Rocks in the Water, Rocks in the Sun: A Memoir from the Heart of Haiti

by Vilmond Joegodson Déralciné

  I kept replaying the violent and ridiculous scenes from the protest in my mind as I headed to get the kids. I thought of an author who said that if ever the oppressed of the world were to unite and recognize their force, then they would overturn their oppressors that day. However, because people are oppressed and angry does not mean that they are not oppressors themselves.

  I had almost arrived at the base. I did everything I could to wipe the morning from my mind and wrap myself up in innocence.

  I was late getting to the base in Simon. My children were already there before the gates, waiting to be called. As soon as I arrived, they called my name. I immediately thought they were going to question me about my part in the protests. Instead, they patted me on the back and invited me to enter the base.

  The two buses were there. After a few minutes, the officer arrived to give us our pep talk, followed by the driver to take us to Tabarre. I saw in the eyes of the officer that he was not happy. He spoke more severely than ever. The other Haitians present were probably unaware of the intensity of the protests. They would not have been able to understand the officer’s unpleasant demeanour. But I knew what was eating him.

  He told the children that he had been disappointed in them the previous week. They had behaved very badly by rushing to the toilets in disorder. And then, at the end of the day’s rehearsal, their behaviour in the dining hall was reprehensible. After this motivational talk, we climbed aboard the buses. He said, “In order to assure our security, it is better that the children remain perfectly quiet on our way to Tabarre.”

  He didn’t explain whose security he wanted to assure. But he knew the Haitians were targeting vehicles that belonged to the United Nations.

  We all boarded the two buses to take us to Tabarre. Two jeeps filled with armed soldiers accompanied us for protection, one ahead and one behind. We left in time to arrive early, taking into account the normal traffic jams. At Tabarre, the officer brought us two bags of t-shirts with Brazilian logos. These were our uniforms for the ceremony. It was fitting that we, the children who were to represent Haiti, be clothed in the symbol of the lead country of the MINUSTAH occupation. The colour of our skin would be all that marked us as Haitian.

  The officer had learned from the previous week the way to a Haitian heart. He wanted everything to proceed according to plan. And so I was not surprised to see him offer each Haitian an apple. But I knew the kids and their capacity. One apple was not going to run their motors for long when they knew what was on the dining tables of Tabarre. Anyway, they all ate their apples.

  Then the children were all led to their place in the square. Their chairs were waiting for them. Around them, we were surprised to see other groups of Haitian children. They wore white t-shirts with red collars. I was told that they came from an orphanage. The dignitaries were all in place, in the first row, waiting for the ceremony to begin. We Haitians — the orphans and we from Simon — were sidelined from everyone of consequence.

  For awhile, they projected images of Haiti and Brazil on the huge screen at the centre of the square. At seven o’clock, a Brazilian took the mic to introduce the countries that were present for the ceremony and the names of their representatives. It took forever, since each introduction that the Portuguese officer announced had to be repeated in the language of the country in question. Only Creole was missing from the line-up. Finally, when they had finished, everyone rose for the singing of the Brazilian national anthem. During the hymn, we watched all of the preferred images of the Brazilians: soccer games, parachutists, statues, and a number of military images to remind us who was speaking for Brazil. Then all we little Haitians got little Brazilian flags.

  Then, they announced that we would sing the Haitian national anthem. The soldiers who were standing around us noticed that a number of the Haitian children were sleeping on the ground. It was late for the Haitian kids and, moreover, the ceremony was far from stimulating. Not surprisingly, they were already turning in for the night. All around the square, soldiers and officials were standing at attention. The soldiers got the kids up and asked them to sing their national anthem. Everyone started to sing the anthem, “Pour le pays, pour les Ancêtres, Marchons unis, Marchons unis. Dans nos rangs point de traîtres ! Du sol soyons seul maîtres …”

  Some of the kids were singing, some not. Most Haitians don’t know how to sing their national anthem. Most children don’t learn it in school. Our school system is imported from France. The accent is, literally, not on Haiti and Creole speakers. As a result, only a few of the children were able to sing even the first stanza.

  There are five stanzas in the national anthem. I sang the first. After that, the four stanzas only fill us with shame. Already after the first stanza, where we profess ourselves to be the masters of Haitian soil, I was starting to feel like a hypocrite. When we are supposed to sing about how we will fight to the death to defend our homeland, to protect it against all traitors, most of us didn’t feel like even humming along. We had fought. We lost. We were singing to the victors.

  While the national anthem was plodding along, the soldier who had first met us in Simon to explain the classes came to stand next to us. He managed to get through most of the first stanza. After that, he mouthed the words, pretending to be singing along with us, who were uninterested. For some reason he wanted people to believe that he could sing the anthem. In fact, the children and supervisors were the only people in the huge gathering capable of singing even a part of it … and we were not motivated. Still, he listened carefully to our mumblings and, if he could pick up a word here and there, chimed in on the last syllable. He looked daggers at the children, wanting them to help him out. The children yawned and rubbed their eyes while one or two of their partners carried the tune as if it was a block of concrete.

  While my mouth was silent, my eyes were busy. There were a couple of soldiers standing at attention next to us, as usual, who taught me a valuable lesson. They also wanted to convince the dignitaries that they could sing our anthem. So, their tactic was to point their heads to the sky and simply mouth sounds. No one could tell what they were singing since their mouths were out of sight. But, for the record, they weren’t singing the anthem.

  After the national anthem, a dignitary took the stage and called a number of soldiers to come to the fore. He pinned medals on them for something. The kids arose from their torpor and sat up attentively. This was the famous medal ceremony. While the soldiers were being called, the children waited to hear their names over the loudspeaker. They were ready to walk to the front where a high official “from a great country” would pin medals on their chests. But the time passed and the medals all went to the foreign soldiers. The children understood that they had been passed by.

  What were the soldiers being honoured for? What had they done? Some careers were advancing. I had the sense that some soldiers were profiting in direct proportion to our misery. Since they were here against our interests, any good they did in the eyes of their masters could hardly enthuse us. We could only think of them as people who wouldn’t share their apples with us. And who fired on our families and friends.

  But we hadn’t yet sung “We Are the World.” Maybe they were holding back our medals until we had presented the song.

  The officials thanked all kinds of people. The international NGOs were all thanked, as well as the individuals who led them. Other foreign agencies and governments also merited special recognition.

  The soldier closest to us noticed that the kids were either sleeping on the ground or fidgeting the way kids do when you tell them to be still and not fidget. He called to me. He could speak English.

  He asked me, “Why are the kids behaving like this?”

  I said, “They aren’t used to being up this late.”

  He retorted, “But surely they can make a little sacrifice for a special occasion. Maybe they don’t know why they have come here.” Pointing to the stadium, he said, “Look at all of the dignitaries that have come from all over the w
orld. That’s because Brazil has respect for the children. That’s why we have been presenting our country for them. The children are here for the same reason. They are representing their country. Everyone here wants to credit their nation in the face of the others. But the Haitians are making a very poor showing for Haiti.”

  I asked him, “Who chose children to represent Haiti?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you,” he told me. “For us, children have much importance. We want to demonstrate that we value them by choosing them to represent their country.… I wonder if Haitians really believe that Haiti can change.”

  “Does change in Haiti depend upon the children or people or leaders?” I asked.

  He said, “Change doesn’t come from the leaders, but from the community. We, in Brazil, we believe in change for Haiti. Look at the program that we have introduced to educate the Haitian children. We already have done lots of work here in Haiti, but we took the time to try to educate the children as well. We would not have come to Haiti if we thought that it was not possible to change it. And so we are doing our best.”

  He said that he had noticed that Haitians misused their time. They spent time talking in the streets, playing dominoes, joking. “If all the Haitians had acted like we had in creating the classes for the students, imagine how the country would change. And we had to do that while we were working at our jobs for MINUSTAH!”

  “I think Haitians see things differently,” I said. “Understand that we live in a country with a very weak economy. If children go to school, it’s to learn a trade of some kind. Do you think it’s easy for students, after all their effort at school, after learning a trade or profession, to then work for no salary? For free? Haitians aren’t poor because they don’t work, but because they do. Working only makes us poorer. Don’t forget that there are many trained people who are unemployed. There are no paying jobs. I think it would be easier if people had a job like you. In their free time, knowing that they had meaningful work, they would be happy to help their neighbours. Since you have a salary, you are better placed to coordinate lessons for children.… But I don’t trust any other country saying that they are interested in helping Haiti to change. People are interested in their own advancement and that of their country. You didn’t come here to help Haitians, but because you have a job with the Brazilian army. You are paid for that job. You did not come. You were sent.”

  I knew, because the kokorats who hang out at the gates of the MINUSTAH base had told me, how much the Brazilian soldiers are paid for their work in Haiti. For example, young men with nothing to do in Brazil join the armed forces to earn $1,000 US a month. They are the lowest-ranking soldiers. They don’t have to spend any of that because their food and board are paid for. The next rank makes $2,000, and so on up to $5,000 a month for the highest ranks. Daily meal and gas allowances alone represent a monthly salary for a Haitian worker, if he could find work. The highest paid officers in the Haitian National Police do not receive as high a salary as the lowest paid soldiers in the Brazilian armed forces, who join up because otherwise they would be hanging around the Brazilian slums with nothing to do.

  Maybe the soldier was right in speaking about change for Haiti. The question was what Haiti should change into. And, for the soldier, I was interested in what he thought it should change from.

  So I said, “No, I don’t believe that any country or any soldier comes here to change Haiti for the better. And I don’t believe that anyone in MINUSTAH could change Haiti even if they wanted to. It’s not from there that the change can come. In fact, it’s exactly the opposite. MINUSTAH is here to keep things from changing. I know the effects of your work in Haiti better than you do. I have seen the changes that MINUSTAH has brought to Haiti since 2004. You have brought insecurity with you. Each time MINUSTAH’s mandate is almost finished, we are used to an escalation in the violence that always results in the renewal of the mandate. One change that is clear is that the kokorats or comida are waiting in greater numbers before the gates of the MINUSTAH bases, looking for handouts. Of course, you take this as evidence of the need for your presence. It’s the opposite. You create the need for your presence and then justify your presence based on the insecurity you provoke. Change in Haiti depends on God, the conscience of Haitians and all other nations who interfere to protect their own interests.”

  After our little conversation, the soldiers lined up to start smashing the Haitian soil for the benefit of the important dignitaries. They were even more severe than they had been the week before during the rehearsal. After this they called upon the Haitian representatives. We looked around, but it turned out that they meant us. A soldier was waving us forward. We lined up. The musicians were waiting. A microphone. All the thousands of soldiers that had grimaced at us as they marched past were now lined up behind us. The officer stood before us. Everyone applauded for the little Haitians.

  The officer sang his part. As usual, he pronounced the English words by way of Brazil so that there was little chance of a native English speaker understanding. The kokorat sang his line. The Haitian accomplices then sang their part. Then the rest of us started to sing the chorus. We managed the first two lines, “We are the world, we are the children,” reasonably well. After that, the Haitian students garbled the lyrics so that they sounded much like the Brazilian officer had taught us. Behind us, the soldiers started to sing as well, but there was no recognizable English word in this mixture. Then we got to the Creole words that the officer had given us. As they had been told, the children sang, “Ayichi, Ayichi,” instead of “Ayiti, Ayiti.” That was the end of the ceremony. It was fitting.

  When it was over, people applauded. Many soldiers shook our hands. No one offered us our medals.

  It was nine o’clock. Some of the soldiers wanted to take some pictures of the little Haitians.

  Relieved, the officer called us to board the buses for Simon. Soldiers had prepared a packet of two apples, a little piece of cake, and a soft drink for each Haitian. They were less thankful than the soldiers had hoped — because the soldiers had given them less than they had dreamed.

  On the way back, I asked the driver to let me off at Delmas 33. He said that it was too late to stop on the way even for a second. He was under orders to deliver everyone to Simon. One stop. Everyone out.

  I asked him again, “Could you drop me off at Delmas 33 on the way back to Tabarre?”

  He said no. Strict orders. Only one stop allowed. So I had to walk all the way back to Delmas 33 while the city was at its most insecure. Because of widespread fear, no cars were moving that night. I was ready for anything that might happen. I tried to avoid the main routes, but wound up getting lost in the narrow alleyways of the slums that I didn’t know. A stranger caught in such neighbourhoods at night can be taken as a thief and killed. I was frightened.

  I understood that once MINUSTAH had no more use for me, they would simply throw me aside. I was on my own.

  As I walked home through the shadows, I imagined MINUSTAH troops identifying me as a rebel and firing upon me.

  chapter forty

  THE MORNING AFTER he had spent the night in Ste Catherine Hospital, my father had an appointment at Gheskio medical clinic. He left one hospital for an appointment at another. I went with him. When we arrived, there were lots people waiting. Everyone took a number to have their consultation in turn. The waiting room was like a family conversation, flowing from one subject to another. There were those who spoke of MINUSTAH, how they had come to plant more misery, now including cholera. No one in MINUSTAH wanted to take responsibility for bringing cholera to Haiti. Some Haitians argued that cholera was part of a plan to increase the importance of NGOs in Haiti. They were working together.

  While everyone was talking, a little street merchant entered the hospital to sell her pastries and water. The patients were hungry, but afraid to buy the pastries. They didn’t want to compound their health problems. She kept hollering, “Eat pastries, drink water, it’s good for your health.�
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  A pastor answered, “It’s true that we are hungry. But we’ve been advised not to eat in the streets.”

  “Of course they don’t want you to eat. You’re sick. They want you to die. Who can live without eating? The imbeciles speak and the idiots believe them.”

  Another patient spoke, “I would like to eat, but I have no water to clean my hands. We have to clean our hands before eating.”

  “It would be better if NGOs brought you rich hands. Rich hands are clean. Cholera is the disease of the poor. Listen to me! Since when have you listened to their advice? You all come from the countryside. You and your ancestors did your business in the open for centuries. And for water, you took it from springs. There were no tablets to put in water. If it was me, I would pay more attention to your face than your hands. Faces are always full of the dirt and dust of the streets, including dried poo-poo that blows around all the time. Sometimes, when your lips are dry, you pass your tongue over your lips like a mop and you collect all the microbes and then swallow them. Maybe some of you are tubercular. We know that the base of that disease is malnutrition. Now it’s getting worse, because you’re sick and you aren’t eating. Better to eat my pastries and drink my water. You can find the real answers later.”

  Some of the patients were convinced by her arguments. She was a good saleswoman. Some of us were happy to be convinced. I bought two for my father and one for me. They were delicious.

  After a few minutes, the doctor called Dad. I went with him. We explained to the doctor the effects that the medicines were having. He added to them a pill that would help Deland to sleep and also some other medicines. We were able to get them from a pharmacy in the hospital that gave free drugs.