Miracle on Voodoo Mountain

by Megan Boudreaux

  When he would finally lie down on a mattress on the ground, he would contort and scoot his body to the edge, then off the mattress until he reached the cold, hard tile floor. Only then would he begin to relax slightly and his tired body calm down. Every night without fail Gabriel followed this routine as if something plagued him. After he finished his seven-day course of medicine, I returned with him to Son of God Orphanage, hoping he’d be strong enough to continue his recovery alone.

  But on an April visit, only a few weeks after he had been back in the orphanage, I snapped. Gabriel’s condition was clearly worsening, and he was miserable, alternating between coughing fits and fiercely scratching every part of his body. I’m no doctor, but it was obvious he was suffering from scabies and fungal infections again. I could only imagine how awful it was for him to have his skin itching all over in the crazy Caribbean heat. Even after holding and kissing dozens of children who had scabies, I had never had the contagious skin-crawling disease, but I knew it was unbearable.

  Once again I approached Pastor Joe and asked if I could take Gabriel home with me to Gressier to give him more medicine and the attention he needed. Shrug. His apathetic responses showed me he really did not care about this child who desperately needed help. What kind of pastor is this? I wondered yet again. I had recently discovered he practiced voodoo and began recognizing voodoo paraphernalia in the orphanage. The more I learned about Pastor Joe, the more his role as a pastor became tainted. I could see why the kids would flinch out of fear when he walked by, and many of them ran away when he was anywhere near. The stories the children would tell were haunting, and my spirit would lurch anytime I was near him. I felt as if there was an unmistakable darkness, not just in the orphanage but in him as well.

  This time Gabriel stayed with me in Gressier for more than two months, and I was beyond excited to see real improvement. I prayed over him continuously, as did my friends, and I could sense that as his health began to improve, his hard shell was melting, and he began to kiss rather than bite and accept a hug rather than turn away.

  One day I received a phone call that Pastor Joe was in Gressier wanting to meet. I ran to the corner of a road where he was waiting for me. Curious, I asked what he needed.

  “I need Gabriel back,” he said, his voice a slur.

  “Why?” I asked as my heart dropped. I really did want to know.

  Shrug.

  “Where is his family?”

  “Dead.” This was the standard answer Pastor Joe gave to anyone who asked about the families of the children in his orphanage.

  This time I went a step further with my questions. “Do you have any paperwork? So I can keep him longer? Because he needs more attention to stay healthy.”

  And that’s when the words came out, clear as day. I can still hear them in his brusque voice: “If you give me two thousand dollars, I will give you Gabriel.” His eyes darted back and forth, as if making sure the coast was clear.

  Confused and frozen in place, I stared at Pastor Joe. I couldn’t get my thoughts organized. What just happened? I knew that was what he had come there to say. Finally my feet came unglued, and I walked away quickly, shouting back over my shoulder that we would talk later.

  That night I prayed and cried and tried to process what had happened. I knew this was definitely not the way an adoption of a child should go. Is he really selling me this child? Does he really expect me to give him money? What is going on?

  I racked my brain about who to go to for help. There must be someone in Haiti who knows what to do. Suddenly I remembered meeting a man with wise eyes named Jonathan. He worked for the Haitian Coast Guard. Since I was so new to Haiti, I didn’t know any Haitian police officers I could trust, so this was as close as I could get to an official from whom I could get advice. I called him late that night as I stood on my roof, looking out over Gressier.

  Jonathan listened but was puzzled at first. However, as we talked, and I told him the whole story about Gabriel and Pastor Joe’s orphanage, Jonathan began to remember a training seminar he had attended that covered situations such as this one. All of a sudden he came alive, and his voice grew energized as he put the pieces together, and he said he would call me back in a few minutes. Thank You, Lord. I knew I needed help with this one.

  Jonathan called back. He’d been busy making calls. And before I could catch my breath, it was like the pistol went off for a race. Jonathan had connections, and the people he called had connections, and before I knew it, meetings were planned, and organizations from Belgium, Germany, France, and Canada, along with Haiti itself, got involved. The consensus was that Pastor Joe had offered to sell me a child from his orphanage, and as more information surfaced about him and the number of children missing from Son of God, everyone involved realized this wasn’t the first child he had sold, and he needed to be stopped. I agreed.

  But what happened next really took my breath away. In order for Pastor Joe to be stopped from doing this to Gabriel or any other child again, he needed to be caught in the act of selling a child so he could be arrested and sent to prison. Because the child was offered to me, the plan organizers suggested I would be the best person to help carry out the sting. The plan terrified me, but it was the best and only option.

  I remembered the first time I’d seen Gabriel in that pink shirt, all alone and sick as a dog in that room at the orphanage. I remembered his screams at night as he fought whatever darkness threatened to overwhelm him. And I remembered his first smiles and hugs when he began to feel better and safe. I wanted to do it but I was so afraid. What is going to happen to Gabriel? What will Pastor Joe do if he finds out? Will I be safe? What if I have to leave Haiti because of this?

  The only thing I knew to do was pray. Lord, please tell me what to do. And here’s how He answered—all I could think about were the countless other children this had happened to, and I knew I wasn’t alone and that God would protect me. So I agreed to do it.

  Over the next six weeks I met with the organizers of the sting, including Haitian officials. I told my story numerous times. I reviewed the Haitian laws that existed to protect children from trafficking.

  Sometimes I felt as though I was part of an episode from CSI. At other times it seemed as if everything was unorganized, moving in different directions. Finally plans began to crystallize, and one Tuesday morning, when I happened to be in Port-au-Prince, I received a phone call telling me to be at the courthouse in twenty minutes. I looked at my watch. Even though I was less than a few miles away, in Port-au-Prince traffic that could mean an hour’s worth of travel.

  Kat and I both knew immediately what we had to do. We left the guesthouse where we were staying and walked out to the street. The fastest way to get to the courthouse would be to hire a motorcycle driver, so we stepped out onto the road to catch one. We tried to look for the most competent driver, but there were dozens whizzing by, and we would just have to pick one.

  One young driver with a helmet on tapped his brakes and then motioned for us to hop on. I quickly explained that we were in a big hurry to get to the courthouse. I briefly negotiated the price, and he agreed to take us. Kat and I both climbed on and grabbed hold of the driver as he swerved in and out of traffic. Kat and I clung to each other and prayed no one would yell at us, or worse, as we drove through Cité Soleil, one of the largest and most dangerous slums in the world. I always tried to avoid it, but today it was the quickest way to get to the courthouse. We were making good progress through the winding streets and alleys when the moto suddenly slowed down. To our right a police officer stood in the middle of the street and was waving at us. Uh-oh.

  We stopped and the officer motioned for us to get off the moto; then he asked our driver for his paperwork. He looked it over and threw his hands in the air, shouting at the driver that his paperwork was expired. Kat and I stood, helpless in the middle of a crowded Cité Soleil intersection, as I looked down at the minutes ticking away on my watch. My adrenaline kicked in, and I tried to swallow the rage
rising from my gut.

  I looked up at the police officer, who was shouting at the driver in Creole, “Get out of here!”

  That wasn’t going to happen. I reached one hand onto the back of the motorcycle, and stuck my other into Kat’s hand. Then I looked straight at the angry police officer and said as calmly and clearly as I could in Creole, “We need the driver. He has to take us to the courthouse.”

  The police officer looked back at me, shrugged, and turned around. He mumbled to himself and shrugged again.

  Suddenly I erupted, as if the Holy Spirit had lit me on fire, and I began sharing more information with him than he’d ever wanted to know. I shouted at the top of my lungs, in Creole in the middle of Cité Soleil, about Son of God Orphanage and that we had to get to the courthouse or else we would lose our chance to take care of a terrible problem that must be stopped! I yelled that the officer must not have children of his own if he was willing to let any child suffer.

  I held on to the back of the motorcycle and told him, in no uncertain terms, that only this driver knew the way and he had to finish the job we had given him. When I finished, I took a deep breath and waited.

  The police officer looked over at his partner, smiled at me, and said, “Ou pale Kreyol tankou yon rat.” It’s an odd compliment Haitians give that compares the person speaking Creole to a rat, but essentially it means, “You speak really good Creole.”

  I wanted to ball up my fist and shake it at him, but I wasn’t letting go of the moto or Kat. I was annoyed but mustered a smile and spit out, “Thank you.”

  “Go, bring these girls,” said the police officer to the moto driver.

  Kat and I hopped back on the moto behind the driver. He began thanking me, but I rudely interrupted him. “Please don’t talk. Just drive. Just get us there.”

  He fired up his moto, laughed, and took off. I held Kat’s hand tightly in mine, and the sound of her singing in my ear soothed my raging heart.

  Arriving at the courthouse, Kat and I ran into the building, looking disheveled from the wind blowing our hair and gray from the dirt that had pelleted our faces. Asking around for the judge, I was led down the hallway while the lights flickered on and off. Although it was only midafternoon, the place seemed to be deserted. I was led to a door where I knocked softly and heard a gruff, “Entre.” Pushing the door open, I could see the look of surprise on the judge’s face when he saw I wasn’t Haitian. His mouth dropped open when I began explaining the situation in Creole. Amused, he asked intense questions about the situation of Son of God Orphanage.

  Although he seemed intrigued and knowledgeable, there was no way to know if he would actually take the situation seriously. I left feeling as if I had been heard, but I was still anxious and unsure of what would happen next.

  ELEVEN

  They Don’t Want Me

  Home is a shelter from storms—all sorts of storms.

  —William J. Bennett

  Megan! Megan! Come see. Someone is here for you,” my front-yard tent neighbor shouted. Feeling exhausted and a bit discouraged from my motorcycle ride to the courthouse the day before, I wasn’t in the mood to hurry. I tried to see from the porch who was at my front gate, but the darkness and heavy rain made it impossible. I decided I’d better go check for myself, so I ran through the rain and pulled the gate open. I looked down, and there was tiny Michaëlle, soaking wet and looking exhausted. She was carrying a small wad of clothes in one hand.

  “Michaëlle!” I said. “Hurry, come in.”

  What is she doing out so late and in the rain? I wondered as I brought her inside and dried her off. I wanted to shake my head as I looked at her frail, sickly body and wet clothes.

  She was quiet and almost in a daze, staring at the ground. Finally she looked up at me. As long as I live I’ll never forget what she said.

  “Yo te di, ou ka pran mwen si ou vle . . . yo pa vle’m.”

  Shocked by her words, I wanted to make sure I understood her correctly and asked her to repeat it.

  “They said you can take me if you want.” Her small seven-year-old voice was flat and toneless. “They don’t want me.”

  My heart felt as though it had fallen out of my chest onto the floor. My mind began spiraling, and my world changed in a blink as I looked into her eyes and held her hands. “They might not want you, but I do.” I saw a slight smile. “You can live with me.”

  I knew what I was saying was not just a big step but a big life change. I didn’t know how to legally adopt Micha; I didn’t know if it would even be possible for a young, single American to do, so my decision to become her mother was ultimately a decision to stay in Haiti for the rest of my life or, at least, for the rest of Micha’s childhood.

  My mind went back several months to that first time I met Michaëlle on Bellevue Mountain, when she’d been so hungry she wanted to eat a bird. Ever since, she and a few other sweet girls had been spending the night at my house every Saturday night after the feeding program. It had become a precious time for them to get a bath and just be carefree little girls playing with their friends.

  One Saturday in the early afternoon, I walked to her tent with a few other kids only to find her, sitting on a rough concrete block, surrounded by dirty dishes and a tub of milky white water. It looked as though the whole neighborhood had brought Micha their dishes to wash. I looked around to see who else was helping. Micha noticed my distress and bravely said, “No one else is here, but it’s okay. I like to wash dishes.” I remembered how much I’d hated washing dishes when my mom gave me the chore. The girls I’d brought sat down with me, and we began to help, scrubbing the pots and pans, lightening the load by splashing water and laughing together.

  Over time I had begun to sense that Micha was changing, beginning to recognize the difference between right and wrong, between darkness and light. I had heard that she’d begun to stand up to the beatings, and it was killing me to know what was happening to her. When the people she lived with yelled at her and told her no one loved her or wanted her, she responded back, “Megan loves me. And Jesus loves me too.” Evidently her aunt had heard it one too many times because this time she snapped, kicking her out and telling her, “Go find Megan.”

  I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Now that Michaëlle would be living with me, I had to face directly all the abuse this sweet child had suffered and figure out how to walk with her through adjusting to a whole new way of life. But first, I needed to take care of the legal paperwork that would allow her to stay in my home.

  After calling everyone I knew who might know the best way to do this legally, I got a tip to pay a visit to a judge in Gressier. Speaking with me briefly, he informed me that any living biological parents had to be present in order to complete any paperwork. From Michaëlle’s previous living situation in the tent, I knew her father was alive. I searched for a few weeks and finally found someone who had a phone number for him. I called him, and he agreed to come to Gressier.

  That morning still sits in a bit of a haze in my memory, as it seemed we raced all over Gressier. First, we visited the local judge and started some paperwork; then we were directed to other agencies and offices and finally ended up at the Gressier courthouse, where several officials in business suits sat outside under an overhang in plastic lawn chairs behind a folding card table. I approached slowly, trying not to look confused at their office situation, and began explaining Michaëlle’s plight.

  As I talked, Micha stared at the ground, embarrassed and scared. It was hard to hear the voices of the officials with the cars and tap-taps zooming along the National Highway behind me.

  Next, they asked Micha to step forward and give her name. “Michaëlle,” she said in a quiet voice. They asked her a question I couldn’t quite make out with all the noise, but she turned, glanced at me with a beautiful, toothless grin, and said loudly, “Megan.”

  When her father was asked for her paperwork, he unfolded a torn and stained piece of paper, which turned out to be Micha’s birth certificate. N
ext, he pulled a piece of torn notebook paper out of his wallet. I tried to glance over and read some of what it said, but it was in French. From the conversation I realized it was a death certificate for Michaëlle’s mother, who supposedly died of a fever at home. There was no morgue where she lived, so she didn’t have a proper funeral.

  My heart throbbed with sadness as Micha stood, quietly listening to the questions the judge asked her father. “So you want to give your child away? You don’t want to keep her for yourself?”

  As he answered, Michaëlle moved closer to me and gripped my hand tightly. I prayed she would forget this feeling of being unwanted and instead be filled with the truth of how much I wanted her. Because her biological father could not read or write, the paperwork was read out loud to him carefully. As he verbally agreed to giving me custody of Michaëlle, he placed his thumb on an ink pad, then slowly pressed it to the paper. As he wiped his ink-stained thumb on his pants, he looked over at me with a grin that was identical to sweet Micha’s.

  Seconds later I heard, in English, “Congratulations!” As quickly as it began, it was finished. I shook my head as we walked away. I almost couldn’t believe it. What a surreal moment, from the knock on the gate in the rain, to finding Micha’s father, to petitioning the court at the card table in the outdoor office, this monthlong journey of getting custody of Michaëlle, the little girl I had met under the tree, was indescribable.

  I felt an incredible rush of feelings as I tried to process what had just happened. What did I just do? Will I be living in Haiti the rest of my life? Oh Lord, surely You would have given me a red light or boomed down in a loud voice or yelled at me to stop if this wasn’t what You wanted.

  Yet when we parted ways with her father, I had the nagging feeling that in a perfect world, the story would have been much different. Her father would have the desire and the ability to keep his daughter. He would have rescued her after her pleas to him to be saved from her abusive situation in the tent on the mountain. He would have doted on her and loved on her, realizing her joy and her spirit are contagious. He would have told her she was smart and beautiful.