We met some of Henry's neighbors, including a woman who has been partially paralyzed since the quake, children with fevers, and babies with non-functioning limbs. Had any medical teams visited? The answer was no, but our translator directed the suffering to a clinic operated by an Israeli team that was nearby.
After an hour or more we said goodbye to Henry and moved on across the camp to visit an old friend, Venise, whom we had met in May 2010.
The International Medical Corps (IMC) gave us a large tent for her so she could move her family back to their neighborhood, but they had a mountain of rubble to remove by hand before they could set up the tent. We learned that Venise was still in the camp and wanted to say hello.
The "neighbors" saw us coming and told Venise we were on the way. We caught a glimpse of her as she dashed back into her tent to change into better clothes for us. When I first met Venise, her tent was flooding from the incessant downpour of a thunderstorm, and she dissolved into tears as she tried to find a dry place for her visitor. Such is the enduring pride of these people.
Many hugs and kisses from Venise and family members later, we were shocked to learn that another tear gas canister had ripped through the blue tarp "roof" of the family compound, almost setting things on fire, searing the pavement, and burning a hole in the tent floor. Venise was as livid as I have ever seen her, and made sure we took photos of what had happened, including the holes burned in the sides and roof of the dwelling.
The remainder of our time together was spent basically basking in the good nature of each other's company. I was reintroduced to her grandchild, who was a newborn when we first met in May. Venise's daughter said she prayed for me often and that knowledge certainly increased the "empathy" I was feeling, and opened the floodgate of tears for both of us. I had completely forgotten that our team bought a grocery basket of baby formula because Momma could not make any milk. Now, Mom is breastfeeding, looking healthy, and baby is thriving on breast milk.
The human connection made it all possible. A small, forgotten gesture on the part of our team, but something that produced hope and the offering of prayers for our well-being. Who gained more in this "trade" of empathy? I would say nine months of prayers is worth more than an offering of baby formula that barely dented our wallets.
It was tough saying goodbye, but I know we will be back.
My niece, who is freshly home from a stint in the Peace Corps in Africa, will be helping Venise move rubble by hand in April. She has a simple goal to get the family back to their lot in Port-au-Prince. A front-end loader would help!
So, this is the first story I am telling you. The original goal was to tell only "positive" stories about Haiti on this trip. The good, the true, and the hope lies within these stories of individuals, but we all have to get close to people in order to engage in the telling.
We began this story on "Anderson Cooper's balcony," and ended by making a new acquaintance and finding old friends who had held us in thought and in prayer for nine months. Nine months. The time it takes for new human life to emerge.
We traveled a small distance across a street that separates "us" from "them." But, the intellectual and emotional distance can seem as far as distant galaxies--completely removed from our frame of reference.
I was reminded of that as I was choosing photos for this essay. Remember how I told you that Venise wanted me take photos of the burned holes on her tent? Perfectly framed by serendipity in one of those holes is a Haitian man, calmly walking down the street on the "outside."
Can it be that only the thin veil of a tattered tarp separates us? Does it take burning tear gas canisters to pierce the veil and help us bridge the distance between "us" and "them?"
Next: A disturbing report from OCHA
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