“…Rich and poor are not in the world by chance but by God’s most wise providence. God would be able, in the twinkling of an eye, to make all men equal in wealth, but that would be sheer folly. In that case, men would become totally independent of one another. Who would then be saved? For men are saved through their dependence on one another. The rich depend on the poor, and the poor on the rich; the healthy depend on the sick, and the sick on the healthy…” [Bp. Nikolai Velimirovich, Homilies, vol. II, p. 124 (On the 12th Sunday after Pentecost, Gospel on the Burden of Riches), Lazarica Press, Birmingham, 1998]
Bishop Nikolai goes on to say “All is interwoven like a many-hued carpet. A world of a single hue would blind all eyes. How would a rich man save his soul by charity and humility, or lose it by hardness and pride, were there no poor? How would a poor man save his soul by patience and endurance, or lose it by grumbling, theft and rapine, were there no rich? How would the learned save his soul by compassion for the ignorant and by labors on their behalf, or lose it by his haughty scorning of the ignorant, if there were no ignorant in the world? How would the ignorant save his soul by obedience and meekness towards the learned, or lose it by disobedience, envy and savagery towards the learned, were there no learned? How would the healthy save their souls by good-hearted care for the sick, compassion and prayer for the sick, or lose it by turning in loathing from the sick, indifference towards the sick and boasting of their own health, were there no sick? Or how could a sick man save his soul by submission and gratitude to the healthy, or lose it by hatred and envy for the healthy, if there were no healthy?” [ibid]
Travel to Haiti thrusts one into a rich bath of colors, sights, sounds, and human differences. So much is different from our ordinary lives in America that every encounter, every new impression opens for us a window to our soul and challenges us in unexpected ways.
Stepping out of the plane in Port-au-Prince is the first step into another world. The air is balmy; a band plays by the entrance to the airport. The disembarking passengers press into the airport and through immigration to the baggage claim area. There porters mill around, anxious to help and struggling with huge bags bulging with supplies for a country dependent in so many ways on the charity of foreigners and on the support of their own who are able to live and work abroad. Then, stepping out of the airport, you are in the midst of a busy city with crowds of people, vendors of all kinds, noisy buses and cars, trucks carrying UN soldiers, junk yard vehicles rusted out, patched together and still running; air conditioned cars carrying well dressed people.
The poor are never out of sight and beggars abound. A listless woman sits on the side of the road with a child in her arms and a hand out-stretched for alms. A gaunt man pushes a wheelbarrow piled high with a load of charcoal and weaves his way past cars and through the crowds on the street. A young boy washes your car while you are in a shop or cleans your windshield while you are at a stop light and then asks to be paid. Strangers passing in the street call out “Blanc, give me dollar.” Children come up to stare and, if they are greeted with a kind word they understand, will come closer and touch and ask questions.
Not far from the airport, on a rocky path barely wide enough for a car, a sky blue three story building dedicated to the Theotokos can be seen rising above the labyrinth of rubble that is the neighborhood of Village de l’Amitié (Friendship Village) This is the elementary school built and directed by Fr. Jean where the morning starts with prayer and ends with vespers. Further out, in the volatile area of Fontamara, far towards the south-western edge of the city, is the home of Fr. Grégoire and Matushka Rose May. It is quiet haven with a chapel and the cluster of classrooms that make up their school, Foyer d’Amour (Hearth of Love) for emotionally disturbed children who have been scarred by the violence and poverty into which they were born.
The road leading out of Port-au-Prince goes past streetside shops and places where people bathe and wash their clothes, past roadblocks and police security, past high walls enclosing large well maintained homes or hotels, past sewage filled ditches and trees and shrubs covered with colorful blossoms. Horns honk, drivers shout at each other, people call out greetings, radios blare out news and talk shows and ads and dance music. There are glimpses of the sea, of the mountains and of a goat or ox chewing unhurriedly in a grassy corner.
Continuing on beyond the plains area where the air is sweet with the odors of processing sugar cane, the road turns and crosses the mountains to the Caribbean coast. There, in a community outside the old town of Jacmel, is the quiet oasis of the Hotel Cyvadier. Leaving the dusty main road one finds the hotel and restaurant under a canopy of tall old trees with green lawns, sweet smelling plants and a splendid cliffside view of the sea. People from the surrounding area care for the grounds and serve the guests who come for a bit of respite from their work in other parts of the island. In the hotel parking lot can be seen cars from Doctors Without Borders, an international children’s agency, the UN election monitoring commission, a local protestant missionary group, and a large busload of Haitian educators there for a two day staff development conference.
A stone stairway leads down to the beach, which is maintained by the hotel but used by the townspeople as well. Vendors spread their wares on mounds of sand, speak poetically about the beauty and value of their products, and enjoy the friendly banter of haggling over a price. The cove is protected from the rough waves of the sea and is a clear jewel-like blue. Some days small one or two man fishing boats can be seen rowing back and forth casting their nets. Their catch, together with a rich variety of fresh fruits and vegetables that are brought down from the mountains in huge bundles balanced on women’s heads, provide for three meals a day for the hotel guests.
Outside the wall of the hotel, between the main road and the shore is a maze of narrow roads and paths where the people of Cyvadier live. In these neighborhoods there is no need for a phone directory or Map-quest. Ask for someone and before long he will show up, or a neighbor will lead you to his house. Women cook over outdoor fires and clean the family’s pots and pans at an open spigot; houses are filled to overflowing with children and members of the extended family, and in the dry season the grounds are dusty and littered with trash. Here many people only eat once a day. Soft drinks and candies that dull the appetite momentarily are readily available, but they sap a child’s health. Fasting is a way of life, even if not a chosen one. People are wiry and resilient, looking older than their age, rarely fat. A woman who is anemic cannot afford an iron supplement. A woman who has been sick for months and cannot afford to go to a clinic is rubbed with a sweet smelling oil by a woman in her church. Foreign visitors to this area carry a veritable pharmacy of pills “just in case”. The hotel’s water is clean and foods safe, but children outside are unwittingly exposed to parasites and diseases in the water they drink and in which they bathe.
From the road and from these homes it is not always possible to see the sea, but in the other direction, the mountains rising to the sky cannot be missed. The rocky paths are traversed by many callused bare feet, by those who wear plastic slip-ons or used shoes that were first used and discarded in America, and occasionally by a foreigner with sturdy, well fitting shoes. Travelers are never alone and are greeted by and greet everyone. Good morning, how are you managing? How are your people? Words of encouragement are given to men digging a plot of land; a child alone in a yard is offered prayers for his parents. The owners of a neat, colorfully painted house find chairs to place in their cleanly swept yard for the visitors who stop to rest from their climb.
The higher one gets, the more breezy and cool the air is. The sky is clear and kites float high in the sky, bobbing over the mountains that extend to the sea and swooping above the noise of an angry shouting man in an unhappy home. Holding the strings are children whose minds soar beyond their grumbling stomachs and their shoeless feet as they follow the dancing of the kites.
From this height the village of Cyvadier looks tiny, quiet and peaceful — less dirty and dusty than from below. A few large mansions and hotels, hidden from the road, are in clear sight. The coast stretches to the east and to the west, and the sea extends beyond the horizon. Keen eyes can make out the new church building being built by the Orthodox faithful. It will hold all the faithful plus visitors for a Sunday service and will be well apart from the every-day noises that encircle the tiny building now in use. Farsighted eyes can envision the large golden domes of a church that might, one day, be built on the other side of the church’s property — a beacon that could be seen not only from the main road but also from miles away in the mountains beyond where so many live in ignorance and without hope, as well as far out to sea.
In the little Orthodox chapels in several places in Haiti and in the Orthodox Church of the Holy Nativity of the Theotokos in Port-au-Prince, services are performed with respect and dignity. On Sunday women and men and children come in their best clothes and shoes. An altar boy brings out a basket of scarves for the women and girls who do not own anything to put on their heads. Men and women cross themselves and venerate the icons. A young girl who goes to school fills out prosphora lists for others in church who cannot write. Children go to confession and ask the priest for a blessing. These faithful partake of the Holy Mysteries and in doing so are linked to the saints of all ages and to the rest of the Church.
When a journey to Haiti comes to an end, one joins a long line of people at the airport to go through ticketing and security points and eventually onto the airplane. A well dressed Haitian orthopedist returns to his practice in New York after a ten-day trip to his home town which he makes every six weeks. A young woman with skin tight jeans, a cropped top and tattoos takes two children back to Miami. An older woman sitting by a window holding her one small bag has no clue what the French- and English-speaking stewardess is saying when she tells everyone to buckle up — she speaks only Créole. Two college students on their way to the US to study tentatively taste the packets of strawberry flavored cranberries offered with the in-flight snack.
In less than two hours the plane lands in Miami and the passengers embark into a covered walkway that leads into the orderly airport waiting area. The moving steps of escalators take you upstairs; picture signs direct you to a restroom where there is a whole row of sinks where the water appears without your having to carry it from the well or river or even having to turn on a spigot. An ATM machine gives you cash to buy a meal and money to pay your parking lot fee before you drive home. You’ve returned to the world you left, without the material things you took with you to Haiti, but now laden with the unexpected spiritual gifts you were given in a place that is rich in God’s blessings.
Bishop Nikolai enjoins us to accept that “inequality is placed in the very foundation of the created world. We must rejoice at this inequality, and not rebel against it, for it is placed there by Love, not by hatred, by Understanding, not by folly. Human life is not made ugly by the absence of equality, bur by the absence of love and understanding in men. Let us have more divine love and spiritual understanding of life, and we shall see that twice as much inequality would in no way lessen the blessedness given to men.” [ibid, p. 170. the 16th Sunday after Pentecost, Gospel on the Talants]