Helping Haiti, Helped Me

It was a few months earlier that I had joined a group called KidCare International on a trip to Haiti, not long after their devastating earthquake. I found myself in a remote village outside of Heche (40 miles outside of Port-Au-Prince) providing clothes to women that lived on dirt floors and children that only ate one meal a day; meals that were donated and flown into the country. Rice and beans.

At first, while driving around the devastated Haiti, I felt a compulsion to carry a sidearm or a rifle by my side. A residual feeling from my time spent in Iraq. It had become instinct to fear brown countryside's, impoverished people, and the smells of burning trash. Instinct to trace the horizon looking out for threats. But the feeling quickly dissipated with every interaction and every communication, as some of the kindest and most polite people I had ever met embraced my presence. My nerves settled and I welcomed a mission of mercy versus one of occupation.

Although I was not one, the group I was with were Baptist and taught others in Haiti how to be Baptist ministers. In turn, the newly Haitian ministers built small wooden churches with tin roofs out in the small villages they lived in, which acted as a central hub for basic schooling and nutrition. Despite my own opinions on religion, I could not deny the benefit it had in rural Haiti to create stability, reduce starvation, and provide education. The alternative was Voodoo, and from stories I heard while there, Voodoo and witchdoctors clearly did more harm than good. One such story occurred a few weeks earlier, when a woman in a trance-like state and self-medicated on narcotics thought she had been told by "God" to cut off her arm. And so, happy to help her with her request, one of her drug-induced Haitian friends took a machete to her elbow and left a bloody stump where a perfectly functioning arm once sat. The woman came running to the Humanitarian Compound we were staying at, still high on drugs, seeking medical attention and showing no remorse over her severed limb.

One afternoon, I found myself sitting inside and at the front of one of the small churches, in a village of less than one hundred people; mostly children. I sat as an honored guest on the stage, in front of everyone. The service started and the Haitian minister spoke, followed by other speakers, some of them from our group. The contrast between our white skin and their dark skin made us easily recognizable celebrities. My blond hair made me a rock star. Halfway through the service, Haitian women dressed in their finest church clothes - probably their only church clothes - with bright white dresses and blue embroidery, entered from the back of the church clapping their hands and chanting with a hum. Twelve of them in all broke out singing to their own rhythm while staying in perfect harmony. They danced to their seats and remained standing. Some voices stood out more than others, but all were beautiful. I watched mesmerized; astounded by the voices and by the emotion. It was singing on a scale greater than I had ever heard before. Better than well-rehearsed vocals on the Grammys.

Voices from nowhere and with no home. Voices with no recognition. As they continued on, their lungs took deep breaths and filled with air in order to belt out song that I swore was supported by microphones; but they were not. Pure emotion gave credence to their beauty. One woman stood out above the rest and her voice carried those around her to greater heights. I imagined that her tortured soul created the sound she released as it desperately tried escaping her body. I wondered what difficult life she led to wear her emotion so freely on her sleeve. My own emotion overwhelmed me and a desire to give into it almost broke me. Tears welled in the corner of my eyes. My lungs and body shook to restrain them from flowing freely. I felt what she felt and if I were not sitting in front for all to see, sobbing would have consumed me like nothing I had ever felt in my life. Empathy overcame me. And love.

After returning home, it took little time before I desired to return. Despite all I had done in my life; despite all I had done with my life; I had found my greatest happiness in Haiti, freely helping others against what I felt was injustice. I knew then that it should be my life mission to return, if not to Haiti, then to other developing countries, in order to help those in need. But how could I help when I was stuck? And how could I explain this to someone that would refuse to go with me?