Aftershocks-Hamburgers To Haiti?

Back in Wisconsin after ten days in Haiti, I sit here stunned, staring at the piles of snow outside my window.  Despite having been in partnership with Haiti for over ten years now, and making numerous trips back and forth each year, I cannot make sense of so much of what I continue to see and experience by foreigners in Haiti.  Yes Haiti is a big riddle.  It almost always has been and perhaps always will continue to be a big riddle.  However, I have to wonder.  If we took the foreign presence out, I think that Haiti might seem a lot less complicated.  That said- if we (myself included) foreigners are going to go and spend time in Haiti, it seems to me that the responsible thing for us all to do would be to be present, to listen, to learn all that we can learn, to respect and engage in a slice of life with the people, to try really hard to not further complicate Haiti.

As a group co-leader, I often take “newbies” to Haiti.  Knowing the reality that people are leaving behind for a while (the U.S. reality) and after ten years of back and forth knowing something of the reality that they will enter in Haiti, our first steps into the country are always carefully planned and executed with the help of friend Carla Bluntschli of Haiti Travels Associates (tantka1@gmail.com.)  Cameras are put away completely on that first day and truth told, not taken out much at all thereafter.  Haiti has been exploited enough.  Honor and respect is given to the land and the people as we place our feet on Haitian soil.  New visitors are reminded that they are just that-visitors, guests, in a land where our gracious hosts will (if we allow them to) lovingly guide our experience while we are there.  We are reminded that we are on sacred ground, receiving the vast multitude of gifts that Ayiti has already begun to offer us.

As we move along on that first day in the country, we learn history first.  No storming in and setting out on a “let’s get something done” mission allowed.  Really, would that not be rude?  Arrogant?  Presumptuous?  What if foreign people stormed into our lives, neighborhoods and homes here in the U.S.  and started doing things, or presuming that they need to teach us something? How might we feel?  Would it not imply that we are stupid, or that we don’t already know?  I’ve seen it over and over again in Haiti. Haitians already know.  Hand them a tool, any tool (an axe, a hammer, a camera, a computer) and just watch them go.  We don’t need to build their buildings-Haitians need to build their own buildings. There is always one in the bunch that knows and that knowledge quickly becomes shared once the tool is accessible.

Since history is the foundation for all that Haiti is today, we must begin by understanding a bit about it.  We hang on each word that Carla speaks. We find that Haiti’s history is wild, rich, sad, brave-anything but boring. 

Following our history lesson is a lesson in culture taught to us by a group of Haitian young men. Really how can people enter a new culture without knowing how to respect it?  How can we go around saying “bonjou” without knowing what it means to say it and also that it is important how it is said.  Bonjou can mean nothing without the right intent driving the word and our great teachers kindly remind us of this fact.  They also help us to understand how very, very perceptive Haitian people are-that the Haitian people are fantastic readers of intention.  Remember the ancestors of today’s Ayiti overthrew one of the fiercest leaders of one of the greatest empires in history-Napoleon Bonaparte.  It was not by accident.  We play our way through the culture lesson hearing stories, and sharing many smiles and laughs with our new Haitian friends. The balmy breeze kisses our skin as we sit outside in our circle. Roosters crow, and drums are heard in the distance.  It is pure fun.

It is only after we feel that our spirits are in the right place that we begin to actually  go out and about in Haiti, meeting people and engaging in activity.  We go more in a spirit of “spend time with” and not “do for.”  After what we have already learned we can at least try to engage with as much respect, honor, dignity and intention as we can muster.  Of course we never do it perfectly.  Our foreign patterns and ways are quite ingrained in us and it often takes practice to slow down and try to operate differently.  Sometimes we catch ourselves and sometimes we just go into full tilt blunder. And in those moments of full tilt blunder we find out something more about the people of Haiti.  Haitians are very forgiving people.

So after hearing all of this, and experiencing an unbelievable week in Haiti whereby our friends and hosts once again blew us away by lovingly guiding us into and through the experiences of a lifetime, times we will never forget-we end up at the airport bound for home.   I am sad.  I am always sad leaving Haiti.  I fight tears.  Thoughts and visions of beautiful children swirl in our heads.  The smell of those wonderful spices in the beans and rice linger in my nose.  The hugs, the smiles, the feel of someone squashed next to my body in the heat of the midday taptap ride-I already miss it all. I regret that I’m heading back to the land of what seems like 90% processed food that has all been so refrigerated that it doesn’t much taste like food anymore.  I hear the echoes of our collective voice as we joined so often in singing that simple and soulful Haitian dinner prayer: “Manje sa a, ou voye ba nou an Papa, manje ki bay lavi.”   (This food sent to us by the Father, food which gives life.)

I’m there with my luggage at my feet patiently waiting for the throngs to move inches. I watch the mess of people lumbering about in the airport.  I hear a little conversation starting between one of our trip participants and an older lady in a blaze orange T-shirt which bears a religious slogan on it.  She is one of many of the blaze orange t-shirt brigade but there are other such brigades too.  Green shirts, blue shirts-various religious slogans.  I fear what I’m about to hear.  Somehow, the orange t-shirt seems to have already shouted me a warning.  The woman stands over a giant Coleman cooler, the kind of thing a family takes to the campground in America.  “What’s in the cooler?” one of our participants casually asks.  “Oh now just my clothes” the woman says in a drawl. Now here comes the kicker:  The woman continues with: “we always bring hamburgers to Haiti when we come.  Everyone gets sick of the taste of that beans and rice.”

I now know I’m going to cry.  There is no stopping it anymore.  I have to walk away.  And I do.

Answer me this please:  First of all would the U.S. allow foreigners from any other country to bring fresh meat packed in a Coleman cooler into the U.S.?   I kind of doubt it.  Okay, if so then why would we do it to others?  Would we not honor our hosts by enjoying their food with them?  Would we not pause and think that perhaps the germs in that meat might actually be harmful or that the stomachs of children in an orphanage might not be accustomed to American hamburgers?  Take it a step further and realize that beans and rice are what most of the developing world lives on and for a very good reason.  The balance of the nutrients in that mix are just right for sustaining life if just a few other vitamins are obtained somehow (and I’m not talking about what is in an American hamburger.)

After this shock delivered me by the blaze orange t-shirt woman I am aghast on every level.  I attempt to pull myself together and check my voice.  I take a few deep breaths and then I say to the woman: “Can I just ask why you would not enjoy Haitian food with Haitian people while you are here?”  But I turn away before she can summon a response.  I am ashamed.  I am ashamed of my insensitive fellow Americans, those who don’t take the time to take the history and culture lesson first. I feel saddened that they don't begin by receiving the gifts of wisdom that people like Carla Bluntchli and Djaloki Dessables have given us and at the same time I am relieved that we are trying to understand what honor, respect and dignity really mean, and what a joy it can be to fall into the culture of Haiti and feel it, taste it, drink it in on as many levels as are possible. 

There isn’t enough time and there are not enough words to convey what I am feeling.  I feel sorry for the woman in the blaze orange t-shirt and I feel sorry for the recipients of the hamburgers too.  I say a silent, very sincere, very intentional “I’m sorry” to Ayiti, for the times in which I surely have blundered.

Stunned and already speechless I haven’t even yet encountered the second situation I’m about to be rocked by later, when I’m seated next to a woman on the plane and she tells me (more than proudly and more like arrogantly)  that she’s just completed the TEACHING OF seven weeks of discipleship training in Haiti. She’s leaving with a really dark suntan, that much I can see, but that could have been obtained at Ft. Meyer’s Beach.  I don’t claim to know everything about Haiti.  I am still making my own mistakes there, still learning too.  I can say this though.  You cannot swing a dead cat without hitting Jesus in Haiti.  There is no need for standard discipleship training, unless someone wants to take on the enormous task of undoing the heinous religious teachings of the colonial imperialists of the past.

Finally, another plane ride later, I hear this “I can’t believe there were no golf courses.  At least in Santo Domingo you can find a golf course, a good road and a good driver to get you there.” 

I wanted to say a few things.  Again I just cried like a silly baby.  What I wanted to say was “stay away from Haiti.  Haiti does not need you.  The best drivers in the world don’t need to tote you around that gloriously beautiful place.  And if we are stuck on islands one day, I hope I have a Haitian next to me and I know for sure you’ll be crying for one but I don’t know if your cry will be answered.”  I did not say those words. Reactionary thoughts often require further, deeper evaluation so that the positivity in them can be heard clearly.

Visitors, let us open our minds, souls and hearts to receive Haiti when we are there.  Pay homage.  Give honor and respect. Let us drink in the beauty, the color, the magic, and yes! the food with its incredible new spices.   Let us remind each other to leave our tank tops, short shorts, discipleship training manuals golf clubs and Coleman coolers full of hamburgers behind!  We won’t need those things in Haiti.  We need only real, solid, true intention and an open heart.  May we all work to spread these important words: Prepare to receive the gift of Ayiti.

Resources for history/cultural training:
1. Carla Bluntschli-Haiti Travels Associates (tantka1@gmail.com)
2. Djaloki Dessables-Konesans Consulting (djaloki@gmail.com)

Tell Us Your Story

Our little group of three (Natalie, Andy and I) finally made it back from Haiti after a grueling 40 hour journey home via the Dominican Republic.  Due to the political situation in Haiti, American Airlines canceled all inbound/outbound Haiti flights for over a week, and they were not giving us any idea when flights might resume so we finally decided to try to find another way to get home and here we are.

The purpose of this past trip was to partner with other Haitian educators in conducting a photography workshop at Cite Soleil Community School. We had twelve eager students participating in the workshop and we were able to complete two days of the intended four-day long workshop before the political situation forced the cancellation of all schools and of activities.  The photography students were indeed very sad to have to abandon the project but we all understood why it had to be so, and I have promised to return to Haiti to finish the classes in February.

The experience was intensely powerful for me and in many ways I feel this may have been the most valuable experience that I've ever been a part of in Haiti.  Why?  Because for decades Haiti has been exploited by whites.  Foreigners have historically raped the land and the people in every way, including a lot of exploitation through photography.  As we went into the community of Cite Soleil with our students (cameras in their hands!) I was so proud that I DID NOT have a camera, that I WAS NOT invading anyone's private life, but rather that for once the power to tell the story was where it rightfully belonged and has always belonged-in the hands of Haitians.

Many of the people who were active in the neighborhood at the time noticed that something was radically different.  One woman asked me why the blan did not have the cameras.  They seemed surprised by our explanation (photography class) but pleased to see the usual situation flipped.

This, is justice.  This, is the kind of thing we can be super proud of.   I hope that we can continue to conduct these workshops. Though this project was sadly cut short, we witnessed the kind of transformation that Haiti really needs, and has also long deserved.  Symbolically and on a small scale our project reflects what we only wish could happen on a large scale, and that is putting the Haitian people back at their own helm.  A project like this says “We see your talent, your potential, and your incredible capability, so now here you go.  You show us.  Unleash your talent, and tell us your story.”

“Hey Julie, how is Haiti?”

Director of CSCS, Guy Morelus, with some smiley students!

 As I go about the daily business of my small town Wisconsin life, I get that question directed at me all the time.  I’m out around town walking my dogs down the street and I run into someone.  “Hi Julie, how is Haiti?”  I’m picking out bananas at the grocery store and someone taps my shoulder… “hey Jul, how’s Haiti?” I am at my son’s high school soccer banquet and someone will ask “what’s happening in Haiti?”,  I’m at the doctor’s office or dentist’s office and people ask about Haiti, my telephone rings and it is some random person who read about our group and our work in the newspaper and they are wanting to know more about Haiti...

Mostly I stand there numb, fumbling for words, wondering what to say.  I know what I want to say, but I just can’t do it. After some time, I’ll begin to formulate a response by saying, “well, thanks for asking, and that is a really good question.”  I could just say “it started ages ago with France stealing people from Africa, and then after that the U.S. did blah, blah, blah to them…” but I can’t do that.  While history is important to understand, forgiveness is more important to practice especially if we want to really be a part of deep transformation.  However, if you do want the real truth about the issue of poverty, the real truth is in a song by Bryan Sirchio called: “Poverty Always Has a History.”  The details that Bryan has put into that song are indeed very powerful (if you would like to listen to the song here is the Youtube link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3tSYaykXMc) but without even hearing the song we should all know that poverty is never just a culturally self-inflicted condition.

I have been in partnership with the people of Haiti for over ten years now and I have traveled to Haiti five times this year since the January 12th earthquake.  In trying to answer the question “how is Haiti?”  what I really want to do is to scream these words: “Haiti is a mess and we have to do something about it right now because after all we, (the USA) were a part of the making of the mess!” but I just cannot seem to find my voice anymore.  While vivid thoughts and images swirl in my head, I find myself at a complete loss for words.

We can read it all in the utterly depressing news stories but I’ll try a quick recap here:

1. A measly two percent of the rubble has been cleared from the January 12 earthquake in Haiti.
2. An estimated 1.5 million displaced Haitian’s currently live in tent cities under rotting tents, and stick, sheet and cardboard structures.
3. Hurricane rains and winds recently soaked tent city victims in Port au Prince.
4. There is a horrid cholera epidemic that is currently raging through the capital city.  It has  already killed hundreds and is now threatening the lives of thousands.  The hospitals in Port au Prince are again turning away patients.
5. In other ordinary daily life business, most Haitian’s are still jobless and hungry, and most Haitian’s still lack access to clean drinking water, as well as lacking access to medical care and education.
6. About that aid money?  Well it has not been released.  It is sitting in the bank accounts of those who collected it.  Why?  I have no idea.
7. Oh, and that history that I mentioned?  What we did to them?  You can read about it in the book “The Uses of Haiti” by Dr. Paul Farmer, but I will warn you that what we did to them is very depressing.

After reading that recap, some might ask this next question of me: “So Julie, why do you bother going to Haiti?”

I go because Haiti is a tremendously beautiful place filled with incredibly beautiful people.  Haiti is bursting with love, with intrigue and inspiration, with talent, and with enormous potential and possibility.  I go because the first “Bonjou” and big smile that I receive at the airport reminds me that life is all about the unspeakably beautiful small moments in it. Life is in the smiles, the greetings, and the very simple joys that lie amidst all that hunger, strife and rubble.  So perhaps that best answers the question.  That, is how Haiti is.

Julie Johnson

Camp Pax Villa

Tents fall apart from the intense weathering : the hot sun combined with heavy rains.

I do not pretend to understand all the reasons why over a million people are still in tents, why only 2% of the rubble has been cleared, why bodies are still visible. The US government hasn’t released a cent of the promised funds, CNN reports how some larger nonprofits have kept donations back in order to collect interest. I don’t pretend to understand, but I know it is wrong. I had not planned to go to visit the camps, seemed almost like voyeuristic disaster tourism, but we had been asked to go, to interview the camp leaders and get some pictures.

Over two weeks I visited 5 camps in total - Camp Pax Villa, AFCA, Place Champ Mars, Place Cité Soleil, Ti Place Caseau; the stories almost the same. It became mind numbing little to no help since February, children eating dirt to feel full, some adults eating once every three days to make the food last just a little longer, non potable water that is being drunk anyway, water and mud tents disintegrating to the touch, prostitution, rape, bugs, heat, no jobs, no hope. A recent article claimed that of the 200,000 buildings inspected, 75% were habitable…the implication is that people chose to live in the camps for all the freebies, my question of course would be what freebies?

The children follow us around; some of the braver ones will touch your hand, ask you to take photos of them or point at your sun glasses saying barely above a whisper “Cadeau, Cadeau”. The young leaders of the camps, dressed as gangstas take on the uneasy mantle of leadership, organizing committees, trying to pool resources, trying to get someone somewhere to see the obvious, that Port Au Prince is stuck . These once carefree young men stop at the tent of an amputee inquiring about her health, I lower my camera, I can not do this, it is too much, too exploitive. I smile wanly at her. We walk past the latrines, the bucket bath shower stalls, the smell is pungent, and the wind blows off of the sea into the tents. On the wall by the latrine graffiti captures the sentiment of those who are tired of waiting for help, for a food program, for a school, who have realized that the attention of the world has already moved on.

“F#*k the World”

I cringe, I am “the World” after all and besides telling their story, I have nothing to give. The camp leader asks if we can come back Sunday to play with the kids before the soccer match. He shifts side to side.” Can you help us get some soccer balls? Some nets? There is nothing her for the kids” We can do that at least. We take their lists of their names hand written, we promise to contact the larger NGOs with their plight, we locate a cache of food for the camp which in the end can only feed them for three days, and we buy the balls, the nets, we come back for an afternoon of soccer and then we leave understanding less of the circumstances which have stranded these people on desert islands in their own country.

Natalie Nienhuis

Natalie Nienhuis : White Shoes on Sunday

The Presidential Palace in Port-au-Prince

One of the most interesting conversations this summer in Haiti was about politics. With a November election, the ongoing after effects of the earthquake and the early prospect of a Wyclef Jean run, it seemed everyone had their own theories on what would be best for Haiti. Many expressed the belief that this election would be pivotal in whether Haiti would move forward from the earthquake or fall further behind.  I was floored by the sheer number of people who waxed poetic about Baby Doc Duvalier, hoping that he would return.

“Things were not so bad under Duvalier. The streets were clean, there was no Democracy Wire (electrified wire) needed, people had a sense of pride. On the weekends you would see couples walking on the avenues holding hands and on Sunday everyone wore their best clothes, and white shoes shone."

I ask about the TonTon Macoute and the money pilfered from the Haitians, 45 million dollars

“Maybe it was not so bad, just bad luck and you get killed” “He is rich now; he would not need to steal more”

Driving in a truck on the way to pick up food for one of the tent camps, I ask W____ what he thinks about the future of Haiti.

“Democracy doesn’t work here, maybe if we had a Castro we would be all right, everything is so corrupt now, look at the Dominican Republic, they have had a dictatorship and they are doing well now. Rights mean nothing without food, home and hope for the future.  Or maybe the US will take us over and put Clinton in charge…this would work too.” He looks out onto the street “Our generation is lost, maybe our children? I do not believe in my country “

NPR featured Haitian leaders discussing the 9 months since the Earthquake and the road ahead, one of the men said “We have to decide what kind of country we want to be and how to move ahead, we never decided to be the poorest country in the hemisphere, we need to decide to move forward” I wonder how they will do this amongst the ghosts of the past.


 - Natalie Nienhuis 

Natalie Nienhuis : Where Dreams Do Not Die

Dolph and Paloulou sitting at the front of a Level 1 English Class at CSCS.

“You are now entering Cite Soleil” Guy announces with a mischievous grin . As the director of the school , he knows the reputation and the sad realities. A giant slum; graffiti, abandoned buildings, the ubiquitous plastic bag, UN Peace Keepers, people selling everything from combs to avocados, children running around without a shirt, or without pants.

We drive by what once was a park, filled with rubble, the bandstand shell covered with political statements calling for the return of Aristide, death to Duvalier or proclaiming Wyclef the next messiah. “WE NEED HELP” flashes before we turn of onto the side street of the Boston neighborhood. We move slowly now as the street narrows and everyone seemingly is outside under the shade of tarps or sheets, extending their living space to the street. Their homes are uniformly small - half the size of my bedroom back home, regardless of the number of occupants. Lines of rope crisscross the street decorated with the underwear, shirts and pants of the families. We turn onto Taiwan Street named for the Taiwanese NGO who built the canal next to it. The canal filled with trash the throwaway culmination of thousands of people who live up from Cite Soleil. The water is fetid, dammed by the refuse, open pit toilets empty into it on the opposite shore. When it rains the canal floods and the streets become an open sewer. Lost in thought, I do not realize that we have arrived at Cite Soleil Community School.

A rough looking man with sunglasses and a swagger opens the gates. He doesn’t smile. This is Dolph, a gentle soul with a drive to learn anything and everything. He guards the school, the teachers, the students and he guards us while we are here. Once we meet, it is rare he does not smile upon seeing us. He and Paloulou live here and take any opportunity to learn English , if there is an empty seat in class, they take it, if not, they sit in an adjoining classroom taking notes on every word. They repeat the sentences and responses to themselves. Later when I take photos of the students, Dolph removes his sunglasses and asks me to wait. He gets his English notebook and opens it. He stands tall and smiles, proud of his accomplishments.

The school itself brims with life, children in blue and white uniforms are busy doing art or math, during breaks they beg you to visit their class and teach them a few words of English. The heat under the tarps is daunting, but not one child complains. Water has to be brought in; there is no water on site. In the back women prepare lunch in the kitchen, the smell of Haitian beans and rice wafts into the school. In the school yard Guy has brought out the computers and the students from the afternoon English classes , early to school as always take advantage of the time with the laptops to practice keyboarding skills. Over by the shed, a group of young men continue to weld benches for the school. They had to borrow the wood ones from a school destroyed in the earthquake, but ready to start again some 9 months after. The generator is deafening, but no one seems to mind.

The school is like a beating heart, a warm embrace, a smile … in all of the destruction wrought by gang warfare, hurricanes, government neglect, fear, and earthquakes, CSCS holds the line, giving a haven to hundreds and hope to thousands. Guy has a vision, he has the gift of magical realism but instead of writing novels he produces people. He sees beyond the trash, the graffiti, the broken lives. He sees the future, to what could be if we all believed in dreams once more.

- Natalie Nienhuis

Natalie Nienhuis : 26F

Landing into Haiti — overlooking Cité Soleil

As a newcomer to Haiti (first trip was in August, second will be in December) I have been absolutely astounded by the feeling of love, community and friendship encountered in the schools, the orphanages and camps. As an educator I was impressed by the sheer drive to get an education. At Cite Soleil Community Schools, 175 students from the ages of twelve to forty shows up afternoons to learn English and computer skills, 200 people are on a waiting list. The morning elementary classes are filled. CSCS manages to educate them, feed them, to nurture their dreams of a better life. It is a daily miracle in a place most people drive by, ignore or have turned their backs on.

So here is my first entry, written by someone unsure of what one or anyone could do to be of assistance in Haiti. 


When I think about it, I really have no idea what to expect. After reading twenty odd books, numerous articles, watching documentaries, studying Creole and meeting with old timers to prepare myself for this trip I realize as I sit on this plane that I know nothing at all.

I am going to a place that the State Department calls the most dangerous place in the world , a slum of half a million held hostage by a few thousand gang members and the armed UN Peace Keepers. Do I have the mettle to be hot, miserable, tired and still get the job done? Or will the slums, the camps, the orphanages and clinics beat me?

Why am I going? To watch, to learn, to understand, to see Haiti once again struggle to its knees as history plays out its ironies? To see the rage, disappointment, resilience, hopes and hates in real time? Or is it ego? My own self centered need to be the person I want or that many already assume me to be?

I reread Guy’s letter, his warm welcome…he speaks of God’s Plan, is that what this is? Can someone who questions faith for a living, accept that something larger than myself has called me here? Just then I hear her talking to herself, the lady in 26F she has not been back to Haiti since the days after the earthquake, when her life was swaying uneasily from life and death. Her leg crushed, her liver compromised, for seven months she has been in Miami recuperating. Now she returns, to see for the first time the devastation. The severity of her injuries had protected her then, one small grace.

I strain to look out the window; mountains, clouds, tent cities of blue, white and green. The shade snaps shut, her eyes are snap closed as quickly, she lifts her hands in alms, she is whispering, is it a prayer or a cry for help?

“M’ap pa fe”. I can not do it. 

We had earlier shared smiles, food ...she had read the Creole in my notebook and asked me questions to “test” me. Now I am frozen, what should I do? How can I help?

“I don’t see my Haiti.” 

Tears are streaming down her cheek, I am an intruder to her pain, and I face forward, tears welling. Then to my left a hand takes mine. Turning to look the woman across the aisle squeezes my hand and smiles through her tears. Then I know, being here matters. I reach out my hand to the lady in 26F, she takes it with both of hers and we sit like that reminding each other that we are all human and that we are all connected. We are almost there. She opens up the shade now and the hot Haitian sunlight fills our row.

Welcome to Haiti.


- Natalie Nienhuis