tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75154683128405403262024-03-14T02:55:28.149-04:00Mwen renmen ti moun Ayiti yo!Keziahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15593536344990051230noreply@blogger.comBlogger865125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-75660738782052760422015-06-04T17:07:00.000-04:002015-06-04T17:07:00.486-04:00Good-bye<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I left Haiti on May 24th. It was very hard to say good-bye to everyone. Patients, students, little children, neighbors, colleagues, roommates, friends - they have been my Haiti family and leaving them behind hurt. A lot.</div>
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Creole is such a limited language that the only way to explain my move back to the US was to use the phrase, <em>"M prale net",</em> which translates to "I'm leaving for good." Every time someone asked me, <em>"Mis Keziah, ou prale net?"</em> I wanted to hide somewhere and cry for hours. </div>
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I won't try to describe what it's like to say "I'm leaving," to a dirt-poor single mother who has been your friend for 5 years, a woman that you were with when her 2 youngest children died. </div>
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I won't attempt to convey how empty I felt after saying good-bye to the young men who helped me sew wounds shut and save the lives of burned children.</div>
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I won't try to make you understand what it felt like to ride the dusty paths of the <em>Savann Desole</em> and know that I will never ride those trails again with my bike crew. </div>
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I won't try to explain how the words choked in my throat when I tried to tell my roommates what it has meant to me that they have loved me through my best and worst moments. </div>
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And I won't try to put words to the gut-wrenching pain of hugging Johnny J while he stared solemnly at me, confused by my tears. </div>
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I said my good-byes to them, and now, it's good-bye to you, dear blog readers. Thank you for your prayers and kindness over the years. Thank you for sharing my Haiti life with me. I am going to be making an effort at living "normal" life now, so I will not blog anymore. If you want to contact me, please email me at <a href="mailto:nursekezzie@gmail.com">nursekezzie</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null">@gmail.com</a>, and please, don't stop praying for me. In some ways, the hardest part of my journey starts now. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-15749868646297454162015-06-01T14:14:00.000-04:002015-06-01T14:14:46.183-04:00Final days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
My final days in Haiti were jam-packed. I still had class every day, and because Cody, our clinic director and nurse, was in the US, I was helping in clinic much more than usual. My TAs graciously shared the last sessions with me so I got to teach a few subjects one last time. I also worked on preparing all the class materials, sample tests and answer keys, books, games and other supplies so that my TAs could work as smoothly as possible in my absence. </div>
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I crammed the afternoons, evenings, and holidays with Haiti fun. I took a couple kids from our school out to the countryside to pick mangoes and visit old fort ruins. I hiked with my friends and biked with my friends. We went to the pool and picnicked by the river. I played with kids in the schoolyard and let little Down's syndrome Jesula and burn victim Samantha play with me whenever I wasn't teaching. </div>
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I didn't sleep very much. There were too many people to see and things to do. How do you try to wrap up 8 years of your life? How do you try to do all the "last" things that you've loved in a country? The last mango, the last class, the last reading session with the 4th grade, the last avocado, the last tickle session with a little kid, the last suturing, the last ridiculous party with your roommates, the last sunburn, the last bike ride...It was impossible and beautiful and exhausting and at some moments, unbearably sad. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-28794507319800272452015-05-13T17:44:00.002-04:002015-05-13T17:44:43.880-04:00I teach because...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
On the first day of class, I always ask students why they chose to take a community health agent class. One young woman answered this way: "Last year, I was at my favorite aunt's house when she had a stroke right in front of me. I immediately lifted her up and got people to help me take her to the hospital. But despite that, she ended up paralyzed and died a few days later. All my neighbors and family told me that it was my fault, that by picking her up so soon, I caused her to become paralyzed and die. I've always felt guilty for killing her." </div>
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In Haiti, this is the common belief - that when someone has a stroke, you cannot touch them. You have to leave them on the ground until they are able to get up of their own strength. If you touch them, you will make them be paralyzed.</div>
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I looked at that student and I told her, "It wasn't your fault. You did the right thing and it was <em>not</em> your fault that your aunt died."</div>
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She stared at me and then very slowly, a smile spread across her face. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."</div>
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That is why we teach.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-5611660274996416442015-05-05T12:33:00.000-04:002015-05-05T12:33:00.076-04:00The Haiti life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I see these things every day in Haiti. And I suddenly realized (about 5 minutes ago!) that I will not see them anymore after I move. How strange. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-16798697132861495022015-04-30T18:17:00.001-04:002015-04-30T18:17:46.762-04:00It's time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I leave Haiti in 25 days. </div>
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It was a hard decision but I feel like it's time. I've lived here for 8 years and I'm ready to be closer to my family, and selfishly, to have forests in my life again. I've also noticed in the last year or two that I am more easily frustrated and less compassionate in the daily challenges and needs that arise, and I prefer to leave before I become bitter or burnt out. </div>
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Knowing that my time is limited makes me appreciate this place more than ever. My friends and I have been doing a lot of biking and hiking in our time off and I'm amazed yet again at the beauty I can find among the thorns and the cacti and the barren hills. I've always wanted to leave Haiti when it was still hard to leave and I am both glad and sad to announce that I've gotten my wish. When I stand atop this mountain with my dear friends, all I can think is that I have a beautiful life here in Gonaives and leaving is not going to be easy. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-16701831355577309272015-04-20T15:48:00.000-04:002015-04-20T15:48:41.280-04:00Where there is no internetDear everyone, <br />
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There's this great book we use in Haiti called "Where There Is No Doctor". It tells you how to care for most accidents and illnesses without the wondrous tools and supplies of the developed world. <br />
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I've decided to write a companion book titled "Where There Is No Internet". It will teach you how to survive in the 21st century without internet, ie how to essentially disappear from the outside world. <br />
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Our internet stopped working about 7 weeks ago. I can get online about once a week at a friends' house, where they have FiOS, so if you were worried that I had died or contracted some rare disease that renders me incapable of blogging, be reassured. I am in great health, but busy living a whole lot of life Off-line. Someday I will sit down and compose several scintillating posts that will summarize everything I've been doing in the last 2 months. In the meantime, Haiti is good, I am good, and life without internet really isn't bad. You should try it sometime. <br />
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Love,<br />
Keziah<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-24200818971711886772015-03-12T15:46:00.000-04:002015-03-12T15:46:56.300-04:00Unconditional love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Her name is Jesula, which in Creole means "Jesus is here." She may be 11 years old, or 7 years old, depending on who you believe. She's in preschool at Jubilee School. She loves to dance and eat hot sauce on her rice. </div>
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She has Down Syndrome. </div>
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His name is Joniel Fils-Aimé, which means "Beloved Son". He is an English teacher at local schools and a teaching assistant for me in the community health classes. He's a husband and a father. He recently had a bad case of typhoid. </div>
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He'd never heard of Down Syndrome. </div>
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Jesula wandered into my classroom one day, as she often does. On that day, I was doing a practical demonstration for my students; I was wearing sterile gloves and holding a catheter dipped in lubricant. I summoned my TA, "Joniel, can you get her please?"</div>
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He called her over to where he sat on a short chair. I wondered what would happen next. My TAs are Haitian; they have been taught their whole lives that handicapped people don't have value. But they have also spent months watching me welcome Jesula the same way I welcome any other kid. So I watched. Joniel and Jesula's faces were at the same height as he talked to her very quietly. I saw her nod, shake her head. And then it happened. He opened his arms and the little girl threw her stumpy arms around his neck and leaned onto his chest. </div>
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It's rare to see a Haitian man be physically affectionate with his own children, never mind a handicapped child that he's not related to. But that's what unconditional love does. Jesula doesn't care if you're white or black; she doesn't care if you're rich or poor, ugly or handsome, educated or illiterate. If we will just give her the chance, all she wants is to love and be loved back. Joniel welcomed her and in return, he received the greatest gift.<br />
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I would have cried if it hadn't been for the lubricant dripping down my arms.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-7204320395641054612015-02-10T08:29:00.000-05:002015-02-10T08:29:18.195-05:00Things we take for granted <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Where does your trash end up? </div>
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When I lived in America, I never really thought about trash. In Boston, I tossed it into a garbage can; in Maine, I tossed it into a dumpster. In both cases, a truck came once a week and my trash disappeared to an unknown destination. </div>
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However in Haiti, it doesn't work like that. There is no official trash pick-up or removal system. Trash merely accumulates in piles here, there and everywhere. </div>
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The city dump is Jubilee. Does that name sound familiar? That's right: Jubilee is where our clinic, school, and community health classes are. In the dump. All day long, I can see trucks and wheelbarrows laden with garbage coming past the school to add to the mountains of waste.</div>
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I take the small bags of trash from my apartment out to Jubilee and burn them in a pit near the school. I hate doing it, but what choice do I have? There is a darling little old man who comes to our street every morning with a shovel and a wheelbarrow; for 25 cents, he'll take our trash away, but to where? For all I know, he simply dumps it around the corner in one of the larger heaps, eventually a city truck scoops it up and delivers it right out to Jubilee. </div>
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The only cheerful thing about the trash is pigs. Haitian pigs eat absolutely everything. <em>Everything.</em> One of our Jubilee families was able to scrape the money together to purchase some pigs, and since then, I have carried all my food-trash straight to them. </div>
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We are close with this particular family. Their oldest, Ifocoeur, has had tuberculosis twice - he just finished his 7th month of treatment - and the family lost a baby son to tuberculosis meningitis 2 years ago despite all our efforts to save him. </div>
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Ifocoeur and his sister Lorisna, attend our school in Jubilee. Ifocoeur in particular has taken to heart the message our teachers share about Jesus. He has remarkable insight, spiritual dreams, and lots of deep questions. What makes all this even more exciting is that fact that Ifocoeur's father, Lifete, is a well-known and feared voodoo priest. </div>
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Sometimes it feels like Christians try to encourage others to believe in Christ out of a desire to tame them, to get them to start behaving right, to get their lives in order. But with Ifocoeur's family, it's all about love. We really love them and we hate hearing Ifocoeur and Lorisna describe with fear the mystical activities that their parents participate in. Voodoo results in fear; the God that I believe in sets us free from fear through love. So we just try to love this family. We visit them and chat with them and play with the kids and "ooh" and "aah" over the new baby. </div>
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And I bring trash to their pigs. That's my personal way of loving them. Who knows? Maybe trash will lead to faith and faith to freedom. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-90175878505036416332015-01-28T17:21:00.001-05:002015-01-28T17:21:23.715-05:00Patricko <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Patricko is a young handicapped boy - some sort of brain damage due to a seizure disorder - and he was abandoned by his aunts, aunts who were receiving payments from the boy's father to care for Patricko while dad worked in the US. It was the second time they'd abandoned him at a local hospital. The first time they'd reclaimed Patricko in a panic when the dad announced that he was coming back to Haiti to visit, but now that dad was gone again, they left the child at the hospital at the mercy of strangers. </div>
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At Haitian hospitals, you only receive care if you have family with you. When the doctor prescribes meds, it's your family who has to go to a pharmacy and buy the meds so the nurse can give them to you. If you need a dressing changed, your family has to pay for the gloves, gauze and tape. If you are hungry, your family has to bring you food and feed it to you. Perhaps a kind person who is taking care of their own family member may help you out, but with a handicapped child, everyone stays away.</div>
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Handicapped kids are considered cursed in Haiti. People don't understand brain damage or developmental delay and they go out of their way to hide, abuse, and shame both the patient and the family. So when Patricko was abandoned, it meant that no one was feeding him, changing his clothes or diapers or sheets, bathing him or giving him any attention at all. Until Anne and Venelia took charge. </div>
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Anne and Venelia graduated from my community health agent class with excellent grades, but more importantly, with hearts of compassion. When I heard about Patricko, I asked them to take care of him until we could find a permanent home. They were on the ward with him every day; they cooked meals for him, washed his soiled linens by hand, played with him, sang to him, and reported to me glowingly that he was starting to make eye contact and trying to sit up. I intended to pay them, but then they told me that a rumor had started circulating around the hospital that a "white person" was paying them $200 every week for their work. They were outraged and explained how they'd announced to the hospital staff with great pride: "We are doing this because it's the right thing to do, not because anyone is paying us." </div>
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After 3 weeks, our friends at Coreluv, an orphanage nearby, agreed to take Patricko. He's on seizure medications and with good nutrition and one-on-one attention, he's progressed immensely. The once emaciated little boy with peeling skin and bald spots on his head from lying in a bed all day is now healthy and solid. He can sit up on his own and the nannies tell me that he keeps trying to stand. Anne and Venelia are convinced that someday he will walk.</div>
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Patricko's transformation is a beautiful story, but to me, the selflessness of Anne and Venelia is even more beautiful. In a country of poverty and desperation, they looked beyond their needs to the needs of one of the least of these and gave him the love he needed to survive. In a country where we frequently see people sitting back, waiting for foreigners to solve all their problems, these two women stepped up and did the right thing without any help from me. Now that is a beautiful story. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-37961389735269575232015-01-12T11:34:00.000-05:002015-01-12T11:34:00.625-05:00Back to paradise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
During Christmas vacation, I brought my friends to Zanglais, the beach retreat center on the south side of the island where I used to take the youth group every year. I thought perhaps time and distance had exaggerated the beauty of the spot in my mind, but when we arrived, it was every bit as wonderful as I remembered. </div>
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A long sandy beach with marvelous waves. Lawns of real grass. A gazebo for playing cards and making music. Delicious meals cooked by local staff. A small mountain peninsula overlooking the bay. Gorgeous sunrises and sunsets.</div>
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There are no photos to capture the magic of the daily excursions I went on, clambering up the steep mountains behind the retreat center, through stream beds and past natural springs, over cow pastures and under mango trees, along little paths used only by goats. I saw flowers that I've never before seen in Haiti and got stuck in thick vines under a canopy of trees. Trees! The Gonaives side of the island has been thoroughly deforested, leaving us with desert, but at Zanglais, 3 hours south of Port-au-Prince, you can still find remnants of the natural jungle that this country used to be. My hikes were the most joyful and invigorating hours of each day.</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-79881784826059348742015-01-07T11:12:00.000-05:002015-01-07T11:12:00.219-05:00Christmas traditions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
My all-time favorite thing about Christmas is caroling. The only thing I don't like about caroling is how cold your toes get after an hour of standing in front of neighbors' houses and singing. The obvious solution is to do your caroling in a warmer location, a location such as, I don't know, maybe Haiti? </div>
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We drove around town in the big blue truck and visited the homes of some of the Jubilee School teachers, as well as some of my neighbors. Christmas caroling is not a tradition in Haiti, so people were a little confused and embarrassed but overall, they seemed thrilled. I particularly loved being able to do something special for the teachers just to let them know that their hard work and dedication to the children of the slums is not overlooked.</div>
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We even got a huge grin out of "The Big Man", our grumpy neighbor. I call that a successful evening. </div>
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<strong>"We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!"</strong>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-40828838167612683202015-01-04T11:00:00.000-05:002015-01-04T11:00:06.589-05:00"He looks just like you!"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The highlight of the month of December was when Judes, our 4th grade teacher, broke his jaw. OK, it wasn't really the jaw breaking that was the highlight; it was the fact that my younger brother decided to come to Haiti for 3 weeks to substitute teach! </div>
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Barnabas taught English, math, and Bible to 14 rowdy 4th graders, ranging in age from 9-16. His Haitian co-teacher, Wilkens, taught French, Creole, and social studies.</div>
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In his free time, Barn went adventuring with me, sometimes accompanied by the teenage girls, Bess, Kara and Emma, who loved and hated having a teasing "big brother" presence. </div>
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He also tutored a few children who used to attend Jubilee School and have been transferred to Haitian schools. He helped out with gym classes and with the planning and practice for the school Christmas program. Barn is fluent in French and he had picked up a lot of Creole on his past visits to Haiti, so he was instantly popular. The kids were always playing with him and talking with him and climbing all over him.</div>
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Everywhere we went, people immediately asked me, "Miss Keziah, is that your brother?" When I answered in the affirmative, the response was always the same: "I knew it because he looks just like you." I thought it was pretty sweet until one day we were all out with our German friends and a lady asked if Aaron, a 22 year old German intern, was my brother. Before I could answer, the lady smiled knowingly and said, "He looks just like you." </div>
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Barn left at Christmas break and the kids have been asking me daily when he's coming back. They are very disappointed when I explain that he has a job in America and so he won't be able to come back. But if this job doesn't work out, we've always got a spot for you here, Barn! </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-14004485171808236462015-01-01T08:30:00.001-05:002015-01-01T08:30:42.338-05:00Happy New Year from Haiti!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-28702045842210645272014-12-17T18:02:00.000-05:002014-12-17T18:04:45.472-05:00"Haiti is the best country"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Last night I was shooting the breeze with my adult neighbors, Bradley and Ketsia. It was a beautiful windy evening and most of the houses on our street didn't have electricity, so everyone was outside. Children were running around, teens were gossiping, and adults were drinking a beer or buying food from the restaurant next door. </div>
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Out of the blue, Ketsia asked me, "Do you think Haiti is a good country?" I gave my standard response about every nation having its positives and negatives, and then she interrupted me. "I think Haiti is the best country! The best country!" she declared emphatically. Beside her Bradley nodded furiously. "That's right," he chimed in. "Everyone in the US thinks that Haitians are constantly miserable because we are poor, but it's not true. Our life is good and we are happy." </div>
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I've thought about what Bradley and Ketsia said. Life in Haiti is good and people are happy, but what makes the goodness and the happiness so remarkable is the fact that they exist in the face of such poverty and oppression. It's easy for me to be happy with a full stomach, a comfy bed and the security of a job, but what if I were hungry, unemployed and sleeping on a piece of cardboard in a mud and stick hut? <br />
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Of course, not all Haitians are in that level of poverty, but they all face financial and health needs that I could never imagine as an American. And yet overall, I see many more smiles every day than frowns, hear much more laughter than weeping, see more rejoicing than complaining. Maybe Ketsia's right; maybe Haiti really is the best country. <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-18488272801042058572014-11-23T08:35:00.002-05:002014-11-23T08:35:58.958-05:00I am not a missionary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Meet Rony. </div>
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Rony is one of the men I am training to replace me. Of the many reasons why I chose him, his strong faith in God and commitment to his family were high on the list. </div>
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Two weeks ago, Rony's 11 year old daughter was hospitalized with vomiting and diarrhea, a common ailment in Haiti. Rony came to work looking flustered and distracted so I sent him back to his family. His daughter died the next day. </div>
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I was shocked and sad and angry. We live in the 21st century; no child should die of vomiting and diarrhea! I let God hear my anger at the injustice of such an event, especially to a man as godly and gentle as Rony. </div>
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My other TA's went with me to visit Rony. We sat in plastic lawn chairs in his one room house; Rony sat on the only bed. He recounted to us in detail everything that happened leading up to his daughter's passing. He told us with pride how his daughter loved to cook for him at night, and how the other children used to tease her about being dad's favorite. </div>
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Her little twin sister sat on her dad's lap. "I'm cold, Daddy," she whispered. He gave her one of his button-down shirts and she draped herself in it. His 12 year old son slipped in and sat on the bed by his father, silently weeping. </div>
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Then Rony smiled at us. "Remember what Job said? 'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.' My girl is dead, but I trust God. He knows what He's doing; He knows why He let us have 11 years with her. Yes, if I can praise Him when things are good, I have to also be able to praise Him when things are bad too." He nodded and said with conviction, <strong>"Because of all this, I am going to love God more than I ever have."</strong></div>
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I am not a missionary. My Haitian co-workers and friends are the missionaries. From them, I learn that trusting in God is not circumstantial. From them, I learn how to pray in every situation. From them, I learn what faith really is. I do not teach them; they teach me. </div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-19815528450164923502014-11-02T10:04:00.002-05:002014-11-02T10:04:25.960-05:00It really has been hot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I know it was hot this summer, and I've suspected that our autumn temperatures have been hotter than usual too. I found confirmation of my hunch in an unusual place: the egg basket. </div>
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The last 3 times that my roommate and I have bought a flat of eggs, we have discovered anywhere from 2 to 8 eggs in each batch that have been essentially hard-boiled by the sun. I'm not joking or exaggerating. When you crack open the egg, it looks like it's been in boiling water for a few minutes. </div>
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I won't show you photos or try to describe the eggs we've also purchased recently that are rotten. I'll leave that up to your imagination. </div>
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I've been told that there is some sort of natural protective coating that American eggs lose in the cleaning process which makes them require refrigeration, while here in Haiti, our eggs are un-cleaned and therefore able to be stored anywhere. I buy my eggs on the street, from a lady who has a dozen flats of eggs, just sitting in the sun. I've bought my eggs that way for years, but I have never encountered sun-boiled eggs before. </div>
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I think this means I'm right. It really has been hot. </div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-9150366312504474552014-10-25T15:47:00.001-04:002014-10-25T15:47:42.534-04:00In my free time...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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... I prepare lesson plans, gather materials for class activities, write exams, grade exams, and do all the chores that keep a Haitian household running, things like shopping at the outdoor market, pumping water by hand, washing clothes by hand, killing cockroaches and so on. I also have great fun in my free time. <br />
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Mexican dinner on the roof. Stunning performances of Cinderella. Solitary expeditions along the river. Evening hikes up the mountain to watch the sunset.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-73483712940676368122014-10-19T09:48:00.001-04:002014-10-19T09:54:16.105-04:00DeathWhen I got home yesterday, the first thing my neighbor said was, "Someone at church died." <br />
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The"someone" was Nordy, a young man with fantastic dreadlocks who runs the sound system for our church. Nordy was shy but we all loved when he would ask for a microphone and break out into his own spontaneous worship songs. Now he's dead, from a car accident, they say.<br />
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I came upstairs and opened a document titled "Death" that I'd written in June and decided not to post. It reads as follows:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">When I lived in the US, hearing about someone dying was a
rare occurrence. My grandmother passed away when I was 8. After that, it was 5 years until death touched me again when the supervisor at my volunteer position died without telling anyone he was sick. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Perhaps it’s because my years in the US were as a child, a
teen and a college student. Perhaps I was too wrapped up in my own world to
hear when a neighbor or a classmate lost someone. Perhaps I didn’t notice
because we don’t grieve openly or wear mourning clothes in the US like many
other countries do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Whatever the reason, I have been stunned again and again at
how common death is in Haiti. In the past 2 weeks, a lot of people have died.
Our nurse Wisline’s nephew died. Our nursing assistant, Samuela, lost her 37
year-old sister. Aussidieu, a neighbor in Jubilee, lost his 3 year-old nephew.
An elderly patient in our blood pressure program passed away. My next-door
neighbor lost her 27 year-old nephew after spending 2 months at the hospital
with him. And JB, our other nursing assistant, found 3 unknown babies dead,
half burned in the trash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">All that in 2 weeks.</span></div>
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As I sit on my porch, writing this blog post, I can hear,
very clearly, a woman mourning on my block. I
don’t know who she is or who died, but I know Haitian custom enough to know
that what I’m hearing right now is the first grief, the initial response to the
news that a loved one has passed. Add this death to the count.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">So much death makes me melancholy. But it also makes me value life more than I ever have. In this place where death is so real and so close, I find myself frequently whispering a prayer, "Thank You, Father, that I am alive." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">I want it to change, of course. I fairly rage inside at the news of someone dying from an easily preventable disease. But I keep remembering the lesson I learned after the earthquake, that death is not the worst thing that can happen and that it does not in any way mean that God wasn't with us, and I wonder if perhaps the Haiti way isn't the more natural way to live. Maybe we should all live with death only a breath away. Maybe we should all live with our eyes a little wider open, seeing the preciousness of each day. Maybe death is actually a gift buried deep in grief. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Only He knows. So I sit on the porch, listen to my neighbor wail, and trust that He knows.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-36066234593286106642014-10-14T07:40:00.001-04:002014-10-14T07:40:27.969-04:00Darline and Angela<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I first met Darline about 18 months ago when her grandmother brought her to our malnutrition program at Klinik Jubilee. She was skinny and weak but what struck me most was her disposition. Most malnourished kids have this empty, almost expressionless look, but Darline looked utterly forlorn. </div>
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Months of MedikaMamba helped her nutritional status, and then we enrolled her in Jubilee School. She has gotten healthier and stronger, but her chronic sadness hasn't gone away. Whenever I see her, she is wearing a face of rejection and loneliness that is just heart-breaking. I have seen our preschool teachers succeed in making her smile, but until recently I had never seen her act carefree and truly childlike.</div>
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A few days ago, Darline showed up at the door of my classroom. She was silently sad, as usual, nodding or shaking her head in response to my first questions, but then just standing, downcast, staring at the white tile floor. I tickled her, I kissed her, I told her about Katie's pet rabbit. </div>
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Nothing. </div>
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And then a little voice piped up from the path in front of clinic. "Darline, come on!" </div>
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It was Angela, the 5 year old daughter of our school cleaning lady. Darline lifted her head, a huge smile lit up her face, and she fairly danced across the rocks and dirt to meet her friend. They threw their arms about each other and traipsed off together. </div>
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I may have started crying.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-64260943358252164912014-10-13T07:21:00.000-04:002014-10-13T07:21:00.291-04:00My graduates<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
There's something really special about walking into clinic and realizing that all the staff working in the front room are graduates of my program. Of course, I loved and was proud of our first NAs who had learned from Martha, the nurse who founded the classes that I teach, but there's something different about looking at 2 people who came into my class knowing nothing and to see them now giving advice about hypertension prevention, doing dressing changes, testing urine, weighing babies, and filling out admission forms. It's my "Proud Mama" moment of the day, every day.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-16431002051820653682014-10-11T07:34:00.000-04:002014-10-11T07:34:00.110-04:00Teaching, bouncing, teaching<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I started my new set of classes last week. I've got the classic adult community health agent course, the high school community health agent course that I added 9 months ago, and this semester, I've thrown in an advanced community health course for my top graduates and some students who are in lab tech school or who are already nursing assistants. All in all, I have 60 students and classes 5 days a week. </div>
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On my second day of teaching this fall, I was told that the school cafeteria, which is also where I teach, was going to be under construction the next day. </div>
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Oh. </div>
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Suddenly I was scrambling to try to find a space large enough to fit my classes, particularly the high school class, which, including TAs, boasts over 30 people. Construction started, and I moved benches into the back room of clinic. </div>
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Class is a little more intimate, significantly hotter and stuffier, but at least we all fit...if we squeeze!</div>
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Fortunately the construction has been going very quickly and it looks like I might be able to return to my usual spot in a week or two. <br />
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My TAs were completely unfazed by the bounce to a new classroom. They continue to teach and assist me with great gusto. Gerard in particular (below in black) likes to throw a few words in when I'm teaching, to re-explain what I am already explaining. He also has a tendency to forget that he is not a student anymore and when I ask questions in class, I want the students to answer, not him! But as we work the little quirks out, it gets better and better and I'm so glad to have them there. Sometimes I wonder how I ever got by without TAs before.</div>
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So here we are, teaching in the clinic. Sometime soon, we will get bounced back over to the cafeteria...until the school decides to start having dance lessons or karate in that space. Flexible, flexible, flexible. That's the name of the game here in Haiti. </div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-41149823039396666802014-10-08T06:51:00.000-04:002014-10-08T06:51:18.341-04:00Good-bye Grace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Our clinic director and my dear friend Grace is leaving us to take a position as a project manager in Cap Haitian, on the north side of the island. We are excited for her opportunities there but very sad to see her go. Cody Smith, an American nurse who lives in Jubilee with her husband and 2 teenage daughters, has taken over as clinic director, and she organized a good-bye party for Grace at Klinik Jubilee. </div>
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I brought the music and the funny hats.</div>
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Most of the staff gave speeches, expressing their appreciation for Grace. Two staff members, nurse's aide JB and nurse Wisline, refused to speak because they were so upset. The worst or best part, depending on how you look at it, was when Katie arrived with 7 kids representing the elementary students at Jubilee School. They had made "thank you" cards for Grace and ceremonially presented them to her one by one. One of them, Ifocoeur, was very sick on Grace's first ever visit to Haiti, and since then, he has held a special place in her heart. When it came his turn to hand over a packet of cards and hug Grace, I don't believe there was a dry eye in the room. </div>
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Of our original staff from our opening in 2012, none are working full-time for us anymore. We sent Vesline, our nurse, to midwifery school, and she now works for another NGO and does teaching part-time at Klinik Jubilee. Oscar is our new clinic assistant director, but we are sponsoring him to nursing school, so he is only around during school vacations or after hours. Samuela left for personal reasons, and Valmy has simply gotten too busy with the English Institute that he co-founded. However, as Grace always says "Staff, current or former, are always welcome," so we often have former staff popping in and out, bringing a little extra enthusiasm and excitement to an average day.</div>
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It's funny - when you start out to build a health care center, like Grace did, sometimes you get more than you aimed for. She got a health center, but she also got a large Klinik Jubilee family. </div>
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Nice work, Grace. We will miss you! </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-55596366909619039732014-09-29T16:08:00.000-04:002014-09-29T16:08:00.213-04:00Just a few days ago ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
... I returned to Haiti from 3 weeks in New England. Time with my family, time with Chop Point kids and adults, time to pick berries, time to attend 2 weddings, and time to walk barefoot in that miraculous stuff called "grass".</div>
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When I got to Haiti, I stayed in Port-au-Prince for a few days to reconnect with a family that had adopted three children from HFC and NLL, where I lived and volunteered during my earliest months in Haiti, back in 2007. The family was visiting Haiti with all but one of their children and it was great to see how grown up the Haitians kids are - Bernadin, below eating a mango, is 22 now, and Lucy, in the purple chair, is 8 - and to meet their American siblings for the first time. </div>
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I also popped by Dorothy's and played with Lovena. She is in school and she is talking, jabbering in Creole, answering questions and parroting things that I say. She even knows how to say "Cheese" in English when asked to pose for a photo. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-54519993011579273552014-08-23T08:11:00.000-04:002014-08-23T08:11:40.801-04:00Graduations<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
All my graduations follow a similar pattern. The students sing, the "godfather" and "godmother" of the class (sort a combination of sponsors and commencement speakers) give speeches, and then I give out diplomas and honorary first scrubs. </div>
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Then all the graduates and I pose for an eternity while the spectators takes photos. </div>
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Then the frenzy begins. Everyone wants to take individual photos with their spouses, children, their own graduation "godparents", and of course with me, their beloved professor. <br />
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Smiling for that many photos can get quite exhausting! </div>
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The best moment during the photo-athon is this: someone I have never met before grabs me, and says, "May I have a photo with you?!" And next thing I know, I'm posing with a complete stranger. I promise you, no exaggeration, this has happened at all of my six graduations. </div>
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My students always give me a "thank you" gift. It's generally an ugly picture frame or an ugly flower print. However, my students who graduated in May came up with something a little more creative. </div>
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I was relieved to discover that the giant present was not an enormous hideous picture frame, but a custom-made plaque which reads: <strong>"Class of 2014 - Miss Keziah, We will never forget you."</strong></div>
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I think it's quite nice. But all of my Haitian friends reminded me that the students' choice of words is precisely what people put on the banners that get hung in a church or neighborhood whenever a well-known personage has died. "We will never forget you." We now refer to it as my death plaque. </div>
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The most memorable moment in any graduation thus far happened yesterday. At the end of the ceremony my students made me stand in the front of the room and they all lined up before me. One by one, they walked up to me, kissed me the ceremonial kiss on each cheek, and thanked me in their own words. It was a very sweet touch. <br />
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It generally takes me 2 months to realize that my students are no longer new, and that I actually like them a lot. By the time I have this revelation, class is almost over and graduation is bittersweet. Most of these students I will not see again, and if I do, it won't be the same because we won't be in the camaraderie of the classroom. Now I have to break in a new group of students who I most certainly do not like yet. Oh, well. Give me another 2 months and the whole cycle will repeat. <br />
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Congratulations to all my students -- to all my graduates! Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515468312840540326.post-61829552205630394572014-08-15T11:54:00.000-04:002014-08-15T11:54:42.613-04:00Pirate Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I bet you didn't know that pirates played a role in the history of Haiti. In fact, all those movies that show swashbuckling pirates wreaking havoc in the Caribbean and hiding out on the Island of Tortuga are based on fact. There really were French <em>boucaniers</em> (hence the word "buccaneers") living on Tortuga or Isle de la Tortue, in French, who made their living hunting on the island of Hispaniola, which was under Spanish control. As the wildlife grew scarce, the <em>boucaniers</em> switched to piracy, attacking and looting ships on the crossings between Europe and the New World. Eventually, their harassment of the waterways was a large factor in Spain relinquishing half of the island of Hispaniola to France, setting the stage for the creation of the nations we know as Haiti and the Dominican Republic. </div>
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In honor of our glorious and questionable history of piracy, this week the children at Jubilee School celebrated Pirate Day! Arrrrrrgh!</div>
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Everyone got costume pieces and pirate tattoos. The students made treasure maps, and crafted daggers and swords.</div>
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Even our Haitian teachers got into the spirit of the event! Fresnel and Wilkens had the job of giving the kids face-painted moustaches and beards. I think they got a little carried away...<br />
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Somehow moustaches and beards became Indian war paint! </div>
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The festivities culminated in an extensive treasure hunt, which took the pirates all over the school and clinic grounds, and finally to a long-lost treasure trove! The kids eagerly dug it out and returned triumphantly bearing a chest full of gold and jewels, which oddly enough turned out to be edible and quite delicious. </div>
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I have conducted this kind of fun and games for children my whole life, so it seems quite normal to wear a silly costume or be out late at night burying treasure in preparation for the next day's activities. But for kids from Jubilee and even teachers from other parts of Gonaives, something as simple as Pirate Day opens their minds to a whole new realm of creativity. I never realized how important having an imagination was until I came to Haiti where imagination is not a common thing. The lack thereof affects everything, from the way people raise their children to the way they teach, from the way they relate to God to the way they try to make money. Some creativity and some imagination could go a long way here - fathers might find an alternative to beating their children for discipline, teachers might do more than demand memorization, young people might learn to understand the scriptures themselves, and women might choose to sell something that will actually make a profit, instead of selling the same thing that all their neighbors sell. <br />
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And even if none of that happens, at least the 45 kids who tramped around Jubilee all day yesterday looking for treasure had a good time and a full belly. That's something. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04385092498153167417noreply@blogger.com0