“…pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen. Hail Mary, full of grace…”
I whisper along quietly with the rest of the group as we ride along the uneven dirt and gravel roads, tensely piled into a small white van. That morning was our second attempt to leave Haiti.
Forty-eight hours before, on the morning of Saturday, July 7, we were ready to head back home after a week of camp, new experiences, cultural immersion, and minds packed with new memories and stories to share. But something was wrong.
My type-A self was reeling internally as the sun made its way across the sky, calculating and re-calculating approximate timeframes to make it to the airport, go through security, and get on the flight in time to make it home while I remained standing the blazing heat in the school’s courtyard. Time passed on and the windows were shrinking.
The night before, we had carefully packed up all of our belongings, keepsakes from the trip, and clothes into the limited suitcases and bags we brought to Haiti. We gave away all the extra snacks we had to some of the kids who were still in the courtyard playing hours after camp had ended. Their faces lit up in smiles as they ran around gleefully eating the BelVita bars and Pop-tarts.
That morning, we carefully piled the luggage for the 11 of us on top of a small, white van that would bring us back to the airport. Only now, morning had turned to afternoon and the chaperones were no where to be found.
I mindlessly started another hand clapping game with one of my favorite campers who was there, having already said my goodbyes to her an hour before. I look over to Olivia and Molly and see the same look of confusion staring back at me. Something was going on, but we had no idea what that something might be.
Eventually, we see the trip leaders emerge from the school office and come out into the courtyard, and the looks on their faces create a pit in my stomach.
“Normalcy” is a funny thing, because it’s never acknowledged until it’s gone. When the chaperones told us of dangerous rioting quickly spreading throughout the country, the rug of normalcy was ripped from under our feet, and I longed instantly for it to return.
Two days later, the previously suspended flights from the United States had made it to the Haitian airport – which was unfortunately located at the epicenter of the rioting. We repacked and reloaded that morning and left the school gates, uncertain and anxious about the two-hour drive we had ahead of us.
Below: one of the roadblocks seen driving out of Saint-Marc on July 9.
We began praying the rosary the moment we left the gates. As we continued the drive, the prayers turned to whispers and background murmurs as we looked out the window getting our first looks at the destructive rioting. The sights out the window were doleful. Trash piles, tires, and cement blocks created makeshift roadblocks on the dirt paths driving out of Saint-Marc, and I stared silently outside seeing first-hand what the beginnings of a revolution looked like. The Haitians didn’t want it to ever come to this, but they needed there to be change for survival. The government corruption ran deep, and they were willing to put their belongings, homes, and lives on the line to take a stand and make it known that they would no longer tolerate the mistreatment and disregard for their lives and well-being by the president and political system. It was jarring to witness.
Looking out the window, I saw people staring back with looks of determination, anger, and sadness. What had happened in just seven days? Were we now targets? As we continued the drive and got stopped by two men – one confidently holding a machete in hand – it certainly felt as if we were. Feeling the need for proof of the interaction, I took a quick picture on my phone from the backseat, then watched as the two approached the van’s window and spoke in rapid Creole to the driver. After some more verbal exchanges and what looked like a handshake, we continued driving.
It was like walking on a field of landmines: a collective sigh of relief was let out every time we made it past an obstacle or roadblock, but then the tension shot up just as quickly knowing we now had to take another carefully calculated step, the threat of danger just as high.
One of the trip leaders turned and explained that the men at the previous roadblock claimed to have cleared the road we were driving on and therefore owned it. We needed to pay them in order for them to let us drive on it. With no police or order in sight, this was the sad reality of the situation.
Connection was spotty, but my family was able to get international coverage on my phone once they found out we were trapped, so I was texting them throughout the drive. This was also part of the confusion though, because just like with any other current event, a myriad of fake news or old coverage would be released and shared, blurring the line between present dangers and past events. My brother found a screenshot of tweets that appeared to be happening live right near the airport we were heading to: blazing fire covered every street and path, which would make driving impossible. “Turn around” he texted me, “ALL roads around PAP airport blocked by protestors and fires.” A lump formed in my throat, but I tried to have faith. “How can we even know for sure that’s real?” I thought. It could be old coverage or a video from a completely different coast of the country.
I watched, more anxiously out the window, still whispering prayers as we continued the slow drive. Just a few minutes later, we were stopped again. Only this time, after the conversation was over, we turned the van around and started driving the opposite way. My heart sank. We weren’t making it out that day. The guards who stopped us confirmed that the dangers of driving into the capital were too great, and we couldn’t continue.
The riots were showing no signs of slowing down, and it was beginning to feel like we might be stuck here for a significantly longer time than we had thought. And, with a new threat of Hurricane Beryl heading straight toward Haiti, we started seriously contemplating what it might take to get a helicopter or private plane here to help take us home, because the chances of making it to and out of the airport on a commercial flight seemed dismal. We felt confused, abandoned, and scared.
As it would turn out, it would take another two days and a third attempt before we would make it into the airport and fly out of Haiti. When we finally did, I expected to feel waves of relief, gratitude, and happiness. But as I looked out the plane window and watched the country I had fallen in love with grow smaller and smaller, all I felt was overwhelming guilt.
The most beautiful sight from the airplane window heading home. I had a theology teacher who once called these "angel rays" and explained that they were God's light directly shining down to the world. It was a meaningful and peaceful sight to see on the plane.
In my first post, I talked about grappling with feelings of fairness during and after the trip. The rioting and extra days in Haiti perpetuated these, and as I left Haiti with suitcases full of belongings, snacks in my backpack, and in an air-conditioned plane, tears silently streamed down my face.
I had been so focused on being able to get out safely and return back home for so long, but for the people we just left behind, that was home, and it was in turmoil. They didn’t get to just hop on a plane after a few days. Nothing about it was fair.
We made it to JFK and then to D.C., finally heading to the lobby. We were greeted by local news reporters before our parents all of whom were ready to get a feel-good “they made it!” story on the air. I was feeling a lot of things that night, but “feel-good” wasn’t one of them. My mom brought containers of cookies and brownies for us to eat, and we dutifully answered questions from some of the news reporters with feelings of disorientation rampant behind our smiles.
Reuniting with our families at the airport.
As I returned home and tried to adjust back to everyday life in Maryland, I struggled. And I still do at times. In my final reflection on the trip that I turned in to the leaders, I wrote, “Processing everything has been challenging. Every time I do simple things like shower with hot water or open the pantry to a bunch of food, I'm overwhelmed with guilt that I have access to those things. Beth (my sister) and I were dorm shopping the other day, and when she asked me which pack of pens I wanted, I just started crying in Target because it didn't seem right that I was choosing pens that were the same price of an entire days salary just 1,500 miles away.”
It's true that it can be astoundingly hard to truly recognize the endless blessings in my life and that it is all too simple to take them for granted. I don’t think many of the connections I made in Haiti will ever leave my mind, but I don’t think I want them to either. Similar to Christine, the smell of burning rubber will forever transport be right back to the harrowing drives, “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” will be more than a simple children’s song, and comments about “finishing the food on my plate because some don’t have it available” will always hit a little too close to home.
I can sometimes go weeks without the trip crossing my mind much. Or I can have a day where something triggers a memory, and I feel too guilty to enjoy a hot shower or the endless food in my school’s dining hall, wanting instead to look through the hundreds of pictures and videos from the trip that live in an album on my phone, desperate to hold on to every moment and connection made during those 11 days.
But here’s one thing I have learned about fairness: there’s a notion of hurt in the word. Sometimes it is worth holding onto the pursuit of justice, but sometimes it’s more important to adjust ideas of fairness away from self-interest and into action. Mother Teresa once said, “Not all of us can do great things, but we can do small things with great love.”
Olivia and I talked about this a lot while planning this campaign. Sometimes, it felt like no matter what we did – no matter how big or successful it was – it would be just a drop in a bucket of what is needed to solve the problems in Haiti, and that wasn’t fair. But a shift in perspective is important when falling into that impossible cycle, and that's where Mother Teresa's words ring so true.
It is true that you or I may not change the world, but we can take this opportunity to do small actions – thoughts, prayers, and donations – with great love. The Lord places opportunities, people, and places in our lives and on our hearts to ignite and inspire change, compassion, and feeling. So today, while intermixed with the sadness and pain from the continued struggles the Haitians face, I remain hopeful, because faith and love can transcend all else.
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