After the Haitian earthquake of 2010, I went to Leogane, Haiti to work at an orphanage with Sonia Pierre, a human rights activist that was one of the first people that arrived in Haiti to help the survivors of the earthquake.
When the earthquake hit, I was living in New York City and I was working at a cushy job at an online photo publishing company. I felt the urge to go to Haiti as soon as I heard the news so I contacted Sonia Pierre at MUDHA. I collected tons and tons of medical supplies, coloring pencils, papers, toiletries and clothing donated by friends which I brought with me in the airplane. The boxes were too heavy for me to carry and I was concerned about how much this will cost. Given the emergency situation, the airline was kind enough to wave the extra weight fees.
In the waiting area of the Santo Domingo airport, two heavy-set men with southern accents referred to the rebuilding of Haiti as a “gold mine.” The comment was startling. My flight was filled with hopeful Americans in matching t-shirts boasting cheery taglines with God, Hope, Friend, Love, Hunger, Fight, Poor. For many it was their first time going to Haiti. The feeling of hope and goodwill need-to-do-something was at its peak. In the United States the news of the catastrophic earthquake that killed 250,000 and displaced another 1.2 million had fueled a wave of compassion and help was pouring in from everywhere. Facebook and Twitter were flooded with fundraisers and requests for donations. The American Red Cross alone raised $32 million in less than a month towards Haitian relief efforts through Text-to-Give mobile campaigns and the web.
The hope was also high for the Haitians. The last two and a half decades had been particularly destructive for the first black nation once known as “the Pearl of the Caribbean.” Back-to-back free trade policies and coup d’éstats tailored in Washington had left the population weak and the economy in ruins. Before the earthquake, 6 out of 10 people were going hungry and unemployment was at 70 percent. Seventy percent of food was imported, predominantly from the United States.
Haiti is widely known as the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, with more than 10,000 NGOs registered before the earthquake. “Things can only get better,” I heard over and over from survivors living on top of each other in sprawling camps. “We are lucky to be alive, I thank God for that every day,” one woman declared, pushing back against the women and children gathered around her for hours under a relentless tropical sun, waiting for a bottle of water and a food ration.
At the arrival gate in the Santo Domingo airport, I saw a sign with my name. The stranger that was holding the sign greeted me with a smile but there was a lot of sadness in the eyes. He didn’t speak English nor Spanish, he helped me with all the donations boxes, which I never saw again, and brought me to the bus stop indicating something along the lines that this bus would bring me to Port-Au-Prince were I would need to switch to another bus that will take me to the countryside of Haiti were the orphanage was located. “How will I find the orphanage?,” I asked. He just nodded his head. It was a long ride from Santo Domingo to Leogane with many stops and confusion. Not quite knowing when to jump off. With the inability to communicate, I only had faith and skills of observation.
The road into Haiti had recently been opened and lots of first responders were starting to come in. From the altitudes of the public bus that zig-zagged it’s way to Port-au-Prince, I witnessed the massive displacement that was taking place. Men, women and children loaded down with large plastic bags, wires, water, furniture and anything that might be useful were jumping from motorcycles and bicycles to buses that would take them beyond the destruction of the city. We passed large areas peppered with Unicef tents, UN tanks and trucks loaded with food aid. All along the sides of the road, Haitians were walking.
When I finally arrived at the final “bus stop” in Leogane a man approached me calling “MUDHA,” the name of the organization that I was volunteering at and he took my bag, strapped it onto his motorcycle, no helmet, nor goggles and we drove off in the dusty roads. This was going to be an interesting experience, I thought.
When I arrived at the orphanage there was not much of a heroic welcome to volunteers, no map nor methodology to follow. Everyone was busy working on setting up structures or checking on the survivors. Everyone was too busy to be my guide. Someone indicated me a place to set up my tent and that was it, there was not much more information. This is how these local non-governmental organizations operate. One needs to learn how to read what’s going on and make oneself useful. Otherwise, one takes the space and food of someone who may need it more.
The children, caretakers and volunteers were all living in tents as the buildings had tumbled into ruins from the force of the earth shaking. Medical treatment was very limited, no food nor housing available. The country was in shambles.
One morning, I woke up shivering shivering in a terrifying coldness and sweating profusely. I had contracted Malaria. The illness was getting worse and worse and I didn’t want to tell anyone because the volunteer doctors were very busy and I didn’t want to take the medication from someone else who may need it. I kept to myself and one day while hanging out with the children I fell into the ground and passed out.
I woke up from my slumber and five children had their hands on me. I was completely back to my normal strength. No more shivering. This was my first experience of the powerful force that runs through our hands to bring harmony and healing. This planted the seed of the great mysteries of the unseen.
