port au Prince, Haiti Day 12, Trip 4

I have just returned home and went to my favorite yoga class today. Our luminous teacher shared some words she woke up with, following a night of rich dreams:

HOPE IS A HERO

She went on to describe how all the tulips planted at her mesa-top home had survived a long day and night of fierce winds. Perhaps, she speculated, the petals gather in and relax--versus cling---and that is how they hold on.

The image reminds me of Haiti -- of her people. Of the communities still gathered to support one another to live outside, to live through the rains, to cook, sleep, protect their children. Kampe--stand up---Kenbe---hang on. Hang on with strength and grace.

I remembered three more stories I'll share in closing this trips blog.

One of the woman I counseled on Wednesday described herself as having accepted the situation. After a month or so of fear, sadness, distress, she chose to accept and to go on with her life. Kenbe. Her house and family intact, she recognizes that this is easier for her than for others. And others are the source of her distress now:

"I cannot bear to look around me when I walk or drive anywhere. Everytime I see how people are suffering, how they are living, I feel despair. I want to help everyone, and then I feel overwhelmed. "

We talked for a moment about sensitivity, about prioritizing what we can and cannot do, about the sense of connectedness that is core to Haitian values.

Then she switched to her concerns for her 5 year old daughter. "Everytime we go out, she covers her eyes, as if she cannot bear to look. I ask her why she does this. She says "I don't want to see all this Mommy." She asks me: "Is that ok? Is she ok?"

My reply: "I think your daughter has found a really good coping strategy. Maybe she is trying to teach you. What would happen if you do this together? We all have limits to what we can bear witness to. She knows that, and has figured out how to practice that."

She loved the simple idea of sharing this practice with her daughter, even though she still acknowledged that she felt bad at not being able to do more, and at having the privilege to close her eyes to others suffering. She was deeply grateful for the "permission" to give herself breaks--moments of rest-from the overwhelming stimulus around her.

I met with a young man, in his early twenties, who began the session with a long, "spiraly" description of how he had changed. His summary: "I don't trust anyone, anymore." I tried several probes to see if we could locate a root, in the earthquake experience, for this sentiment--which is common after interpersonal traumas and human rights abuses. The intensity of his conviction seemed unusual following a natural disaster---though the magnitude of this ongoing disaster and tragedy is certainly capable of destroying trust. There is so little to anchor into, in Haiti. So little clear direction towards the future, no leadership, not enough housing in the rainy season, not enough food and clean water. No progress, or, very minute progress.

We talked for awhile, and he shared very openly, and with humility. I told him I was impressed with his ability to reveal so much in a time when he could not trust. He paused, thinking. He smiled warmly at me, nodded his head.

Two names lit up in my head, like a traffic light. "Sartre" and "Camus." I asked if he had read, or heard of, these philosophers. He had not, and, had wanted to. He lit up with curiosity and enthusiasm.

I spoke a little about my perception that he might be describing what some would call an existential crisis. I spoke about my sense of his losing his center--and he resonated immediately with this idea. He seemed relieved to have this named.

Along with referrals for two local psychologists with training in existential psychology, I "assigned" him to read the works of these two authors, and added Samuel Beckett to the list.

We agreed he could write me with thoughts and questions; though I suggested if he chooses to pursue therapy, he might request these works be a part of his therapeutic process. He left with what he described as "a little hope that he had something interesting to do, and gratitude that he had experienced a small moment of trust in his sharing."

On the way to the airport the following morning, I had to pee really badly. Since the earthquake, there is no bathroom available prior to the gate and boarding area. The lines to get into the airport can result in a 1-2 hour wait.

It was 6:45 m. The driver stopped at a service station /shop that appeared to not be open, but had people roaming around. When he asked if there was a toilet, there was a somewhat frantic exchange, and I was ushered to the back of the partially damaged building.

A man in a service station uniform lead me by the bathroom. Locked. We kept going. When we made it to the back, there was the typical rocky, chaotic pathway through a brief concrete alley into the back of the building. Puddles, mud, rocks, everywhere. Dismal.

Living quarters. A young law enforcement officer was dressing, putting on his swat uniform. He greeted me and apologetically moved aside so I could enter his shabby, concrete, drenched with rain, partially broken living quarters. A tiny dark, dank room with a simple cot. Across from it, a changing room that looked more like a small cell. The toilet--modern flush, and clean, sat in its own tiny dark room with barely a door.

I apologized for interrupting, joking that I should not have had coffee before the long drive to the airport, and bemoaning the lack of toilets at the makeshift airport.

"No, its my fault,: he said. I have the key to the bathroom here but cannot find it. Please..." and he pointed to the tiny toilet room.

When I entered the door would not shut, so he offered "I will hold it shut." He did, leaning against it with his weight.

I left, thanked him and apologized again for interrupting his morning routine. "Its o." he said, kindly, generously, smiling, and extending his hand. "Have a good trip."

I left this brief exchange with these two questions:

1. What is to become of a country where a member of the law enforcement swat team--with all the responsibility of that profession-- must dress each morning in such dismal, broken, unlivable conditions?

2. How does someone living in such difficult conditions offer such gracious, kind assistance to a complete stranger who essentially barges into their home at 6:45 am?

port au Prince, Haiti Day 10, Trip 4

Today is my last day on this trip. I’ll have a little more rest between this trip and the next. Its time.

I have spent the past 2 days working with groups of vibrant young people who work with a local cell phone company. Most of my work is large group informational sessions on stress, trauma, support, coping etc. I am also providing “ti konsays” (little consults) on an as needed basis. I don’t have as much time with this group, so I am limited to consults vs. more therapeutic work.

One young man, in his introduction, began to describe his current “symptoms” (shaking, pervasive fear, high stress levels, distraction) and said he had frozen when the earthquake happened. He said this before I talked about the nervous system, fight-flight freeze reactions, etc.

He was one of the first to wait and meet with me. As he described his “symptoms” it became clear to me he would benefit from more intensive attention—one small session can only begin to assist in the amelioration of these distress signals, and, there are ethical issues in going too deep without appropriate follow up time.

An intuitive hunch directed me to ask him to tell his story about the moments he experienced during the earthquake. I don’t think I have asked anyone to do this, yet. If people volunteer to share, I listen. I don’t ask, nor do I push.

He shared that he was working at the airport, and was supervising the sales area. He was responsible for the cash box and the other employees working in their small, gated (but open at the time) work space.

When the quake began, people all around began to run. He felt the impulse to run. Responsible for large sums of cash, he did not. He planted himself by the cashbox. When his employees began to panic, he instructed them to stay—he said “We don’t know what’s happening—wait and see”. A practical, logical strategy –with some risk, certainly--in a moment of mass chaos—and one that would not have been possible if he had truly “frozen”.

When the building began to crumble around him—glass breaking, concrete and plaster falling, the loudness of destruction and the earth violently shifting place—he yelled at his employees to wait ( their small work space remained intact) until it ended. He did this because “I had no idea what was happening. I did not know exactly what the danger was and didn’t want anyone to get hurt.” He also did not want to leave the cash box unattended.

Once the shaking ended he instructed all his employees to run to safety. Then he remained to lock and close the cash box, the office, and the gate, and only then did he run out of the airport to see the horror unfolding around him. He spent the next many hours making sure all the employees stayed together until they could get home to families.

As he shared this story, he was visibly frightened. He shook. He fought back tears. He became paler. His “energy” appeared to shrink. He reported feeling weak and afraid.

I asked him where he felt weak and afraid. “My legs. My heart. Its beating so fast.”

“Take a breath. Feel your heart. It beats because you are still here. Breathe again. Take a few breaths. Don’t change your breath—just breathe.”

He calmed down; slowed down. I asked him to “check in” with his legs.

“They feel a little stronger but they are still afraid.” I noticed they were trembling—discharging. I asked what they wanted to do.

“Run.”

“Did they want to run when the earthquake happened?”

“Yes—but I had to stay—I had to protect the office and the money.”

I might have had him run in place, or work more metaphorically or with micro-movements,with the image or act of running, were I in place or context where we could go deeper.

Instead:

“Where can you run?”

“Nowhere now.’

“Where do you love to run?”

“The beach.”

He left with a “homeplay” assignment—go the beach, which is close to Port au Prince and easily accessible to him, and run. “Run Run Run Run. Run until you want to stop”.

He agreed. He will go this weekend, and run. He will write me and give me a report after he runs.

We checked in with his legs again; they were strong, and still. “I can feel them under me. I can feel them carry me.”

As we finished our “ti konsay”, I reinforced for him that he had not actually “frozen”, he had actually acted. Acted to ensure safety for his team and for the offices’ financial and other resources. I reminded him that this level of cognition and awareness is typical of soldier’s prepared to protect and defend. I asked if he was aware that he had put his own life at risk, by remaining in the airport even after others left. He became very still, and he said “I have not thought about that. That’s why I am so scared. Now I know—next time—I will run.”

Finishing” “Yes you took a risk, and, you survived. You are still here. You were strong, awake, and brave. Does your supervisor know you did this?”

He replied that his supervisor had never even asked how he was, where he was, or what had happened.

With his permission, I share his story, to ensure that this young man’s small but significant actions will be acknowledged.

This is the coming full circle: The Running. The practical learning that next time –if this happens again--he will try a different strategy. He will run. Acknowledgement—that he is here, and that someone knows how extraordinarily well he did his job during 35 seconds of hell.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 8, Trip 4

Last night, we danced. The place where I danced at least 2 times a week when I lived here in 2004 resumed classes for the first time since the earthquake. We had a gathering last week--a free master class for the community to gather and dance--and last night a new season of dance began.

Several weeks ago I was listening to ManShoun, my Spiritual Mother, while contemplating the future of Haiti. She made something exceedingly clear to me: Listen. My instructions were to make sure there are as many drums beating, feet and bodies dancing, as possible between July 15 and August 15 (August 14 is Fet Bwa Kayman). We are to listen for the very first drum beat--the beat of Haiti's true heart. I understand this instruction from the perspective of fractal mathematics: Find the source, the original variable, that initiated the birth of Ayiti. And play-beat-dance-sing-move-breathe-live this source-of-rhythm in every thought, movement, feeling, action. Thats where healing and restoration are. Thats where leadership is. Thats where the future is--entwined in the origin of the spirit of this place, land, people. Not in the variations off this moment or beat that have occurred--in the roots. Razin genyen histwa nouvel.

Nap komansay ak piye ki priye.

Port au Prince, Haiti Day 6, Trip 4

I am still blogging a lot less, because days are very very full. In the past 24 hours there have been 3 aftershocks that get everyone's attention--today I was literally jumping down from a stair into our HR office and next thing I knew, everyone was outside, panicking and making phone calls. I hadn't felt it because I was "airborne", but it shook people up. A lot. Last night, a 4.6 woke me up--I felt as if someone had literally slammed the bed up and down.

People are really wearing thin. Today even the "toughest" of people said I DON'T WANT TO FEEL ANOTHER SHAKE. Our staff support team circulated, making sure everyone was ok. Giving people a chance to breathe, shake it off, sound, talk--whatever. Rumors of ANOTHER abound and so, despite the widely shared fact that each "sekus" represents a release in the earth's tension, its impossible for us here in Haiti--surrounded by so many ongoing reminders of January 12--not to wonder if there is another big one coming. The onslaught of Missionaries spreading their misguided theories of Armageddon, and that Haitians are being punished -- and will be punished -- for their sins with more earthquakes (if they don't convert)--only amplify's the fear and the misunderstanding and the anxiety.

Since my arrival I have seen a leg, a head, and a scalp uncovered. Each day we drive to the office and there is another place where bodies, and body parts, are burned. A black char mark on the mixed pile of rubbage and rubble that stands as the sole reminder that someone else was found.

Despite all this---and the heavy rains that have begun to fall--there appears to be no solid plan forward, no long term consideration, no true leadership and decision making.

We wait. We wait each day as we drive past slowly shrinking piles of cements and clothes and body parts and stuff that now begin to block the roads again after a long night of rain. We wait when the occasional waft of death invades our nostrils and reminds us, its not over. We wait while people report rapes and robberies in full daylight in the camps, while kidnapping appears to be on the rise, while fear becomes the scent in the air everyone is breathing.