Read Online God Loves Haiti (9780062348142) by Dimitry Elias Leger - Free Book Online
Authors: Dimitry Elias Leger
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common description of Haiti as the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, he often thought that they probably had no clue what living that fact was like for a sensitive person. Though his heart had filled with doubt about the quality and number of virtues Saint Peter, Jesus, and God would find in there, he knew his capacity to absorb and help others cope with the torrential pour of unexpected bad news that often characterized life in Haiti was true. So he walked briskly toward a hastily built command center on the tarmac surrounded by a half-dozen earnest and strong young men, and he hurried his emotions to process and discard as quickly as possible the potential pain the disaster may have caused him personally. His wife, his mother, his relatives, friends, and protégé were out there, caught in the brief but deadly maelstrom, andthey were unaccounted for so far. Les soldats étrangers sâen foutent . So should he, for now, he decided.
Sitting down felt nice, even on a metal chair. The tent was meant to be his own. The foreign soldiers handed him a bottle of Evian, a sandwich, and a wet towel so he could wipe his face and attempt to freshen up. They apologized for the lack of air conditioning. It should be operational in the morning, they said. The President chased away a bitter thought about how these Americansâand all foreigners in Haiti, to him, were either American or largely funded by America, which made them, often, even more Americanâcould have all these creature comforts and resources so at the ready, so nearby, that they could mobilize them so quickly after such a disaster. The air conditioning in my office at the National Palace hasnât worked in a year, but Iâll have an air-conditioned tent in the middle of an airport runway within twenty-four hours of the nationâs destruction. The irony. The American armed forces had sent a slew of giant airplanes. His gracious hosts were beginning an informal occupation, a tightening of a grip meant to keep his country stable, which was a far cry from healthy, and a galaxy away from developed or even developing. This state of affairs is to be a source of strength for you, old man. A state of grace. The Americans blanketed the darkening sky with jumbo jets, dropping off men and supplies whose silent footfall reminded the President of midday summer rains in Jacmel or November snowfalls in Montreal. The President listened to the hum of activitysurrounding his tent for a while, then dozed off in his metal chair. The cool of the Port-au-Prince night greeted him when he woke up, fitfully, to the sight of Captain Waughray, poker-faced but youthful, almost kind.
Sir, we have a situation, he said.
H is wife held him. They held each other. He wept. Natashaâs grip was strong; her fingers dug holes in his skin. He bled, happily. Her relief came in shuddering waves of emotion. This must be how a child would hold her father after a near-death experience, he thought. Such transporting, intense love was something he could only imagine, because he had never had children, which was very unusual for a man of his age and standing in Port-au-Prince. It was a lapse that would haunt him to his grave.
The next day, he woke up to life in a tent in a ruined city at a loss for words. He busied himself mastering the art of nodding sagely to United Nations and/or American military officers during their briefings on the health, education, infrastructure, economic, and political effects of the earthquake. The briefings were constant. The data dizzying. The range of trauma stupefying. The death toll caused by the earthquake grew exponentially seemingly by the minute. He began to feel as though the earth had kept on shaking and killing more of his people all day long after its splashy thirty-five-second eruption. His mind found it harder and harder to accept the factthat such a brief tremor could cause such carnage. The whole world is with Haiti, the foreigners told
Sitting down felt nice, even on a metal chair. The tent was meant to be his own. The foreign soldiers handed him a bottle of Evian, a sandwich, and a wet towel so he could wipe his face and attempt to freshen up. They apologized for the lack of air conditioning. It should be operational in the morning, they said. The President chased away a bitter thought about how these Americansâand all foreigners in Haiti, to him, were either American or largely funded by America, which made them, often, even more Americanâcould have all these creature comforts and resources so at the ready, so nearby, that they could mobilize them so quickly after such a disaster. The air conditioning in my office at the National Palace hasnât worked in a year, but Iâll have an air-conditioned tent in the middle of an airport runway within twenty-four hours of the nationâs destruction. The irony. The American armed forces had sent a slew of giant airplanes. His gracious hosts were beginning an informal occupation, a tightening of a grip meant to keep his country stable, which was a far cry from healthy, and a galaxy away from developed or even developing. This state of affairs is to be a source of strength for you, old man. A state of grace. The Americans blanketed the darkening sky with jumbo jets, dropping off men and supplies whose silent footfall reminded the President of midday summer rains in Jacmel or November snowfalls in Montreal. The President listened to the hum of activitysurrounding his tent for a while, then dozed off in his metal chair. The cool of the Port-au-Prince night greeted him when he woke up, fitfully, to the sight of Captain Waughray, poker-faced but youthful, almost kind.
Sir, we have a situation, he said.
H is wife held him. They held each other. He wept. Natashaâs grip was strong; her fingers dug holes in his skin. He bled, happily. Her relief came in shuddering waves of emotion. This must be how a child would hold her father after a near-death experience, he thought. Such transporting, intense love was something he could only imagine, because he had never had children, which was very unusual for a man of his age and standing in Port-au-Prince. It was a lapse that would haunt him to his grave.
The next day, he woke up to life in a tent in a ruined city at a loss for words. He busied himself mastering the art of nodding sagely to United Nations and/or American military officers during their briefings on the health, education, infrastructure, economic, and political effects of the earthquake. The briefings were constant. The data dizzying. The range of trauma stupefying. The death toll caused by the earthquake grew exponentially seemingly by the minute. He began to feel as though the earth had kept on shaking and killing more of his people all day long after its splashy thirty-five-second eruption. His mind found it harder and harder to accept the factthat such a brief tremor could cause such carnage. The whole world is with Haiti, the foreigners told
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