The Desire to Help
In the streets of Montreal, I can measure the depth of emotion set off by Haiti’s misfortune. People seem moved to their very souls, as if the city were as one with Haiti. I went home and saw those inconsolable faces again on TV (always in close-up). Nurses rushing off to help the injured, children raising funds by any means possible (selling their art and putting on shows) and delivering it to humanitarian organizations, amateur and professional musicians sending the totality of their proceeds from their concerts to orphanages, suburban rockers with Mohawk haircuts wearing T-shirts with “I Love Haiti” printed on them, journalists who want to adopt the children they hold in their arms for the camera, giant benefits like in the days of “We Are the World” that raise dozens of millions of dollars in a single night, Hollywood stars who sell their party dresses and buy food with the money, big names from the movies who use their personal airplanes to ferry in medicine, doctors who operate until they’re exhausted. Not to mention anonymous individuals who want to act, but discreetly and modestly. But where is all this energy going? And where is all the money ending up? People want to help so much that they don’t try to find out the answers. The sadness on their faces alternates with the will to really do something. And do it personally. Haiti has barged into their private lives.
The Return
My sister called to say that Aunt Renée had died. I bought a plane ticket to Port-au-Prince for the next day. I moved from the virtual to the real. From the TV bombarding me with images to reality into which I sink like quicksand. My heart stops as we land. Loads of American planes on the runway, as if the country were occupied. Out of the window, I see blue tents just about everywhere. People won’t stay in houses that might be dangerously weakened. If they have to sleep inside, they leave their doors open and their belongings close at hand. They’re ready to run at the slightest alert. The fear of being caught in their sleep by a strong tremor has made them as nervous as a sprinter waiting for the gun in the race of his life. It would be too simple if they had to worry only about saving their own lives, but there are kids, the sick, and old people. The city’s eyes are red from lack of sleep. Still, I expected the population to be more impatient. But here I am, in a city of calm.
The Last Doctor
I watch my mother putting the utensils back on the shelves. The tablecloths in the drawers. The baskets, blue and pink plastic, carefully lined up on the counter. She insists on doing the household chores even though she has a wound on her right leg that won’t heal. Her doctor died in the earthquake, and she needs a new one fast. It’s not easy, since everyone wants an appointment. People injured in the earthquake have priority, especially those in danger for their lives. Last month, so many arms and legs were amputated that could have been saved in other circumstances. Now, people are afraid of this bush medicine where everything is done at top speed. At the beginning, there weren’t enough drugs, especially antibiotics, and doctors feared gangrene like the plague. A good number of Haitian doctors became unavailable; their own families needed their help. Then there were the ones who were injured or killed. What can you do but turn to Jesus, the only real doctor, as my mother says, whose clinic is open day and night. It’s remarkable that Haitians aren’t cursing God for this endless river of misfortune. Are they too weak or too resigned to find the energy to shake their fists at the sky? They do it sometimes, in their way. My sister told me that one of her girlfriends, who used to go to mass with her every morning, hasn’t gone since January 12. “Why not?” my sister wanted to know. “It’s up to Jesus to come and visit me — he needs to ask forgiveness.” That made everyone laugh but my mother.
The Energy of Things
In this city, people bring everything outside every day. Since every house is also a store, in the morning they set out the merchandise on the sidewalk. When evening comes, they bring it all back in. They even bring in the counters on which the merchandise is displayed. It’s amazing to see how many things can be stowed in a tiny house. In the empty streets at night, all you come across are large skeletal dogs.
A Feminine Universe
It took four heart attacks to kill Aunt Renée. The woman looked so frail, but she resisted and fought till the end. She always did her exercises until she was physically unable to. Nothing that happened in the house escaped her radar. Often, in the afternoon, she would sit on the gallery with my mother. Now my mother seems more fragile than ever. Over the last years, I’ve lost three of my four aunts. Of the women, only the youngest is left, Aunt Ninine, and the eldest, my mother. I told Aunt Ninine that a duel was brewing between her and my mother, between the youngest and the oldest. My joke turned Aunt Ninine gloomy. Of all my aunts, Renée was the most secretive.
The Guilty Party
My sister, my mother, and I slept on the gallery. Last month, the women were sleeping on mattresses in the yard. They suspect that’s what finished off Aunt Renée. That, and the lack of care. Before the earthquake, medicine was hard to find. When you went to the hospital, you had to bring your own. In this country, you don’t go there until the pain becomes unbearable. Otherwise, you don’t consider yourself sick. It’s better not to be sick if you can’t pay for the medicine. That way, you go from being in good health to being dead. Illness is a luxury you can’t afford if you don’t have the means. So you die without ever having been sick. Death is always sudden. Since that kind of death has no scientific explanation, it becomes mysterious. Finally, we have a guilty party: the earthquake. On its slate, besides all those who perished in the rubble, we should add everyone who died from lack of medical care. The months following the event were so hard that people died of hunger and cold. The nights weren’t warm enough for frail constitutions. Like Aunt Renée’s.
On the Gallery
Yesterday evening, my mother’s face was dark with sadness. Her foot had swelled up again. I put her legs on a pile of pillows and went and sat on Aunt Renée’s narrow bed. My mother closed her eyes. She’s not afraid of pain; immobility is what frightens her. She’s never stood still in her life. I did what I do every time: I slipped a 100-gourde note under Aunt Renée’s pillow. My mother opened her eyes, saw me, and smiled. The last time I was in this room with Aunt Renée, my nephew came and got her for her bath. She lay light and smiling in his arms. Once so prudish, she wasn’t afraid to be seen naked. I heard voices. My female cousins had arrived to discuss the funeral. We sat on the gallery. Should there be a mass in Creole, French, or even Latin? My mother came out and joined us. One of my cousins insisted on Latin because it’s more prestigious. But the choir was quickly rejected because it’s too expensive. We decided a soloist would do just as well. There’s one woman who sings very well, but her price is out of reach. One of my cousins went to school with her younger sister. We quickly gave up on that idea because, ever since she’s become a star, the TV follows her everywhere. Impossible to imagine a camera at Aunt Renée’s funeral — she who, all her life, avoided making any noise at all. My sister thought that discussing these kind of details was too painful when people were still searching for their families in the wreckage. One of my cousins replied that the earthquake didn’t kill Aunt Renée, and that my sister shouldn’t mix things up. My mother, her eyes still closed, began to murmur Aunt Renée’s favorite prayer: “The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.” I remember the intensity with which Aunt Renée would say “and delivereth them.”