Haiti Journal 2007

On my first night in Haiti I was confronted with the unyielding images of Port au Prince. An endless scrolling of desperation and determination and relentless chaos and despair. The tiny punctuations of color, children in tidy bright uniforms hopping and skipping through the filth, a brightly dressed woman with a basket balanced serenely on her head exchanging light words with a friend, young men smiling as they proffered phone cards, CD’s, motor oil and soda to the largely uninterested masses, were swallowed by an exaggerated flow of community, the dirty confluence of 3.5 million lives. After arriving at the Haiti Arise compound in Grand Goave, greeting the staff and sampling the array of unfamiliar food (lying tepid and somewhat frightening on the great expanse of plywood which served as a table) I arranged myself in my bunk, tidily ensconced in my shroud of mosquito netting, eager to sleep and escape my undeniable and mounting anxiety. I certainly wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I fer dang sher weren’t in Washington State.


After the dawning realization that, despite my weariness, I would in fact find myself still wakeful at dawn, I nabbed my headphones and immersed myself in the comforting sounds of my husband’s worship CD. I found that, though hearing his sweet voice deadened my awareness of the strange world around me, it only heightened the dull pain that had formed in my gut upon parting from my family. My time apart from them stretched agonizingly ahead. I hugged my airplane neck pillow like a teddy bear and felt very foolish indeed for thinking I was up to this challenge. Eventually though, I slept, only to wake several hours later in the hot, velvety dark to hear the wild dogs fighting with those in proximity, singing to those at a distance. I was certain someone was in the vast, cinder block building who should not be. In the millisecond between sleep and waking I had conjured thumping, and footfalls, a flashlight searching under the doors and the villains making off with the computers, but not before they would kill the four of us, foolish enough to lie sleeping here with the altruistic belief that we would make a difference in this bleak and terrifying country.

Thanks to the fact that my heart was miraculously pumping three times the volume of blood I actually possess, I was able to spring lithely (for fear can transform even the aged into one capable of Jedi-like prowess) from my bed and found myself hunched next to Jessica’s bunk whispering fervently something to the effect that we were all doomed. She calmly pointed out that the massive metal doors were locked and that there was a security guard at the compound gate. Yet, to appease the madwoman in her room, she made a quick survey of the facility and pronounced the place secure.

Graciously she made no mention of this in the morning.

In the light of day I had a renewed sense of adventure and forgave myself the paranoid episode, putting it down to sleep deprivation and a bad case of culture shock. I was ready to work, eager to document the incredible achievements that God had done here through a growing ministry called Haiti ARISE.



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I can not truly express a sense of this place, nor of what I see in the missionaries here. I am amazed by what they have sacrificed and what they endure; leaving their homes and the comfort of family and friends, secure employment and the lovely, insulatory value of material things. Each of them has suffered from malaria and/or typhoid. Each has lost weight fighting the heat, bearing the work load and sharing a slim diet of questionably nourishing quality. I try to sift through my mind for a word to adequately describe them. Heroic is the closest approximation, but it is not exactly right. They come from different backgrounds and circumstances but they share a common demeanor - almost languid yet purposeful. They regard and respond with a relative steadiness, neither too flamboyant nor dour. I, on the other hand, feel like John Wayne in a teahouse. Here my voice, my gestures, seem too big.



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Someone here explained to me that one must be called to this place. If one came to Haiti to run away from something, once all the comforts and sense of stability are stripped away, the enemy will make havoc, manipulate every aspect of the something from which they did not escape, but which, instead, followed them there to have a superbly wicked, soul-torturing romp in the Caribbean sun. Whatever one flees will only be amplified here.





This place gets into you. Some of the missionaries speak of the cacophonous background noise as somewhat annoying, distracting. I love it. Perhaps if my exposure were longer it would grate more on my nerves. For now, the incessant crowing and squabbles of roosters, the distant radios, the buzz of insects, bird staccato and bird warble and bird scree are music to me. They tantalize my soul. They say “Remember…?” teasingly as though I’ve been here before. Somewhere off in the distance machinery extracts gravel from the plush, jungled flanks of the mountainside, nearby the bray and honk of burros fills the crumbled alleys and crowded foliage, always the chattering of children’s voices brighten the bubbling and somber song of Creole uttered by passing adults and within all that, occasionally, the smallest click of surrender as a mango releases itself to gravity and shoots a rattling path through the leathery leaves, a long descent to the muted dust below.



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Yesterday, interviewing from dawn until dusk, I had the opportunity to look into many eyes, to trace the evidence of sincere hearts as the dark irises tracked from one corner of the eye to the other chasing memory, then soaring skyward in search of a word, something in English…maybe better in Creole…belle.

I am enchanted by the language, primarily French with African influences. The Haitians here seem extremely motivated to learn English, to equip themselves with an advantage, a tool towards creating a better life for themselves, for their families. They see change and hope within the walls of Haiti ARISE, where they can pick up technical skills, English and Biblical training should they wish to carry on in the ministry, bringing hope to their nation. The security guard, David, eloquently describes the work that Haiti ARISE has accomplished thus far, as being like the twoket, or the coil of fabric that Haitians place on their heads on which to balance, baskets or buckets for transport. He explains that Haiti ARISE has carefully prepared this foundation for the colossal accomplishment, colossal burden that is yet to come, yet to be lifted and placed upon the twoket, the foundation. They see Pastor Marc and Lisa as the conduit for this vision from God and the conduit for His unity and strength. What strikes me though is that although they ask for prayer for Pastor Marc’s strength and vision they do not seem to elevate the man so that he obliterates their view of God, nor do they abandon him to the vision, as though it was his responsibility alone, that they can idly shelter under his authority. No, they all seem to desire to stand near him, to shoulder the burden with him. All those I have met here at the mission seem to long in fact, to put their strength to something good.

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There is attentiveness here to the unseen connectedness of man to his environment. I understand then how over the centuries the almost palpable “energy” of the island itself has worked its way through the hearts and fingers of artists and spiritual leaders. It is not surprising that Voodoo expresses the vibrant and frolicking colors of the tropics while simultaneously embracing and animating the dark of Haiti’s troubled soul.

Poverty is the obstacle, say some. Others suggest education is the obstacle. Both are right. One might argue that the source of the oppression is a historical struggle over this abbreviated third of a fertile island, once considered to be the “jewel” of the Caribbean. Certainly, where there is treasure, there is usually conflict. Coveting begets greed, greed begets acquisition, acquisition necessitates power, power necessitates a defensive stature…which is realized naturally in this dance of mimicry called conflict. It over simplifies the situation to say that Haiti is caught in a cycle of political struggle based on a common deficiency in human nature. However, those of us who trace all deficiency to the taste of apple in the garden, will not deny that this deficiency is stirred dramatically by the spiritual. The testimonies of those impacted by the ministry here reveal back stories laced with voodoo and witchcraft. Catholicism in Haiti is a blend of the Catholic faith woven through with animism and magical concepts, some inherited from ancestral Africa, some perhaps derived from the ecosystem fecund with mystery - life teeming on the surface of decay.

Many prominent politicians and spiritual leaders of the impoverished nation believe that a voodoo priest known as Bookman made a pact with the devil to ensure that the slave uprising against France was victorious ultimately condemning the nation to spiritual oppression for 200 years. Fewer will suggest that this has little place in progressive thought and certainly has no evidential support. However, whether or not you subscribe to a spiritual enslavement being pinpointed to this pact it is difficult to deny the undercurrents of a malevolent activity in the spiritual realm. It may be simply the result of 200 years of exponential individual dabbling in dark disciplines and indulgence in false doctrine. Traveling from the relatively serene area around the Haiti Arise compound further into the streets of Grand Goave where there are voodoo temples and the unrelenting evidence of social decay one can feel the spiritual atmosphere change. It comes up on you and engages your stride like a shadow tethering to your heels, mimicking your movement, denying capture or precise evaluation.

The Haitians seem to be predominantly timid, especially the women, they seem insecure and distrusting of Blancs (whites) which is what I am. I will never blend in or totally belong. The cameras I use to draw their situation to the attention of my countrymen is intrusive and though it is not seen by them as capturing their soul (as one missionary wrongly suggested), it is more often than not suspected of identifying and exposing them in isolated states of insecurity, vulnerability or shame.

What I see through the lens is beauty and perseverance. My scrutiny is grossly intrusive and denies their right to privacy. But exposure is exactly what I am after. I cannot deny this. It is my sincere goal to expose their plight to the world, sadly exploiting them in the process. At home in North America we strain in the mantel of our material insulation and occasionally procure our spot on a groomed beach while in Haiti, a few hundred miles away, they scavenge in virtual anonymity through what we discard. Literrally. A little of what we expel drifts to these shores and is adopted and re-employed.

We avert our eyes from Haiti much as we do the pan handlers on 1st and Pike in Seattle; ask our cynical selves what difference can it make anyway? The pittance I can give will probably be squandered, right? It certainly will not save them. Likewise, we quickly assess before we summarily dismiss, we know that Haiti Arise will not save them. However, the ministry can precipitate exponential change. The local Haitians throng to the compound at Haiti Arise for church services under a vast tin roof held aloft by knock-kneed poles. They are craving fellowship with direction and a promise of hope but more than that it seems they are responding to sound doctrine. The notion of Christ is not new to them but the superstitious contradictions woven into the proffering of historic missionary faith has sullied the truth.

This does not mean that the human vessels for the delivery of the gospel are above vague manipulations. Perhaps, in an effort to grow safely and effectively as a change-causing agent, extra biblical cautionary flavorings will occur. However, the basic doctrine is sound. It does not seem to deviate from scripture and does not promise exaggerated victory - only the peace offered in relationship with Christ. It is a doctrine that does not contradict; it calls the lost firmly and unwaveringly to turn from immorality and invites those to gently, but unyieldingly, embrace hope.

Here hope is not waved about vehemently like a flamboyant banner. These people are cautioned to walk the narrow path, but hope is the substance, the quiet communion beneath the call to enlist in the pursuit of moral change.

Not surprisingly, it is in this minute motion, this fashion, that great buildings and safe walls go up, that gardens are planted, cultivated, harvested a corner at a time. And then a little. It is steady and what seemed so small to start with in five years has had invasive ramifications. Grand Goave, once known for its voodoo temples and ceremonies is now a cultural and spiritual destination. People are beginning to come here to be changed, to be fed, nourished on all levels and raised up to lead others.





For a week, we were essentially confined to the sanctuary within the formidable, 12-foot cinder block walls of H.A.M. We had two rather controlled exposures outside: a brief tour in Port au Prince and a somewhat analytic foray into optimism as we visited the thoroughly functional agricultural community on the mountain at Vallue. On this final night, however, we make a brief excursion to the beach. I fully anticipate seeing the pervasive evidence of social distress: the garbage gathering like huddled colonies at any low point and the rotting smear and neutral filth of disappointment and ensuing disregard. Instead I found a patch of paradise. A patch that stretched to the limits of my sight, simultaneously expanding my preconceived prejudices. The sand was coarse and a peachy daub color, the reduction of shell to particulate over the expanse of time. I was startled and enchanted for that hour, I even entertained the thought that my family could live here, near this beach, in a cocooned existence of bliss and safety while I stepped out and courageously met need where God directed me. I thought, “All I need is a wall.”



A wall would, could work against the world. Here the world is only a portion of the problem. Mosquitoes bearing illness, contaminated water, waste disposal and rutted impassable roads only begin the litany of challenges of living in a third world country. Healthful and sanitary living, as we know it, is a remote concept here. Beyond that, there is the isolation that would be created by trying to lead a “safe” and separate lifestyle while professing an unconditional love. The love may be unconditional but unchecked accessibility is verboten. Moreover, there are no worldly walls that thwart the intentions of the enemy of our soul. He will use the world against us in every imaginable and unthinkable way. He will bore into our minds, if we give him half the chance, coddle our needs, offer simple solutions to fear. Temptations are born within us, like parasites, looking for that host of fear. In my hands, I turn a heavy shard of conch, rounded and pitted by waves that caress, then alternately pummel against the accomplice of sand. I lay my fitful and abbreviated dream of living here, with the shard, back on the coarse pink sand and return to the others. Like a string of musical notes bobbing on the surface of the ocean, the silhouetted missionaries are floating idly in conversation, washing away the weariness and the concern and the pain of their work in the yielding waters of the Caribbean at nightfall. They seem to blissfully, reverently hold the moment, elongating it by acknowledging how it is so sweet and fleeting.

As we clamber into the back of Marc’s truck, the thick mellow night closes about us, rocking me into a moment of fallow. I am ready for the Lord to sow new knowledge in me. The mosquitoes are closing in and the repellent is washed away but I am not afraid. I am submitted to God’s will, as a fretful child is lulled before bed. I know I am not abandoned even here at the edge of a forgotten place. Children chase us laughing and clamber up into the back of the truck. A little boy settles in close and leans against me. After a while, passively regarding the dusk thick passage of trees and huts around us, he smiles shyly up and then begins to sing in Creole that song from the movie “Titanic” My Heart Will Go On. I am wreathed, slowly bound, in this delicate beauty. My heart is irrevocably lost to Haiti.