In Honduras, a respite from teaching nonviolence workshops

Gracias a Dios is the name of a town in the Lempira region of Honduras, in the mountains. The Spanish conquistadores gave it that name, praising God that at last they had found a flat bit of ground to place a town. It is a pleasant town, one that many travelers have given thanks to have found. Its cobblestone streets, ice cream shops, and bookstores create a quaint atmosphere that is quite different from the rest of the region which is generally poor and rural. After spending some weeks in Guatemala, we found our safety radar going down substantially in the Lempira region. The region as a whole is generally safe, with many joggers both local and foreign, and including women, running around the countryside by day and night. I went for a jog on a dirt road heading out of town, which led to the river. A woman was there washing clothes, and a young man with amazingly green eyes was enjoying the scenery with his young wife and their newborn baby girl.

We have been welcomed warmly into the Friends’ community in the Lempira region. The first evening we were invited to a special pastors’ celebration and met many of the local Friends in the community. The next day, we felt like locals, as we walked around the town and ran into many of our new friends. We visited Orlando Pineda’s bookstore, and were given a couple of his inspirational books to read.  We ran into the sister of our hosts in Guatemala, Mabel Henriquez, who invited us to a hot springs along with some relatives and friends.  Huge trees hung over the water, where steam rose from pools with stone floors. Since we were there on a weekday evening, we were among the only visitors. Swimming laps in the quiet pool was heavenly.



Elida's family at breakfast



We stayed with Quaker Elida Rosa Sanchez and her extended family in Gracias. Elida is a teacher and is active in her monthly meeting and beyond. First thing in the morning we were greeted by one of the children in the family bringing a bucket of chicks and the mother hen from the front yard where they are protected overnight to the back yard where they spend the day. After breakfast the three youngest children, none of whom are over twelve years of age, washed the dishes, swept the yard and watered the plants.  Their quiet faith fills their lives.



Our next stop was San Marcos, another town two hours’ drive away. Elida and other Friends gave us a ride, as they were on the way to organize the Friends’ library in San Marcos. San Marcos is special in a different way. It is not on the tourist route, as is the case with Gracias Lempira. A small town in the mountains, with mostly unpaved roads, it is a relaxed place. It also feels very safe, and residents are free to stroll around the central square at night, admiring the stars.  

 

Dionel and Glenda's stove



 We went to sleep to the sounds of frogs in the hills and woke to the contented snorts of the horse grazing next door. Our hosts have electricity and fuel for the stove in the kitchen, but they prefer to use the outdoors kitchen where they cook with wood using a traditional oven and stove. They obtain the wood from a friend, freeing them from using their limited church salary for fuel. The sweet smell of burning wood fills the yard. We stayed with Pastor Dionel Mejia and his family, Glenda, Nayansy and Anita, age 5. We were invited to the women’s worship, a small group meeting in one of the member’s homes. One of the group members, the wife of the pastor who is also a pastor, offered a Bible discussion. They ended their evening with fried rice from the Chinese takeout!



Anita in a favorite spot





The Black Christ, Esquipulas, Guatemala

 Last Tuesday was the annual celebration of the Black Christ in Esquipulas, one of the main pilgrimage sites in Central America. Minga and I went by bus with lots of other celebrants to take in the sights of this huge Catholic celebration. Surrounding the cathedral were hundreds of plastic tarps, housing families who had come for the two-week celebration. Beans were cooking on the sidewalk over wood fires, and children played among the tents and around the visitors strolling in the park. The diversity of visitors was broad: wealthy urban couples from Mexico City with Gucci handbags and shoes, side by side with Mayan women wearing their traditional brightly-colored woven skirts and blouses. Buses were parked on the side streets announcing their purpose and origin: Pilgrimage to the Christ of Esquipulas from Veracruz, Mexico, read one sign.

Many mementos are on offer: postcards, amulets, and local items including cowboy hats with multi-colored pompoms. Mayan girls get their photographic portraits taken in front of the cathedral.

Unlike in other parts of Guatemala, restaurants abound, offering meals to the travelers. Around the cathedral were several lines of people waiting. One led to the nave, where for a fee and a long wait one can visit the main attraction, a statue of Christ made out of dark wood in the eighteenth century. On the way there, one can place a votive candle in the anteroom where there is a replica of the same statue. Worshipers prayed all around the replica, rubbing their hands and important documents on it. The anteroom was unbearably hot, with thousands of candles, and wax dripping all over the floor. Inadvertently, we found ourselves on another line, and soon received the blessing of a priest who sprinkled us with holy water.

The “main stage” in the park hosted curious events, including a dance by people wearing huge animal costumes. They minced around rather sedately on their sneakers, bobbing their oversized heads to the music. It was an endurance contest given the heat. On a signal, they all took off their costume heads and received water and towels from their families.

We never did experience the mass, but it was enough to visit the sanctuary and pay our respects. After a few hours in Esquipulas, I was ready to retire from the crowds and heat, wishing someone would towel off my brow and give me a cool drink. Instead, we joined the crowded bus and made our way back “home” to Chiquimulas, with a sigh of relief.

AVP among Quakers in Guatemala

My friend Minga and I traded our winter clothes for cool skirts and sandals, and went to Guatemala to offer workshops through the Alternatives to Violence Project (AVP).  We offered the first one last weekend in Ipala, a city in southeast Guatemala.



Part of the AVP group



The workshop was very much appreciated. Thirty-one people received certificates and more attended for part of the time but were unable to complete the three-day commitment. Most of the people who participated were Quakers, connected to the local Friends Meeting. They hosted us and provided two large meeting spaces for us, enabling us to provide two concurrent workshops. The City of Ipala provided food for all the participants, a veritable banquet with lunch every day, and two “snacks” which generally consisted of something I might consider an entire meal: ham sandwiches, tortillas or empanadas, and soft drinks. This is the first workshop to be offered to Quakers in Guatemala, and perhaps the largest to be offered in Guatemala at one time. It was so wonderful to see the enthusiasm and commitment to offering the program.  It is also humbling, as well, to see the importance they place on the training and their hopes that it will make a difference in finding peaceful alternatives to the violence we all face.

Ipala is a close-knit community, though a city of 25,000. Most of the attendees knew each other, either through participation in the Quaker meeting, schools or university. In some cases, they were relatives. Sometimes when people know each other they are hesitant to share their personal stories in AVP. But many of the participants said they had shared in pairs some issues that they had not shared previously with others. Many of them said they appreciated most an exercise called Empathy, where participants assemble into groups of four people, and each writes a paragraph about an issue that they are working on. Then the papers are redistributed and each reads and suggests solutions to someone else’s issue.



AVP in action



We talked about the violence in families: abuse, abandonment (many of the participants had absent fathers or husbands) and absence of respectful communication. We practiced “I” messages, trying for clear communication without placing blame. We also had lots of fun exercises. The Guatemalan and North American facilitators worked together with good sharing of responsibilities. The Guatemalan participants put up with our imperfect Spanish and we all understood each other well. There was a funny moment when I gave my name as Martha Magnetica (Magnetic Martha) but it was understood as Martha Maniatica (Crazy Martha)! We had lots of laughs.

I had heard that the region is one with quite a bit of violence due to the drug trade, but we are so relieved to see that it seems to be – on the surface – less dangerous than we had feared. We made plans on the last day to hike up a nearby volcano, and were told that the biggest danger would be getting lost. So we were pleased that two of the workshop participants agreed to go with us. It was incredibly beautiful. We started very early in the morning, taking a bus out of town and hiking up the road through the “skirts” of the mountain. Lots of birds and flowering trees. The dry season is just beginning and many plants are blossoming. There were farmers working with horses, and little houses up in the hills.



Laguna on top of Ipala volcano



After an hour’s walk, we got to the top of the volcano where there was a pristine lake filling the now-dormant caldera. On one side was a moist mini-rainforest, with trees covered with bromeliads. On the other (windy) side, a few minutes’ walk away, was a dry cedar forest, where the wind whistled through the trees. No underbrush, only beautiful cedar trees and birds. Between the two was the clear lake with its cool clean water, where we swam and enjoyed a peaceful quiet Monday picnic. It was an idyllic place to rest our bodies and spirits after the workshop.



Karen, cocinera de calidad!



Now we are back in the larger city of Chiquimula, close to an hour's drive from Ipala by bus. We are staying with Karen, an active Quaker who has traveled a lot among Friends and understands well the needs that travelers have. She and her mother are extraordinary hosts, offering us sumptuous and healthy meals as well as helping situate us in the community. This morning we took a tour around the Quaker sites in the community: the large school, church and many other projects and missions, including a radio station and a museum!



The Death of the Car

When we sold my mother’s car, she posed in front of it for a last picture. She looks so sad. She has her eyes closed, and the beginnings of tears which are not visible in the photograph but which I know were there, evidence of her anguish at losing this valuable part of her life. She herself described the loss of her wheels as a nail in her coffin, dooming her to a short future without the freedom to travel independently. In my heart I resonated with this loss, feeling my own dependence on my car and the freedom it gives me. It is true that we need the car as we need our limbs. Her life will be unbearably limited without it.

My mother’s generation had a special relationship with the car. They developed the car culture, the car world. Hers was the first generation to identify so strongly with the car. In the suburbs, the car became the sole transportation in her generation, the ubiquitous, irreplaceable mode of travel. Her car, her wheels, her busy life. So many images of the car are twined like a braid in my mother’s life.

My mother’s car was a mirror of her personality, from the huge station wagon we had when she drove her five children around, to the sporty Saab sports hatchback, chic when she purchased it in her seventies, but a pathetic ruin gathering dust by the day we sold it. On that day, she could not even start it as the battery had run out, and it had sat unused for six months. Yet we felt like we were cutting off one of her limbs to sell it. A swift decision occasioned by a surprise offer from a mechanic willing to take it off our hands and sell it for scrap metal. She felt like she was being sent to the junkyard along with the car.

When I was very small, the golden station wagon carted us everywhere. I sat in the “way back”, which along with its own seat, and no seatbelts, had inexplicably, its own power window control. Lucky kids could operate their own electric window, introducing puffs of air from the exhaust pipe, and possibly risking falling or jumping out while at high speeds. We, however, were not allowed to operate the window. My mother had it turned off by the mechanic, for safety’s sake. She promised me that when I turned six, she would turn on the electric window. But by then my brothers were four and one, and the promise did not come true.

So many stories revolve around the family car. The gold station wagon was the car that my brother Bruce actually did fall out of, when they headed around a corner, in the midst of a backseat tussle with his brother. Luckily he landed in the bushes, with no harm done. In those days, kids perched on the front of the wide bench seat, turning their own pretend steering wheel or toy that was hooked over the front bench seat.  How many times did I hear “Sit down, boys, don’t stand up on the seat!” while we were driving down the road.

This was the same car that I used to learn to drive; in effect it was my first car. I remember careening down the impossibly dangerous Jamaica Way into Boston. It was on those trips that I learned to take care of the front half of the car, and let the other cars look out for the back half, a habit that I overcame only when I moved out of Boston.

One day on a visit to the doctor, my mother left my brother Chris, then a preschooler, in the parking lot, and apparently was so busy with the rest of us that she left the keys in the car. Chris quickly discovered how to lock the doors from the inside, and was only persuaded to unlock them when the scary pediatrician came out to the parking lot and ordered him to with his meanest demeanor.

The gold station wagon was also the same car that killed our family’s dog. He followed us as we headed out the driveway and was clipped as we turned onto the street. I remember the police carting him towards the house, holding the dog’s front and back paws in his two hands, the head lolling back. For a long time, I held that last gruesome image of my dog in my heart, my first experience of personal tragedy.

Dangerous cars, fast cars, cars bringing an incredible freedom to a new generation of post-WWII Americans. Families going places fast, nuclear families taking care of their own.  Highways crisscrossing the landscape, replacing trains. Carbon levels increasing inexorably, but unexamined in those early days when metal and chrome were king. The car: a rusting hulk that must be carted away, a family member that must be ripped from the arms of its family, dying before we learn how to create a life without it. December is death and old habits that die hard. Maybe with the spring we’ll learn new ways to live that do not destroy our earth.

Another trip to a country no one wants to visit: Prison

 Recently I conducted another workshop in Spanish at a Massachusetts medium security prison, co-facilitating with inmates Luis and Miguel and community member Betty (names changed). We all took on equal facilitation powers, which in itself is revolutionary in the prison setting. Most of the prison educational programs involve blackboards and desks facing front. In our program we sat in a circle. The facilitators took equal responsibility for sharing leadership.

The inmates who signed up for the program did not get any reduction in their sentences, unlike in most of the programs offered at the prison. As a result, they signed up because they were truly eager to learn the skills offered, how to resolve conflict more peacefully in one’s life. Luis and Miguel received their training in the program several years ago and have been offering the program as volunteer facilitators since then to other inmates, to help them in turn learn new skills.

What is the program? It is called the Alternatives to Violence Project. It is a curriculum that was designed by Quakers and prisoners at Green Haven Prison in New York in the 1970s to respond to the Attica prison riots and try to have a positive impact on life among the incarcerated. The program has since expanded to a number of prison and community settings and has found uses internationally, through a related program especially designed to help reconcile perpetrators and victims after a period of extreme violence, including in Rwanda, Burundi and Kenya. It is useful for healing after conflict, and for understanding the roots of conflict. It is a program that asks the same of all of us: to practice non-violent methods of dealing with conflict in our lives.

It might be expected that someone who has never been personally involved in the criminal justice system would find it unsettling, to say the least, to sit down and share one-on-one with an offender experiences of trying to resolve conflicts non-violently. At first, I felt some fear, anger, and resistance to sharing with people many of whom have admitted to have done terrible things. I also felt concerned that my place of privilege in life has spared me from having to deal with the terrible decisions that most of the inmates have experienced. How can I, who has never had to stand up for my rights physically, preach non-violence? Non-violence is indeed a tough sell in prison. Yet what I found is that there are islands of non-violence even in a place like this medium security prison. Those who have taken the Alternatives to Violence Project, or AVP, constitute one such island. And the results are life-changing for many of the inmates who participate.

After having facilitated the program in English in partnership with inmates, I found that there was an unfilled need to offer it in Spanish. Many Latino inmates do not feel comfortable speaking out in English in such a workshop, and they asked us to help them offer the program in their own language. After we had offered the basic workshop in Spanish several times, we were asked to offer the advanced one. So I found myself in a windowless room in prison with Luis, Miguel, Bonnie and 13 other Latino inmates.

I learned some remarkable stories from the inmates with whom I worked. Javier has a roommate who is Native American and who has a history of homelessness. Javier had joined the Christian church in prison and was writing inspirational songs for church. His roommate asked whether he could also write some songs, and Javier stayed up most of the night helping him compose a song. The pastor of the church did not encourage the project, and as the time approached, he asked frequently whether the Native American inmate would be able to carry the project forward. Javier bought his roommate jeans, a new shirt, and clean sneakers. He told the pastor that his roommate would do fine, that he was well prepared. He said to him, “Father, what would Jesus do here? I’m counting your questions. I have told you three times now that he will be fine. You don’t need to worry.” On the day when the song was offered, there was a full three minutes of applause. The prison congregation was moved by the beauty and inspiration of the song composed by Javier and his Native American roommate.

Luis killed someone at 18 in a drug deal, and was given a long sentence. When he was released on parole, he very much wanted to visit his victim’s family. He did so, and was invited to a tearful reconciliation with the victim’s brother. He told the story during our workshop, and the inmates were visibly moved. He was able to do something that they all clearly yearn to do: to apologize and be forgiven. In his case, the victim was someone in his home community, so as a result it was more likely than in other situations for him to meet the family of his victim. Luis is held in high esteem in his prison community, in large part because he has been lucky enough to have had this experience.

It is striking that the yearning for reconciliation is a large part of most, perhaps all, inmates’ lives. They want to heal relationships with family members and other loved ones. They want an opportunity to apologize and be forgiven. This became most apparent when we conducted an exercise called Magic Carpet. I had steered clear of this exercise previously, concerned that it would be too challenging for the inmates. It turned out to be the most important one we did. In Magic Carpet, participants write down the words that they would most like to hear from important people in their lives. This could be their loved ones or – and they adapted the exercise to include this – from their victim’s family. Those who have trouble writing describe verbally to another inmate the message they would like to hear. They form partner groups, and each pair has an opportunity to sit on the Magic Carpet (a block of newsprint in the center of the circle) and hear from their partner the words they have written. Their partner kneels behind them with a hand on their shoulder while they conduct a dialogue in the voice of the chosen individual.

What I heard blew me away. Participants were truly able to suspend their disbelief and “hear” the words they so wanted to hear as coming from their deceased parent, their estranged teenager, or their son. Spontaneously, a dialogue began, in which the inmate conversed openly and with great emotion with the person they had chosen, and their partner entered into the simulation, inventing the words that the person might have said had he or she been present. It was a beautiful opportunity to communicate one’s deepest emotions with an important person, and much love was shared. “Te quiero, papí.” “I love you, daddy.”It was truly amazing to observe this level of emotional openness inside prison! I myself did not participate in the sharing part of this exercise due to lack of time.  Yet I considered how meaningful an exercise it would be for all of us to experience. Everyone has made mistakes in their lives for which they yearn to apologize and be forgiven. Even if we do not have the opportunity to forgive and be forgiven by our loved ones, we can forgive ourselves, and that is a good part of the journey.

My intention here is simply to shine some light on a dark corner of our world. Most of us do not have any idea what happens behind those high walls that surround the prison. Given what we often hear, we assume that it is a brutal place where people cannot ever relax or trust each other, where everyone is completely alone and at risk of being victimized by others. Yet I have experienced a sense of community being built, people who are trying their best to build a new life and move away from a violent past. I have observed people who help hold each other to a high moral standard and support each other towards doing good. The prison system is a vast, wasteful empire which is not built to encourage rehabilitation. Some recent reports in the Boston Globe and on National Public Radio indicate that perhaps we are ready to move past vengeance and towards rehabilitating lives, even in prisons. I certainly hope so.

More time in a foreign country: the criminal justice system

Last week I offered another workshop at a medium-security prison in Massachusetts. Entering the prison feels like entering a foreign country. Different rules are observed than for the outside world, and the visitor must comply with these to enter. Arrival at the prison is according to a strict schedule, but entering is capricious. If you are late because of traffic, you may not get in at all. Yet delays in being allowed in are frequent, due to employee schedules and frequent disturbances.

When you enter the prison you leave everything personal behind, and you are subject to a body search. Clothing requirements are very strict. The rules point in the following divergent directions: nothing that looks like a prisoner, nothing at all revealing. No metal of any kind, even an underwire bra. My pockets are emptied, my cell phone and wallet are locked up. I am allowed one pen and a few pieces of paper which I need to facilitate the program. I feel oddly glad for my identification card which gives me only a number and marks me as an outsider, free to leave.

Upon entering, I feel immediately the oppressiveness of the prison, with its multiple doors and TV screens, its looming walls and grey 20-foot fences.  How would it be to live here for years on end? The prisoners wear a uniform of monochrome sweats, t-shirts and sneakers. It is human nature to try to define oneself as an individual, yet at first glance there is a sad sameness to them all.

I do not intend to exonerate people who are doing time in prison. Awful crimes were committed and restitution must be done. But one wonders, after observing the system for only a short while, whether this is the best way. I am working with a number of felons who feel genuine remorse for their actions. One fellow killed someone when he was 18, an acquaintance, in a drug deal. After a number of years, he was finally released. He had been trained in the program in which I am working, Alternatives to Violence Program or AVP. As a result of the program, he had done a great deal of personal work and he wanted to apologize to his victim’s family. He visited the grave, where he had the opportunity to meet the victim’s brother. The brother refused his proffered handshake and instead reached out his arms, giving him a big hug and sharing with him that he had forgiven him.  This moment stands out as one of the blessed moments in his life. He talks about it as a spiritual moment. In his words, “a huge burden came off me”. He has told his story countless times to fellow prisoners. It is hard to overstate the impact of this story on his fellow prisoners. They listen, rapt in their attention. They ask questions. Some of them are moved to tears. I can tell that they all yearn for forgiveness. It is most likely their deepest dream, and one that few are likely to accomplish.

This story stands out because it is so rare. There are strong rules against a perpetrator having any contact with a victim’s family, unless the victim requests it. In our system, perpetrators and victims cannot come together to apologize and forgive. A central part of restitution is not allowed to take place.

I think of my cousin who was murdered, and the probationary hearings that have taken place to assess the prisoner's status and determine whether he should be released. My family attends these hearings, and what we are yearning for is a sence of repentance. It has not yet come. I look for his name among the participants of AVP. Maybe one day he will take a step towards goodness.

We need to give more thought to solutions that have been used after horrific crimes were committed, to help to knit society back together. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa after the fall of the apartheid regime, the gacaca courts in Rwanda, public apologies including that in Australia after the horrific treatment of aboriginal peoples there - all these are examples of restorative justice. We could and should incorporate these solutions into our broken justice system.

After a day or two in the workshop, the prisoners invariably start to talk about the workshop participants as a community within the prison. They talk of greeting each other in the halls or on the grounds. "Hey Jackpot Jay! Wepa La Machina!" They talk of feeling safe in the workshop and trusting each other. I envision these little seeds of trust infusing the prison with more light and grace. They talk of strategies for avoiding violence: when someone cuts in front of them in line, when a roommate kicks the door each time he enters. These minutiae seem like minor irritants to us on the outside, something that we would be able to rise above. And yet how many of us have heard our friends quietly exclaim: "I hate the way my partner chews!" We all can learn strategies for walking more peacefully in our world. When I share strategies with a small group of two or three prisoners, I can see that we are more alike than different in how we are affected, and  can learn to cope with, the stresses in our lives.

Some of the comments that pierced my heart in the workshop:

 “One day I’d like to see the sunset again.” (This from a man who carries a photo of a sunset on the beach among his most precious possessions.)

“In a second, my life completely changed. I’d give anything to change it back.”

“If I only knew before what I know now, I wouldn’t be here”.

A cynic would say that these comments are made in the presence of outsiders, to impress them and change their attitudes about prisoners in the system. This may be. But they know that we have no power to affect their situation. They receive no reduced sentence for participating in the program. They are clamoring to be part of it nevertheless. We trained 18 prisoners this time, and there is a list of 26 who are eager to take the next installment, the advanced training. Then they would go on to become trainers and teach others to find alternatives to violence in their lives. Their interest cannot help but be genuine. And it is a moving experience to be part of this, to see people whose lives have been broken reach for grace.

Martha's first trip to Haiti, May 2012

HAITI POST

They say that if you stay a week, you have lots to report. If you stay a month, less. And if you stay a year, you realize you cannot possibly summarize it all, so you say nothing. I stayed a week in Haiti. Some of my comments follow…

May 16

The journey continues, el camino sigue adelante. I find myself sitting in a quiet yard at night in Blanchard, one of the countless densely inhabited communities of Port au Prince, Haiti. There is no electricity tonight but the sky is providing plenty of it in the form of a heat lightning show. Every few seconds the fluffy clouds are lit up by lightning, after which the clouds recede into the dark night sky. It looks like a movie is about to begin. In the distance people are singing, part of a religious church service. Nearby, the other volunteers are laughing and chatting in the dark, planning their work for tomorrow.

I’m here to assist Partners in Development (PID), an NGO that provides child sponsorship, a medical clinic, and the program I’ll be helping with, a microfinance program that provides small loans to individuals to help them build a business and provide themselves a living. The programs are run out of a simple concrete compound in the residential neighborhood.  I arrived today, in time for dinner. So far, I have much to be thankful for. First, a clean bed with a mosquito net.  Second, running water in the building. Though it is the rainy season, the ground is dry with no mud. Gravel and grass coverage in the quiet courtyard promise escape from the mud, even if the rain comes as it probably will soon.

The team is a great mix of ages and abilities. A solar energy group who will put panels on the roof this week, a counseling group providing post-trauma counseling, a physical therapist and our microfinance group.

Over the wall comes the mellifluous sound of Haitian Creole being spoken. Besides the microfinance work, my other hope is to learn more of this beautiful language. It is like French with a twist, like a twist of tropical lime. Many French words just receive a little alteration to become Creole. The written form can be worked out like a puzzle by anyone with a good knowledge of French. Understanding the spoken language is a different story, however.  It is a very streamlined language, with short syllables each of which has a function. Past marker, subject pronoun, indirect pronoun, each quick sound has a role to play. I speak it haltingly as a result.

May 17

Yesterday we had a full day learning about the microfinance program here, meeting with the staff and brainstorming ideas. As expected, the progress was very slow and disjointed. But the staff were beyond kind in helping us with all our requests. We are trying to get a handle on what THEY think is wrong with the program and what could be changed, not just our own ideas. It’s very easy to jump to our own diagnosis and suggestions. Another challenge is that the Haitian staff are not experienced with summarizing their work, so that it appears that less is done than is actually the case. For example, Jean Ones summarized the loan processing for us but did not tell us right away that he gives all the clients receipts and  inputs all the borrower activity into Quickbooks the same or the next day. He keeps excellent records!

A family that benefited from a PID business loan and home

A business owner

At the end of the day we visited some of the 54 homes that have been built by PID and some of the microfinance clients. PID has made a tremendous impact on the neighborhood. Though people are incredibly poor, there are bright lights where people were assisted by PID: vendors with a full display of products, houses that provide clean and adequate shelter for families.

Pictures I did not take:  A woman organizing a wheelbarrow full of emerald green bananas and mangoes to sell. She was wearing a bright orange dress and her brown skin was shining bright in the late afternoon light against the fruit. Another picture: three little girls who had set up their front stairway as a pretend store, with miscellaneous old bottles standing in as items for sale. They sat quietly waiting for customers, staring straight ahead, as do their elders.

Some of the PID houses

Last night, I worked late into the evening on the reporting system for the small loan program.

May 19

Today was very gratifying. Early in the morning, we met with the entire microfinance team for the first time. We were able to tell them about the PPI program and explain how to use it. (PPI, Progress out of Poverty Index, is a very abbreviated questionnaire, adapted to specific countries by Grameen Foundation, that gives a quick and accurate estimate of the level of poverty of a household. Such an objective measurement is useful for measuring program impact and for determining which programs would be best for which households.) The staff connected right away with the possibilities of the PPI to compare groups and to measure improvement in a group over time. Then we went to visit some families who have received loans and we conducted a pilot of the PPI program with them. The team asked them the questions on the survey. It was great to interview some of the households who have received loans and to learn about the impact of the microfinance loans on their lives. When we came back to the office we tallied the results. They confirmed what we would expect from the visits – the households that seemed better off had higher scores on the survey. The staff got excited to see the results and were talking about how they could use the survey to improve the program.

In the afternoon we took a break. We hired a “tap tap” (local bus with benches) and drove to the center of Port au Prince where we saw the museum and visited a handicraft market. The museum was very touching with an excellent survey of Haitian political history. So sad to be reminded of the oppression that has followed Haitians during their entire history. One of the most moving displays was the list of heroes of the revolution. Many of the names were first names only, because they were people who were escaped slaves. Others were indigenous names, some of the few Taino people who had survived the European invasion. Then to see the stream of presidents from modern times, from the Duvaliers to Preval, to the current President, Martelly, and many others who lasted only a few months.  Martelly, a former popular singer, is generally well liked and is called “Tet Cale” or shaved head. Political hopes appear higher than they have been for some time. And yet, in the elegant reflecting pool outside the museum, a man was doing his laundry. Right behind the museum with its flags flapping in the warm breeze was a huge tent encampment, housing people who have not yet found homes, more than 2 years after the earthquake. Many of the tent camps have been dismantled home by home, as people find more appropriate dwellings.  

When we came back, two girls who live nearby went on a walk with me – we went to “flaner” or stroll around the neighborhood. They introduced me to lots of people and it was really fun. We laughed and talked a lot. They were so sweet and welcoming to me and helped me though my Creole is not very good.

May 21

Yesterday we went to church and then to the beach. The beach was as expected: not particularly refreshing or calming, but an interesting cultural experience. On the ride, I got to talk with Marcelline, one of the PID staff who would like to go to medical school. She is wonderful.

Later, I visited with the Oden family on the corner. They have five kids. They lost their house in the earthquake and had to live in the yard several months before they could rebuild. Mme. Oden wore a crisp sport shirt on the weekend, and her husband had clean pressed jeans. Their children were so polite and welcoming. They showed me their photo album and the children made their beautiful rooster dance for me.

May 23

I’m in the airport awaiting the plane home. It was a busy final two days. Each night I stayed up late putting together directions for the staff on some of the new systems, and writing a final report on what we visitors from the US and the Haitian staff came up with this week. As we wrote, ideas changed. We came up with a new program, micro-franchising, to help families who have no assets to begin a business. The staff will offer them a packet of products to sell and they will receive a commission. I look forward to returning later to see the progress .

As we fly out of Haiti and I see the raw, denuded hills with tiny roads snaking up them and the  little villages with their tiny tin roofed houses, I’m thinking about what I’ve learned since I last saw this view, a short week ago. First comes the notion that I have some small amount of first-hand experience of a place that I had thought of so often but was a complete unknown to me. Once you have been someplace – even though it may have been to visit only a few small urban neighborhoods – it is no longer a complete unknown. The map of Haiti makes some sense to me now.

The shocking pictures of Haiti after the earthquake – we saw nothing that looked like that at all, thankfully. There were some few buildings, including the symbolic Presidential Palace across its elegant front lawn, that have not been touched since the earthquake. We passed numerous large buildings that are in complete disrepair, and many that are closed. But much of the rubble from the earthquake has been carted away and land is being, if not rebuilt, at least re-used. Some building ruins serve as informal shelters to people who have set up tarps under them to sell merchandise. Private enterprise seemed to be very strong everywhere we went. The street markets are organized into departments: mattresses, then bed frames, then wooden furniture, then electronics. I tried to support the economy by buying some artwork to resell in the US to benefit PID.

Most overwhelming was the sheer scale of the city, and to my eyes, the lack of any defining features to make the scale understandable. I am not alone in this. I am traveling back to the US with a Haitian man who grew up in Port-au-Prince but says he no longer can find his way in the city at all. The population has grown from 100,000 to almost 5 million, about half the national population of 10 million. It is incredibly dense and for the most part, extremely poor. The city has grown very quickly, each new disaster bringing hungry people to the city to try to make a living or find help. There is no central organization, few major roads, and no government systems that I could see. NGO projects stand out: hospitals, clinics, solar lighting fixtures, and the like. The roads are mostly dirt, limiting speeds to 5 MPH.

What stays with me most strongly are the people I met. People with such fortitude to bear incredible hardship, yet with a sense of humor and compassion for others that is incredible. When we discussed program ideas, the staff frequently brought up the importance of the organization’s mission, helping the poorest of the poor. With frequent power outages and the incredible heat, it is hard to concentrate on one’s work. But they carry on and they have achieved so much. First thing every morning, there is a large crowd of people standing under the tree in the courtyard waiting to be seen in the free clinic. The dispensary is full, well organized, and the staff operate efficiently to see everyone. This morning we traveled around the neighborhood, visiting the families who have received a recent shipment of water filters. We visited them to see how they are faring with the filters and whether they are being used properly. Monsieur Genoit, an elegant older gentleman who is at the heart of the PID organization, led us to each house that had received a filter. Even without any street names, he knew exactly where to go. We were able to advise people on how to keep the tubing clean. Most were using the mechanism perfectly and were appreciating having clean water to drink.

What could I do that might be useful in Haiti? I am so glad to have been able to take this short trip, to experience Haiti and to be able to consider what I could do that might be of some value. One of my fellow visitors, a Christian student from Messiah College, remarked that it is so important to quit looking at the valley where we are but instead to look up at the hill that is our goal. Good advice, indeed.