Backlog: Haiti, the land of the leaning house

I don’t know that I’ve ever seen as much unsightly grime and trash as I witnessed in Haiti. And for the sheer overwhelmingness of it, the friendliness and socialability of the people there was just as surprising. Most people know that Haiti is the least developed country in the Americas, the most impoverished, neediest, and disheveled with the worst social and economic indicators in the hemisphere. What most people don’t think about, however, is how close Haiti is to our own national borders, the role that the US has had in economically orienting Haiti to its current position, and the fact that so many of Haiti’s cultural misgivings are a direct result of Western influence.

That being said, I too thought nothing of these aspects while hopping the border between the Dominican Republic and Haiti, on the shared (and relatively small) island of Hispaniola. Market day in the respective border towns of Dajabón and Ouanaminthe, viewed from the elevated safety of a Caribe Tours bus seat, painted the most fascinating juxtaposition of two economic polities. My heart skipped a beat when crossing the infamous bridge …upon seeing the striking differences just over a border demarcation, where blue-helmeted UN peace-keeping troops sat in front of Barbancourt-selling stalls as wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow carted off bags of charcoal from a nation suffering from the highest rates of deforestation in the world…

Market madness on the DR side of the Masacre river vs. the Haitian side:


Attractive transport options abound in Haiti!

I went to Haiti to visit my friend Edna, another student from the School of Public Health. A fellow Floridian by birth, Edna is passing an interesting and challenging summer in the country her parents escaped from some 25 years ago, learning the ins and outs of color lines and ecologically oriented human-rights, as an intern with SOIL. Edna and one of the co-founders of this incredible organization, Sasha, graciously hosted me and Kate, offering opportunities to see a part of the world very few have the opportunity, or interest, in understanding.

We visited Shada, a shanty-town slum on the outskirts of Cap. It’s difficult to express the depth of poverty and disenfranchisement witnessed within; for all the third world travel I’ve done, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like Shada. Some 15,000+ people live in a maze of streets with homes made of block and tin, separated by narrowly curved alley-ways strewn with trash and feces, stagnant sludge and decay, with an ever present and ever disturbing stench that wafts through the air. Sitting on the banks of the river running through Cap, Shada’s shoreline serves as a dumping area in the broadest sense – trash and human waste, and something of a pig-pen, separate homes from the water, at least during the non-storm season. During hurricanes past, rampant floods raise these waters and mud high into the lives and homes of individuals living in Shada.

At the same time, it shouldn’t be hard to imagine that, despite, or in spite of, the every day challenges to survive, the people of Shada were warm and inviting; during our walk we amalgamated a pack of children eager to follow us through the sewage lined streets, holding our hands, requesting pictures, and so on. We had the good fortune to witness a dance and rap performance by an awesome group of girls singing about female empowerment. We were welcomed to people’s homes in a way reminiscent of being a part of something. Visiting was, in no small part, made accessible to us by the incredibly gracious (both with guests in her home and with members of her new community) Sasha Kramer, the co-founder of SOIL who has become a hugely positive force for social change inside Shada.

The principle of “living with dignity” underscores the agenda of most, if not all, humanitarian organizations, and the general human rights ethos, and accordingly, I am hesitant to say that that the people of Shada – people strong, generous, and decidedly resilient – are living a life without dignity. But the reality of the scenario, the reality of the lives and the many atrocious conditions within this community, was beyond me.

It was confusing to be there, within Shada. My emotions vacillated in an irksome manner: I felt angered and on-edge, and then quickly I felt just fine. My friend Jean said something rather compelling about work here in the DR that really struck a chord with me:

“And what about all the shit that grates, boils blood, doesn’t compute? It hasn’t been long enough for me to see or process the half of it, yet I’m already feeling my rigid sense of moral uprightness and strict adherence to legality relax in delightful and horrifying ways.“

Reflecting on this, which has taken me days upon days to write, has been likewise confusing. It’s hard to visit a place like Shada and leave feeling complacent. But at the same time, it’s hard to leave feeling empowered to create change in the face of so many calamities. I do not want to come across as the hopeless development/humanitarian aid worker, as the people of Shada are not hopeless themselves. Having had my eyes widened to the complexities of Caribbean inequalities during this visit – highlighted not just by the differences across the border, but by the other things I had the fortune to do while in Haiti (coming in a subsequent entry) - I feel forever more grateful for the luxury of controlling my own life in a way that people living in Shada are still waiting for.