There are plenty of topics to focus in springing from this week's final presidential debate, and I have read hundreds of things that have done just that. However, one of the topics hit closer to home for me than others and that was talk about Haiti and the aid that was given there.
Between my sophomore and junior years of high school, I had the opportunity to visit Haiti for a week-long medical mission. We packed a minimum of clothing and instead loaded our suitcases with medical supplies that we delivered to overcrowded orphanages. This was years before the earthquake that devastated Port-au-Prince. Even then, the poverty in the streets of the city was visible everywhere. Many roads were not paved and those that are were full of pedestrians and public transportation. The commercial parts of the city would best be described as cramped.
Among these conditions, though, the beauty of the culture blew me away. All of the buildings were painted bright colors. Street vendors sold handmade artwork that was hauntingly beautiful. Images of the mountains and the boats on the water were everywhere, and the people were mostly lively and happy, vibrant people. Worshiping with them was like an open door to their spirits. There were no barriers holding them back and they sang with their hearts from an open air courtyard with an altar that served as their church. It was Mass and living like I had never seen before or since.
I was, to some degree, ready for this. I had heard about how poor the country was and I knew, in theory about orphanages. I had seen pictures of the city and their clothing and samples of the art. I learned a bit of the language so that I could talk to locals, but in truth, most spoke English or French, as well as their native Creole, so there were rarely communication gaps. I got a chance to talk to the people as I shopped and worked with the local Catholic church.
What I wasn't ready for, though, was the view when I looked up to the mountains outside the city. Mansions seemed to grow out of the sides and were a shocking sight beside the ramshackle huts more familiar to the streets and lower in the valley. Never before had I seen such a contrast between haves and have-nots. I could walk out of an orphanage door with a baby who was barely more than skin and bones and look up at a home fancier than I could fathom having the money to own. It was an image that has stuck with me for more than a decade so far.
On my last day in town, I was invited to visit an English as a second language class. The students ranged in age from around 10 to 30, but the star student seemed to just be a few years older than I was. At the end of the class, he asked if I would be able to make it to the next class, being held in a few days. I told him, no, I was going back home and he taught me how to say "I won't be there" in Creole. "Mwen pap la." I won't be there. It's the only phrase that I still remember, and it has gained a new meaning to me as I watch hurricanes, earthquakes and unrest cross the nation from afar.
Mwen pap la when the earthquake hits. Mwen pap la when the next hurricane goes through. Mwen pap la when the aid organizations that people have entrusted to help you give their money to those who are already powerful here. Mwen pap la when that child starves to death. Mwen pap la when you are homeless. Mwen pap la. I won't be there.
I like to think that the mission did some good for the people of Haiti. I would like to think that the aid organizations that gathered funds really did good work, but I've read the reports of the homes that weren't rebuilt properly and the funds that weren't funneled to the right places. I'm sorry, Haiti, that I wasn't there. I don't know that I could have made any difference, but mwen pap la when you hurt the most.
