processed. How many more stories? How many times is this sadness magnified, still? I reflect on a favorite poem by Thich Nat Han, "Please Call Me By My True Name". I once heard something about joy and pain emerging from the same seed. My reflections today are somewhere in that seed.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

port au Prince, Haiti Day 8, Trip 3

We've been in training all week--moving around much more than before. A colleague and I are training a staff support team to provide full time and long term support to the local employees who are affected by the earthquake.

Affected is such an understatement:

Today we drove into work a little late, and passed through the road we are actually not supposed to drive on. Everything is collapsed; some of the buildings hang precariously towards the road. A big enough tremor or a hard enough rain and they could crush traffic moving alongside or under them. It will be years before this area is clear----so far, only locals with small tools are seen working through the massive piles of rubble.

A crowd was beginning to gather, and peer down the hill. We were late for work so we continued on the remaining five minutes, thinking nothing of it.

Thirty minutes later, one of our team members arrived. Her eyes were moist. She sat down and bowed her head. "They just found more bodies." She began to weep. "When will this be over?"

When we looked, there was a skull hanging from a tree, waiting to be identified. The four bodies were carefully laid out on sheets, barely recognizable as human. She shared how they were talking about one of the heads, whose fuzzy, matted hair still clung to it. The crowd mused aloud whether it was a woman, or a rasta.

One body was birdlike. The skin and sinew had stretched -- almost as if it had melted. The contraction and apparent webbing created an image of a suffering pewter colored bird. Wings contracting and expanding at the same time. The nose on the decaying face seemed bird-like. No eyes. Hands tightly clenched, claw-like. Fingers now a mass of dark leather. The tension of a horrible death. Another appeared to be a child. Now just a mass of clothes and leathery segments of limbs. The children looking on cried, as did a woman. Had she known them? Did she know their names? Their ages? What did she know about these lives?

Later, the smell of smoke and burning human. Now, locals burn the bodies they find--there is no-one assisting with the remains of these precious lives. They are piled up, burned, and ashes scattered. We breathe them in, perhaps one way their memories will go on. We can carry a trace of them in us.