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  • Writer's pictureOlivia du Bois

Day 10: Mwen espere, I hope

Going to Haiti didn’t change my life. Change isn’t the right word. Going to Haiti illuminated a path that was already beneath my feet – one I had been walking long before I was aware of it.


When I applied to the mission trip, I wanted the chance to see the world, to meet people whose lives I intended to change when I grew up. I was filled with the desire to learn everything, but I was tired of books. I wanted my own stories – to fill my own eyes and nose and ears with the sights, sounds, and smells of a different culture, of a nation struggling under the weight of its tumultuous past.


I was ready. I expected the trash lining the streets, the children dressed in tattered clothing, the men with machine guns at the store, the refugees in desperate need of medical care. Even the riots were unsurprising in a way. It happens in country like Haiti.


But in place of the sorrow and anguish I had expected to feel was instead a slow burning indignation, a simmering rage growing in the pit of my stomach with each injustice I swallowed, every selfish transgression I choked down.


How could these people, these leaders meant to be healing and protecting, how could they not see? Or worse, how could they see and still be willfully blind to the suffering around them? How could the world see and not move mountains to change the landscape before it?


I know more now. I’ve learned about the complexities of development and the intricate designs that must pave the path called Change. Helping is not as straightforward as we make it out to be. Diving in headfirst to follow the whims of emotion can often cause more harm than good.


Though I can do little to temper the chaos unfolding and even less to protect those who will get pulled away in the undertow, what I can do is ensure that this country and that these people are seen.


Seen by you, reading this blog.


Seen by my peers, listening to my stories.


Seen by me, the girl who writes to remember, to rekindle that raging fire that lights every step I press forward toward the day I can temper the chaos.


But for now, I wait; and I write; and I hope with every fiber of my being that Haiti will be seen.



“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –


And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –

And sore must be the storm –

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm –


I’ve heard it in the chillest land –

And on the strangest Sea –

Yet – never – in Extremity,

It asked a crumb – of me.



“’Hope’ is the thing with feathers –“

by Emily Dickinson

 

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