Thursday, 19 February 2015

I’ve thought a lot recently about feeling trapped.  In Tabarre, we aren’t permitted to walk anywhere.  There are armed guards at the gates to all of the NPH properties, and we have to find a driver and request a ride anytime we want to go somewhere, whether it’s work, mass, or the grocery store.  If the trip is far, the ride can be expensive, and our drivers technically end work at 7 PM, so if we want to go anywhere after that, we know that the drivers—who we see every day, and consider our friends—will have to stay late, after already having usually worked more than 12 hours.  There have also been many manifestations recently because of the gas strikes and the political unrest, so even if we have a car and a driver, the road might be unsafe and impassable.  When you’re used to coming and going at will, walking anywhere you like, and maybe even having your own vehicle, the lack of mobility can start to feel oppressive.  Our community at the villa is relatively small; regardless of how much you like people, it can be challenging to spend the majority of your time for months on end with the same small group of people, day in and day out.  It’s easy to complain about the freedoms and comforts we miss.

However, when I start to feel stressed and overwhelmed by the living conditions here, I have to step back and remind myself that I came here by choice.  I am fortunate to have been welcomed to work and live in Haiti, and I have an education, resources, and a United States passport, which means I have the freedom to leave at will.  All of these things are privileges, and ones that many Haitians do not have.  So maybe I can’t even begin to really comprehend what it is to feel trapped.

Tuesday, 13 January 2015

"Life has no other discipline to impose, if we would but realize it, than to accept life unquestioningly. Everything... we deny, denigrate or despise, serves to defeat us in the end. What seems nasty, painful, evil, can become a source of beauty, joy and strength, if faced with an open mind. Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to realize it as such."

- Henry Miller

After five and a half months in Haiti, I returned home to the states for the first time so that I could spend the holidays with my family.  I was sad to leave and miss the NPH festivities with the children, but I missed my family and friends intensely and I needed a break.

I wondered if I would experience reverse culture shock going back to the states—would it be strange to return to a place where things seem so much easier?  Would I feel lost and out of place, or outraged at the excess, or angry at what sometimes seems like First World oblivion to the suffering on the rest of the earth….  But I felt none of those things.  I felt like I had never left.

One thing I was surprised to feel when I first arrived in Haiti was a lifting of my guilt—I had always felt badly for having so much when others have so little, and for not working more, or harder, or constantly…but being here made it suddenly clear how none of that was my fault.  None of us choose where we are born, or why, or how...what we get to choose is what we do with it.  

As much as I love Haiti, it was hard to leave my family again and know that I might not see them for another six months.  Living in Haiti is hard.  The villa was entirely full of visitors when I got back (including five in my own house), and the day after I returned was the fifth anniversary of the earthquake, so it was long and emotional.  I was exhausted and overwhelmed and felt like I was walking around in a fog.  For some reason, I was also dreading going back to work—I was homesick and anxious, and I wondered if my coworkers would be upset that I had stayed away for longer than I had planned or if I had forgotten all my Creole.  I woke up with a sense of sadness and trepidation, and I dragged myself to breakfast and then to the hospital, my apprehension increasing with each passing minute.  I forced myself to climb the stairs and round the corner to the NICU, and I slowly turned the knob and slipped inside the unit, quietly shutting the door behind me.  Suddenly, the air was filled with shrieks.

“Catherine!  Catherine!”  My coworkers, jumping up and down, ran to hug me.  And to kiss my cheeks.  And to ask about my holidays.  And to tell me they were worried I wasn’t coming back.  At that moment, for the first time since I had been back, I felt my sadness lift and be replaced by a sense of peace and happiness.  This was why I came to Haiti.  Throughout the struggles and the sorrow, the worries and self-doubt, there is so much beauty and redemption to be found here.  I have been privileged to be welcomed here and my only hope is that I can leave having given even a fraction of what I have already received.   

Sunday, 14 December 2014

  
"Oh my God, are we going to hit them?!"

In the split second my eyes snapped forward and saw the white car rushing up to meet us, the piercing squeal of skidding tires filled me with instantaneous panic.  A moment later, I heard shattering glass and my head slammed into the seat in front of me.  Then, silence.

  

Less than an hour earlier, sitting in a lounge chair with my toes curling in the sand, I had been thinking about how grateful I was for this day at the beach, surrounded by my friends.  As I listened to the waves crashing on the shore and watched the sun slowly sinking in the sky, it occurred to me that it had been hours since I had thought about work, or our safety, or death, or any of the other things that I worry about here.  We had swam, and joked, and jumped on the floating trampoline, and shoved each other into the water, and I had laughed harder than I had laughed for longer than I could remember.  I felt like a kid.  I knew we had to go back to work tomorrow, but I was happy to have a day out of Tabarre, away from the dust and the walls and the chaos and the sadness.  I was happy just to be here, with people that I had grown to love in the past few months.

Although it’s true everywhere that the line between life and death is thin, in Haiti, for some reason it often seems even more tenuous.  We were fortunate that day.  The aftermath of the crash could have been much more serious; somebody could have been critically injured, or worse.  But we all walked away, and the accident gave me the opportunity to once again be grateful for everything we have here, and to remember why I wanted to come here in the first place.  The frustration and fatigue I had been feeling for the past few weeks suddenly seemed insignificant.  There will always be challenges in life, no matter where in the world you live; one of the biggest challenges is simply to remain aware of all that you’ve been given.  To have the ability to work hard at things that matter to you and to love people unconditionally—if you are still able to do these things, you are living well.            

Thursday, 27 November 2014

There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest. -Elie Wiesel

This month has brought a huge number of visiting teams to the villa where we live, which has been both rewarding and challenging.  It’s always interesting to meet new people and to hear about the great work they’re doing here, but it can also be exhausting to have a constant parade of strangers coming in and out and to keep having the same conversations over and over (and over) again.  In general, though, it has been a good opportunity to reflect on the many things I’ve learned in Haiti and to refocus on my long-term goals for my time here.

Having short-term visitors working in the hospital has been especially eye-opening.  Some of the short-term visitors have displayed a dismaying lack of sensitivity—visiting nurses have come to our NICU to see the unit and to “help,” which is both well-meaning and completely inappropriate.  No nurse would ever think of entering an ICU in the United States without prior authorization, much less expect to work with patients there.  I have witnessed nurses walk onto our unit, ignore the staff (because they haven’t learned any Creole), and start touching our babies (without permission, without scrubbing, and without bothering to wash their hands between patients).  While it’s true that Haiti is a poor country and many foreigners come here to volunteer and offer aid, this does not mean that standard rules of conduct are obsolete.  Other visitors have made much more of an effort to engage with the staff and speak the language, which is a great start, but I still feel like there is a lack of understanding in their judgments of our NICU—these people have not taken (or had) the opportunity to begin to comprehend the culture and the life here.  It’s easy for outsiders to come in and point out all of the problems on our unit, but the issues that I have seen—lack of resources, staff shortages, poor and uneducated parents—are endemic to Haiti, and not ones that can be effortlessly solved in two weeks or one month.  Every time I hear the statement, “They just don’t care,” I cringe.  While I am aware that there are many nursing practices here that could be improved, I have also worked shifts alongside the nurses here and can honestly say I have never worked harder in my life.  No matter how much you care, it is physically impossible for one person to provide good nursing care to five or six critically ill babies all alone.  

However, I have also been grateful to have these visitors—it has made me realize how much I’ve learned about Haiti thus far, how many wonderful friends I’ve made here, and how much my Creole has improved in the past four months.  In addition, having new people on the unit has forced me to think again about why I am here and how to keep making progress.  I am looking forward to the rest of the year and to the many rewards and challenges yet to come. 

Sunday, 2 November 2014

The smell of incense wafted in and out on a gentle breeze, and I marveled at the sense of calm and peace surrounding us.  The beauty of the setting was arresting:  the sun sank slowly behind the mountains in the background while rolling green fields stretched in front of us as far as the eye could see and roosters crowed in the distance...how could this be a mass grave site?  It was Titanyen, an area that was first chosen as a burial ground for victims of the earthquake; we continue to bring bodies there from the morgue at the General Hospital now.  We were there to celebrate All Souls' Day, and it was hard to reconcile the serene images before me with the knowledge of the immense suffering that I knew was buried only a few feet below us.  However, as I watched the group--volunteers, nuns, Haitians that had seen us arrive and had walked over to join us--trail Father Enzo around the graves, their singing jubilant, the meaning of the day was apparent.  We were there not to mourn our losses, but to celebrate all that we have been given.  It was haunting to be there, but it was also a privilege; I could think of no other place more appropriate to honor the lives of those who have gone before us.