Green Hope

The water has turned green. Its retreat is almost imperceptible. Only by choosing a marker—a given tree or bush—and watching the water relative to that marker each day can any change be observed. Meanwhile, vivid green algae and mosquitoes flourish in the near-stagnant pools. 

Like many aspects of life in Haiti, the smell would be unbearable if there were any choice but to bear it. The smell rises from the fetid waters and from the thick mud left in the wake of their slow retreat. It is a nauseating mixture of everything that has been submerged and is now rotting—animal carcasses, human waste, heaps of trash. Plastic bottles bob at the surface and collect at the edges of the water. At night, cool breezes drift through the windows—breezes that should be refreshing but instead leave one gasping like a fish for a fresh breath that isn’t quite there.

The days are busy. Meetings are held with teachers, pastors, and other community leaders. Reports are prepared for potential donors and partners. Calls are made to coordinate helicopter supply drops.

Stepping out of the office one evening at twilight, I am momentarily stunned by the beauty before me. I pause on the second floor balcony, surveying the water that has spread over everything, filling the broad valley from one chain of mountains to the other. The piercing white light of a planet hovers brightly just above the horizon. I cannot see the moon from where I stand, but I know it is there by the soft glow that suffuses everything. No need for my flashlight tonight. Below me, a small wooden boat is tethered to the first floor porch, rocking gently in the water. If I did not know the damage caused by that water, I would find the scene charming.

I turn my feet toward home, maneuvering through the long cement building where the refugees live among the red glow of charcoal cooking fires. People are everywhere, curled up on the porches, in the sparse rooms, and at the top of the dark stone stairwell. Children call out “Blanco” or “Blond” as I pass. A few who have learned my name call, “Elizabeth.” An old woman sits in a straight-backed chair at the bottom of the stairs, her head leaned back against the cement wall, fast asleep.

Despite the persistent waters, local leaders are striving to resume normal activities. The schools never opened for the fall since Hanna arrived just when classes were to commence. Now they are scheduled to open on October 6th, but no one knows how that will be possible. Even before the hurricanes, families were having trouble finding the funds to pay the modest fees for books, uniforms, and teachers’ salaries.

It has been a difficult year in Haiti, where life is never easy. Rising global prices for rice, corn, and other basic commodities had pushed most families to the brink of survival. The hurricanes pushed many over that brink. At one shelter, more than 5,000 people crowded around food distributors who had only enough for 300 people.

Nonetheless, the mission leaders are trying to lay the framework for significant structural changes in their community. Pastor Morisset has expressed frustration with relief organizations who feed people for a few days or weeks but then leave them to struggle until the next tragedy hits. A mission report prepared quickly last week for several American and British organizations offers not only an assessment of the damage but also a plan for physical, social, and economic reconstruction (see: Gonaives Assessment).

Others too seem ready for more lasting solutions. Several of the young men at the mission approached me to offer their help in restarting the jatropha biodiesel project. The lead agronomist returned late last week, eager to replace what was lost. Together, we planted the few seeds that had not been ruined in the flooding. As we crouched in the yard digging shallow holes, a UN truck arrived at the pastor’s house. Two of the men from the truck sauntered over to ask about our work, clearly baffled that anyone would be planting seeds at such a time.

Yet I can think of few more appropriate actions. As Johanna Mendelson Forman of the Center for Strategic and International Studies wrote to me after the storms, “Had Jatropha been planted even three years ago there might have been some mitigation.”

Scanning the barren mountains on the Haitian horizon, it is easy to feel overwhelmed and to believe that any attempt to heal this land is futile. However, dropping seeds one by one into the moist earth and watching the green shoots that emerge over the coming weeks, a flicker of hope returns.

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