Hearts Together For Haiti

"Please God, let her know she is loved; let her feel that she is not alone." The words sprang forth in my head - clear and sane. Not even the gnawing voice trying to surface from the recesses of my mind; trying to remind me that it was wrong to desire the death of another human being - could stop my prayers. Tears coursed down my face; an explosion of sadness, despair, anger, frustration and helplessness.

Yet through my helplessness I found myself wondering if this was the reason God had brought me to Haiti - to this country of extremes. Was I meant to share a child's last hours; to ease a child's suffering in whatever little ways possible; to ensure that one child did not die alone? Had God known that somewhere, somehow, in this tiny body, this perfect face, I would find a part of myself?

I had come to Haiti, arriving at Port Au Prince International Airport, on March 30, 1999. I came believing I was humbly doing the work of the Lord, yet nonetheless full of myself; of my power. After all, here I was, leaving my husband and children safely in Canada while I traveled across what seemed to me to be an entire universe, to help people unable to help themselves. This was a belief, a mindset, I would come to despise by the end of my two-week journey.

I arrived in Port Au Prince not really understanding the history of the country - the political atmosphere or the plight of the people. Nonetheless, I believed it was God's will that I travel to Haiti to help the people. I would soon come to realize it was MY will that I come to Haiti to 'help' the people. God's will, I would come to understand, was that I travel to Haiti to see, hear and touch the people; to open my heart and allow my soul, my very being, to be seen, heard and touched by the people of Haiti. It was to be one of the most profound 'God' experiences of my life; an experience which opened my eyes to the incredible workings of God and faith that exists, thrives, even in the face of poverty, illness, oppression, adversity and death.

I was prepared for the heat, dust and barrenness of Port Au Prince. I had been well informed by my friend and traveling companion, Luci Afonso, who was making her third trip to Haiti as I made my first. I had done what I do best as a journalist. I had researched the country, carefully staying away from the political issues; somehow believing the politics of the country could be separated from the people of the country. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

What I was not prepared for was the beauty and faith of the Haitian people, despite the poverty and hardship; the incredible need and desire to forge a better life. Despite Luci's words and the words of my friend and spiritual advisor, Fr. John Duarte, (who himself had traveled to Haiti many times), I was not prepared for the illness and death; the infants whose tiny ribcages heaved with each laboured breath; the large, dark, sad eyes searching and questioning...always questioning. I was not prepared for their tiny bodies, so light and fragile it seemed they would shatter if held too tightly, nor the incredible strength of their arms as they held tight, burying their soft faces in my neck as they soaked in the attention and listened to the soft words I sang. I was not prepared for the children - so hungry and so malnutritioned, yet too weak to eat. I was not prepared for the hospitals - large rooms with 20 or more cribs or beds, cement floors and opening for doors and windows, but no actual doors and windows; for the lack of medical supplies; for the men and women so ill with tuberculosis that they gave up on life, despite the possibility and probability of successful treatment. I was not prepared for the multitude of ways in which people who were out were kept out and people who were in were kept in - barbed and razor wire, cement walls topped with steel spikes and broken glass imbedded in concrete, steel walls, boards and nails.

There was so much I was not prepared for. There was so much I could never have imagined; never have comprehended had I not seen it with my own eyes; experienced it with my own heart - like praying for the death of a child...begging for the death of a child.

Luci and I had been to the children's hospital several times to assist. I did what I felt comfortable doing - changing diapers, feeding those children able to eat, cooling fevered bodies with cloths dipped in tepid water. This seemed an almost lost cause given the incredible heat and the heavy, fetid air of the hospital rooms. I gravitated often to one tiny girl, a child named Sandra, and held her on one hip as I fed, touched, talked and sang to the others. Sandra had stolen my heart the moment I first stepped foot into the dingy hospital room. She was healthy enough to cry... to wail, for attention if I dared walk passed her crib or set her down after holding her close to my body. She never seemed to mind the insufferable heat which glued her tiny body to mine as I held her. In fact, she craved the closeness; the touch of another human being. Her tiny body, at first wracked with sobs and tremors, would slowly quiet and relax against mine and I would find myself filled with wonder that this child could so thoroughly trust this stranger, me. Sandra became for me a sign of HOPE; a sign from God of the vitality, of the willingness to fight.

Sandra drew me like a magnet. I found myself drowning in her large sad eyes. Each time her tiny face nestled against my neck my heart would constrict with a strange, intense mixture of pain and joy. As I drank in Sandra's scent, the touch of her soft skin against mine, I found myself shying away from those babies who were really sick - those who had been placed on IV. Their illnesses scared me, awakened in me an incredible guilt and helplessness. I would check quickly to see if a diaper needed changing and handle the chore in as unemotional a fashion as possible, closing off my heart. Then I would return to the others - usually 'my' little girl, Sandra. I chose not to deal with the reality of the really sick babies for any longer than was necessary.

Arriving in mid afternoon, I was immediately drawn to the bed of the tiny little girl. I remember making a statement to Luci about the baby's worsening condition before I moved on to feeding and changing the other babies. But today even Sandra, with her tiny face nuzzled against my neck and her soft breath warm against my cheek, could not calm my disquiet. I experienced an intense feeling that God wanted me to return to the tiny baby in the first crib against the far wall. Yet still I resisted.

Luci, I learned during our trip, was willing to do whatever was asked of her - insert IVs, suture cuts, clean abscesses and tumours, treat symptoms of sexually transmitted diseases, AIDS and hepatitis...anything that needed to be done. It was a quality I would grow to admire more and more each day. She too, sensed the baby's plight. After feeding and changing the other babies, Luci returned to the front crib along the far wall...the row for IV babies... and lifted the infant gently from her crib. Luci sat down with the tiny girl, whose name I have forgotten. Luci began to softly sing to her. For awhile, I attempted to ignore Luci and her infant charge. I carried Sandra and walked among the other cribs, singing to the rest of the children, touching their faces and taking comfort in their quick smiles and the grasp of their tiny hands. All the while, a voice in the back of my mind kept urging me to go to Luci and the baby. Another voice told me to stay away; to erect a tall, strong, unbreakable steel wall around my heart. The voices battled inside my head and tore my heart in opposite directions. I tried to ignore both. I tried to concentrate on Sandra; on the others. Even thinking about the oppressive, horrible heat and the smell of sickness and rotting garbage was better than thinking about the child in Luci's arms. The voice telling me to go to Luci grew louder and louder in my head; more and more insistent, demanding, repetitive. It took my breath away; it took my heart away; it stole my choice.

Still not looking at Luci and the baby, I bent to place Sandra in her crib. For the first time, Sandra did not cry and I wondered if this was a sign from God. Instead Sandra's beautiful dark eyes seemed somehow peaceful, following me as I walked across the room. She seemed wise beyond her age. Sitting on a chair beside Luci, I began gently rubbing the infant's forehead, and it was then that the words, calling for God's mercy, began to form in my mind.

I'm not sure how long we sat with 'our' baby. I do not have a clear recollection of all that took place. I do remember talking to Luci and crying; asking both Luci and God whether this precious child could feel our presence and our love. I remember a few of the older children making their way from other areas of the hospital to gather round us as we sat with our baby, sometimes singing softly, sometimes lost in silence. I remember waves of utter helplessness wash over me as silent tears rolled down Luci's face. I remember feeling her sadness; feeling it as if it were a tangible, touchable object. As real as her sadness was, however, it could not compare to Luci's aura of contentment. Despite the sadness, despite the despair, despite the death, it was so incredibly obvious that this place, this concrete room with concrete walls, was exactly where Luci wanted to be, and holding this child as she waited for God to rescue her tiny spirit, was exactly what she wanted to do. The revelation struck me like a bolt of lightning - the revelation that Luci was in Haiti, was in this hospital and was content to shelter this child as she left this world because she WANTED to be here; she craved being here more than any place else on earth. Not for the first time, nor for the last, Luci's belief in the power of God and the power of the faith of the people of Haiti, filled me with wonder. Throughout our trip, Luci's contentment, her peace with being called to do whatever needed to be done, revealed to me a side of my friend I had only had the pleasure to see in bits and pieces. Watching her in the glow of her peace, content to be a vessel of God's, was incredible. Though her shoulders shook with soundless sobs, her eyes reflected only love, compassion and peace for the tiny infant in her arms.. I remember being so overcome with what was taking place, that the words I wanted to speak were lost in the hot, still, late afternoon air.

As Luci and I sat with the tiny baby, a young girl, a patient from another room of the hospital asked Luci to remove the tape for our baby's head - tape that had previously held an IV in place - in order to make her more comfortable. God's instructions, I realized, were reaching us through the words of the children who knew, all too well, what was taking place. I remember the faces of the other babies, all of whom had stopped crying and were watching us with enormous, haunted eyes and listening to our songs. An occasional sob broke the stillness. As the sun began to set, I prayed briefly for a small breeze, however slight, to cool the baby's tiny body; to bring her physical comfort. But mostly I prayed for her death; for her salvation; for an end to her suffering; for her tiny heart to stop beating and her spirit to enter God's welcoming kingdom and protective embrace. At some point we made a decision to remove our baby's feeding tube, again in the hope of bringing her some small comfort. I gently eased the tube from her nose, praying that I would not cause her any further discomfort. She did not flinch.

The heat - and my sorrow and pain - were so heavy I feared my lungs would collapse under the weight - the powerful crush of reality so intense I thought that at any moment I might lose my tentative hold on my emotions. I feared that if that happened, my anger and pain at the incredible injustice that would cause a child to suffer in this way, would spew forth. I feared I might be unable to stop the flood once the gates had been opened. I remember wondering why the sisters, charged with the administration of the hospital, did not arrive at 3 p.m. as usual (I later realized it was Holy Thursday and they were attending mass). At the same time, I was thankful for this, knowing somehow that we would not have been allowed to stay, to hold, to comfort this child; to ease her journey into God's embrace, had the sisters been present. On a few occasions hospital employees, or perhaps they were other volunteers, would enter the room and turn on the lights, flooding the stark hospital room and staving off the oncoming darkness. Each time, Luci asked that they be turned off again, to allow the infant some comfort from the glare.

By the time the sisters arrived, darkness had entered the hospital room; cloaked the room in a grey-black blanket. We were told we must leave. Death, they said, was common; an everyday occurrence and there was not enough time to sit with each child as the spirit left the body. While their words seemed cold, their eyes spoke with compassion, exhaustion. This was simply how it was. Our tiny baby was placed on oxygen to ease her breathing and provide some comfort from her suffering. The huge, ancient oxygen tank dwarfed her tiny body as the anger welled up inside of me. I struggled with wanting the oxygen for her, at the same time suppressing an urge to scream for it to be removed; for anything which might prolong her suffering...her life, to be removed. I said nothing, but fought to retain my composure as tears of anguish burned the back of my eyes.

Luci and I were escorted to the gate by one of the sisters. The night was now black as coal and confining in its heat. Sister appeared angry as she bade us hurry home, but in reality she only feared for our safety. We were two women walking alone in a city that is very dangerous in the dark. The gate to the hospital compound was locked behind us, the clanging echoed in the night.

Our walk back to the guesthouse was carried out with a purpose, punctuated on my part by tears of frustration and anger, words of rage and disappointment. Despite what must have been overwhelming emotions of her own, Luci talked quietly, calmly to me; each word chosen carefully to help me deal with my out of control emotions. Luci was not afraid; nor was I, as we discovered during a conversation part way through our walk home. Although it seemed like it lasted 45 minutes, it was in fact, about 15 minutes. Both of us found this strangely comforting...this lack of fear. For my part I felt much too angry to be afraid. I believe, unconsciously, although I was not afraid, a part of me was daring, inviting God to do something, anything, to dull the pain that gripped my heart.. In hindsight, however, I believe he sent his angels to accompany us...angels who illuminated our path, steered us clear of the pitfalls and dangers, and provided a shield about us.

Upon arriving at our destination - Wall's International Guest House where we were staying - I was surprised by how upset the owners were at our late arrival. I had to remind myself that a mere month earlier, two guest house guards had been shot to death.

This, perhaps, was the climax of my trip to Haiti. Much happened before and much happened after this evening, but nothing would touch me quite as profoundly as the death of this child. She did die. Luci returned to the hospital the next day and learned our baby had died about an hour after we left. Luci returned alone....I couldn't bring myself to return that day. I was comforted by the knowledge that she had not been alone during her final hours; that Luci and I had made a difference.

This evening was also, I believe, the time when it became most apparent to me that my role was to do God's bidding; to carry out God's schedule as it unfolded, rather than to try to follow my plans, my schedule. It was during these hours, spent with this tiny vessel of God; during those endless moments with my wet hair clinging to my scalp and sweat stinging my eyes; with flies and bugs buzzing about and the muted sounds of the Haiti night echoing in the distance, that I realized what God's work was really about. There were many other 'God' moments during the time I spent in Haiti - some filled with anger, despair and frustration; others filled with joy, hope, happiness and beauty. Each etched itself permanently, indelibly, in my mind. The experiences piled up, one on top of another, throughout my stay in Haiti. Each will remain with me throughout the remainder of my life; each will, in its own way, shape every decision I make for the rest of my life. I will never forget my first visit to the adult hospital; watching as straight iodine was poured into a large, open tuberculosis tumour on the inner thigh of a young girl I guessed to be about 12 or 13 years old. I remember the realization hitting me like a ton of bricks that this child, who did not so much as flinch when the iodine soaked into the wound, was incredibly, overwhelmingly sick. Yet she was not sick enough to warrant the insertion of an IV for treatment. There was too high a demand for the precious supplies.

When we returned to the hospital the next day, the child had died. I will forever remember the faces of the women at the hospital, and the men at the brothers' clinic for whom I provided massages...how very thankful they were for the caring touch of a human being. Imprinted in my mind forever will be the face of my friend Luci, filled with compassion, peace and contentment as she treated the multitude of patients ranging from the tiniest infant to elderly gentlemen, knowing as she shaved them or changed their dressing it might be the last act of kindness they received. I will remember always, the hot, long walk up the hill to the hospital, and the way in which I was immediately humbled and my complaining halted when a man of about 50 years if age walked passed me carrying upon his head a large box of bricks.

The incredible, cloying, heavy smell of the marketplace will forever remain in my memories - the smell of decaying garbage and meat products, human and animal waste...all baked in an unrelenting sun.

I will cherish each word shared with Brother Samuel, the brother who ran the brothers' clinic, who asked me to talk to him as he tested blood taken from a male patient for AIDS. His words, which were spoken softly but fell like lead between us as he confirmed his diagnosis, will haunt me forever, as will the exhaustion in his crystal blue eyes. His gratitude at having been able to talk with a 'friend' over a warm glass of water will warm my heart always, as will his apology for having nothing else to offer me. The vision of the syringe, filled with tainted blood and lying on a table in a makeshift supply/treatment and examining room surrounded by bright red, angry droplets, is visible in minute detail if I but close my eyes.

My heart will always be home to Marko (Marceau), a 10-year-old Haitian boy living in the village of Labadee who, despite our language barrier, was able to break through my incredible wall of despair, loneliness and self pity with a simple black and red beaded necklace and a kiss on my cheek. The gift came at a time when I was sobbing uncontrollably, missing my two sons and husband so badly my chest constricted with pain and I feared I would lose my ability to breath. Marko came to me as a sign from God; the message could not have been clearer if I had heard the words directly. "I send to you this boy as a sign that your children are safe and you have nothing to fear." Marko continued to bring me God moments - moments of incredible joy and happiness - throughout my three-day stay in his village.

I will never forget my anguish at watching the Royal Caribbean cruise ship sail into the waters off the village of Labadee. I will forever be torn by the incredible feeling of injustice and anger at learning that the village natives are not allowed on their own beach when the cruise ship anchors in the waters off the village shores. Although as a white person I was able to freely walk the beaches and enjoy the free food and beverages provided by Royal Caribbean, my Haitian friends were not. Forever I will be haunted by the shame and guilt of being white during those hours.

I will never forget viewing the slums of Cite Soliel in the dead of night. Cite Soliel, which covers more than 10 square miles, is built on garbage which the United States and Canada pays Haiti to take. In the darkness, as far as the eye can see, spontaneous methane fires flare, fueled by the garbage. Rats the size of large cats scurry among the shanties, inches from the inhabitants of Cite Soliel. The intense heat, and the putrid, horrid smell of Port Au Prince port...the dirtiest port in the world, will always return to my senses in a heartbeat, if I but close my eyes.

Easter Sunday in Haiti; the image of hundreds and hundreds of Haitians dressed in their finest 'Kennedys' - hand me down clothing washed and repaired to look like new - heading for the cathedral to attend Easter mass - taught me about the fortitude of faith; the resiliency of God's hope. I will remember fondly and with humour, my illness and the intense sun which caused me to faint in front of the cathedral, literally 'kissing' the ground. It was a humourous 'God' moment I provided for my Luci and my other traveling companions - Tim and Amy Jobin, a brother and sister from Chicago, and Enci, an 18-year-old Haitian native being sponsored by the Jobin family. Enci's wonderful sense of humour; his joy in life; his incredible gratitude at the Jobin family's gift which will allow him to complete school and help his people, filled me heart with hope and belief that God was, indeed, present with us.