Christmas stories from Haiti
http://www.samaritanspurse.org/index.php/articles/jwaye_noel/
December 25, 2010
December 22, 2010
gaelle...almost orphan
There are some stories that you hear often because they are common here. But some you just never can get used to hearing.
I met Gaelle yesterday. She was on top of a table, three nurses were trying to get an IV in her. She laid there with her eyes closed, her long eyelashes fluttering. She didn't flinch as they tried to find a vein... she was lethargic and sick. I had seen her with her grandmother earlier when I was talking with the patients in the ward. She was spanking her in the bed because she wouldn't drink. Her grandmother, old and exhausted, didn't seem to understand.
She was standing now and watching them try to find a line on her granddaughter. She called me over and shared her story. "Her mother left her at the my house after the earthquake. I have not seen her since then. Her father is my son, but he can't take care of her. Her mother has never come back."
Then, she said something to me that I hoped wasn't what she meant. I called a translator over to make sure I heard correctly.
"Please take her for me. If you want her, she is yours," she said with a dismissing motion of her hand. The translator looked at me. "She wants you to take her. She can't care for her, and doesn't want to deal with the burden anymore." I looked at Gaelle's little belly moving up and down as she breathed, her body battling cholera. She emanated a certain sweetness about her, a beautiful little girl. I thought about my niece. My eyes filled with tears.
I carefully chose my words. "It's not possible," I explained to her. "If I just took her, I'd go to jail. And where I live, I can't have children now."
Her grandmother insisted. "I have a friend who gave her daughter to someone from America and she took her with her back on the plane, no problems. Please, she is yours."
There was a pricking in my heart, like a thousand tiny needles. I knew I could not take this child. A wave of emotion came over me- for this small life, for the overwhelmed grandmother and the broken, broken place in which they lived.
"If you don't want her now, while she is sick, you can wait til she is better. Then you can have her. Or you can take her now, whichever you prefer." She said it so matter-of-factually, as if talking about a pet.
I looked over at Gaelle. She is around 2 years old. I think of the many families in the States who would be overjoyed to welcome her into their homes, who are waiting to adopt a child, who give anything for this child. Then I am reminded of how hard it is to adopt children from Haiti- another result of the corruption of this government. Why, God, do so many children have to grow up without a home? A question that doesn't have an easy answer, a question I won't have an answer to now. I know this, but it still haunts me tonight.
The translator looked at me. "So can you take her?" Even he, an educated Haitian who would be considered middle class, saw no problems with this.
Because in Haiti, orphans are everywhere. It is perhaps one of the biggest problems here.But many of these children are not total orphans. They often have extended family or a mother/father, but oftentimes those people cannot care for them. They think nothing of sending them off with someone who looks well-meaning, and can give them the hope of something better. It doesn't get any easier, the more you hear these stories.
"Grann, I cannot take her. But she is a gift from a God. A 'kado'. And I will pray that the right person who can care for her will come along," I said. She laughed and looked towards her. "She can be yours!"
I left with a heaviness. I came back the next day and brought some clothes and other necessities for Gaelle. I noticed her small shoes on the ground next to her bed. I thought about the steps she will take in those little shoes back into this harsh slum after leaving here.
Her grandmother thought I had changed my mind and told me she was ready to give her to me. Justin was working that day and talked with her as well, explaining why it doesn't work that way, even though it seemed like an easy solution.
Gaelle is more than deserving of love, of a home. I have thought of her frequently today, feeling guilt, pain, confusion over what can be done about the countless children who need a home. It's a direct result of the sinfulness that has ruled this country for decades. Adoption has become more difficult since the earthquake, a cruel irony when so many children wander around, alone. Justin and I are praying about adoption from here, and what that timing could look like for us... but it won't help Gaelle, now.
This Christmas I am thinking of children like Gaelle, for what their future holds. And I'm praying to the God of mercy to comfort her even now as I type, and for us to understand our role in all of this.
I met Gaelle yesterday. She was on top of a table, three nurses were trying to get an IV in her. She laid there with her eyes closed, her long eyelashes fluttering. She didn't flinch as they tried to find a vein... she was lethargic and sick. I had seen her with her grandmother earlier when I was talking with the patients in the ward. She was spanking her in the bed because she wouldn't drink. Her grandmother, old and exhausted, didn't seem to understand.
She was standing now and watching them try to find a line on her granddaughter. She called me over and shared her story. "Her mother left her at the my house after the earthquake. I have not seen her since then. Her father is my son, but he can't take care of her. Her mother has never come back."
Then, she said something to me that I hoped wasn't what she meant. I called a translator over to make sure I heard correctly.
"Please take her for me. If you want her, she is yours," she said with a dismissing motion of her hand. The translator looked at me. "She wants you to take her. She can't care for her, and doesn't want to deal with the burden anymore." I looked at Gaelle's little belly moving up and down as she breathed, her body battling cholera. She emanated a certain sweetness about her, a beautiful little girl. I thought about my niece. My eyes filled with tears.
I carefully chose my words. "It's not possible," I explained to her. "If I just took her, I'd go to jail. And where I live, I can't have children now."
Her grandmother insisted. "I have a friend who gave her daughter to someone from America and she took her with her back on the plane, no problems. Please, she is yours."
There was a pricking in my heart, like a thousand tiny needles. I knew I could not take this child. A wave of emotion came over me- for this small life, for the overwhelmed grandmother and the broken, broken place in which they lived.
"If you don't want her now, while she is sick, you can wait til she is better. Then you can have her. Or you can take her now, whichever you prefer." She said it so matter-of-factually, as if talking about a pet.
I looked over at Gaelle. She is around 2 years old. I think of the many families in the States who would be overjoyed to welcome her into their homes, who are waiting to adopt a child, who give anything for this child. Then I am reminded of how hard it is to adopt children from Haiti- another result of the corruption of this government. Why, God, do so many children have to grow up without a home? A question that doesn't have an easy answer, a question I won't have an answer to now. I know this, but it still haunts me tonight.
The translator looked at me. "So can you take her?" Even he, an educated Haitian who would be considered middle class, saw no problems with this.
Because in Haiti, orphans are everywhere. It is perhaps one of the biggest problems here.But many of these children are not total orphans. They often have extended family or a mother/father, but oftentimes those people cannot care for them. They think nothing of sending them off with someone who looks well-meaning, and can give them the hope of something better. It doesn't get any easier, the more you hear these stories.
"Grann, I cannot take her. But she is a gift from a God. A 'kado'. And I will pray that the right person who can care for her will come along," I said. She laughed and looked towards her. "She can be yours!"
I left with a heaviness. I came back the next day and brought some clothes and other necessities for Gaelle. I noticed her small shoes on the ground next to her bed. I thought about the steps she will take in those little shoes back into this harsh slum after leaving here.
Her grandmother thought I had changed my mind and told me she was ready to give her to me. Justin was working that day and talked with her as well, explaining why it doesn't work that way, even though it seemed like an easy solution.
Gaelle is more than deserving of love, of a home. I have thought of her frequently today, feeling guilt, pain, confusion over what can be done about the countless children who need a home. It's a direct result of the sinfulness that has ruled this country for decades. Adoption has become more difficult since the earthquake, a cruel irony when so many children wander around, alone. Justin and I are praying about adoption from here, and what that timing could look like for us... but it won't help Gaelle, now.
This Christmas I am thinking of children like Gaelle, for what their future holds. And I'm praying to the God of mercy to comfort her even now as I type, and for us to understand our role in all of this.
December 16, 2010
December 15, 2010
us...
We're a bit overdue for an update, though there has been no shortage of coverage on our work in the media from a certain VIP visit here this weekend. Life is a bit of a blur here, a perpetual ebb and flow of treating, sleeping, eating, repeat. We've done little else these past several weeks then go from our base to the cholera centers. Life is somewhat distilled here. I haven't spent money in two months. I don't drive, by choice. I don't cook. I dont worry about my cell phone messages, or about how I can fit in meeting with a friend and a trip to the gym in the same evening. It's incredible how little I need here, it all fits nicely in two suitcases when packed. But some days, I miss the simple things. My nieces, an extra hot gingerbread lattle, and a towel fluffed in a dryer.
A friend visited this week and she asked me a simple question. "So how are you guys really doing?" It was the first time, in a long time, that I thought about that question. This experience has been undoubtedly not about us, and it's been a constant state of giving. It's really easy to get caught up in that though, and neglect things that shouldn't be neglected, that may seem justifiable by the fact that we are in a season of total service. Things like reading, or watching a DVD, just relaxing, spending long, uninterrupted times with God. It's been a long time since we've done these things.
This season here is definitely shaping us in many ways. I can't speak for Justin, but I feel less in control of anything in my life than ever before, and that has been a yielding process for certain. I am far less reactive; it takes much to aggravate me. I'm learning to look at the frustrating things and ask what God would have me learn from them. It hasn't been an easy process and it's exposed my ugliness- my need to control things, my desire to have things my way- but my God has been so faithful with me along this path, peeling away the layers til I could see them exposed for what they are. And I can see now, clearly, that this breaking of my self was a very strategic goal God had in bringing us here. I wouldn't have been broken like this back at home. I've seen death and life, suffering and salvation, and it's changed me. From now on, life, and what I encounter along with it, will be seen through a different lens.
And despite the increasingly limited freedom we have due to rioting, insecurities and election chaos, I feel a certain freedom that I haven't felt in a long while. We are far more blessed being here than we could have imagined, and there are days that I can't imagine what life back in the first world will be like. But at the same time, I realize that I cannot make humanitarian work my idol. Because if you let it, it will consume you and take every liberty over your time and energy. It will give you a self-righteous attitude. It's depleting if you allow it to be. We are nearly at that point of depletion, and we sense it. And at the end of the day, we probably need it more than it needs us.We desperately don't want this to be about us.
As we come home for a visit this month, we are seeking to find balance and a time to pause and reflect on what the next half of our contract will hold and how we want to do life within it. Our team here is hiring new staff to alleviate some of Justin's workload - he is working 48 hours at a time some weeks because of lock-downs at the clinic. My boss has told me no more 1 am work nights, which is when i do the majority of my writing. What can I say? It's when I can tap into my creativity. We enjoy what we are doing, but know we cant sustain this pace. We are working this out. We ask your prayers.
Thank you for walking with us... we are certainly tired. But we welcome a time at home, and look forward to restorative conversations, good friends, and family.
Below are a few of the people I was fortunate to meet this week in Cite Soleil, mothers and fathers caring for their children. These are some of the poorest people in Haiti, dwelling in the biggest slum. It is my favorite thing to capture moments of tender care between a parent and their child in the middle of chaos.
A friend visited this week and she asked me a simple question. "So how are you guys really doing?" It was the first time, in a long time, that I thought about that question. This experience has been undoubtedly not about us, and it's been a constant state of giving. It's really easy to get caught up in that though, and neglect things that shouldn't be neglected, that may seem justifiable by the fact that we are in a season of total service. Things like reading, or watching a DVD, just relaxing, spending long, uninterrupted times with God. It's been a long time since we've done these things.
This season here is definitely shaping us in many ways. I can't speak for Justin, but I feel less in control of anything in my life than ever before, and that has been a yielding process for certain. I am far less reactive; it takes much to aggravate me. I'm learning to look at the frustrating things and ask what God would have me learn from them. It hasn't been an easy process and it's exposed my ugliness- my need to control things, my desire to have things my way- but my God has been so faithful with me along this path, peeling away the layers til I could see them exposed for what they are. And I can see now, clearly, that this breaking of my self was a very strategic goal God had in bringing us here. I wouldn't have been broken like this back at home. I've seen death and life, suffering and salvation, and it's changed me. From now on, life, and what I encounter along with it, will be seen through a different lens.
And despite the increasingly limited freedom we have due to rioting, insecurities and election chaos, I feel a certain freedom that I haven't felt in a long while. We are far more blessed being here than we could have imagined, and there are days that I can't imagine what life back in the first world will be like. But at the same time, I realize that I cannot make humanitarian work my idol. Because if you let it, it will consume you and take every liberty over your time and energy. It will give you a self-righteous attitude. It's depleting if you allow it to be. We are nearly at that point of depletion, and we sense it. And at the end of the day, we probably need it more than it needs us.We desperately don't want this to be about us.
As we come home for a visit this month, we are seeking to find balance and a time to pause and reflect on what the next half of our contract will hold and how we want to do life within it. Our team here is hiring new staff to alleviate some of Justin's workload - he is working 48 hours at a time some weeks because of lock-downs at the clinic. My boss has told me no more 1 am work nights, which is when i do the majority of my writing. What can I say? It's when I can tap into my creativity. We enjoy what we are doing, but know we cant sustain this pace. We are working this out. We ask your prayers.
Thank you for walking with us... we are certainly tired. But we welcome a time at home, and look forward to restorative conversations, good friends, and family.
Below are a few of the people I was fortunate to meet this week in Cite Soleil, mothers and fathers caring for their children. These are some of the poorest people in Haiti, dwelling in the biggest slum. It is my favorite thing to capture moments of tender care between a parent and their child in the middle of chaos.
December 6, 2010
melaika
Our cholera treatment center has been open for a week in Cite Soleil. We continue to see a steady flow of the sick coming in .... nearly half consistently are children. Justin and the night crew is caring for two full wards of sick children as I type. Little lives being carried in... some with family, other orphans.
Meet Melaika. She and her mother came in a few days ago. Her father wants no part of her daughter's life, her mom, a single mother. Tiny and wide-eyed, she sits up on a soiled Noah's Ark blanket, watched over by her young and vulnerable mother. Her stomach is bulging, awkwardly large for her small frame. She has a nagging cough. Things that would be minor ailments become exasperated in a place like Cite Soleil, where health and hygiene are a constant struggle. When she coughs, she sits up, sticks out her tongue, and her whole body shakes…her little mouth making a small, sweet sound. Her mother cradles her, learning to be a mother before my eyes. "I have no job, her father is not around... and now, she is sick. I am scared," she admits quietly, looking down.
Her mother came in stoic, reserved. She has softened now, offers a smile. Her daughter is slowly healing, being watched over. Melaika looks around curiously, blinking frequently, taking her surroundings in as an IV slowly infuses health back into her. Next to her, other children weather their own battles against cholera.
I wish I could bundle her up and usher her and her mom home with me. What kind of life will she have growing up in Cite Soleil? It’s heart breaking. Tonight, these are the things I find hard to reconcile. Hardship, suffering, Maleika.
December 3, 2010
December 2, 2010
the next leg
A part of you dies when you see death. And a part of you is regenerated when you see survival.
Our days are filled with this. Life and death. Hope and sorrow. It's a manic feeling of emotion at times, moving from one extreme to another.
Election weekend was this past weekend. There were many riots, burning voting booths, tear gas, rock throwing, violence. It's as though the people have had enough. There is a recklessness in this culture. There was suspected fraud, but it's not enough to do a recall. I heard yesterday that they will be announcing the winner on the 7th. This should make for an interesting week next week. "Sweet Mickey" is in the lead, a musician who has no political background. The Haitians I work with are very torn. Most of them didn't vote. They know there isn't one that has what it takes to turn Haiti around- or at least that has Haitian's best interests in mind. It's very saddening, this feeling of hopelessness that hangs in the air like a blanket when you speak about the government.
Justin is managing the day clinic at our new site in Cite Soleil, which we just opened. He leaves at about 5 am and gets home at about 7 pm. It's brutal, this schedule. It should let up once we get nurses trained and the center is fully running smoothly. I am out all day... we all come back to meet until about 9 and then my day starts with going through photos, writing, reporting, til about midnight each night. We hope to not sustain this for too much longer. It's hard to say when cholera will let up... there are so many varying opinions on this.
We saw over 40 patients yesterday after our doors opened in Cite Soleil. Our bed count is 200. The population in Cite Soleil is about 300,000.. if 8% - 12% get cholera as epidemiologists predict... well, you do the math. It's just us and an MSF cholera center treating here. We pray, desperately, it doesn't explode. We could have people dying outside our gates if we can't take any more in. This is a fear we have.
Below is a recent ireport i did last night... and i'll be writing a long story for the SP website today. I've met some remarkable people. A woman who walked 6 hours with her son through the night to get to our clinic. A young woman who almost dies, and was catatonic all day and then awoke today. Brilliant stories of survival.
We will be coming home over Christmas- a welcome break at that point. We'd love to see everyone.. we miss you all terribly, and wish we had more emotional and physical time and energy to talk regularly.More, soon. Below are some shots of the people who i have encountered- the heroes of this battle.
http://ireport.cnn.com/docs/DOC-523909
Our days are filled with this. Life and death. Hope and sorrow. It's a manic feeling of emotion at times, moving from one extreme to another.
Election weekend was this past weekend. There were many riots, burning voting booths, tear gas, rock throwing, violence. It's as though the people have had enough. There is a recklessness in this culture. There was suspected fraud, but it's not enough to do a recall. I heard yesterday that they will be announcing the winner on the 7th. This should make for an interesting week next week. "Sweet Mickey" is in the lead, a musician who has no political background. The Haitians I work with are very torn. Most of them didn't vote. They know there isn't one that has what it takes to turn Haiti around- or at least that has Haitian's best interests in mind. It's very saddening, this feeling of hopelessness that hangs in the air like a blanket when you speak about the government.
Justin is managing the day clinic at our new site in Cite Soleil, which we just opened. He leaves at about 5 am and gets home at about 7 pm. It's brutal, this schedule. It should let up once we get nurses trained and the center is fully running smoothly. I am out all day... we all come back to meet until about 9 and then my day starts with going through photos, writing, reporting, til about midnight each night. We hope to not sustain this for too much longer. It's hard to say when cholera will let up... there are so many varying opinions on this.
We saw over 40 patients yesterday after our doors opened in Cite Soleil. Our bed count is 200. The population in Cite Soleil is about 300,000.. if 8% - 12% get cholera as epidemiologists predict... well, you do the math. It's just us and an MSF cholera center treating here. We pray, desperately, it doesn't explode. We could have people dying outside our gates if we can't take any more in. This is a fear we have.
Below is a recent ireport i did last night... and i'll be writing a long story for the SP website today. I've met some remarkable people. A woman who walked 6 hours with her son through the night to get to our clinic. A young woman who almost dies, and was catatonic all day and then awoke today. Brilliant stories of survival.
We will be coming home over Christmas- a welcome break at that point. We'd love to see everyone.. we miss you all terribly, and wish we had more emotional and physical time and energy to talk regularly.More, soon. Below are some shots of the people who i have encountered- the heroes of this battle.
http://ireport.cnn.com/docs/DOC-523909
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