What follows is largely unedited, as it poured out at various times during the journey. Please be indulgent of repetitiousness and lack of polish, which I hope may be offset by freshness.
Port-au-Prince, Wednesday, 12 September 2001. Forty-eight hours after arrival… and I’m finally in some sense “ready for business”. I wouldn’t be here if I had left a day later: my wake-up call on the morning after arrival was Matushka telling me, even as it was still happening, of the catastrophe in New York, Washington, western Pennsylvania. Do we yet know the full scope? Certainly not. My settling-in problems, entirely routine here, were nothing in the light of that, yet they took two full days: two hours to obtain a reserved automobile; three hours to get the cellphone functioning again, a short while to haul an initial water supply from the open well, up in the middle of the night (when the power finally went on at 3AM) to try to pump water, only to find that the pump had lost its prime and wasn’t going to do anything till I could borrow a big wrench (put that on the to-bring list!) so I could open the line and re-prime it. All that in a house so filled with dust it was necessary to walk gently or risk choking.
And then the morning news. We had no idea, of course, at 9AM that morning, how far the destruction would spread, or how long we would be able to communicate at all, or when and how I would be able to return home (by boat to Miami and walk the rest of the way if necessary). The day wore on, and necessaries here got tended to: the house cleaned, working and living equipment deployed (it’s all stored in large boxes while I’m away), luggage (mostly supplies for the Mission) unpacked. Somebody at the electric company had the right idea, and the power came on late in the afternoon, and the pump started working again… so I went to bed reasonably early, showered and in a somewhat clean house.
A comfort for me, but none for the families of the victims. None, either, for the vast majority of Haitians, for whom “normal” life doesn’t include such things as running water or electricity (much less sophisticated battery/inverter systems to provide power for the computer, the phone and other essentials during the long hours of outage)… or, for that matter, all too often even anything worthy of the name of house.
At a cultural and geographical remove from the horrors, they are nevertheless part of my life (brought more to life by live telecasts over French television, seen at a neighbor’s house). But also part of my life… and beside these, this horror, although more immediate, when seen in perspective, pales by comparison: the saturation bombing of Dresden in World War II, the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the virtual obliteration of an entire country in southeast Asia… to say nothing of the martyrdom of millions of Orthodox Christians, and murder of countless others, in the Soviet Union. And finally, too easily forgotten when one speaks of such things, the daily slaughter of untold thousands of innocents in the charnel-houses of our “civilized” country. One refrain continually came back to my mind: He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword. This is probably more aptly said of an entire culture than it is of the individuals who compose it. Try as we might to escape the terrible reality, each and every one of us, except insofar as we actively oppose it, is a party to the collective behavior of our society, part of a culture of death and destruction.
And so here I am, culturally if not geographically, at the other end of the earth, in the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. My first “official” task: to visit and try to give some comfort to a family here. Amboise, one of the pillars of the congregation in Port-au-Prince, his wife, their two surviving children. The youngest, Eve, was killed only a week or so before she and her mother and brother were to have been baptized (Sophia, the other daughter, already is) at Pascha. Their own personal catastrophe, every bit as serious as that of each family in New York and elsewhere — made all the worse in that it occurred right at home. A concrete block wall built by her father for the small school (L’École Saint-Nicholas, associated with the Mission) at their home in La Plaine collapsed during a violent storm and fell on her. How can one respond adequately to such grief? Her mother, still overcome, lies most of the time on a pallet where the wall once stood, barely able to rise and ask for a blessing and accept a few moments of silent consolation. Unspoken, with Amboise, the terrible burden of having been the architect of the means of his youngest daughter’s death. Yet, the light of Christ shines in this family, the school continues, mother and son soon to be baptized… and out of this family has arisen a remarkable group of faithful, who each week endure the rigors of a difficult trip to the church for services Saturday and Sunday (made somewhat less painful by the kind generosity of a donor who himself must travel long distances to church) — eighteen to twenty, including a dozen baptized — about the capacity of a tap-tap (think about it: twenty people in the back of a Toyota pickup!).
The trip to La Plaine is difficult, tedious, sometimes painful even in a reasonably good car. A half-hour from the Mission house, at least forty-five minutes from the church… over streets more hole than pavement, with constant danger from other vehicles, more serious danger of harming someone on foot, and unexpected hazards such as the string of festival lights (not lighted) I suddenly discovered five feet in front of my windshield in the dark on the return trip (someone kindly lifted them out of the way).
That was just as I started up Butte-Boyer on the last bit of the trip to the Mission house. Haitian educational radio was on… a beautiful reading (in French, understood by perhaps 5% of Haitians) of a children’s story, French children’s songs. The street was pitch black, illuminated only by a potted candle here and there, the headlights of vehicles, an occasional building with a generator and a fluorescent lamp propped against a tree. Pedestrians everywhere (and animals, of course), invisible against the oncoming headlights. As I made my way at a snail’s pace up the street, the beauty, the squalor, the misery, the kindness, the warmth, the fear of this place overwhelmed me. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. In the end, I cried… but in no small part at the wonder of a people who endure such things and yet remain so intensely human, so visibly children of God, so much my people, despite the vast gulf which separates us.
And now… very busy days ahead (one can’t, however, pack too much into a Haitian day, unless one simply stays home and does things which require going nowhere… assuming all the “infrastructure” of home continues to work properly). Schools to visit (four of them, now, allied to the Mission), mission communities in Jacmel and Cap-Haïtien to visit. The trip to Jacmel is a happy return (except for the miserable task of traversing Port-au-Prince), this time graced by a budding mission community with five newly-baptized members and a half-dozen others regular at Sunday services). The trip to Cap-Haïtien (often simply “Le Cap” will take me through entirely new country… and new potential hazards. The route is known to be dangerous, particularly at night (there really are honest-to-goodness highway robbers in Haiti), and parts of it are in especially poor condition. Needless to say, I have no intention of trying to contend with a flat tire at night on such a road!
Friday. New Year’s Day: beginning of another year of Grace. Appropriately, this morning, a meeting with the “responsables” of the Mission, at the church. First time I’ve seen it since the work commissioned in February was really completed. Certainly, it was a great pleasure to walk into a clean, neat church building, passing through the nicely repainted front gates (the originally ordered “sky blue” was turquoise in the application… I didn’t even have to comment on it for the contractor (my next-door neighbor, and cousin of the generous Miami Haitian emigré who lets us continue to use this house free of cost until (if) he sells it) to correct the error. The gathering was mostly a summing-up of the many individual conversations over the past days, concerning the future of the Mission and the best way to go about its work. Five years or so since our Church was planted here in Haiti, two and a half now since my first overwhelming visit, two years and a bit since the establishment of the Mission as a designated administrative unit of the diocese… and it seems that everything is growing by leaps and bounds.
Cast from its first home in the south of Port-au-Prince, the original little parish moved first to very temporary quarters even farther southwest, on the very limits of the “exurbs” of the capitol city (it can easily require four hours or more to travel from the extreme southwest to the northern edge of the city), then to its present home in a solidly built permanent structure close by the International Airport (an easy walk, in fact, were it not for the dust and the mud and the garbage and the heat). But then, as it became more and more clearly Orthodox, and more and more evidently not just some odd form of Catholicism, the parish dwindled away (in no small part due also to the incredible difficulties of transportation) to a mere handful of “pillars”. Indeed, at one time (about the same time I was almost put permanently out of circulation by malaria), it seemed it might be doomed to fail altogether. But God is merciful, and His Grace manifest. The continuing missionary efforts of the clergy and faithful layfolk of the parish (aided significantly by funding for transportation assistance for poor people far from the parish church) bore rapid fruit: at Pascha and Transfiguration some thirty baptisms.
A providential encounter at Jacmel (on the south coast of the country) led to a little cluster of faithful there, of whom five were amongst those baptized, with an equal number more present almost every Sunday for lay services, as best they are able with nothing but a small prayer book and a Bible and occasional readings in the lives of the saints. Another handful at Cap-Haïtien blossomed into a regular congregation, already now served monthly for Divine Liturgy by Fr. Jean. With Bishop Gabriel’s blessing, both of these will be organized into regularized, named mission communities in the course of this visit… stay tuned for more news on that front!
It seemed that the school originally established at the parish church here might also dwindle away… but something far from that seems to have occurred. Rather, it was transplanted to the house Fr. Jean leased (Mission funds provide him with a housing subsidy) within walking distance of the church, and now numbers about 45 students in four classes. It’s a bit awkward for an American to have to stand to attention for the sung greetings of each class in succession (well-rehearsed!), but an embarrassment well worth the effort. Repeat performance an hour later at the much smaller, newly-opened school (also allied with the Mission) conducted by Jean, one of those “pillars”. Classes began for the first time on Monday with four students; on Wednesday there were seven… at that rate (were it possible!) the walls will be breaking down long before Nativity. Yet another school at La Plaine, L’Écôle Saint-Nicolas, just beginning and growing rapidly; and yet a fourth, originally formed without connection with the Mission but now allied to it, for mentally handicapped children, at the home of Fr. Grégoire and Matushka Rose-May. All this, out of what at one point seemed about to dwindle away to nothing.
One cannot help remembering another “dwindling”, when the Chosen People of God dwindled away to a tiny pathetic group huddled around the foot of the Cross… and how from that “doomed” end to the years of prophecy and preaching and revelation sprung the Church, the Body of Christ. So, indeed, has often been the history of the Church, with pruning and rebirth, falling away and flowering.
In the evening, for pleasure, and for the need to walk, and to “show the Cross” — a long walk through the “quarter”… down Butte-Boyer to Croix-des-Missions, through the market, back up, much farther up than I’ve ever been before, and back. Despite the torrential rain night before last, the dust was so thick at times I couldn’t see a block down the street. If only dust were an effective mosquito repellent! Countless hundreds of “Bonsoir!”, of “Mon père!” (and not a few “Jésus!”), of smiles of greeting… and the painful necessity of turning away two or three beggars in the crowded market-place, not because I didn’t want to give them something, but because I would have been absolutely mobbed had I done so. In a country such as this, one is forced to be very cautious, not so much about to whom he gives, but rather to where and how he does so.
Tuesday. Jacmel. Even after so many trips, it is hard to believe that a week in Port-au-Prince can be so exhausting. Arrived here Sunday evening after an uneventful (thanks for small favors!) two-hour drive from the home of Fr. Dcn. Grégoire & Matushka at Fontamara (itself an hour on Sunday, twice a much during the week, from the church) completely worn out… to have my spirits lifted by a welcoming party of faithful who had been waiting at the side of the road leading to the hotel for more than two hours, just to say hello and receive a blessing. Such are the little ones of the Lord!
Services Saturday afternoon and Sunday at the church were warm, uplifting, beginning seriously to manifest the inherent beauty of the Orthodox liturgy… no small matter in Haiti, with such limited resources and so little upon which to draw. The beauty is always there, but often it is hidden behind the confusion and technical difficulties of the services. Each day, a substantial gathering of the faithful, clearly at home in the church and the services, of which nearly half came and went on the “charter tap-tap” from La Plaine. Even the “chauffeur” joined in the latter part of the vigil. Amongst those present were many of the thirty or so baptized at Pascha and Transfiguration. Others (unable to be baptized because of illness or other problems) await their own baptisms in the near future.
After Liturgy, I had the pleasure of going for dinner and the greater part of the afternoon to Fr. Grégoire’s home, to visit the Foyer d’Amour (a specialized school for mentally handicapped youngsters), and examine the facilities for possible installation there of a chapel in the southwestern part of the city… so as to provide for those who live at such a great distance from the parish church the possibility of serving Saturday vigils closer to home, and thus avoid one of the two long trips across the city each weekend. And, the great joy of visiting at length with the littlest of the Lord’s little ones in the parish, their infant daughter Anastasia, born shortly before Pascha. She herself, strong and healthy, is a miracle: Matushka lost all her amniotic fluid a month before term, was forced to wait many hours at the hospital before an emergency Cæsarian section was performed — nothing would be done until the cash was in the hands of the officials. Thanks be to God, both mother and daughter are well and healthy.
Today… yet another experience of the astonishing difficulties of life in Haiti. I drove the 7 miles or so into Jacmel to settle accounts with the internet bureau which (with only token payment up to this point) has provided the means of communication with our faithful here in Jacmel. There was no difficulty in settling the accounts, but when I wished to send an e-mail message home to assure everyone I was alive and well, that was another matter. Thirty minutes wasted fooling around trying to get Hotmail alive and working. Finally I gave up and asked for guidance as to the most likely place for a sufficiently strong signal for my cellphone… I was guided to drive some five miles out of town to a certain bridge and try from there. Try I did, perhaps thirty times before I actually got through both the Haitian and international circuits to get a ring at home. Matushka answered, and I could hear her quite well… but she couldn’t hear me. Repeated re-trys, drive another five miles up into the mountains looking for a stronger spot, back to the bridge, all to no avail. Back to BizNet for another try at e-mail… still no signal, Mildrede told me sadly. Come back tomorrow, perhaps. Life in Haiti! (And then remember… when my “contact” here tries it, he must make the trip to town and back in a tap-tap, maybe three or four times before he succeeds. Lessons in patience.)
Some notes on luxury. Haiti could be said to be a wonderful school for beginning to understand this. Here, at Jacmel, I feel that I am truly in luxury (perhaps more than I know anywhere else in my life). I don’t have to worry about the “infrastructure”… everything that is supposed to be here works, and someone else takes care of it. Never mind that there is no reliable telephone, no television or any of that nonsense. There is running water, a shower when I want it, a sea waiting for me to relish it, beautiful trees and plants round about, a staff which knows my oddities and my wants and caters to them. And I am in an island, beautiful as it is. Just beyond the walls… a multitude of people who are not always certain just whence is going to come the next meal. Children who want to go to school and find there is no place for them in the class, even though they have, after much labor, passed the examinations. There is a vast gulf between me and them, united only by our common faith. But there is also a vast gulf between here and Port-au-Prince. Blessed as I am with a “real house” there, it is never certain from moment to moment that anything will work. The power comes and goes (mostly goes) at the whim of someone at the electric company switchboard. Running water depends on getting power at a time when I am there and aware of it and switch on the pumps to store up enough for another day or so. If I fail… back to the buckets. I gave up entirely on the land-line telephones a year ago: too much time and money wasted to no avail. In other words, this is a place where luxury and misery, plenty and want, comfort and distress, clash with one another day by day and hour by hour. And yet… somehow, it goes on. People smile, people love, people help one another, people struggle, and through it all the love of God is visible in a way too often obscured in our land of plenty. There is plenty of self-will and greed here, but somehow, intangibly, it is very different. Here, I think, it is very immediate, born of genuine distress. In the land of plenty, it has become institutionalized… “the American Way”. Even what we sometimes dare to call “generosity” is more likely to be driven by greed, albeit concealed, than by love or care for one’s brother.
And all that leaves me just about as confused as anyone else who struggles to work in and through all this. I dare not deny my own self-will, my own materialism… but I also dare not deny that if I am to continue to do this I must continue to do (and have) that… otherwise, I may end up doing nothing at all. In its most bottom-line and brutal form: Each trip to Haiti costs the Mission, on my behalf, not only airfare, living expenses and all that…but also a very expensive drug (Lariam), which may protect me from another life-threatening incident of malaria. For this trip alone, $70 worth of the stuff… a small fortune for most of my brethren here (fortunately, they seem to have at least some limited immunity to the nasty little beast), all of whom actually need it all the time… more than $500/year for each person (twice the average annual per capita income in Haiti). But if I don’t take it…?! From luxury to quinine… a fairly typical train of thought in Haiti, and the two have a great deal in common.
(A “political” sidebar: It has been said more than once and with much justification that if a fraction as many white people as black and yellow died of malaria — the world’s #1 killer — it would have long since been wiped out. I was recently informed that an anonymous donor had presented Johns Hopkins University with a grant of $100,000,000 over the next ten years to try to do just that. Should they be successful, it won’t make the zero population growth people happy at all… but it will go a long way to eliminating some of the most pervasive suffering the world knows.)
Wednesday, still at Jacmel. This morning, news of the first flat tire of the trip. Protected by the cocoon of the hotel, it’s a minor nuisance… informed of it by one of the staff, the maître d’hôtel will take care of it, just up to me to pay the bill (no reimbursement from the rental company in Haiti!). Minor stuff. Much more important: by agreement, the faithful “little ones” of the Cyvadier region came together this morning at the hotel. Beginning with abbreviated morning prayers, we entered into what was to be the first Orthodox “mission council” meeting on the south coast of Haiti. Thirteen of them (five baptized, others awaiting only the opportunity, a few yet “only” inquirers). After prayers, and “coca” ordered all round (doesn’t matter what you say, you’ll get whatever fizzy beverage the establishment has to offer), we got down to business. And so it was, after some discussion of alternatives, and leaving the ultimate decision up to a drawing of lots, that the Orthodox Mission Community of St. Augustine was born. Fortunately, all this discussion and what followed was enormously aided by the bilingual fluency of Joseph Augustin (one of four of the assembled faithful whose given or surname is some form of Augustine… which makes the choice all the more interesting) — of the thirteen, only four or five could be considered reasonably fluent in French.
Next order of business: a stable place of worship, either an existing building or a sufficient space (a Haitian centime, about the size of a large room, fully adequate for the moment. Several fairly animated discussions of possibilities took place, and the matter is now in the hands of the little community, with three of its members appointed to special responsibility. It will be up to them to find it, arrange for leasing it… and to a not insignificant degree pay for it. This discussion led immediately to one on the matter of tithing: they will use their tithes (knowing full well that in several cases 10% of zero is zero, and certainly in none will it amount to a great deal) as the starting point for the physical expenses of the community. To this will be added Mission funds… not substituted for their own responsibility.
Business over, time for questions. No need to wait: from the young fellow at my left (one of the Augustines) — if somebody has already been baptized by the Protestants, does he have to be “re”-baptized to become Orthodox, and why? The discussion was lengthy and lively, but perhaps its most important dimension was something wholly unexpected: Joseph Augustin, who had been functioning simply as a translator (himself not yet a catechumen), suddenly, and ably, took the matter on himself (although I am far from being able to speak Créole, I can to some degree comprehend, when it is spoken in a controlled environment and concerning “technical” matters). I suspect his excellent explanation was far more effective than his translation of mine. Much of the rest of the morning was spent in variations on this initial question, though toward the end we moved into a brief discussion of fasting and its implications.
Time for arrangements for travel to Port-au-Prince for the festal services tomorrow and Friday… and these little ones startled me once more. Three of them could not leave tomorrow, but very much want to be present for the Liturgy Friday (only one of those baptized). To my astonishment, they informed me that the first tap-tap for Port-au-Prince leaves Jacmel at 2AM… and they would be on it. Consider it: these children plan to get up in the middle of the night, make their way the 7km or so from Cyvadier to Jacmel, board a crowded bus, travel 4 hours or more to change to yet another tap-tap, in order to arrive at the church for Liturgy at 8AM… and then turn right around and reverse the process in order to get back home sometime in the evening. As many of the others as will fit will travel in the car with me, with at least two more leaving tomorrow morning by tap-tap. We need look no further for indictments for our own lazinesses.
Saturday, Cap-Haïtien. A good trip back to Port-au-Prince for the Feast, arrival in good time. Much in which to rejoice, much over which to weep in the services. To be sure, the task of learning how truly to worship in Orthodox manner is formidable. Lessons in patience (how many of those there are in Haiti!). Those who came by tap-tap during the day from Jacmel were delayed on the way, but arrived during the vigil. Others during the night, and indeed there were ten altogether.… and five more from Le Cap, three from Les Cayes. For liturgy, a very large congregation indeed, expanded greatly by the huge body of schoolchildren: it is assumed in Haiti that if you go to an Orthodox school, you go to Orthodox services for feasts. In principle, I would change this… but it is unlikely I would succeed. Indeed, what would one do with a mass of schoolchildren while the director of the school and teachers went off to liturgy?
After a lengthy festal gathering at the church, I set off with four of the “Capois” for the long journey, from which I emerged, exhausted, nearly seven hours later, and with a greatly enhanced respect for their dedication. They had come to church by the night bus (the fastest — six hours or so — and best buses travel at night), stood through the services… and had the rare fortune to be able to return by car. Close to 300km (180 mi.), at an average speed of less than 30mph, and the most torturing trip for either car or driver of its length I have ever made. The car arrived minus its muffler, but had the courtesy not to have a tire go flat until after arrival.
The morning was spent in a so-far fruitless effort to chase down a rumor of a one-time Orthodox church dedicated to St. Nicholas here. Since the Roman Catholic archbishop (who received me courteously, and with whom I spent a pleasant half-hour or so), himself a lifelong resident in this city which has now grown to 100,000 souls, had never heard of it, I have concluded that either it must have disappeared long ago, or that the story is based in some misunderstanding. He told me, however, that he intended to pursue the matter, delving into the vast historical writings of a priest who died some decades ago… but which unfortunately lack any clear organization or indexes. The story might seem less probable but for one thing: Columbus’s original landing on this island was on the feast of St. Nicholas, 6 December (Church calendar date, of course!), at what he named the Môle St. Nicholas, not far from the city. The name (unlike many other pre-revolutionary names here) has stuck.
Last evening on the way in I visited briefly the tiny room (8 feet square or so) which has served for the needs of the little community… and shuddered. The thought of spending a couple of hours for a reader’s vigil in that space in the heat of early evening here is, frankly, daunting… and increases geometrically with the number of people present. The only saving grace (I hope) is that the room opens directly, by narrow shuttered doors (typical in this city where heat is always the problem and chill never), onto the plaza outside — the plaza of the Roman Catholic Sacred Heart Church. I can only hope we do not find ourselves in a collision of services! For liturgy tomorrow, it should be an interesting experiment. I have served many times under peculiar and difficult circumstances, but never in such a small space, with so little “in place” with which to work. For space, only two previous experiences come close: the original altar at the Church of SS Adrian & Natalia in Etna, California, which had once been a wellhouse (but there was a “nave” added, even if it was impossible for two people to pass in the aisle); and the tiny Church of the Three Hierarchs on the Island of Tinos in Greece, where it was impossible to pass behind the Holy Table, and there was only one deacon’s door… albeit plenty of space in the nave. But here, the entire space is smaller than the sanctuary of either of these… and cluttered with furniture. By the guidance of the Holy Spirit…! And afterwards, the return trip, not without its measure of trepidation.
Throughout, as a backdrop to everything I do here, no matter how far removed it seems: the tense situation at home and internationally, the concern as the wisest course to take. Matushka urges that I try to return home early, lest some act of war make it impossible to return at all by any normal means (I seriously doubt that there are any “early” spaces on the flights, even wonder whether I’ll be able to fly as scheduled Thursday). My Syrian grocer friend is in turmoil over the whole thing, deeply troubled… he grew up in a mixed Christian/Muslim environment… surely his friends wouldn’t do anything like that? A chance encounter with an Algerian Spaniard here, working with the World Health Organization… some collaborators from the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta won’t be arriving: forbidden by the US government to leave the country before January at the earliest. Through it all, however, I feel much calm, knowing that all this is in the Lord’s hands. Much more immediately, I wonder whether the car can stand another 7 hours of torture and get me back to Port-au-Prince without anything worse than another flat tire or two.
Evening. A good dinner at the hotel after returning from what must surely have been one of the stranger vigils in the history of our Church. I overestimated the size of the room… it was more like 6x8 feet, and contained, during the two hours or so, about a dozen people, in addition to its numerous chairs, a tiny table about a foot high (which will have to serve for an altar tomorrow), a television set, cross and icons, a kerosene lantern and two or three smoking candles at a time. A starting temperature of at least 90 led to.... guess! There was barely room to shift from one book to another or make the sign of the Cross; metanies unthinkable. The only time I can remember being that tightly packed for a service was for the glorification of the New-Martyrs… but that was October in New York, and cold, at least outside. No incense: there wouldn’t even have been room to lift an incenser, and it would have rendered the air completely unbreathable.
As if that weren’t enough, all this was taking place in a room fronting on the plaza before the Roman Catholic Church of the Sacred Heart, where the Saturday evening Mass was in progress, as well as the usual outside activities (some reputable) which tend to occur on such occasions in such places. The vigil, essentially a reader’s service (nothing else was possible or reasonable under the circumstances), and that perhaps more truncated than any I have ever served, once finished, there was the problem of confessions. Many different problems, in fact. The interior space was unthinkable, so I went across the plaza to a mostly deserted area to hear confessions, against the background of the sermon (amplified) in the giant church (in absolute blackness, except for the light spilling from the generator-lit Roman Catholic church). Many of the penitents could not speak French well enough to confess in French, so they spoke in Créole, knowing full well the Lord understands all the languages. The absolutions… well, all good intentions and preparations aside, the breeze (thanks for small favors!) prevented a candle from staying lit even a moment, so the book was useless, and the absolution prayers had to be done as best possible from memory/spontaneous translation. When it was all over, my books were thoroughly soaked, my clothing and vestments several pounds heavier, and I suppose (where else would it have come from?) I myself several pounds lighter. I doubt that anyone else was any more refreshed…
Except spiritually. What joy! What devotion! What a wonder, to be part of such a people. Many of them had just suffered the rigors of the round-trip to Port-au-Prince for the Feast, and come back for more. And they will be there in the morning (please, Lord, a cool night!), to sing and to pray and to wait upon the Spirit. Over and over again I have it pounded into me, what soft-shelled critters we are, always seeking to do the Lord’s work on our own terms, in air-conditioned (or heated — remember St. Juvenal of the freezing chalice in Alaska, who finally had to give up serving for fear of dropping the chalice with his totally numbed hands) comfort. Lord, please teach us patience and endurance and fortitude!
Monday, Moulin-sur-Mer, en route back to Port-au-Prince. Always this land of contrasts! The car survived the worst part of its return torture test, as I passed through the two hours-long hairpin (almost without intermission) mountain crossing, the 54km of “road under construction, 35kph speed limit” (just try to go that fast!) across the flatlands of the Artibonite. In the mountains, almost continuous people… villages never really quit; they just get more thinly settled. If there’s a piece of cliff on which a hut can be hung or a few dozen plants grown, it will be done. The flatlands are much less densely settled: vast stretches of cactus-strewn semi-desert suddenly, with a change of a few feet of elevation and a twist through a rocky passage, give way to rice plantations stretching to the limits of visibility, with threshing-floors every mile or so along the highway. As I had hoped, I reached this resort (there is no other word for it, though it shares equally our notions of a back-country rustic park) just before dark. Security considerations made it unwise to drive the last two hours “home” in the dark. Before continuing, I plan to take advantage of the opportunity and spend several hours in the country’s largest colonial museum, contained in one of its few surviving colonial-era buildings, from which this place takes its name.
Divine Liturgy yesterday was as beautiful in its simplicity as it more commonly is in all its richness. Wrong again about the space: at my insistence all the chairs had been removed, but the “too low” table had been replaced by another… about 18" tall and 18" square. It had to serve both for table of preparation and Holy Table, with the utmost care. Still no possibility of incense in such a tiny space. Indeed, nowhere even to set a hand-censer, had I had one with me. I think perhaps every priest and layman should be required to experience the divine services from time to time under such conditions. If he finds this unthinkable… he is missing the point.
After Liturgy, for some time we chatted together about the future of this little knot of faithful so far removed from the only established parish in the country. Needless to say, it is imperative that it find quarters less cramped for services, if for no other reason that in the present situation it is physically impossible for the group to grow! After a brief discussion, the mission community at Le Cap was established under the protection of St. Nicholas (for obvious reasons), pursuant to Bishop Gabriel’s blessing. I commend these hardy strugglers (as of course all others here) to your prayers and your prayerful generosity: their tithes won’t go far. There isn’t an even slightly well-off person amongst all the faithful here, in a country where the annual per-capita income remains below $300, yet costs for anything imported (which is just about everything), and housing anywhere near any of the cities, are on a US scale or higher.
Some thoughts on “personal space”. Last week I chanced to pick up an essay on the subject, which perhaps heightened my awareness of its significance for all of us. The writer went on at length about several varieties of Europeans and North Americans, for whom there was always a certain tension between the degree of physical closeness between two human beings in conversation or other contact required for each to be comfortable: too close, and someone feels “crowded”; too far, and one feels “put off”. He spoke of “fingertip” distance, “wrist”, “forearm”. I think he had never been to Haiti. Amongst my acquaintances, there is a dear person who, it seems, cannot bear to be any closer than several feet away from the person with whom he communicates. But here, intimate, direct, body to body contact is normal, whether it be in a tap-tap, on the street, or in prayer. If there is space, people spread out (it isn’t quite so hot that way). But if not… arm is against arm, thigh against thigh, without the slightest self-consciousness or concern. If this is appalling… better stay away!
Returned from the old mill and museum… It is difficult and painful to be in such a space. Amidst the graciousness of the gardens, everywhere mementos of the dreadful past of this country — which is only that of our own written in large letters. Inescapable, the sense of wandering at leisure in a space which was site of so much abuse, torture, so many hideous murders. Who was hanged here, who disemboweled, who burned alive? Colonists, certainly, but vastly outnumbered by their slaves, the ancestors of those who finally rose up to overthrow their yoke. Always against the backdrop of the events of two weeks ago, and always the nagging reminder of scale. Napoleon destroyed more than 50,000 of his countrymen in his vain effort to re-occupy and re-enslave Haiti (with the knowledge and tacit consent of that champion of liberty, Thomas Jefferson, then president). That was only a pittance of a waste against the countless Africans who died in transit or, if they survived, of disease and torture and abuse and outright murder once they arrived here. Too soon we forget, as we launch into a “war on terrorism”, that we are the descendants of terrorists, and that our “way of life” has been built upon the foundation-stones of terrorism. If we didn’t so conveniently forget, if we were not ourselves so far from genuine repentance, we might far better be able understand the roots and nature of terrorism. Then…, then, we might be able to address the real problem, knowing that the real enemy lies within.
Evening, Port-au-Prince. A slight interruption… a visiting neighbor child wanted simply to “see” me, a strange intervention in her world here. Current is on, making it a little easier to write… I can see the keyboard better with the light of a desk lamp than with a camp lantern. An uneventful return the last two hours into Port-au-Prince (the last half-hour simply to negotiate, at a snail’s pace, the last few kilometers from the city’s edge to the Mission House). Actually the devastated streets are probably a “survival advantage” for the people of this city… otherwise truck drivers and others would barrel through them at a truly devilish pace. On arrival, I felt absolutely exhausted, despite a good night’s rest at a pleasant sea-side (more accurately gulf-side) “resort”, and I was puzzled. After some reflection, came the realization that movement, of any sort, in Haiti, brings with it enormous risks, and that at every moment one must be constantly “on guard” against hazards from every side… not just four sides, but above and below as well (on arrival at the resort, I and others around were narrowly missed by a falling palm branch… not terribly heavy, but enough to do some real damage; a coconut would be worse, in the wrong place). The road back was “normal”… considerable stretches of reasonably good pavement (many recent repairs in evidence), suddenly broken by a huge hole in the middle of the road. The serious places are less dangerous, announced well in advance by clouds of dust.
The phone has been more active this evening than normal… most immediately, a call informing me that the rendez-vous at the US Consulate has been set for 7AM tomorrow. Up at 5, leave at 6, and hope for the best. The streets of Port-au-Prince are crammed with cars and unpredictable at any time other than the middle of the night (meaning 11PM-4AM, times when no one with any sense would be out except in case of serious necessity). Sunrise at 5 or so will make it a bit easier, but I’m not by nature an early riser!
That appointment is of great importance, though I have little hope of its success: upon it hinges the possibility of the near-future good training (as much as is possible in ten days or so) of a cadre of Haitian clergy, readers, catechists. I am reminded constantly of the serious need… even checking out of the hotel in Cap-Haïtien, the desk clerk asked how she might get in contact with the small community there. Our resources are so small, and the needs, the thirst of the people, so great.
And these good people, those who wish to come for the Southern Missions Conference and the mini-seminary, are themselves so much in need. For reasons of prudence, the Mission has not paid for their visa applications… but the US government requires that each of them pay $45 US simply for the “privilege” of an interview, whether the visa is granted or not. This is a “screen” reminiscent of the property tests for voter registration of the Old South. Further demands reinforce the view (stated in some veiled terms by a consulate official with whom I once talked) that visas are available only to those seen by the Consulate as “established” — i.e., rich or at least well-off. The poor are not welcome, even as visitors, under any conditions.
Wednesday, Port-au-Prince. Not just the poor, we found out yesterday. Visas were refused for every one of the applicants, including renewal of Fr. Grégoire’s still-current visa (which he has now held for two years). I subsequently learned that the same consular official mentioned above, the head of the visitors’ visa section, once inquired of someone else whether the applicants for student visas (which he was attempting to obtain) were black (?!?)… and proceeded to reveal a profound racism. Such are our choices for those who make decisions. The cause is not yet, perhaps, entirely lost, as it seems there may be ways to get around this particular woman and the process in general… but whether it can be accomplished with sufficient time for obtaining tickets is another question.
I learned yesterday (I almost wish I hadn’t asked) that I’m expected to be at the airport tomorrow, the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, 3.5 hours prior to departure time. That gives me about 30 minutes from the end of the Liturgy to get back to the Mission House, do the inevitable wrap-up packing, and get back to the airport… a manifest impossibility, as the travel time is about 15 minutes each way. This, of course, because under the present circumstances, security personnel will be required to examine minutely every piece of baggage. I just hope it’s limited to carry-on… of which I will certainly carry the smallest amount possible.
•••••
And so end the jottings while in Haiti. It had been my intention to “wrap up” soon after return, but…! The return trip was as smooth as could reasonably be expected under the conditions, and the “catch up” once returned went well and in good order… until the dastardly deed of an aedes ægypticus mosquito caught up with me and I fell ill with dengué fever 6 days after my return. This most common disease in the world (est. 80-100 million cases/year, but only in the tropics — and therefore rare for white folk), while rarely a killer, can be so severe that its victims wish it would do away with them; by God’s grace, I was delivered from it with a mild case of eight days of general misery and in ability to function very well and, so it seems, no lingering after-effects.
Somebody remarked, surely you won’t go back again!? God willing, of course I will. Just another job-related hazard, of which there are plenty no matter where we may go or what we may undertake. I can pray that I won’t have to suffer through it again (while each of the four varieties confers lifetime immunity, each is distinct and in theory one might eventually have to endure all four)… and then leave it in the Lord’s hands.
At the time of writing, no progress on the visa issue, except that the aid of our two senators’ offices and a high-ranking political official in Washington have been invoked. However, since consulates are staffed with civil service bureaucrats, it is far from certain that political pressure will have any positive effect.
In conclusion… please indulge me once again with a plea for your prayerful and financial support for the Mission. While every effort must be made on the part of the faithful in Haiti to meet their own needs from their own resources, we must recognize the almost inconceivable disparity of resources… it is improbable that the combined incomes of all the faithful in Haiti would come close to the annual income of a minimum wage-earner here. So… a tithe of the tithe of each person who reads these notes would make an enormous impact on our work in Haiti. Please… take a moment, pray… and return the donation card below with your pledge (best) or onetime donation. Be confident in the Lord’s reward for those who lay up treasure where it counts!