The hell of Haiti

I begged to go to Haiti. I begged to be assigned to see for myself, to capture in photographs this land of many faces. What would a photo journalist from Trinidad and Tobago discover about a land where for centuries there has been so much turmoil? In Trinidad and Tobago we consider ourselves under siege. What siege? Here we live and fete all year round. If we want to see people living in hell, a whole lot of people from Trinidad and Tobago should go and see for themselves how our own brothers and sisters live and die. Yes die. For the first time in my life I saw a man shot to death, his body left lying on the ground as the blood flowed from his chest all around him.

And you know what the sad thing is? Haiti is such a beautiful place with so much to offer. Safely back in my own bed in Trinidad I remembered packing up my things for the return flight to Port-of-Spain: This is my last night in Haiti, I hope. I thought that perhaps with all the chaos, the shooting and fighting the airport would cancel flights. I lay in my bed in my hotel unable to sleep, because that afternoon I had seen a man shot right before my eyes. A man like myself who probably had dreams, a family to mourn his passing. And he was just one man. So many others had died including a Mexican photographer, with whom I was talking earlier. My introduction to Haiti was traumatic. While it is true that press photographers are often viewed suspiciously, nothing prepared me for what happened when I arrived on Thursday morning.
Talk about rub down? The Customs people were rough.

They took away all my bags and equipment and made me strip down to my socks, pants and jersey, to be thoroughly searched. When I got my things back every last US dollar of my money was gone. The only money they left were TT dollars which were valueless. You couldn’t even give those to the children to play with. I had to use an erratic telephone to make an urgent call to the office for money to pay for the hotel. ( I hope my Editor believes that the money was really stolen!) My first problem was talking to people, most of whom spoke French or Creole. I found an interpreter and began to move around, tentatively at first, as I was well aware of being in a country in revolutionary mode, where life was cheap. Then my photographic instincts kicked in and I began to feel more confident. My first reaction was how poor the people were. One hears that Haiti is the poorest country in the world, but seeing it is something else. Everywhere there was dirt and garbage. Most of the time there was no electricity, no water and where telephones were concerned you just had to hope luck was on your side and you could call Trinidad.

And this was Port-au-Prince the capital. Could anywhere else be worse? It was in “Cite Soleil,” the slums of Haiti. Children walked the streets naked and barefooted begging, drains were filled with debris now turned black and rotting. Streets were blocked with burning garbage as there is no proper waste disposal. The smell was like nothing I have ever experienced. People looked older than their age but what truly amazed me was that in all this filth and turmoil they were going on with their lives. They find anything to build a shelter to sell, to live. On the streets women were cooking food for sale, men were shining shoes, others were selling what we call “shave ice.” Water is only safe if it is boiled or bagged, so water is also for sale.
The truly warming thing about Haiti is that around any corner one finds artists at work — painters, metal or wood sculptors, then there are the mechanics using the most primitive tools, shoe smiths and carpenters all busy. These people are not formally trained but said that this is their life and they love what they do.

Though it may appear that life is cheap, and Haitians have very little regard for human life, they strive damn hard to preserve their own by any and all means necessary. There are many sides to Haiti. For example “the rich” areas. Here most of the houses though made of concrete or bricks were not painted, resulting in a very grey scene. This is done because if they are painted, the house would be considered complete and taxes imposed.
In conversation with one of the “rich” men he told me that the people in the slums were a “curse.” They clearly hate each other, yet live side by side. My journey took me to an area where the labourers live. This area, considered middle class, is “Delmas 33”. A place where people have dreams and ideas, a place where the cry is for work and unity, and a place where one person said that Haitians should be left to deal with their own problems, as well as “No Haitian alive can rule Haiti, as anyone who tries will become corrupt in their thirst for power and money.” Many spoke of the great divide between the rich and the poor, a classic example of the saying that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. “Everyone wants to rule” a man told me “people hold on to their views and will not listen to any other.” Someone else reflected that everyone wants power because with power comes money.

On the Sunday before I left there was an anti Aristide demonstration or “manifestation” as they call it. Now Haitians are very religious, many are Roman Catholics, so nothing prepared me for the sight of thousands of people on a Sunday morning chanting in the streets with such hate-filled passion. It was deafening. As the people started to disperse, after three hours of chanting and walking for two miles from Petion Ville to downtown Port-au-Prince, gunmen from an opposing group started shooting at anything and everything that moved. The Mexican journalist I had been speaking with earlier was shot dead. Six other people died that day alone.

In the five days of my stay a total of 18 people were killed. A police officer, who was assisting an injured person was shot. As the day ended, the sound of gun shots could be heard all around, well into the night. Morning came and there was a certain calm as people went about their business, as though nothing had happened the day before, trying to make a living doing any and everything. In Haiti the only “regular” people I met were the artists — an apprentice learning from a boss, and passing on their knowledge over time to the next generation. As I boarded the plane for my return to Trinidad, the sky was a golden hue as the sun set on the horizon. What a place right here in the Caribbean Sea close to us but in terms of knowing Haiti, we truly know nothing. I know even less now.