Cross-Cultural Relations in a Haitian Orphanage
For this post, I've decided to write a brief (maybe) and specific snapshot of what my life is currently like as I and the KIVU crew stay in Haiti. We are working with Children's Lifeline Mission, so we generally visit a school or orphanage, often more than one, daily. Working with the children, we can help feed them, weigh or measure them for progress reports, or just play with them for their entertainment. It seems they're always intrigued to interact with a "blanc," or a white person. We're something of celebrities around here, although I'm not sure if that's positive or negative. Although this is my second time to Haiti (I came 3 years ago with my church to work in an orphanage in Jeremie), it's nonetheless been a learning experience for me to figure out how to show I am just as needy and human as others. What I definitely don't want to do is create and further relational roles that show Americans and "blancs" as the superior beings who are meant to give things to the less fortunate. Material wealth does not mean lack of need. I'm becoming convinced that it can oftentimes represent even more need different in aspects such as emotional connection, humility, or connection to God. I want to give of myself, but not in a way that conveys superiority instead of equality and family in Christ. Anyway, back to my snapshot (from earlier today since it's fresh on my mind)....
As I enter through the large, gated entrance and step off of the Lifeline Missions yellow bus, I immediately take in my surroundings. Large trees hold vicious-looking dogs chained and dispersed evenly throughout the small camp. Turkeys wander aimlessly with their young on the dirt paths. The modest, one-story cement building that houses twenty-three orphans makes up the bulk of my immediate view. As I approach the building with my friends, the other Gap Year students and leaders, we are greeted by a kind-looking woman speaking Creole. She addresses first our leader and translator, Robenson, and then begins hugging each of us individually with a simple "Bonjour." Of course, she is painstakingly aware by the pigment of our skin, expressions on our faces, and probably even the nature of our visit that we don't speak her language nor she ours. We are foreigners. Welcome, but foreigners all the same. She begins leading us through the clean and efficient orphanage. Each bed bunk has an endearing picture of a child's face to clearly mark their spot. It's as if the bed itself is assuring the children they belong here. Despite whatever horrors their past may hold, maybe even before their memory was fully-formed, they have a place in this world. We are informed by our leaders that this is one of the orphanages that is well-run and more self-sufficient than the others. It's considered a model program for some of the other, less successful, orphanages that we've visited (This includes the one we've visited multiple times that has been forced to hospitalize the children off and on for a year now due to malnutrition and improper care. The hospital keeps returning the children to the orphanage for either lack of housing options or lack of authority and code for someone to take action. Needless to say, there seems to be no functioning Health and Management sect in this government, unlike our own. Therefore, we continue visiting in order to monitor them and possibly take authority of the orphanage later on). As we pass from room to room, my friends and I feel a sense of hope. We are led by a group of approaching children, ranging from the height of my knee to nearly my eye level, as they take us past a farming lot, that helps feed the children, and into a small area with benches. Although the children are dressed in dirty and overly worn clothing, they seem healthy and happy. After they sit down, I find a spot on the bench, beside some of the orphans, as I look forward to watch whatever is about to take place. At the urging of one of their "mamas," they all get up, single file, and make rows much like those I used to create in my high school chorus class. Then, they begin singing a song in Creole. Unable to understand the dialect, I nonetheless can understand the beauty of the melodious and youthful voices in unison and the preparation their presentation must have taken. I'm touched not only by their thoughtfulness but by their acceptance of us and of each other. They are some of the most well-behaved children I've encountered yet on this trip, and I appreciate it. After their performance, which also included an English religious song and "Jingle Bells," ironic because of the sweltering heat, they finish and go through the rows in order to shake hands with every single member of our group. Then, they again find their seats in the rows with the rest of us, inter-dispersed, and we look to Robenson and the mamas to hear whatever will come next. The entire time, the rather ravenous dogs howl at the noise and at us, the intruders. After translating a warm welcome from one of the "mamas," Robenson invites any of us to share a verse or a word, which he can translate for the natives. As he's speaking, a small boy, no older than five, takes my hand and begins silently inspecting it. Grabbing it tightly, he holds it to himself, as if begging for attention or maybe even using it as a new toy. In response, I place my arm around him and pull him in close. No words need to be exchanged for either of us to convey that we are family. These children have no inhibitions about them. There is no lack of sweat and body odor in this country, but that definitely doesn't stop anyone from physical contact. Although it can be a bit overwhelming at times, it's also rather refreshing from the often guarded and intimidating society in the West. There are no hidden motives here. When I begin looking in my phone for a Bible verse with which to answer Robenson's beckon, my little friend bends down to touch my leg. He comes up, clearly confused by the grease now on his hand. I guess he isn't very accustomed to my rather noxious mix of sunscreen and bug spray. After I find a verse in my phone (thank goodness for my "Good Bible Verses" notepad), I tell Robenson I have something to share, and he invites me to address the group. Facing the benches, I read 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 as Robenson translates for everyone else. It goes, "But He said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness" therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in hardships, in insults, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." After the verse, I briefly relay to everyone that my friends and I are very happy to be able to share our weaknesses with the orphans and the rest of the group. We appreciate being welcomed into their home, and we hope to bring unity through Christ. Brief and to the point; no need to drag on a translated conversation. Nonetheless, I see the orphans nod approvingly at Robenson's translations. After returning to my seat next to my little inquisitive friend, I listen to Robenson thank the mamas one more time before declaring we must go and will be back to play with the children more on another day. No longer than 45 minutes, it was the quickest visit we've made yet. I didn't even have time to stare silently and rather unknowingly into their faces as I usually do, since the language barrier makes words of little use. Generally, I resort to teaching them the "slaps" game, where we can alternate flipping our hands back and forth to slap, preferably tap, the other's hands. I think I'll have bruises soon. I also find myself forming groups to dance with me or throwing the smallest kids up and down (a tiring task). They are not hard to occupy; they seem happy to simply be meeting new people, especially "blancs." Nonetheless, this particular trip ended rather abruptly; we were only passing by. As we load back into the bus, Robenson explains to me that all the scavenger-type dogs chained on the trees are actually guard dogs that are released at night to protect the children. The realization that this rather extreme precaution may be necessary brings me back into the reality that, although leaps and bounds are being made by everyday people, such as those that run this successful orphanage, there is still a world of hurt on the other side of the gates. Nonetheless, this particular orphanage left me feeling hopeful; it was my favorite of all the ones we visited. Although I occasionally question whether or not I'm doing enough for these people, I realize that every time I play with one of these children and make them smile, I am actually making Jesus smile.
As I enter through the large, gated entrance and step off of the Lifeline Missions yellow bus, I immediately take in my surroundings. Large trees hold vicious-looking dogs chained and dispersed evenly throughout the small camp. Turkeys wander aimlessly with their young on the dirt paths. The modest, one-story cement building that houses twenty-three orphans makes up the bulk of my immediate view. As I approach the building with my friends, the other Gap Year students and leaders, we are greeted by a kind-looking woman speaking Creole. She addresses first our leader and translator, Robenson, and then begins hugging each of us individually with a simple "Bonjour." Of course, she is painstakingly aware by the pigment of our skin, expressions on our faces, and probably even the nature of our visit that we don't speak her language nor she ours. We are foreigners. Welcome, but foreigners all the same. She begins leading us through the clean and efficient orphanage. Each bed bunk has an endearing picture of a child's face to clearly mark their spot. It's as if the bed itself is assuring the children they belong here. Despite whatever horrors their past may hold, maybe even before their memory was fully-formed, they have a place in this world. We are informed by our leaders that this is one of the orphanages that is well-run and more self-sufficient than the others. It's considered a model program for some of the other, less successful, orphanages that we've visited (This includes the one we've visited multiple times that has been forced to hospitalize the children off and on for a year now due to malnutrition and improper care. The hospital keeps returning the children to the orphanage for either lack of housing options or lack of authority and code for someone to take action. Needless to say, there seems to be no functioning Health and Management sect in this government, unlike our own. Therefore, we continue visiting in order to monitor them and possibly take authority of the orphanage later on). As we pass from room to room, my friends and I feel a sense of hope. We are led by a group of approaching children, ranging from the height of my knee to nearly my eye level, as they take us past a farming lot, that helps feed the children, and into a small area with benches. Although the children are dressed in dirty and overly worn clothing, they seem healthy and happy. After they sit down, I find a spot on the bench, beside some of the orphans, as I look forward to watch whatever is about to take place. At the urging of one of their "mamas," they all get up, single file, and make rows much like those I used to create in my high school chorus class. Then, they begin singing a song in Creole. Unable to understand the dialect, I nonetheless can understand the beauty of the melodious and youthful voices in unison and the preparation their presentation must have taken. I'm touched not only by their thoughtfulness but by their acceptance of us and of each other. They are some of the most well-behaved children I've encountered yet on this trip, and I appreciate it. After their performance, which also included an English religious song and "Jingle Bells," ironic because of the sweltering heat, they finish and go through the rows in order to shake hands with every single member of our group. Then, they again find their seats in the rows with the rest of us, inter-dispersed, and we look to Robenson and the mamas to hear whatever will come next. The entire time, the rather ravenous dogs howl at the noise and at us, the intruders. After translating a warm welcome from one of the "mamas," Robenson invites any of us to share a verse or a word, which he can translate for the natives. As he's speaking, a small boy, no older than five, takes my hand and begins silently inspecting it. Grabbing it tightly, he holds it to himself, as if begging for attention or maybe even using it as a new toy. In response, I place my arm around him and pull him in close. No words need to be exchanged for either of us to convey that we are family. These children have no inhibitions about them. There is no lack of sweat and body odor in this country, but that definitely doesn't stop anyone from physical contact. Although it can be a bit overwhelming at times, it's also rather refreshing from the often guarded and intimidating society in the West. There are no hidden motives here. When I begin looking in my phone for a Bible verse with which to answer Robenson's beckon, my little friend bends down to touch my leg. He comes up, clearly confused by the grease now on his hand. I guess he isn't very accustomed to my rather noxious mix of sunscreen and bug spray. After I find a verse in my phone (thank goodness for my "Good Bible Verses" notepad), I tell Robenson I have something to share, and he invites me to address the group. Facing the benches, I read 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 as Robenson translates for everyone else. It goes, "But He said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness" therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in hardships, in insults, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." After the verse, I briefly relay to everyone that my friends and I are very happy to be able to share our weaknesses with the orphans and the rest of the group. We appreciate being welcomed into their home, and we hope to bring unity through Christ. Brief and to the point; no need to drag on a translated conversation. Nonetheless, I see the orphans nod approvingly at Robenson's translations. After returning to my seat next to my little inquisitive friend, I listen to Robenson thank the mamas one more time before declaring we must go and will be back to play with the children more on another day. No longer than 45 minutes, it was the quickest visit we've made yet. I didn't even have time to stare silently and rather unknowingly into their faces as I usually do, since the language barrier makes words of little use. Generally, I resort to teaching them the "slaps" game, where we can alternate flipping our hands back and forth to slap, preferably tap, the other's hands. I think I'll have bruises soon. I also find myself forming groups to dance with me or throwing the smallest kids up and down (a tiring task). They are not hard to occupy; they seem happy to simply be meeting new people, especially "blancs." Nonetheless, this particular trip ended rather abruptly; we were only passing by. As we load back into the bus, Robenson explains to me that all the scavenger-type dogs chained on the trees are actually guard dogs that are released at night to protect the children. The realization that this rather extreme precaution may be necessary brings me back into the reality that, although leaps and bounds are being made by everyday people, such as those that run this successful orphanage, there is still a world of hurt on the other side of the gates. Nonetheless, this particular orphanage left me feeling hopeful; it was my favorite of all the ones we visited. Although I occasionally question whether or not I'm doing enough for these people, I realize that every time I play with one of these children and make them smile, I am actually making Jesus smile.
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