Haiti: One Year After the Earthquake

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B y k e v i n c h a p p e l l
P h o t o g r a p h s b y D U D LEY M . B ROOKS
Haiti OneYearAftertheEarthquake A S PR O G R E S S C RA W L S , H AI T IA N S A D J U S T T O N E W R E ALI T Y
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On Sundays, families leave their tents in the day’s best. Girls don
dresses, their ponytails tied with ribbons. Boys have on dress shirts.
Many walk to makeshift churches around the city. Services can be
heard from the street: singing, praying and preaching. Heaven for
two hours. Hell for the remaining 22.
Then, there are the children; they are forced to comprehend the
incomprehensible, forced to live a reality focused more on day-to-day
survival than preparation for the future. The earthquake damaged
some 5,000 schools. Those that are open have been forced to run two
shifts. Some students come to school in the morning, others come in
the afternoon. But even so, more than half of the 4 million Haitian
In the days and weeks follow-
ing the earthquake, Joseph
Abula says he had it. Aid was
flowing in. Foreign govern-
ments were helping. The world
was watching. ¶But as the
56-year-old laborer stands
in the sea of Haitians at a
one-year memorial service in
downtown Port-au-Prince, he
is not so sure how strong his hope is now. It’s been one year since more
than 300,000 people lost their lives in one of the worst natural disasters
the world has ever seen. And now, Abula says, progress, for the most
part, has come to a screeching halt. “I still feel tiny hope,” he says. “But
I don’t know if the people in charge will take that hope and put it away.
So we will see what happens.” ¶ Abula and other Haitians say what’s
happening now in their homeland is a whole lot of nothing. By most
accounts, the country was a mess even before the earthquake. A year
later, it seems in many ways, that no one anywhere is on the same page.
¶ Debris is ubiquitous. Bulldozers are nonexistent. The cleanup that has
been done has been done by hand. Manually moving 95-pound stones in
says that customers still want to see what they’re get-
ting into “before the boom-boom.”
Across the country, tent cities are everywhere.
Downtown Port-au-Prince looks more like a camp-
ground than the center of town. Thousands of make-
shift tents occupy any sliver of land that is flat and not
a street. From a bird’s-eye view, the tents look eerily
like an American suburb. Dirt roads snake through
different sectioned-off neighborhoods. A closer look
reveals a haunting scene of transformation, Haiti’s
own version of Extreme Makeover. Some tents now
have plywood siding, wooden doors with locks, con-
crete floors and even gardens. What were supposed
to be temporary shelters are now becoming the newest “homes” in
Haiti.
The foul odor from the tent cities can be almost unbearable. So
many people packed in such tight quarters. No plumbing. No elec-
tricity. No hot water. No air conditioning. At night, rats the size of
rabbits have a field day roaming in and out of the tents.
Conditions are so deplorable, it’s enough to drive the spiritless
insane. But somehow through it all, those like Frankie Venette—
standing among the crowd at the one-year memorial service—can
see God’s hand at work. “I consider myself a one-year old today,”
says Venette, who lost two cousins in the earthquake. “When I see so
many people die, I know that I’m not more than them. But I am still
alive. God is great. We don’t know why He does things.”
S U RVIVAL M O D E
One year later, many in Haiti are still wondering why. It’s a linger-
ing question that has some doubting the presence of a higher being.
But it’s an answer so evasive that many have found religion to assist
in their search. At Port-au-Prince’s largest cathedral—recognizable
only because the arched pillars that once formed the frame are still
standing—men and women still come to pray.
children still do not attend school, according to UNICEF.
Duvynrovert Adula, the principal of Elemental School of Islam,
says that he still struggles to find the words to explain the situation
to his 147 kids. “We continue to talk to them about the earthquake,”
he says. “Some of them lost their parents. We talk to them about
life after death. We teach them how to live a better life tomorrow.
Education is the first step in solving their problems.”
But nowadays, getting gourdes (Haitian currency) is stressed more
than getting grades. In many ways, the earthquake has turned Haiti
into a country of entrepreneurs. On one intersection, the frenzied
activity was dizzying. Massoni Duval pushes a wheelbarrow with
95-degree weather is not for the faint
of heart. The problem is not only how
to move it, but where to move it. Right
now, the destination is simply out of
the way. Kicking the stone down the
road; now it’s another man’s problem.
The country has two languages, three currencies and a handful
of former leaders looking to reassume power. Jean-Claude “Baby
Doc” Duvalier, who ruled the country from 1971 to 1986, recently
returned from exile in France, and former President Jean-Bertrand
Aristide, who has been in exile in South Africa since his ouster in
2004, recently said that he wants to come back. Elections to decide
the successor to Haitian President Rene Preval have been marred by
corruption and violence.
The government, which some say was dysfunctional before the
earthquake, is virtually nonexistent today. Police respond to a crime
if, and only if, they determine that the crime is over, and it is safe
to come out. Ambulances respond to calls hours later, if they can
maneuver around unresponsive traffic to get to the scene.
In many ways, Haiti is a country of “ifs.” Residents could start
rebuilding if the debris were removed. Volunteers from around the
world could help if there were organizations in place to manage the
manpower. Nongovernmental organizations could erect real houses
instead of tents on vacant land if the country’s property laws weren’t
so convoluted that it’s almost impossible for anyone to build any-
thing. Cholera and other diseases could be controlled if the sanita-
tion system wasn’t thousands of Port-O-Potties and the waste man-
agement system wasn’t the local rivers and streams.
And in the coastal town of Léogâne—the epicenter of the earth-
quake—Joseph Charles could reopen his hotel if he had electricity.
It’s not a Hilton, or even a Holiday Inn for that matter. The 65-year-
old Charles calls it a “boom-boom” motel that locals rent by the
hour. Since most activity in the rooms doesn’t require light, Charles
One year after earthquake,
thousands still live in tent cities.
Worshippers (previous spread) sing
hymns while walking to church.
Below (l. to r.) students study, a
makeshift hospital tends to pa-
tients, and a boy looks on, during a
memorial service in Port-au-Prince.
Hope.

3. 00 e b o n y. c o m / a p r i l 2 0 1 1 a p r i l 2 0 1 1 / e b o n y. c o m 00
sugarcane stalks right down the middle of the street. On a good day,
he works from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. and makes the equivalent of $10.
“It’s not what I like, but it’s easy to do, and I do it,” says Duval, 35,
who passes a man with a knife carving furniture on one street corner
and another man running a cell phone battery-charging electricity
station on another. In between, one woman sells bananas and Coke,
while another sells luggage used for local treks around the country.
If you’re Haitian, you’re not journeying past the water’s edge. Not
unless you have a rough-and-ready boat and guts to match. Haitians
can’t get passports. They can’t leave the coun-
try. Shortly after the earthquake, orphans had
a shot of escaping the misery that is Haiti. But
the convoys shuttling them out of the country
have all but ceased.
Now, orphanages such as the Children’s
Foundation of Haiti (CFH), are a parentless
child’s only hope. CFH, which operates out of
a dozen or so tents, cares for about 80 children
between the ages of 4 and 10, many of whom
either lost their parents during the earthquake
or were abandoned by or separated from them
in the aftermath. School is held in one tent, and
the children sleep in groups in the other tents.
They bathe outside, fully visible to cars passing
along a major thoroughfare that runs next to the
camp.
The foundation’s director, Joseph Marcel,
says that he is doing the best that he can. But
it seems like the world has forgotten about the
earthquake’s tiniest victims. “Aid has dried up,”
admits Marcel, who says that the orphanage
needs about $1,500 each month to make ends
meet. “We used to get money from a church in
the United States. Now I have to call my rela-
tives in the States and ask them for money.”
Marcel says that the orphanage keeps him
busy. But at times, he still thinks about the
earthquake. “It was a black day for me and the
country of Haiti,” he says. “Even a year later,
those images are still in my head. I don’t guess
they will ever leave. Especially seeing all of the
children crying who lost their parents.”
Many of the dead are buried in a mass
gravesite in Titanyen on the outskirts of Port-
au-Prince. There, hundreds of black wooden
crosses were erected a day before the one-year
anniversary in memory of those who died. At the
exact time of the earthquake, only a handful of
people visited the gravesite. Spend enough time
in Haiti, and it becomes obvious that residents
are not big on memorials or harping on the past.
Those who are gone, are gone. Reminiscing
wastes too much time, requires too much effort.
Survival mode is a constant and is unforgiving
to those who stop living in it.
For survivors, the focus is on living. Across
town, Project Medishare, a nonprofit organiza-
tion that receives most of its funding from the American Red Cross,
helps those still suffering from injuries sustained during the earth-
quake. It runs the only critical-care facility in Haiti, operating out
of an old building that housed another hospital before the disaster.
Approximately 40 percent of patients at the 54-bed hospital have
earthquake-related injuries; the majority are patients who require
continuous care. The hospital has seen about 300 cases of cholera,
but that frequency is declining, thanks to prevention and hygiene
education. Unfortunately, the hospital has seen a spike in the num-
ber of gunshot victims as a result of the controversial Haitian elec-
tions.
Project Medishare also has a spinal cord-injury program with
prosthetics lab. It has been estimated that some 500,000 Haitians
have some type of handicap as a result of the earthquake. So many
were injured that an amputee soccer league has started. Tending to
amputees and those needing rehabilitation has become a priority.
In addition to providing medical aid, Project
Medishare, along with six other nonacute-care
facilities operating in Haiti and hundreds of
volunteer groups, has devoted resources to train
medical professions, including dozens of physi-
cal therapists, nurses and physicians.
But the hospital’s chief administrator, Ga-
briele Denis, says that the lack of coordination
between services is frustrating. “The organiza-
tions are doing a lot of training to help improve
the health care system in Haiti, but the lack
of collaboration and so many roadblocks have
made it difficult to provide the appropriate
level of care for the people of Haiti,” she says.
“If people just sit there and do their own thing
and they don’t communicate, there could be 10
organizations in the same part of the country
doing the same thing.”
Immediately following the earthquake, the
world gave billions in aid to Haiti. Sure, there
were mistakes made: lack of coordination, con-
tradictory interests, planning that was done
above the heads of the people receiving the aid.
By most accounts, the result has been disas-
trous. Gaffes aside, one thing is clear: That type
of assistance will not happen again. Although
individuals and groups continue small-scale
help, Haitian’s now realize that their future lies
in their hands. They will have to find solutions
to the monumental problems the country faces.
Yanick Lahens, a Haitian author and part of
the country’s educated class, walks through a
tent city operated by actor Sean Penn. As she
sees the condition of thousands of her compa-
triots, her question now is the same as it was one
year ago. “Why us? Why again us? I keep asking
myself,” she says. “Are we in the world just to
measure suffering?”
Lahens says that poverty—not the earth-
quake—killed Haitians. The earthquake just
exposed everything. To move forward in any
measurable way, she believes that social rela-
tions between those who have and those who
don’t must change. “Haitians like me don’t
come here,” she says of her visit to the camp.
“The middle class live up in the mountains.
They don’t trust anybody. The real leadership
will be the ones who can build trust. Haitian
people know how to get things done, if they trust.”
In the meantime, life goes on. On the side of a dirt road in Léogâne,
Hebert Amarnt sits at a small wooden table with a calculator, pen
and writing pad. He’s the lottery man, selling hope in a country that
at times seems hopeless. Amarnt says lottery sales are still brisk,
even though money is tight. People figure that at some point, some-
one, somewhere in Haiti has got to catch a break.
00 e b o n y. c o m / a p r i l 2 0 1 1
“ W hy us ? W hy
aga i n us ? I kee p
a sk i ng myse l f.
A r e we i n
the wo r l d
just to me a su r e
suffe r i ng ? ”
Day-to-day life in
Haiti is a struggle.
Orphanages are
common. People, in
need of the basics,
have sought comfort
through prayer.