Hunger & Hope in

HAITI

by Linda Khachadurian

Dear reader/viewer;

In late 2008/early 2009, I had the opportunity to spend some time in several of the most destitute neighborhoods in Port-au-Prince. Despite their extreme poverty, the residents had a quiet dignity and tenacious spirit about them that was inspiring and heartbreaking at the same time.

Obviously, in Haiti, as with any other third-world country, there are many dire issues that need to be addressed. Being a proponent of psychologist Abraham Maslowʼs hierarchy of needs, I chose to focus on hunger—what I consider to be the most crucial condition that needs to be dealt with first and foremost.

The proceeding photos and accompanying text are just a sliver of what I witnessed; I hope they will inspire some of you to take action.

Cheers,Linda Khachadurian

Jacques races up to the passenger window of the pickup truck. His eyes are wide with excitement and his open mouth forms a cheerful O. He starts scratching at the dusty glass that separates us.

Itʼs my first day in Haiti, so Iʼm still a bit discombobulated. I fumble around my backpack and pull out a 25 gourde bill. I slide it to him through the small opening at the top of the window. He grabs it and skips back to the sidewalk. Within moments, he is surrounded by a flock of small boys.

Julner, whoʼs driving the pickup, reaches across my lap to roll down the window. “You need to share. One gourde for each of you!” He calls out sternly.

As we pull away, I do a quick calculation of how much money Iʼve actually given, and realize that it only amounted to 60 cents. “Oh God, I gave them half a dollar, I say to Julner. “Can they even buy anything for that little?”

“They can probably buy a cookie,” he replies.

“That entire group is supposed to share one cookie?” My head is starting to throb; I press my hands against my temples to make it stop.

Julner shrugs and give me a bleak smile. “Even one bite is something.”

Jacques in Petionville

Every day, Marie Lynn can be found squatting outside a cafe in the relatively upscale neighborhood of Petionville, begging for money. Her voice quavers as she holds out her limp hand to passers-by.

Upon spotting a white tourist, she suddenly becomes emboldened. “Miss,miss!” She pleads and grabs the womanʼs jean-clad leg. The tourist, whoʼs walking and talking with two friends, shakes free from Marieʼs grip without missing a beat. Marie stares after her for a moment; her face is crumpled with defeat as her hand curls back to her knee. She tightens her grip on Marc and rocks him slowly in her arms.

Marie Lynn and Marc in Petionville

The ravine that runs through Port-au-Princeʼs poorest village washes much of the cityʼs garbage into these landfills, which then become picking grounds for the wild boars and hungry residents in search of discarded scraps of food.

Cite Soleil

Serante doesnʼt have the cash to pay the men who are rebuilding her hut, which was leveled by Hurricane Gustav, so she uses her “special porridge” of rice and black beans as currency.

Her face and neck are dotted with beads of sweat, her shoulders curved forward with exhaustion as she hovers over the simmering pots. When she sees us approaching, her face bursts into a wide grin. “Iʼm a very good cook!” She exclaims. “Would you like to taste?”

Serante in Cite Soleil

Seranteʼs Home in Cite Soleil

Alan in Citron

Jean Luc and Jeanto are 11-year-old restaveks (the Haitian Creole term for child slaves). Both boys are beaten on a regular basis by their masters, and subsist on a cup of watered-down cornmeal per day. Jean Lucʼs bony knees are covered by a maze of scabs formed by kneeling on a corroded cement floor for his daily whippings.

While they both dream of the day when they will be able to eat three square meals, Jeanto has loftier aspirations as well—he wants to attend school. In a very composed and matter-of-fact manner, he ticks off on his fingers the reasons why education is so important. He culminates by stating: “I wonʼt be able to become somebody important if I don't go to school.”

Upon hearing this, Jean Lucʼs face, which had been an impassive block for the entire afternoon, starts showing signs of life. His pursed lips form a small, sad smile, and for just a moment, the faintest glimmer of light twinkles in his eyes.

Jean Luc and Jeanto in Citron

One of the more jarring juxtapositions of wealth and poverty can be found at the entrance to the slum village of Citron, where this mansion is perched—a mere 200 feet from the tin hut.

Citron

Nelson in Citron

Citron (top) and Jalousie—two of the poorest neighborhoods in Port-au-Prince

Celange makes do with an 8ʼ by 8ʼ tin hut to house her family of five. Although she has family members who are much better off financially, she has too much pride to ask them for help.

“They are so mean to me whenever they see me—they like to humiliate me for being poor,” Celange says. She straightens her shoulders and blinks back tears. “I wonʼt do it. Iʼd rather go hungry than have them torment me.”

Celange with sons Macaty and Edy in Citron

Margaritte selling candy outside her home in Delmas.

Jacqueline in Citron with a rare treat --wayal (a cassava tartine spread with peanut butter).

When I ask the girls when they had their last meal, they pipe in unison: “No,no,” because itʼs been so many days since they last ate that they canʼt even remember having done so.

Dafrica is clutching a plastic bag filled with stones and mud. If things get really bad, her mom will knead a few drops of oil into the dirt to make it more palatable, and then press it into a patty for her to eat.

Dafrica and Kimberly in Cite Soleil

Even though he grew up in the tough-and-tumble neighborhood of Cite Soleil, Marcel has not become inured to the suffering that he encounters regularly. Every week, he makes his rounds through the slums as an interviewer for the Port-au-Prince-based People in Need Partnership, a non-profit that provides aide to destitute mothers, children and restaveks.

His eyes are pools of compassion as he surveys the families packed into small tin huts in Citron. He raises his hands in the air and his voice is heavy with emotion as he proclaims,” I have a dream for these people; my people.”

Marcel in Citron