I met Manoucheka at 1230 on Saturday, the most important day of her life. The only day of her life on which she would have the opportunity to say “Yes” to Jacques! That in itself is a big thing. Last Saturday, she was washing clothes. Next Saturday, she will do laundry once again, if it doesn’t rain all day. But on this Saturday, life is something different. So you can understand that when Jacques and his fiancée asked me to take photos of this marvellous day, I said yes without a second’s hesitation!

I belong to the generation that is unsure. Unsure about the future of the planet, unsure about the religion of my country, unsure about whether we’re doing the right thing in life, unsure about marriage. Jacques and Manoucheka are themselves members of this unsure generation. In Haiti today, however, uncertainty is intergenerational. ... But in the uncertainties through which the country is wading, doubt is unacceptable.

Do you follow me?

Obviously, no one here knows how and how much it will take, but no one allows himself or herself to doubt. How many years of reconstruction will be needed? The uncertainty of life means that no one can answer this question. But is there anyone who doubts that the rebuilding will be done? No, since it is inevitable. We are uncertain in the face of the future, but we cannot doubt that the future will come. All that is left to us is faith.

Faith in God, faith in the spirits, faith in the international community, faith that the sun will follow the rain. The faith we want to choose to have is the faith that allows us to survive.

Faith in Others

Jacques chose to honour the promise he made long before the 12th of January in this year of misfortune. Manoucheka chose to honour the promise she made well before the 12th of January in this year of catastrophes. Together, they are stunning proof of what faith in another person can do. No miracle, no saviour, just a quiet faith that life, together, will bring a gentler tomorrow. They wanted to say “Yes.”

Yes to Jacques; Yes to Manoucheka; Yes to life; Yes to making it up as they go along. Yes to rebuilding – together.

Yes, under the rain. Because the rainy season is starting, and the beauty of this event doesn’t stop the rain from falling on us ordinary mortals. I drive through alleys full of abandoned concrete, looking for the hairdresser’s house. Here, under a blue canvas, under perfect light, Manoucheka gets ready. And how is she today? Today, which isn’t yesterday or tomorrow; today, which won’t come again. She is calm. Calm – as if she has been preparing for this moment since she was two years old.

- Depi kilè w avèk Jak?
- Nou prèske gen 2 ane ansanm. W te konè depi kilè ke w tap maye avèk li?  Depi ke mwen te wè li.

No doubt about it. There is a lot of uncertainty day to day, but there is no doubt in her voice. Ever since they have known one another, she has known that they would marry. And today, feet in the mud, clean pants no longer so clean, my ears tingle with pleasure to hear these words. No doubt about it, Haitians are sages in the making,  I tell myself, rescuing my memory card from a puddle of brown water.

So, she’s getting ready. I’m helping with everything, and we laugh about the impossible life facing two newlyweds in this hot country. Jacques and Manoucheka share a tent on the L’Arche grounds with Daniel and Monique; each couple has a side of the tent. They have become friends; Manoucheka asked Daniel to recite the prayer to end the ceremony. They are truly friends.

The young woman slips into her dress: I capture the moment - the singular moment that asks only to be frozen in the infinity of pixels. I love taking pictures because it allows me to live in and share people’s daily lives. Some journeys are just perfect, mine is one among them.

Then I speed off toward the house of Jacques’ friend, to find there the groom in his suit and tie, not to mention white gloves. I love the small details. I love it that Jacques takes time to position the flower on his black vest, that he has gone to the trouble of perfuming the white cotton gloves that are a shade too small. They are the kind of sweet, small gestures only a groom can make. Looking at himself in the mirror and thinking about words, thinking about her, thinking about his life, the life no one else may live.

Now, a guy is not a girl. A woman who is getting married might spend three hours fixing her hair, and three more hours painting her eyes mauve, and dressing herself in white. The guy? – he takes three minutes to get dressed. Then he spends five hours and 57 minutes waiting for life to take its course. All the same, it’s funny: it doesn’t matter that we take the time we need to get ready, it’s the bride who decides when to arrive.

Manoucheka decided that she would be an hour and a half late. That was okay, because some of the guests arrived even later than that. One lovely couple even arrived at the exact moment the bride and groom were leaving in the car that took them to the reception. Here, more than elsewhere, there is no such thing as a fixed time.

The ceremony was lovely, simple, held in a schoolyard-become-church-of-God, resisting yet welcoming. The blue canvas over our heads, we felt like in a dream, and the rain stopped for a while. Too late, my mother would have said, your shoes are mud-stained, so are your pants. My mother is right sometimes. But she wasn’t there, so I wandered around anyway, smile on my lips, camera to my eye – and with happy and bare! How do you do it, you Haitian women? How do you keep your dress immaculately white while the water pouring from the sky transforms the asphalt into multicoloured canvas? I must figure this out some day ...

Then they embrace. There is great beauty in their closed eyes as the bride and groom give themselves to one another. Hand in hand, souls at peace. They have said “Yes,” and it is the most beautiful thing in the world– this silent vow to go on, to never stop. They had one of the best reasons in the world for not getting married now, in the wake of the earthquake. But when you live here, you don’t doubt. You simply do. Maybe so that you can recapture some semblance of meaning in the midst of daily life that is so difficult.

This Saturday, the drops of rain were sweet, gentle, a blessing. Balm for the spirit. Even if the wedding’s marraine, leaving the church, had to run from the drops falling from the sky, her dress hitched up almost to her hips, to get to the couple’s car. They couldn’t leave without the bouquet, no matter what!

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The rain is falling heavily, like a burden, on the narrow, steep streets, full of the concrete debris of Port-au-Prince. With troubled spirits, we are headed to Marie-Cécile’s funeral. Born in France, a Haitian by adoption, she had given her life to this country, to L’Arche (as a member of the Board of Directors), and to education (as a trainer of teachers).

It is strange that she had to die in order for me to write about her here. Strange that the rain on this day is heavy with meaning; it no longer feels like Saturday’s sweet rain, but something monstrously cruel and pitiless that ravages the country with each new downpour.

Marie-Cécile loved this country with all her heart, and she loved its people even more. Perhaps we must do the same: love this country, its people, its land and its ancestors, in order to get to a place where we can give without reward. A single tear courses down my gray face; a reflection of the sky, it seems.

And – to restore the sun of your smiles – here are some photographs from the wedding ...