Welcome to “Life at the Orphanage,” a newsletter about life for the 50+ children of Have Faith Haiti. Keep up with me on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter for surprise details from the kids in Haiti.
We rarely take brothers and sisters into our orphanage. It just seems unfair, when so many in Haiti are suffering, that two of our limited slots go to the same family. Frequently, when children are brought to us, they are the youngest of the lot, an infant that tilted the balance for a single mother teetering on survival, or a child that a neighbor could not afford after taking in so many others.
But once in a while, we make an exception to the sibling rule. Eight years ago, a pair of brothers were brought to us by an impoverished single mother who so desperately wanted them educated, she offered to bring them from an hour away every morning, sit outside our gate while they went to school, and take them back in the late afternoon. We were so struck by her perseverance, that we agreed to try it. The first day they arrived they had holes in their pants, and we could see they didn’t own underwear. Within a few months, they were both living with us.
There was one other time we bent the sibling code.
It was more personal.
Some of you are aware of a brash and funny little girl named Chika (I wrote a book about her called “Finding Chika”) who was brought to us when she was three after her mother died giving birth to a baby brother. There was no doctor present. There rarely are for poor pregnant moms in Haiti. Hospitals are not easy to get to. Money is always an issue. So many babies are born at home.
Chika’s mother died in the same bed where she gave birth. The newborn son was taken away by an uncle.
Chika was brought to us.
Carrying Chika
What we carry defines who we are
Suffice it to say that Chika’s personality was twice the size of her diminutive frame. She bossed the other kids around, told them who could use the bathroom, who could use the soccer ball, where they should stand in line, you name it. The older kids just laughed. We laughed, too.
Then, at five years old, Chika developed a brain tumor. A killer called DIPG, which doctors said would take her life within four months. We stopped laughing. But Chika never did. Not once during the two amazing years in which she became our adopted daughter, did she ever fret or complain about her health. We traveled the world with her, looking for a cure. Along the way, we became a family.
“Mr. Mitch, where are you going?” she asked me one day, near the end of her life, when the cancer had robbed her ability to walk and I had to carry her from place to place.
“I’m late for my radio program,” I said, rising from the table where we were coloring. “I have to go.”
“No, stay and color with me,” she instructed.
“Chika. I have to work.”
“Mr Mitch. I have to play.”
“But, Chika, this is my job.”
She crossed her arms and made a face.
“No, it isn’t,” she said. “Your job is carrying me.”
And the effort we make is our legacy
Instantly, I knew she was right. My job was carrying her. It was the best job I have ever had, the biggest honor, the most important weight. For much of my life, I had filled my arms with books, broadcasts, films, work, accolades, money – and suddenly, all that had to be dropped to carry a 7-year-old from place to place.
There was no comparison.
Your job is to carry me. Our job is to carry all our children. Through hard times. Through illness. And if we have the means, then it’s our job to carry the poor children of the world, the sick, the forgotten, the orphaned. At least that’s how I see it.
When Chika died, we brought her back to Haiti to be buried. After the funeral service, we invited those in attendance to come back to the orphanage. Amongst the guests were Chika’s uncle, who had been raising her baby brother. After an hour or so, he wandered over and asked to speak to me in private.
“Moise (the little boy) is now three years old,” he said. “We have children of our own and we don’t have money to take care of them, let alone him. But I see this place” – he motioned to the orphanage – “and I wonder…could you take him in?”
I looked over to Moise. He had the same wide cheeks as his sister. His mouth hung open as hers often did, curious at his surroundings. I called his name and he turned to me and blinked his big eyes and in that moment, having just said goodbye to our little girl, I swear he resembled her so much I almost cried. I opened my arms and said, “Vini”, which is Creole for “come,” and he ran to me and jumped into my embrace.
Moise / Courtesy of Have Faith Haiti
He has remained there ever since.
Moise, we discovered, has Chika’s love of laughter, sense of mischief, rock-hard stubbornness and incredible strength. Chika was always strong, but Moise is like Bam-Bam of the “Flintstones.” Honestly, he can climb your body like a wall, no help from you, then hook his legs around your waist and drop himself all the way back, then pull himself all the way up, no hands necessary. He has been ripped since he was six years old.
He has become an integral, attention-grabbing, joyous part of our orphanage. I see Chika’s spirit in his smile, and I hear her in his voice.
Chika and Moise resemblance, at age 3
Families are like pieces of art
The story doesn’t end there. Not long after we took Moise in, we were contacted by the people who were taking care of his and Chika’s older sister, a nine year old named Mirlanda. We invited her to come visit us and her baby brother, whom she had never lived with, since their mother died when Moise was born.
Mirlanda was tall, quiet and polite. She spoke no English, but she played with the other girls at the orphanage as if she’d known them forever. The next day, when time came for her to go back, she went to our security guard, on her own, and told him “When those people come for me, tell them I’m not here.”
When I heard that, my heart broke.
A month later, she was living with us as well.
Mirlanda and Moise are the only brother and sister duo we currently have. They are bookends to Chika, and the kids love having them. As I say, we don’t break the sibling rule very often. But in this case, it felt like we were pulling a new family together just as ours — Chika, my wife and myself — had been ripped apart.
Moise and Mirlanda, little brother, big sister, are a reminder of how life goes on in this hot and weary nation, and how families here and everywhere blend and bend, but do not break.
Janine and Mitch with Mirlanda
***
Top photo: Chika dressed as a sheep in the Christmas pageant, December 2013 / Courtesy of Have Faith Haiti
👋 and welcome to “Life at the Orphanage,” a newsletter about life for the 50+ children of Have Faith Haiti.
Emmanuel had been through it before. The earth shakes. The buildings rock. You hear screaming from the streets. You see children running.
“The ground just starts moving,” he says. The last time this happened, he was 12 years old, reading a notebook in the yard at the orphanage. He heard a loud noise. The ground began to sway. He dropped the notebook and started running like the other kids. He ran through the kitchen, saw the propane tanks fall over, ran back out, grabbed onto a post and squeezed it as if it were a ship rail in stormy waters.
“Back then, I didn’t even know what it was,” he says of the 2010 earthquake.
This time, eleven years later, he knew what it was. He was in the same place as before, the yard of the orphanage, when the ground started rumbling. Again, the children began to race in circles. Again, he saw their terrified faces.
“It’s an earthquake,” he tried to tell them.
It’s an earthquake. Another earthquake. In a country that just saw its president assassinated and its streets terrorized by gangs, a country on the cusp of a tropical storm that could bring flooding everywhere — and suddenly, it’s an earthquake. Another earthquake?
Honestly. It’s enough to make you shake your head. If the ground hadn’t been shaking already.
Siem had been inside the dormitory back in 2010. He grabbed his bed and held on for what seemed like minutes. Then he raced outside. The air was thick with white smoke. People screamed. Some would die in the streets. It took months before anyone trusted going indoors again.
This time, Siem was at an airport, coming back to Detroit from Haiti for his sophomore year of college. He got a text.
“There’s been an earthquake. In Aux Cayes.”
That was his hometown. He frantically dialed a friend, who answered the phone and told him, “Your mama’s house is destroyed. Your aunt is dead. Her son is dead. Your brother is hurt—”
And then the phone died.
“I couldn’t reach anybody for three hours,” Siem says. “I didn’t know who was alive and who wasn’t.”
Siem’s family lives in the heart of the earthquake’s path, Aux Cayes, which sustained major damage and saw hundreds dead and thousands wounded. Some of his family had been at a funeral service when the ground rumbled and the church collapsed. Those who came to bury a loved one were buried themselves.
“They say 30 peopled died in that.”
Siem’s eyes moisten. You can tell he is a young man out of time, here in the safety of an American college year, but emotionally in the center of a hometown that has just been crushed.
“I have to go back,” he says.
Although his college classes begin in two weeks, he is returning home Saturday. He can’t be here, with all this safety, when his mother, who has been too traumatized to speak to anyone, sits by herself, wailing in the streets, under threatening Haitian skies.
Americans sometimes get worn out by Haiti’s problems.
Imagine how the Haitians feel.
Whenever there is another setback, there comes an inevitable chorus of “That poor country, it never gets a break.” But part of why it never gets a break is because it’s such a poor country. California suffers earthquakes. But with rare exceptions, they are absorbed by structures and roads built to withstand them. The southeast gets tropical storms. But with rare exception, good planning and strong building keep the damage within reason.
Streets are dangerous in America, but, with rare exception, a police force is expected to respond and a justice system expected to investigate. Political fights are commonplace in the U.S. But with rare exception, they do not end in bloodshed between legislators.
Money makes the difference in every case. And Haiti doesn’t have money. Not for preparation. Nor for protection. Not for relief.
So Siem’s mother is living in the streets, and others victimized in Aux Cayes are huddled in an outdoor soccer pitch. The roads to that area are infested with gangs, who may or may not let relief convoys past. There is no FEMA. There is no AllState representative. There is no abundance of hospitals or clinics or hotels.
What feels safe?
At the orphanage, the children have returned to sleeping inside. There were small aftershocks that came Saturday night, and our nannies, who remember the last earthquake, did not want to go back into the dormitory. I can’t blame them. The building, which we inherited, is not earthquake proof, and last time it developed a huge crack in its ceiling and wall that needed to be buttressed with a giant beam. Even so, I don’t trust it.
The school building, which we constructed after I took over operations, was built with more support, rebar all the way through. Plus, it is only one story. The nannies took the kids and made them all sleep inside the classrooms. They felt safer. Why shouldn’t they?
It’s another reason I yearn to move. Find a new place. A more stable home. Until then, I worry about every natural disaster. Every storm. Every rumble of the earth — in a nation where rumbling is omnipresent, political rumblings, violence rumblings, the rumblings of a hungry child’s stomach.
And now, once again, the rumblings of an earthquake. Another earthquake. As Siem prepares to fly to the rubble of his mother’s home, as we prepare to fly back to Aux Cayes to see if our new kids’ families are still alive, as our children eyeball every building nervously before they enter, we take a sigh, then take the next step. It is all you can do in a land that makes you feel like you are forever walking uphill.
***
The scholarship program is hosting a fundraiser on August 19 at Madonna University. Info and tickets are available here. Please spread the word!
Welcome to “Life at the Orphanage,” a newsletter about life for the 50+ children of Have Faith Haiti. Keep up with me on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter for surprise details from the kids in Haiti
It began with a drum. A small, half-broken, heavily-stained bongo drum. The kids would fetch it from the office every evening and pass it around on during devotions.
As a former musician, it didn’t take me long to notice how good the drumming was. Kids as young as six would pound those drums with their palms, the side of their hands, their fingertips, producing different sounds from the skins, speeding up or slowing down with ease.
So I got a second set of bongo drums. And a third. Then I began to bring down a donated drum set, a piece at a time. One trip a snare drum. Next trip a cymbal.
Eventually we had a whole kit, which the kids lined up to try. Then a guitar was added. Then I brought down a keyboard.
“Can I play?” became a common refrain. And each new budding musician inspired another. Can I play? Soon, with so many kids interested, we were accepting donations of anything musical from anywhere we could get them.
A former embassy worker gave us her cello. A Haitian friend brought by a violin. A local Detroit music store called Huber and Breeze sent down flutes, electric guitars, bass guitars. Can I play? Can I play?
Then came the game-changer. A man named Dennis Tini, who’d retired from his job as chairman of the music department at Wayne State University, agreed to pay a visit and take a look at our kids.
That was several years ago.
He has never stopped coming.
Call it luck, passion, or the kindness of strangers who happen to be musicians, but thanks to Prof. Tini’s constant teachings — and the boundless dedication of our kids — I believe the Have Faith Haiti Orphanage is the most musical children’s home in the country.
We have an entire large room just dedicated to music instruction. It houses guitars, drums, strings, keyboard and wind instruments. We’ve got accordions. Ukuleles. Recorders. Saxophones.
It was hugely satisfying to hear the squeaks, plings, smacks and boom-booms coming from that music room year after year. But the most fun started one day when I had a bunch of the teenaged kids around me, and I said, “You know what? We should form a band.”
Their eyes lit up.
Stars in the making
From that moment to today, we have grown into our own little Motown studios. There is a teenage boys band, a teenage girls band, an early and pre-adolescent band and a group called “Future Stars” made up of younger kids with various talents.
Having been in several bands when I was in high school, I knew the camaraderie of making music. I believe it is unlike any other. Performing it is a second language, a rapturous communication that makes you smile uncontrollably with a well-played lick on guitar, or a surprising fill from the drummer, or a high note hit by the lead singer.
Music is joy. Children are joy. Children making music bangs the joy meter like a hammer in a seaside arcade, shooting it up until the clangs the top bell.
Let me take you through the first rehearsal. The boys, from 13 to 17, filled the room and meandered to instruments. Appoloste knew a few chords on piano. Good enough. Kiki knew a few chords on guitar. Good enough. Louvenson was a natural drummer. Great. J.J. agreed to try the bass. Now we’re cooking.
A boy named Jonathan Ulysees (who we call J.U. to distinguish him from J.J.) has a high-pitched voice and a natural showmanship. We made him the lead singer.
And we launched into our first effort: “Do You Love Me?” by the Contours, an early 1960’s tune out of Motown – where else? – that starts with a spoken reflection:
“You broke my heart
Cause I couldn’t dance
You didn’t even want me around
But now I’m back
To let you know-
I can really shake ‘em down.”
We had J.U. try this. Since we didn’t have any microphones, we had him sing it into a large green comb.
It was perfect.
Straight to the heart
From that initial attempt, the boys have grown into a semi-polished unit with a repertoire big enough to fill an hour-long set. They’ll try anything. A James Brown song (“I Feel Good”), a One Direction song (“Steal My Girl”) oldies (“Rave On”, “Hit the Road Jack”) reggae (“Buffalo Soldiers”) holiday songs (Bruce Springstein’s “Santa Claus is Coming To Town” ) even spirituals (“I’ll Fly Away.”)
They call themselves The Hermanos Brothers (hermanos being Spanish for “brothers”, which technically makes them The Brothers Brothers.) But you can never have too much brotherhood. And they play with a sense of family, sharing the vocals, splitting verses, moving around on the instruments to give others a try. They even blend in a violinist, because Widley, a 16 year-old with incredible study habits and discipline, has made the violin his own. No problem. You can always work a violin into a reggae tune, right?
The teenage girls were the next to form an ensemble. There are seven of them, so they labeled themselves “Destiny Seven.” They are partial to pop songs that I have to learn (“Girls Like Us” by Zoe Wees) and old girls group songs (“Please Mr. Postman” “Mr, Lee,”) which they teasingly call “Mr. Mitch’s music.”
The middle-aged group, affectionately named “Tet Chaje”, (which is creole for “Troublemakers”) will pretty much sing anything. They’ve gone from “Jingle Bells’ to “Yellow Submarine” to “You are My Sunshine.”) They mix boys and girls, too young to have much distinction between their voices.
And our newest group, The Future Stars, just perfected an incredible version of “Que Sera Sera,” where all the instruments and vocals were done by them, despite their youth.
Mixed in with all of this are Haitian songs, French songs, religious numbers and folk tunes. It all culminated last year in the first of what has become a tradition: the school steps concert.
This is where we drag all the instruments from the music room, set them up on the school patio (one of the few places where you can count on shade) and perform a multi-tiered concert, where the bands run on and off the “stage” to do their rehearsed numbers.
Professor Dennis J. Tini with the kids of Have Faith Haiti
You know the best part? Not the singing, which is getting better all the time, or the playing, which is advancing with each show.
It’s the way they root each other on. There is no battle of coolness, no held-back applause out of concern that those clapping might not get as much love as the current band. Just unbridled glee at hearing each other perform. They clap in the hot sun. They jump up and dance on fast numbers. And there are always huge ovations when the bands finish.
It has gotten to the point where we do a concert every month, that’s how much they love it, that’s how musical the orphanage has become. What started with a bongo drum has blossomed into a variety show.
And inevitably, when the show is over and the equipment has been stored and life is returning to normal, I will hear a five-year-old walking through the yard alone, singing a line they never heard until that day (“Please Mister Postman look and see…”) And with that I know the special magic got through, the way music always does, from the most meager beginnings, straight to the heart.
Welcome to “Life at the Orphanage,” a newsletter about life for the 50+ children of Have Faith Haiti. Keep up with me on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter for surprise details from the kids in Haiti.
We all remember going off to college. Loading the car. Making the trip with our parents. Watching nervously as the campus came into view, marveling at the other kids who already looked settled in and were throwing a frisbee on a stretch of green lawn.
If you recall the crazy mix of curiosity, apprehension, and departure from everything you had known in your life until that point — take that and multiply it by 100, and you’ll land on what was going through the minds of four young men who boarded an airplane with me Sunday afternoon, heading to a land they had never seen before.
One was Edney, who I wrote about a few weeks ago. Illiterate until age seven when he came to our place, he’s now an academic wiz who blew our TOEFL score record out of the water.
He was accompanied by Jhonas, who spent much of his life in a ragged, makeshift tent with a blue tarp as a roof and dirt as a floor. There was no electricity. He did his homework on his knee.
The two of them will now be roommates at Madonna University this fall, thanks to a scholarship program we have set up for the Have Faith Haiti orphanage. I brought them with me a few weeks early to get a look at America — along with two of our upcoming seniors, J.J. and Kiki, who will be attending college a year from now.
The looks on their faces as the airplane lifted off were priceless, the kind of smiles that you can’t hold back. They stared out in silent wonder, seeing, for the first time, the top of the mountains that gave their island home its name — Ay-ti — or Haiti, the land of mountains.
Now disappearing through an airplane window.
Kiki, Jhonas, Mitch, Edney, and J.J. at the Detroit River
The scene at the orphanage a few hours earlier was emotional. There were tight hugs from the staff members and exaggerated laughter from the other teens, unsure of how to take the moment. Leaving? Some of them were leaving? A few of our younger boys began crying uncontrollably. One of them, named Manes, couldn’t even speak when I asked what was wrong.
“Is it because Edney is going?”
Tears streamed down his face as he shook his head yes.
Remember, there are often goodbyes at the orphanage, but never for the kids. Adults come and go. Teachers leave for the summer. Volunteers finish their time. But the children? They are a unit. A pack. A tightly knit family that sees one another every single day, eats together, goes to school together, prays together. Our facility is just over a third of an acre — for more than 50 children. You are always in each other’s orbit. You can’t help it.
Now, as if sending a rocket to the moon, a new orbit was about to be explored. It was cause for celebration and sadness. Jhonas’s mother, whom I hadn’t seen in years, came to say goodbye to her son. She wore a Sunday best red dress.
Jhonas and Esterline with their mother / Courtesy of Have Faith Haiti
“I asked God to watch over you and to thank you for what you are doing for Jhonas,” she said in Creole. “It is only because of you that he is getting this chance.”
I told her we would make sure he was safe, which seemed to be her only worry. Jhonas removed his glasses periodically to wipe his eyes. Despite the August heat, he wore a blue suit that a friend had sewn for him. He is rail thin, and the clothing drapes on him as if hanging in a closet. He hugged his mother tightly, hugged his sister, Esterline, who is also at our orphanage, and got into the car.
Edney was next. The night before he had choked up during devotion saying “I’m really gonna miss you guys.” Everyone stood and said one thing they were going to miss about him as well. Now, as Edney closed the door, one of our teenaged girls blurted out “This is really happening,” as if, to that point, it was all just a fantasy, something I spoke to them about like a fairy tale, leaving the orphanage, going to college, saying goodbye.
One last family photo of the summer before our teenagers depart for school in the US / Courtesy of Have Faith Haiti
When the plane touched down in Florida, I told them “Congratulations. You’ve now set foot in a second country.” They smiled but didn’t speak. In fact, for much of the process — deplaning, customs, getting a passport stamp — they gaped in silent curiosity. When Edney asked if it were possible to read a book on the next part of the flight, I took out my iPad and downloaded something. It took about ten seconds. The young men blinked in astonishment. Our internet at the orphanage, when it works, if it works, is like watching a mule pull a plow. You wait. You wait. You wait some more.
Here, suddenly, was the speed of America, in the simple press of a button. It was the first of hundreds of impressions like that. The car on the highway heading to our house. A highway? What’s a highway? The hot and cold water faucets. The indoor showers. The parking lots filled with cars at a dealership. The food that you can order online and pick up briskly. A myriad of everyday things that we take for granted.
When we first entered our house, we came through the garage, and the young men’s eyes widened.
“Bicycles,” they marveled.
And the next morning, they were on them. They had never navigated an adult bike before. (We have a couple kiddie ones that get shared at the orphanage.) They rolled cautiously into the street by our house, and, wobbling with the newness of the pedals, they began to ride.
Kiki, Jhonas, and J.J. take to cycling / Courtesy of Have Faith Haiti
I watched this with a welling in my chest. What must they be thinking of a world where, in less than a day, you can go from abject poverty to a bicycle ride in a leafy suburb? Are they thinking why didn’t I have this earlier in my life? Or are they thinking I wish I could bring this back to my brothers and sisters at the orphanage?
The summer wind blew as they navigated ahead, thin rubber tires rolling them through a strange new world, their eyes saying hello to everything.
***
The scholarship program for students like Edney is hosting a fundraiser on August 19 at Madonna University. Info and tickets are available here. Please spread the word!
👋 and welcome to “Life at the Orphanage,” a newsletter about life for the 50+ children of Have Faith Haiti. Follow along as I share the universal lessons learned watching the purest of childhoods in one of the poorest places on earth. Looking forward to hearing what you think in the comments.
PORT-AU-PRINCE — When you first arrive at our orphanage, the kids will descend like bees. They’ll buzz you and hug you and study your clothes and pull at your hair, especially if it is substantial. Then, amidst their giddiness, they’ll ask you a question:
“How long will you stay?”
It is more than curiosity. It is defense. Orphaned kids have many fears, but the worst is abandonment. They have all been left behind at least once in their lives. Most are afraid it will happen again.
So when new people come in, the kids measure their intended stays, then subliminally dole out the affection they’re willing to risk. A long stay means unbridled love. A short stay means they’re more guarded. Deep down, the kids sense a price for getting attached. They still want that attachment. But they are scared of being ditched.
This is one reason I come here every month, without fail, and have since 2010 (except for four awful months at the start of COVID-19.) When the kids get sad upon my departure, they’ll ask, “When are you coming back, Mr. Mitch?”
“What month is it?” I always say.
“March.”
“What month comes after March?”
“April.”
“So that’s when I’ll be back, right?”
It seems to work. Knowing there is a reliable return, one that they can point to on a calendar, eases the pain of saying goodbye. They see it my leaving as an absence, not a farewell.
Farewells, they don’t like.
Farewells break their hearts.
We had a farewell last week.
It broke all of ours.
Teacher Phedre (left) with students who completed Collége 1 grade level in the spring of 2019 / Courtesy of Have Faith Haiti
Not long enough
Vladamir Delinois was one of our top teachers. He went by the name “Phedre” – or “Mr. Phedre” to our kids. A stocky, smiling man who could look menacing in a helmet and sunglasses yet soft and fatherly with a couple of kids in his lap, Phedre had a radio-announcer’s voice that boomed from one end of the grounds to the other.
We met him during our first few months in Haiti, back in 2010. He stood out because he spoke English like an American. That’s because he left Haiti as a child and lived with his family in Brooklyn, then Florida. He even served in the U.S. Army. When he returned to Haiti, he worked in various security type positions until the 2010 earthquake, when everything stopped.
That’s when we arrived. Phedre knew someone at our orphanage and began to hang around, shooting the breeze with all of us. He was easy to like. He was always telling stories, laughing loudly, earning the nickname “Hollywood” from some of the crew. He had grown children and a new baby son. He loved kids. You could see that. A few years later, when we needed English teachers, he applied, and we welcomed him onto our staff.
Louvenson and Phedre at a recent beach club field trip / Courtesy of Have Faith Haiti
During the past few years, Phedre worked tirelessly with our high schoolers on their TOEFL test preparations. The TOEFL (Test Of English as a Foreign Language) is the gold standard for foreigners wishing to study at American universities.
Phedre reveled in getting our kids ready. He was constantly asking me to bring the latest study books to increase their chances. He gave mock tests. He coached our kids on how to actually take the exam, what questions to leave behind, how to budget their time.
The goal was to score higher than a 70, a benchmark for admission to many American universities. Last year when Edney, one of our brightest kids, scored a 96 on his first try, Phedre was as proud as a father watching his son score the winning touchdown.
“I knew he could do it!” Phedre bellowed. After the score was posted, we announced it to our kids. And even as they marveled at the number, some set their minds on surpassing it. They knew the path to doing that went through Mr. Phedre.
He was transforming into a sensei, a wise, guiding force that could unlock the mystery to college education and a trip to America. Our kids couldn’t wait to study with him.
Now, suddenly, they can’t.
Phedre died.
During the pandemic, we have many of our staff members live at the orphanage. It’s the only way we can ensure they aren’t exposed to COVID-19. A few staffers could not do this, like Phedre, because he had children to take care of at home.
Consequently, he came and went, and we had him tested twice a week. It was expensive and time consuming, but we valued his health and his teaching. One day, the test came back positive. Phedre immediately went home and quarantined. He stayed out two weeks. Although he had no real symptoms, he stuck with the protocol and when it was safe, we welcomed him back, relieved in a way, that we didn’t have to worry about him catching it anymore.
That was many months ago.
A few weeks ago, Phedre came to visit. He had bad back pain but seemed OK otherwise. A few days later, he said felt sick and went to an aunt who was a physician. He got worse. Next we knew, he was in a hospital. He texted a friend that he was having trouble breathing and that the people at the hospital said he had COVID-19. He was confused. Didn’t he already have COVID-19? Wasn’t he protected against severe symptoms a second time around?
The next day things got worse. He was moved into the Intensive Care unit.
He texted “I’m scared.”
The next day he was gone.
I got a text from Yonel, our Haitian director. “We lost Mr. Phedre today. I am very sorry.”
Phedre with his son, Jhi / Courtesy of the Delinois family
There one minute, gone the next
It is the kind of death that happens every day here in Haiti — sudden, jolting, no satisfying explanation. Not having been there in that hospital, we don’t know what Phedre was exposed to, or what precautions were taken. We get no report. No charts. No phone calls.
There are rare pockets of decent health care in Haiti, but for the most part, it is a broken system. Poor people go to hospitals. They get scant attention. Sometimes they come out. Sometimes they do not.
Had he lived in America, Phedre would have been vaccinated. He would be alive. But there is no vaccine in Haiti yet, despite being 700 miles off the Florida coast. Everyone here is rolling the dice.
Phedre was 56. We were stunned at the news. The kids cried. The other staff members cried. He was just at our place, revving his motorcycle, pulling off his helmet, flashing that big smile. How can someone be there one minute and be gone the next?
It is the fear that hovers ominously over all of us, and even more so at an orphanage like ours. I feel so badly for Phedre’s family. For his students. For the kids who will never have him grill them on TOEFL questions and beam brightly when they get the answers right.
The night after Phedre died, I got a call from one of our teenage girls at the orphanage. She had asked to use Yonel’s phone. She said she just wanted to talk to me.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” I asked.
“I just want to know,” she said, “that you’re not gonna leave.”
“Leave? Leave where?”
“Leave us.”
I swallowed hard. I knew what she meant. It is the emotion rooted in all our children, and, by extension, all of us as well. How long will you stay? For Mr. Phedre, it was not long enough. Not nearly long enough.
Phedre spent an entire day cooking his top-secret chicken wing recipe for a student-teacher meal in 2019 / Courtesy of Have Faith Haiti
Make your check payable to “Have Faith Haiti Mission” and send to
Have Faith Haiti Mission
c/o A Hole in the Roof Foundation
29836 Telegraph Road
Southfield, MI 48034
Have Faith Haiti is operated by the A Hole in the Roof Foundation, a 501(c)(3) org (TAX ID# 27-0609504). Donations are tax deductible.
About the Mission
The Have Faith Haiti Mission is a special place of love and caring, dedicated to the safety, education, health and spiritual development of Haiti’s impoverished children and orphans. You can learn more here.
