SEPTEMBER 2010

Men Anpil Chay Pa Lou

L avarice’s voice was filled with energy and hope. It was the start of a new decade—January 1, 2010. “Happy New Year, Margo! This year we celebrate the tenth anniversary of the programs in Tiplas Kazo.” I listened to his message with a smile. “Everyone on the food and education team is committed and will continue to work hard for the children. We are making progress, piti piti. We send our love to you and the What If? Foundation.” I saved these words and listened again several times. They captured the determination and heart of our Haitian partners. 2009 had been a difficult year. 2010 would surely be better.

In January 2009, our beloved Fr. Gerry developed a lung disorder. His breathing deteriorated over several months, and the doctors couldn’t figure out why. He tried an oxygen tank, but his condition worsened. On May 27, 2009, he died in a Miami hospital and was buried in Cavaillon, Haiti, the village where he was born. I was able to visit him on my way back from Port-au-Prince a few days before he passed. He was hooked up to a ventilator and unconscious, but I still whispered an update in his ear, sharing the latest news about the food and education programs he loved so much. When I said good-bye, I knew it was for the last time.

Over the nine years we worked together, there had been many times I was afraid Fr. Gerry would die. But he always survived. Through the coup d’état in 2004, his two political imprisonments, and cancer, Fr. Gerry seemed invincible. None of us were prepared for this loss. His death devastated millions of Haitians, especially in the St. Clare’s community and in Miami’s “Little Haiti” neighborhood, where Fr. Gerry worked for many years on behalf of Haitian immigrants. Across the United States and around the world, friends and admirers remembered this tireless advocate for the poor, and grieved.

I went to his funeral at the Notre Dame d’Haiti Catholic Center on the northeast side of Miami. The streets and courtyard were packed with thousands of members of the South Florida Haitian community mourning the loss of one of their greatest leaders. The church building could hold just a fraction of those who came that morning, so chairs were arranged on the lawn outside, and loudspeakers were set up to broadcast the service. I came with Fr. Gerry’s sister Francine and other members of his family, and we were allowed to enter the church through a side door. As we wove through the hallway, I lost my grip on Francine’s hand and she disappeared from sight. Pushed along with the crowd, I eventually found myself in the center aisle of the sanctuary. It was standing room only. I was dripping with sweat from the heat and humidity, unable to move either forward or backward.

After the opening prayer, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. An elderly Haitian woman in a floral dress invited me to sit with her. Her kind brown eyes assured me there was space in the pew. The young man next to her nodded and helped pull me into their row. Somehow my hips squeezed between theirs. Bonded by our sweat and love for Fr. Gerry, we sang, prayed, and cried together during the two-hour service. My mind flashed back to my first visit to St. Clare’s when Fr. Gerry led the congregation so passionately in the St. Jude prayer and the lady next to me drew out the letters “S.O.S.” That day had changed my life forever.

Now, nine and a half years later, I was sitting in a similar church, warmly welcomed again by a Haitian community I did not know.

But Fr. Gerry wasn’t leading the service. His smile, powerful voice, and inspirational message would never radiate from the pulpit again. My heart ached with aloneness. I worried. How would the work we created together continue without him? But the thought of this question brought a smile to my face, and I imagined Fr. Gerry’s response—a hearty laugh and a knowing look that all would be well. A Creole saying that I had found particularly comforting came to mind. Men anpil chay pa lou. Many hands make the load lighter.

Despite this devastating loss, the St. Clare’s community did indeed pull together, determined to keep the food and education programs going strong and Fr. Gerry’s vision of transformation alive. Before he died, Fr. Gerry had asked Lavarice Gaudin, a close friend and associate, to oversee the programs in his absence. In the months following Fr. Gerry’s passing, the seventh annual summer camp took place as scheduled and transitioned in the fall into an after-school program. Nearly 200 children were enrolled with scholarships for the 2009–2010 school year, up to 1,500 meals were now being served out of the rectory kitchen each weekday, and there was great excitement over a small community garden that had produced its first tomatoes and eggplants. All of these programs were funded by the What If? Foundation, which, thanks to its loyal and generous donors, was holding steady through a difficult U.S. economy. When Lavarice’s New Year’s voicemail arrived, we were all hoping for a quiet year, one that would allow everyone to take a deep breath and absorb the many changes as we continued to strengthen the programs, one small step at a time.

But on January 12, a catastrophic earthquake, the first in Haiti’s history, took the lives of nearly 300,000 people. The city of Port-au-Prince was virtually destroyed. Concrete-block homes crumbled. Hotels and office buildings crashed to the ground. The National Cathedral collapsed. The Presidential Palace tipped on its side. Almost two million people were left homeless.

When all three phones in my office rang at once, I knew something terrible must have happened. My body trembled when I heard the news, knowing that the fragile homes in Port-au-Prince couldn’t possibly withstand a 7.0 earthquake. My fears were confirmed with each television report. I tried to get through to the St. Clare’s neighborhood, but with phone lines and the Internet down, it took two long days before we received any word.

Finally, Lavarice called, exhausted and relieved. He had returned to Miami a couple of weeks earlier and, after hundreds of tries, got through by phone to St. Clare’s. The rectory building was still standing and the entire forty-member food and education team had survived. So had all the children who had been at the food program and after-school program that day. The St. Clare’s Church was also standing, as were most of the homes in the community, although a school a few blocks away had collapsed, and it was feared that children were inside.

The next day, I received a message from Manmi Dèt’s niece reporting that everyone in the Dépestre family was alive. Their homes were cracked but didn’t fall in the earthquake. They were living in their yard with sixty neighbors, sharing food salvaged from their homes and rationing water from a water tank. Miraculously, the Tiplas Kazo neighborhood did not suffer the same level of destruction as other parts of Port-au-Prince.

Traumatized by the earthquake and afraid or unable to go back into their homes, families filled every open space—yards, fields, roadside walkways. Some huddled under sheets tied together to form tents. Others pieced together scraps of cardboard to shield themselves from the blazing sun. They shared any food and water they were able to take from their homes, and it quickly ran out, including all the reserves at the rectory. The aching cries of mourning were heard throughout the neighborhood—at all hours of the day and night—as were prayers and singing, as people drew on their faith to help them survive.

Five days after the earthquake, Lavarice arrived at the St. Clare’s rectory with the first of many truckloads of canned food and bottled water. He had flown into the Dominican Republic, which shares the island of Hispaniola with Haiti, and with the help of another nonprofit, the Zakat Foundation, was able to get relief supplies across the border and into the neighborhood. When the truck pulled off the main road and started the steep climb to the rectory, hundreds of people, desperate with hunger and thirst, followed. Even though Tiplas Kazo is just a few miles from the Port-au-Prince airport and the residents had seen plane after plane land, this was the first aid that had reached them.

At my home in Berkeley, I felt a million miles away. Part of me longed to be at St. Clare’s working alongside Lavarice and the whole team. Another part wasn’t sure I could handle it. And I knew I was needed the most at my desk, helping spread the word and raising money. Caitlin Szymanski, the What If? Foundation’s assistant director, and I worked long hours fielding calls, responding to e-mails, and sending out updates. A beautiful outpouring of compassion and donations gave the What If? Foundation the resources needed to pay for truckload after truckload of food and water.

Our ten-year partnership with the St. Clare’s community had prepared us for this moment. Since the food program was Haitian-run and already in place, we were able to respond immediately. Some NGOs not rooted in Haitian communities were criticized for slow and ineffective distribution of aid. We made many attempts to link with large relief organizations in hope that they would share supplies we could distribute to the thousands of people coming to the rectory searching for help. But our efforts only resulted in dead ends and frustration.

Daily phone calls from Lavarice kept us connected to the devastating reality. In one urgent call, he told us:

No one can be here without crying. Everyone is suffering. So many hurt. So many dead. So many without food and water. There’s nothing. Everyone is waiting. We are the first group to be able to provide any relief to the St. Clare’s area. The need is so great… There are babies—five months, two months, two weeks old. We’ve brought supplies to their mothers. We will help as many people as God gives us the opportunity to help. Please thank everyone who is supporting the What If? Foundation. Without them we would not be able to respond in this way.

Dozens of strong aftershocks rumbled through Port-au-Prince, shaking the rectory and the entire city. No one felt safe under a roof, so the distribution of canned goods took place in the rectory yard. Eventually the aftershocks subsided, and shoring up tremendous courage, the food program’s twenty-six cooks walked back into the kitchen. They had served meals through the dangerous months following the coup d’état in 2004, after hurricanes and the 2008 global rice-price crisis, and in the midst of their grief for Fr. Gerry’s passing, and now they were determined to make sure that those who were hungry and suffering from the earthquake received hot meals prepared with love.

The cooking team picked up their cutting knives, peelers, pots, and pans, fired up the stoves, and spooned plate after plate of rice, beans, and vegetables—as before the earthquake. But now the number of children and adults had doubled from 1,500 each weekday to 3,000 or more.

When I went to Port-au-Prince in April 2010, I couldn’t wait to see Manmi Dèt and Nennenn. We sat in straw chairs outside Nennenn’s home, next to the little pool where I’d swum in my muumuu. Now the pool was cracked and empty. Nennenn poured me a cup of café au lait and asked about my husband, Tom, who I married in 2002, and Luke, who was now seventeen years old. She translated my answers to Manmi Dèt, who listened eagerly. We reminisced about the food program and how it and the What If? Foundation had grown over the years. Nennenn told me about her job at a school lunch program that distributed thousands of meals each day for students throughout Port-au-Prince. She was extremely busy, as students were just starting to return to school. Many of the school buildings had been damaged or destroyed in the earthquake, so classes were taking place under open-air temporary structures.

As we talked in the shade, sweat dripping down our necks, I noticed how much both Manmi Dèt and Nennenn’s faces had aged since my visit the previous year. I asked them about the day of the earthquake. Manmi Dèt took my hand and held it in her lap. Nennenn looked off into the distance and a haunted expression washed over her face.

Nennenn closed her eyes and shook her head. “You can’t imagine, Margo. You saw it on television, but it was so much worse. All around us people were dying, screaming with terrible injuries. I still pass every night with horror nightmares of people crying.”

Nennenn took a deep breath and continued, tears welling up in her eyes. “Some of my friends died.… It’s so hard, so sad, but what can we do? We have to go on and do the best we can.”

We hugged good-bye for a long time in the yard. A rooster crowed and the palm branches swayed with a warm breeze, reminding me of the summer I lived there with Luke and all they had taught me about life and faith. And now, with the challenges magnified hundredfold, I wondered how much more the people of Haiti could bear, how much louder the St. Jude prayer would need to be sung.

The next day, I worked at the rectory, standing at the kitchen window helping place plate after plate of hot, delicious food in the hands of children. The line seemed endless, stretching through the rectory yard and out into the street. Chests pressed against backs, the children kept rounding the corner. Older brothers and sisters held the hands of younger siblings. Mothers carried their toddlers, dusty, hot, and tired from sleeping on the ground. The weight of what they’d been through showed in their eyes, which were often listless. I worried that the three- and four-year olds might drop their heavy plates as they climbed up the stairs to the tables. But not one did.

That day at the rectory, I missed Fr. Gerry so much. But I felt his presence in the love pouring out of the kitchen and in the sounds of spoons scraping plates. I could almost hear his voice encouraging all the cooks, greeting the children, and whispering “piti piti na rive” in my ear.

It’s been nine months since the earthquake. Astonishingly, despite the billions of dollars pledged for reconstruction, very little positive change has taken place in Port-au-Prince. When I visited this past April, I didn’t see one bulldozer at work, not one piece of heavy lifting equipment in action. Instead I saw Haitian citizens clearing bits and pieces of concrete with their hands and using wheelbarrows to move debris to the side of the road. To date, only 2 percent of the rubble has been removed. According to Lavarice, the city looks about the same as it did right after the earthquake. One and a half million people continue to live in tents or under tarps with no information on when or how they will be able to move into safe shelter.

Despite the destruction and suffering surrounding the St. Clare’s community, the determination and faith of the people remain unwavering. The food and education programs continue week after week. Meals are being served, the summer camp just ended, children are being enrolled in school, and the after-school program is about to begin.

Much still needs to be done. Sometimes I worry about the vast number of details and how everything will be paid for. But when I look back over the last ten years and how we’ve gone from serving 500 to 15,000 meals a week, I remember what I’ve learned from my Haitian friends about the power of small steps and of many hands. Men anpil chay pa lou— Many hands make the load lighter. This encourages me to have faith and remain open to possibilities.

What if?