Triptych for the Week

I’m on my way back from a short walk. Beer in hand, I sit down on the bridge being built over the river near my place. I needed some space to think, to distance myself from the community. It’s funny, but taking a bit of time away from the community, even if it’s only 30 minutes, allows me to refocus ...

And I noticed this at least, between two mouthfuls of the excellent local beer, called Prestige: It’s hard to be in community for a long time, always with “the friends,”* with the assistants, with the noise; confronted by another culture, by another rhythm, by different things and by the differences that, for some, will never be sorted out. I believe there is one simple reason that it’s difficult: because in community, living with people affected by intellectual difficulties, we are constantly confronted by our own weaknesses.

It is primarily a matter of heart: the friends are people “of the heart” before they are people “of the head.” And the heart, once opened, lets in—and lets out—everything that is beautiful in people, but also everything that is ugly and reprehensible. While we may have an open heart, we also have a mind that loves to look at itself in the mirror and to analyze its own flaws, its own actions, good or bad. And this is sometimes what saps our energy the most. We realize that we are not as open as the friends are able to be, that we are impatient about trivial things, that we don’t seem able to forgive the way they do. Everything seems simple for the friends: forgiveness, celebration, laughing, communion, times of joy and times of pain as well. We really want all of this, but we can never totally get outside of or beyond our head.

Caught between two feelings, with ten things that have to be done, we very rarely appreciate each moment fully the way the friends do. When I look at someone like Elmond, sitting in the sun, smiling beneath the rays that blind him, I can’t stop myself from telling him to move and sit in the shade, where he will be more comfortable. Then, after several minutes spent moving him and the bench on which he was sitting—his sandals, too big for him, fallen on the ground—I realize that he is just waiting for me to leave so he can return to sitting where he was—happy, without questions.

It’s so sweet, for one moment, to sit on the bridge, Prestige in hand, feet dangling in the air, forgetting about faults and smiling under the blinding sun.

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Coby

A man is dead
I will cry but a little
A man is dead
He was a wild dream

A man is dead
I will cry but a little
A man is dead
On my cheeks, tears
war with one another

Coby. That was his name. I guess he doesn’t need it any more. The first time I met him was in front of my place. He asked me for money. He extended his hand to shake mine; I did the same. The tattoos on his forearms weren’t very well done; he knew that but it was all he could afford in Port-au-Prince. He told me right away that people didn’t trust him because he was a “rasta” (the word means a petty criminal) and sometimes in the Haitian heartland, a rapper .... I told him I had great respect for Créole rap, in addition to loving the sound of this style of misik (music). When I said that, his eyes brightened, as if someone had handed him a million dollars. I gave him money that day but, more than anything, I gave him an ear: I listened to him and gave him a bit of respect ... I don’t think he had much of either in his life.

After that, we quickly became friends.

His father died in prison, where he was sent after killing a man with his bare hands on his sugar cane plantation. Coby didn’t say much about him. In fact, he only mentioned him to me once; when his boots, two pairs of jeans, and three tee-shirts had just been stolen from his place. He wanted to go and see a hougan (a voodoo priest) to find out who had robbed him. I told him to let it be, that in any case maybe he deserved this a little. I never beat around the bush with him. He smiled that day, then he told me about his life. Not everything, just snatches, all over the map, and all in rap, his real passion.

Coby didn’t have it easy, but he made choices. Not victim, not criminal, just Coby to his buddies. The kind of little boy who grows up very quickly ... he committed petty crimes in Port-au-Prince, then hid out in the country for a time, hoping to be forgotten. Maybe he didn’t stay there long enough? Maybe what he did couldn’t be forgotten in a few months? Killed by a bullet, near the Port-au-Prince bus station. That’s what they told me yesterday afternoon. Tonight, the members of Arc-en-ciel, his group, were all at my place for a rehearsal of their latest piece. Composed without Coby, the lead member of the group, who had been a phantom for some time. At least now we know why he wasn’t answering the phone.

In Haiti, when you ask someone how he or she is, the answer is usually as follows:

- Ah! W Konè. Mwen gen la sante, mwen debou. Se sa ki enpotan
- (Ah! You know. I’m still standing; I’m healthy. That’s the most important thing.)

It’s kind of cynical, because you know that, here, people die more often while standing up than lying down

The danger and the risk of being only ourselves is that we can’t hide behind something we might pretend to be. Coby understood this danger and faced it head on, preferring the pain of being rejected for being himself, rather than taking the easy way out by being someone else.

I would have liked to see him become a great rapper. He would at least have been a genuine rapper.

The man who told me about his death had tears in his eyes. I told him not to let one tear fall, that water on his cheeks would only turn to mud, because his face was dirty. When a man like Coby dies, we don’t cry for his loss, we are instead grateful to life that we had a chance to know him.

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Fara

I’m writing these last words by the light of my oil lamp, sitting in front of my screen, bare feet on the cool cement, butt on my very hard wooden chair (we really have to think about importing soft wood ...); the wind, announcing impending rain, blows in through my open windows. A final word before plunging, intentionally, into a deep sleep, cradled in the silence of the countryside.

Onercia is an assistant who came to the house in July. Her grandfather died, and his funeral was held today. A number of us from the community went to see her. We decided to leave the car a little way off and to walk quietly among the rows of candelab (cactus plants, traditionally used for fences in Haiti) up to Onercia’s parents’ house. In front of us, decked out in white and blue, walked the members of a Catholic organization; Onercia’s mother is a member of this group. They wore scarves of azure blue, featuring a white cross and a dove, and throughout the service, they sang in a single harmonious voice, accompanying the priest invited to officiate. The wind, which had invited itself, whistled a melody of créole jazz against our foreheads. Even though it was three in the afternoon, the sun wasn’t too hot. The house, situated between two fields of recently harvested corn, perched on a little hill, allowing us to appreciate the calm beauty of the environment, the mountains and the fields that have shared the earth for hundreds of years. The house is surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, and curious neighbours circle around it trying to see what’s going on here. Don’t worry; that’s perfectly normal here.

The outdoor mass was short, the granddaughters crying loudly throughout the service. Here, as elsewhere, we express externally as best we can the pain that bruises the human heart. Because that’s also what death is—the pain of remaining alive while this dear one has left us. And I’m surprised to see, every time, the way that death, like life, allows us to gather so we can come a little closer to one another, at least for the time it takes to pray and shed a tear. Truly, there is not only evil in death.

Everyone, out of solidarity more than out of real need, wears a sad face and no smile; tens of faces without sun. I tell you this because the most beautiful of faces, the truest of faces, the simplest of faces – that face is wearing a smile. Fara is the most hospitable woman I know. She is the first to greet a visitor to the house. She is also the one in the community who sings the loudest and who takes up the most space when she dances. She is a ball of joy and welcome who seems to burst every time I see her. You’ve already guessed, no doubt, that it’s her pure face I wanted to talk to you about. Fara, without a thought for the family in mourning, was smiling the most beautiful smile I know. She was happy. Wearing a pretty black dress, a gold necklace, and party shoes, her hair beautifully done up, she knew she looked pretty, radiant, and that she had the privilege of looking this way in front of a lot of people. Truly, Fara was happy ... and bursting with gaiety!

The sun, for a moment, hid behind a white cloud, leaving it to Fara to illuminate us with her brilliant smile. But then, her teeth are as white as snow in January—why not show them off?

I have a question for you: Is there really any point in wearing a look of sadness when we feel exactly the opposite? For Fara, the question is superfluous—too intellectual, too philosophical, too pointless for her. She was happy – our queen – and nothing in the world could wipe the smile from her face, sweet with true happiness. Just before leaving, with the car running and everyone on board, Onercia appeared on the right of the vehicle – she had something to say.

Mèsi Fara. Mwen pa konè poukisa, mè w fè’m santi byen
(Thank you, Fara. I don’t know why, but you made me feel good.)

Strange how being oneself may sometimes do some good ...

Our prayers, our care, our thoughts may well be focused on Onercia from time to time this week because, in difficult times, we would all like to have the courage to face our suffering with a smile.
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* In Haiti, core members are called “les amis”; in English, “the friends.”