Tout un chacun

Chacun ses pieds
Dans ses pas

Chacun ses larmes
Au large des yeux

Chacun sa main
Dans l’aumône

Dans le trois-mâts
Chacun ses rêves

Son mal de poudrerie
Dans ses désirs

Son mal de nébuleuse
Dans ses pensées

Au repas
Chacun sa dent

Chacun son cou
Dans l’amour

Chacun, chacun

Chacun ses os
Au cimetière

Gaston Miron, L’homme rapaillé,

You know what – it’s easy to be brave. Just remain yourself in the face of adversity. I love simple people. The ones who don’t change at every detour on the road of life. The ones who dance in the midst of a meteor shower, jumping in puddles of water. Those who survive an earthquake, and still talk about how good spaghetti tastes ...

Maybe this is exactly what binds me to these people who are affected by an intellectual disability. Their simplicity—it’s not something transitory; it is innate and natural. Their courage is not overinflated; rather, it is silent—and it falters. Because courage also sometimes means knowing how to be afraid. This past weekend, Gustave, my taxi driver in Port-au-Prince, told me that the strongest people are those who know how to be weak. Surely, a 43-year-old man who survived the catastrophe only to have to dig through the rubble to find his three lost children, surely he would not tell me a lie. Wisdom, I say to myself as we zigzag through streets even narrower than ever – wisdom comes from everywhere; from all these people who are picking themselves up off the ground, not just surviving, but resuming daily life in the aftermath.

I received a message—no: I have actually received dozens of messages, from friends, family, acquaintances, strangers—all saying that they feel useless so far away from here, in their comfortable homes. I’m writing this blog entry today for them. My voice is very feeble in the face of our capacity for self-flagellation, but I beg you—guilt never changed the world. A catastrophe, however natural, is not pretty. And yet it is at such a time as this that we come to understand that everyone has a place. Because Moïse needs as much care as he did before to help him eat, change, wash, to ensure that he sleeps comfortably, does that mean he is useless because he can’t do anything concrete to help during the country’s crisis? Or Jolibois, so handsome with his intense and serious gaze—is he useless because he can’t help bring out abandoned bodies from the ruins in the neighbourhood?

At L’Arche, we struggle daily to promote the unique, but essential, place of people who have intellectual disabilities. In an inclusive society, where everyone had a voice, society would recognize the magic, but silent, contribution of people like Jolibois, like Moïse, who are people of the heart rather than people of the head. At L’Arche, we believe that humanity urgently needs to recognize the gifts of the most forgotten, even if, to our societies based on productivity and profit, they offer nothing tangible.

I got a little lost in my account here—sorry. You who are praying, giving, crying, supporting; you who have been thinking of us daily over these past weeks; you are our silent weapon, our reason for staying the course, our source of survival (money, my friends, money doesn’t change the world, except ...). You have a part to play in the story of humanity unfolding before our incredulous eyes. Friends—friends of L’Arche or friends who are L’Arche—more precious than sunscreen on the beach, you give us the strength that would fail us on these gray mornings. It is feeling supported and loved by so many people that makes us smile during prayer. This is not trivial, only to be our moral support from one day to the next.

I say it over and over again – the friends are not useless, even if their need for attention and accompaniment is as great as ever. They are useful, in their own unique roles, and you too, at a distance, also have yours to play. If you really think about it hard, without the friends, without these beings who are so strong and so fragile, fewer of us would be experiencing the catastrophe so personally. The friends bring us together and make us more human. In this lies their greatest power.
…………………………………………………..

The community of Chantal is in mourning. Jonas, pillar of the community, always smiling and with an endearing appetite for life, is no more. At least, he is no longer here in body. He will remain forever in our recollections and our collective memory.

I don’t have the exact numbers. You probably know them better than I do. They’re saying that a lot of people have died, aren’t they? As for me, I would like to remind everyone of this: In the streets of Port-au-Prince, I have had the privilege of meeting many more of the living than of the dead. And that’s good news, don’t you think?

My friend said to me, I was always naughty around my mother. Normal – when you think about it – considering that she hasn’t lived with her mother since she was three. Her father, an intellectual city-dweller, always astonished her. Erudite, handsome, articulate, wise. When she went to school, she was proud of her father. But her mother, who was uneducated and lived in the country, in a traditional house with a thatched roof, like the houses one sees everywhere in this country—how could she be proud of her mother?

Jonathan, I spent the weekend with my mother at Croix-des-Bouquets. You know, since the 12th, since the planet stopped revolving around me, I haven’t spent a single night in a bed, peaceful, sleeping soundly. In the city, in a tent, with the smell, the dirt, the noise, I just couldn’t get any rest. But at my mother’s house I lay down on her bed like a child and said to her,

“Momy, kenbe’m nan bra w, kenbe’m fòr! Tanpri Momy, toure’m ak bra w epi kenbe’m. Please, mommy, hold me tight; put your arms around me and hold me; hang on to me.”

Her voice, soft as a child’s, betrayed her anguish. Again today, on the telephone, she tells me about more members of her family whom she has lost: cousins, uncles, aunts ... How is it possible not to fall into despair when, every day, one is confronted with this incredible reality? Haiti, I say to myself, eyes closed, will need what my friend discovered several days ago­—the unconditional love of a mother.

Life is changing us. That’s what it’s there for – that’s its job. In the most difficult moments, the brain no longer functions properly. The heart doesn’t either, for that matter. And it is at that precise moment that the human being, shaken, fragile, weak, comes to rediscover love. My friend laughs when she tells me that what reassured her most—before—it was knowing that she had a job, a house, a degree. She found her identity in all of these things. Today, what worries her the most is that she is not sleeping near her father, her brother, her own. The house is gone. It’s only concrete, she tells me. The degree has disappeared. It’s only paper, she replies. And what of her dream of going to study in Belgium? It’s been given a raincheck for now; I have a country to help rebuild, she says to me on the telephone.

Yes, truly, life changes us. Is that really so terrible? Or is it our perception, the way we look at things that matters most?

At L’Arche, we talk a lot about perception. Perceptions of the other, perceptions of society, our own perceptions. I wonder if perhaps we aren’t forgetting something. Perception can’t change except when some kind of event forces it to change, to look at things differently. I have seen it here for months now, the perceptions of all those who are in contact with L’Arche, from nearby or far away, have gradually changed. For my friend, it took this tragic event that has struck us all to change her view of her own life.

And in that I see a sign, even though I’m not superstitious at all. A sign that the perception of Haitian society in relation to disabilities may be transformed if the message is passed on. A message of hope, and a message of opportunity. The opportunity for everyone to have equal room in this little country.

At this very moment, hundreds of people are having limbs amputated. Do you think their perception of people with disabilities will change by accident? Or because of this phenomenon?

Truly, life changes us ...

Postcriptum - Forgive me. I promised a blog entry every two days and there you have it, I’ve become a liar in front of hundreds of people! You see, without wishing to excuse myself, communications are not the greatest right now in my adopted country. ... And I have an old computer that only works with a stable source of current, so– like millions of others here—I’m getting used to sending news only when I have the opportunity.

Now that we’re in Chantal, I promise once again to keep you up-to-date on what’s happening in my community, in the country, in my head, and in my heart, as often as possible.

Until tomorrow!

I’ve been on the road since Monday. L’Arche Chantal prepared provisions, so I went to pick them up. That trip cost me one tire, which burst under the weight of fourteen people riding in my old beater. I returned today to the city of misery, but not without another tire blowout (and I didn’t have all that much stuff!) and endless detours. The streets of Port-au-Prince are clogged on all sides by thousands of the accidentally homeless, carrying their entire lives in wheeled suitcases.

Tomorrow morning, we’ll head off, eight friends and four assistants from the community in Carrefour. While the capital recovers, they’ll move to Chantal. It is beautiful to see Joseph, smiling at the idea of an adventure in the country! It’s lovely to see Justine’s eyes, so brilliant and so gentle, at the thought of revisiting her friends in the heartland of the country.

And what is especially beautiful is to learn, by example, exactly what solidarity of the heart means. Already overwhelmed as it is – with not enough assistants, fourteen friends, a house that’s already too small, limited resources – L’Arche Chantal is under no obligation to take on the task of providing shelter for a group from the Carrefour community. And yet …

… and yet. There will be thirteen of us in the car tomorrow, on a big road trip south, toward the sea, toward the calm of my adopted village. Far away, as far away as one can get on this island, from the madness of the city. A forced respite, but not a vacation! Oh no! My dear friends will work hard at the Chantal workshop … as for the rest of us, there is mamba (peanut butter) to prepare, and furniture to make too!

I decided to start this entry by talking about the Philippines, because I don’t want this blog to make the same mistake. It seems that many of you visit this blog each day—several hundred of you, in fact. That’s wonderful, and because there are so many of you, I’m going to push myself to send news continuously. Every day, if possible; if not, then every second day. L’Arche has the privilege of being a federation drawn together—despite distance—in prayer and in our hearts. I will therefore do my best to tell you about our world …

Mwen pa te vle rete nan fè nwa!*

I had to see it ... now I can smell it. Death: do you know what death smells like? It smells awful.

The scent of death is awful. The scent of hope is better: All the friends are here—I can see them, alive. So we’re trying to build morale, in a situation where there is little morale, so that we don’t fall over the edge into despair.

Port-au-Prince is dead. You can feel it.
Port-au-Prince is dead; you can see it.

The community is doing well, even though our nights are spent outside under the stars. Because the stars continue to be beautiful. And to say that things are going well is, above all, to say that everyone is alive. That’s already saying a lot. Seeing the ruins of the city; smelling it; hearing the stories—yes, to be alive is quite something. And that brings me to this story, not unusual and yet extraordinary, of a young woman who saved more than one person by the strength of her courage.

Marie–Pier arrived at L’Arche Carrefour on October 20th last year. Three months. Three months during which she has given all that she is to the community. And then, out of the blue, the sky falls in on her head; Mother Nature shows her strength; the tectonic plates clash and leave a country with a sad taste of deja vu. Poverty—events like this breed poverty, and it’s in catastrophes like this one that we notice it.

On the evening of the 12th, Marie-Pier displayed enormous courage in pulling neighbours, alive, out of the rubble. She and another neighbour, with lots of sweat and the help of a spade, rescued eight people. I don’t know if you know this, but here, we call that heroism. Remember it when she comes home—don’t forget her heroism, because it’s in having the courage to do what one is called upon to do each day that we discover the measure, the greatness, of individuals.

Since that night, a lot of water has gone under the bridge of our expectations. The assistants have built a makeshift shower and toilet so we can keep our own little world clean. It’s wonderful to see people working with so little, when the hope of replacing things doesn’t even exist. To think about the long term would be overwhelming—we get on with the day-to-day stuff so we don’t have time to dwell on it.
Actually, when you think about it, sleeping outside is not the end of the world. When I wake up in the morning and see Samuel, a smile on his lips, I tell myself that the situation could be worse. Never before in my life have I done this, but I’m going do it today—I thank life for having saved the community for us—it’s a pretty significant act and we can’t forget to repay it a hundredfold. Our houses are uninhabitable, but they are standing. That’s why the friends are still here.

The whole country is talking about what’s happened, about these days of no rain, but where the earth is flooded with tears. A people in mourning, that’s what it all feels like when you walk the streets. Then we get to the gates at L’Arche, eyes sore from seeing chaos, ears drained from hearing the talk of death, bodies dehydrated because of the lack of water in the city, baked like little hot rolls, in the sun of the Caribbean. We barely get through the gate and our pulse slows, our head lightens. Outside, “c’est le bordel” (“it’s a mess”), as my old uncle Henri used to say. People are sleeping in the streets, with what few things they still have—often, that means their surviving children and the clothes on their backs. In fact, it’s not complicated; outside, there are people everywhere! Then we come into the grounds of the community. Dozens and dozens of people are staying here: neighbours, the friends, the assistants, their relatives. A calm reigns here, like one of the rest stops on the road to Compostela. Everyone inside is busy, however. There are meals to prepare twice a day; the grounds have to be cleaned and prepared to accommodate the cooking, the outdoor rooms, the bathroom, a corner to wash clothes ... We look after the friends, or they look after us—it depends on what time it is. And we talk about our friends ...

It is so hard to understand what happened a few days ago in Haiti—how can I explain it simply? Especially to people who are intellectually disabled? How can I help them comprehend an incomprehensible situation? Ha! We forget, too often, that these are people of the heart before they are people of the head. What we feel, they feel too, and when we communicate things through the way we act, they get it, better than anybody else does. More than that! Even though their routine has been so dramatically shaken up, they are the ones who are adapting most easily. For some, like Samuel, the life of a gypsy—without a fixed address—is a matter for celebration. For another, like Bernadette, this is a time of prayer and of gatherings. For Joseph, it’s a time for work, where each rock moved is another step forward in cleaning up the grounds. They are discovering their own usefulness, and their own personal space in a home they now have to share with dozens of other people. Nothing is easy, not for them, nor for the assistants, but the survival of each person, especially mental survival, depends on the bonds we are developing with the community, and with the folks who are now part of it.

The needs are overwhelming—for the coming days, the coming weeks, and the coming months, too. You need to be generous. Because we have an entire community to rebuild and, to date, in the history of this country, the State has never been able to respond to the needs—even the most basic needs—of people who are disabled.

Speaking of disabilities, I have a bad feeling when I walk down the streets of Port-au-Prince; I don’t see one person who is disabled. It’s a foreboding feeling that those who are so often hidden away, rejected, forgotten, those who don’t have a voice, that they are now victims of their marginalized status. Is it really possible that here, where an estimated 10% of the population are people with disabilities, we would see only a handful hanging around the streets, looking for water or food? It’s only a nagging suspicion, an idea that comes to me when I walk among the ruins ... that people affected by a disability—physical or intellectual, have maybe, just maybe, been the first victims in this tragedy.

Will a country trying to rebuild itself be prepared to do it with the ones who are most marginalized?

For now, L’Arche is mourning the loss of two members of the Board of Directors: Schella and Marie-Cecile.

For the time being, L’Arche is trying to survive, having lost two homes.

And before we rebuild, we are going to be discovering a new community life —and that in itself is an enormous challenge.

So spread the word: L’Arche Carrefour is alive and we’ll share this life with all of you.

*I don’t want to stay in the dark, in the unknown.

Triptych for the Week

I’m on my way back from a short walk. Beer in hand, I sit down on the bridge being built over the river near my place. I needed some space to think, to distance myself from the community. It’s funny, but taking a bit of time away from the community, even if it’s only 30 minutes, allows me to refocus ...

And I noticed this at least, between two mouthfuls of the excellent local beer, called Prestige: It’s hard to be in community for a long time, always with “the friends,”* with the assistants, with the noise; confronted by another culture, by another rhythm, by different things and by the differences that, for some, will never be sorted out. I believe there is one simple reason that it’s difficult: because in community, living with people affected by intellectual difficulties, we are constantly confronted by our own weaknesses.

It is primarily a matter of heart: the friends are people “of the heart” before they are people “of the head.” And the heart, once opened, lets in—and lets out—everything that is beautiful in people, but also everything that is ugly and reprehensible. While we may have an open heart, we also have a mind that loves to look at itself in the mirror and to analyze its own flaws, its own actions, good or bad. And this is sometimes what saps our energy the most. We realize that we are not as open as the friends are able to be, that we are impatient about trivial things, that we don’t seem able to forgive the way they do. Everything seems simple for the friends: forgiveness, celebration, laughing, communion, times of joy and times of pain as well. We really want all of this, but we can never totally get outside of or beyond our head.

Caught between two feelings, with ten things that have to be done, we very rarely appreciate each moment fully the way the friends do. When I look at someone like Elmond, sitting in the sun, smiling beneath the rays that blind him, I can’t stop myself from telling him to move and sit in the shade, where he will be more comfortable. Then, after several minutes spent moving him and the bench on which he was sitting—his sandals, too big for him, fallen on the ground—I realize that he is just waiting for me to leave so he can return to sitting where he was—happy, without questions.

It’s so sweet, for one moment, to sit on the bridge, Prestige in hand, feet dangling in the air, forgetting about faults and smiling under the blinding sun.

I am lucky. Maybe more than others. I was born just where I needed to be, at an opportune time, surrounded by love and respect. I have perfect parents – with all their faults – and a brother whose faults I have yet to discover. Born the second and last child, I had it easy, and I have to say that my dreams were uncomplicated, right from the start. I live without limits, free, and I owe this to all of you. Sometimes, I wish that everyone could be afflicted with the same pathological illness from which I suffer – being happy all the time.

A sliver of moonlight crosses the window and traces a line over my words. There it is – everything comes together to bring me delight. Straddling two clouds, propellers in the wind, I enjoy imagining myself in full flight with Saint-Exupéry,* seeking out the invisible, the unknown; looking for the truth that hides in the hearts of all people. On my right, a white cloud, small and fluffy like papa’s beard, floats aimlessly in the blue of the sky.

Why is it there?

Alone, suspended without cords or wires, without support ...

Immediately, I think of people affected by intellectual disabilities. It’s automatic – thinking first about my own little self, the invisible and incomprehensible always lead me back to Olivier, Fara, and all those who, alone like that solitary white cloud, float without a framework to support them, in our world that just is not made for them.
So, how was our Christmas at L’Arche Chantal? It was magic. Like a series of attacks aimed at my heart, intent on removing its last remaining chains, its final barriers. It’s a long story, and it starts well before December 25th. There was the trip to the town of Jacmel for a weekend break, then the car breaking down, then the mad dash, in driving rain, to get to Chantal in time. Then getting ready for Leo and Boss Jean’s wedding, then preparing for the 25th, for this L’Arche Christmas – then just before the day, there was midnight mass at 9 a.m., no diesel fuel in the truck, the fact that everyone forgot to save food for me, the tonne of stuff left at my place from the wedding ...

Please watch for my next blog entry; I will include a detailed description of my adventures before and after Christmas. The story will start back five years ago, when I spent my first Christmas at L’Arche.

So, it’s been more than seven months since I arrived in Haiti. I know this because I have a box full of the thoughts of Tenzin Gyatso, the fourteenth Dalai Lama, in the form of a little daily calendar that came with me and enlightened me throughout 2009. In 2010, things will be different; the community will be my teacher. Since the greatest wisdom is hidden in the silence of a joyous heart, I will drink my fill at the Fountain of Youth created by my friends at L’Arche. They are making me younger every day – me who does nothing but age every second. A New Year’s resolution, I suppose.
A little while ago, I wrote “Merry Christmas,” with sweeping movements of rough heels, in the fine southern sand.

My words came back to me, completely erased by a strong wave. What more is there to say – it’s midnight here, and still no snow has fallen. Its absence doesn’t leave a void; it’s just a noticeable difference. Is Christmas, are the holidays, the same when we are outside of our culture? Can we, fundamentally, change our habits simply by changing our environment? Can we see ourselves being happy with a quarter of what we have? It’s difficult, isn’t it? Our habits, our customs, our desires are so attached to the world that watched us grow up, as if all of our being was impregnated by this place we call home – this native, natal place.

And yet ... and yet!

Them, these Others, these beings affected by intellectual disabilities, their barriers are different! I amuse myself by imagining Claude, my old friend from L’Arche Montreal, here in the poorest country in the Americas - I can see him being happy. Then, on a flight of imagination, I send Justine from L’Arche Carrefour far away to L’Arche Amos. She would be the same, would Justine. She would invent imaginary illnesses, phantom wounds, in exchange for a bit of attention. She would love to help the others do the washing, even if it means doing big loads in an electric machine. She would eat as she does here, a little selfishly, taking the last piece of her friend’s birthday cake from the party the day before. And the assistants, black or white, from here or from elsewhere, would laugh to see her happy over so little, a ray of sunshine throughout our days ...

And since words like mine disappear, victims of a very small tempest of salt water waves on a white, sandy beach, I’ll take this moment in my wonderfully lovely life to send you my best wishes for the holidays. Merry Christmas – a little late – to you, whom I love from afar. The honest truth is that, if we wish them to, the holidays are moments of pure pleasure and great joy.

* Antoine de Saint-Exupéry is the author of the book Le Petit Prince/The Little Prince.