A Conversation

I sat in a white, plastic yard chair near Pastor Morisset’s front door. Spread in a circle around me were the faces of 35 local leaders, representing 35 local districts in a community forum. Some of the leaders occupied chairs on the porch that lines two sides of the small courtyard. Others sat on the concrete steps that run down the third wall of the courtyard, and others rested on the low stone wall that separates the courtyard from the front yard.

The leaders had gathered to learn more about the jatropha biofuel project that I and others at the mission have been working on since before the hurricanes. Pastor Morisset introduced the project, then turned things over to me. I quietly requested that he translate my English into Creole, not trusting myself to properly express my thoughts in French.

Although speaking in English, I attempted to look around at the faces before me as I talked. I saw a couple of female faces, though most were male. I saw young and old faces, though more old than young. I saw a few men with beards and a couple with hats—a USAID baseball cap and a widebrimmed farmer’s hat—though most were clean-shaven and bareheaded. I saw a few eyes containing a hint of hope, though most were filled with fatigue and despair.

I made a brief introduction about my vision for restoring the Haitian environment, then moved to my main purpose: asking these people what they needed, what they dreamed of for their country, and how they thought I might help.

There were several moments of silence after I finished speaking. I briefly worried that they would say nothing, that they did not see any way for me to help. But then one of the older men raised his hand cautiously and began to speak. He had obviously thought carefully about the jatropha project. In his hand, he held a piece of paper filled with writing. He said the farmers wanted to see a test project first so they could be certain of how much oil, and therefore how much revenue, a hectare of jatropha would yield. He noted that if there were a test field, he could bring other farmers from his district to the field to receive training.

After the first man spoke, others joined in with further suggestions and questions. One warned that jatropha does not grow well with too much water, an obvious concern given the floodwaters that still occupy most of the surrounding fields. Another requested the creation of a seed and livestock distribution center to replace what the farmers have lost. At one point, several tried to talk simultaneously, and a man sitting to my right got out of his chair to stand in the middle of the circle, chastising some of the men and directing in which order they should speak. Clearly, this was an organized forum with a designated chief who had the final say in disputes.

At many points during the discussion, I saw men with their heads buried in their hands or their knees. Over and over, I heard the plea that the farmers need a way to restart their lives. They have lost everything. They have no way to help themselves.

I left the meeting with a deep sense of responsibility and a desperate desire to not let the glimmer of hope that I saw in a few pairs of eyes die out.

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