Summer 2006, Haiti

By Monika McGreal Viola

“Woch nan dio pa konnen doule woch nan soley.” (The rock in the water does not know the pain of the rock in the sun.) - Haitian proverb

As I shuffled along the crowded line in the Miami airport en route to Port-au-Prince, I was unsure of what to expect of the Western Hemisphere’s poorest nation. I quickly discovered that the term “third-world” did no justice to the deprivation found in Haiti. Driving six hours to cross 120 kilometers, I passed town after town of unpaved roads lined with one- or two-roomed concrete huts. Women sat on the side of the roads with their wares (mostly mangoes) spread out in front of them, and I quickly familiarized myself with the smell of burning trash.

Bienvenue a Ayiti. Welcome to Haiti.

I had volunteered for the summer with a program that gathered a group of Americans, a total of six in my group, to travel to Haiti and work in the summer camp of a rural neighborhood. I had not realized that this meant I would be greeted by 180 energetic children, none of who knew English. My first few days were overwhelming and I returned to our lodgings exhausted, more mentally fatigued than anything, from trying to make use of my basic knowledge of French. As the first week passed, however, I felt myself gradually beginning to settle in. And here is where the real story begins.

She stood in front of me, her face that of a cherubim’s: round cheeks with full lips and long, curling lashes. She grabbed my hands and began to slap my palms, chanting rhythmically in a sing-song voice, just under her breath. We got to the end of the rhyme and she placed her finger up to her mouth solemnly”shh.” I followed suit, slowly realizing the object of the game. As we stared each other down, I couldn’t help but laugh at her little face set in defiance — such a move, however, cost me the game. Aha! She triumphantly clasped my left hand between her own dusty ones, and gave it five hard claps: un, deux, trios, quattre, cinque! She had won.

We played about another seven rounds of this until she became distracted by the distribution of jump ropes and ran off to claim one of the precious but scarce commodities. My gaze couldn’t help but follow throughout the rest of the day. Her tiny body, which barely came up to my hip, was in constant motion. She was generous with her smiles and I was jealous, wanting them all to myself.

In the days that followed, I sought out my little cherubim, Angel, as I now referred to her. She quickly realized she was my favorite camper and was more than pleased to fling herself into my lap, demand my hand on all walks, and order a constant array of piggy-back rides, twirls, and lifts. I happily obliged. She was particularly fond of my rather large sunglasses and would prance about the muddy schoolyard, letting everyone get a glance of her American attire. “Un photo, un photo!” she would cry, tugging on my shirt and pointing to herself in the lunettes. Bien sur, I replied as I snapped away.

I knew she would be waiting at the entrance of the school fence, which was remarkably shaped out of cactus plants, every morning. This made the arduous hike along the dirt path toward Kan Klodin (Creole for Camp Claudine) less difficult. As I sidestepped mud puddles and donkey droppings and rounded the last corner, sweating under the sun already burning down at 8 a.m., my little camper would come into view: a new day had begun again.

Angel had two sisters and a brother, all who were also part of their school’s summer camp. Every day, after the last song of many had been sung, Angel and her two sisters and brothers would attach themselves to me, firmly holding my hands, arms, or even the corner of my shirt. The little family was adamant in showing that we were all together. And, every day, we would walk away from camp, out of the tiny neighborhood nestled in the sugarcane fields, back into town. We made quite a scene, marching down Le Rue Vincent, matching in our bright green Kan Klodin shirts. I was grateful for these shirts; I wanted people to know that I wasn’t a complete outsider. For however brief a time, I belonged in this town; the shirts signified a bond between the American counselors and the Haitian children of Kan Klodin.

“Bon soir, Monika! A demain!” Good afternoon, Monika, until tomorrow! the little family would call as they let go of my hands and ran toward their house each day — if house is the appropriate word for a one room cement shack, topped with a tin roof. They lived with their mother, a young, pretty woman who clearly cared for her children despite her lack of means. The four little ones were always neatly dressed, their hair always tightly woven into braids. They were four of the best-behaved children I had yet to encounter.

The gravity of Angel’s situation did not fully hit me until I was passing by their street one evening. I happened to see my little one coming from the direction of the public water well, carrying a bucket equal to her own size, upon her head. I had walked her home each afternoon, I was fully aware of the deprivation in which she lived. But it was in that single moment that the hopelessness of her future became apparent to me. This was Angel’s life: a one room hut with a dirt floor, no running water or electricity, disease and poverty.

Woch nan dio pa konnen doule woch nan soley. I, the rock in the water, had been cast out of the waves and was catching my first glimpse of the pain of the rock in the sun, a small taste of the struggle of the Haitian people.

The other Americans in my group joked, reminding me that it would be impossible to get a small Haitian child through customs in Miami. I laughed, but such remarks only reminded me that my time was running short and I would have to leave Haiti, leave Angel. Her trust in me had grown and I was fearful of breaking it. She was barely 6 and I worried that my leaving would appear to her as abandonment.

A church service was planned for the last day of camp; just about everyone in Haiti is Catholic. The children arrived to camp sans their green T-shirts, attired instead in dresses, suits, and ties. It would be unlikely to find an American child so meticulously outfitted for church, and here the Haitian campers had accomplished the feat easily, despite lack of all modern conveniences.

I scanned the fence as I approached the schoolyard. No one was waiting for me. I searched out Angel’s siblings and found them huddled around her. She sat on the stoop of the main classroom, head down. Does she want a lollipop? I asked. No. A jump rope? No. A piggy-back ride? No.

The refusal of a lollipop had been an immediate red flag that something was not right. Was she feeling ill? Yes. Where does it hurt? Does she have a stomach ache? But my little one would not say. She would also not look at me or talk to me. I racked my brain, trying to think of something to lift her spirits.

Lunettes? I questioned her. She looked up for the first time, then nodded her head just a little. I grabbed my sunglasses from out of my sack and placed them in her lap. She reached down and fingered them, turning the glasses over to see her reflection in the lenses. She picked them up and placed them on her face, hiding her eyes. She made her way over to my lap and we sat together, watching the other children run about the schoolyard. I remembered my first day, and thought of how I had questioned my decision to come. Now, I sat and questioned my decision to leave.

I looked down at my little friend and realized Angel had a reason for wanting my glasses. Although I could not see her eyes, the silent tears that ran down her cheeks were apparent. “Monique et cette petite fille sont bonne amies,” the Haitian director said in French as she stood beside us and smiled. It was true. I had become good friends with this little girl.

So how could I return to the water and leave her in the blazing sun?

After graduating from Brown in May with a degree in Middle East Studies, Monika McGreal Viola spent the summer in Haiti volunteering with a nonprofit. She has returned to the country once since her initial visit and will hopefully return again soon.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, February 26th, 2007 | Email This Post

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