PORT-AU-PRINCE — Something new is happening at the orphanage. At night, or when it rains, I have to walk from the school down and up a slippery hill. Lately, the teenage boys come running alongside me.
“We’ll help you, Mr. Mitch,” they say.
They grip my shoulders and lock my elbows.
“We’ll walk with you. We don’t want you to fall.”
When did I get so old?
When did they?
It’s a changing time in our little corner of the world. We are blessed with this beautiful new property, but challenged with how to afford it, run it, and protect it.
Marvens, 1
We are waving goodbye to college-bound students, but welcoming in more babies than ever. This trip, I visited one-year old Marvens, who is recovering from tuberculosis in our old property, and admitted his three-year old sister, Poushalina, into our group. She’d suffered scabies and a skin pox that forced her into a month of isolation. Now, here she was, finally free, smiling and dancing in front of the other kids as if she’d been with us forever.
We have welcomed some impressive new staff members from Haiti, and my friend and fellow author Ridley Pearson, he of the bestselling thriller novels and the “Peter and the Starcatcher,” “Kingdom Keepers,” and “Lock and Key” series, came down and taught writing classes all week.
Ridley Pearson in a writing class
But Thursday morning, we had to say goodbye to a wonderful volunteer, Sarah Stone, who came all the way from Australia last January and has taught history, English, oceanography, poetry, math and even swimming during her time with us.
The kids and staff organized a farewell party, and some made speeches and some cried. Everybody swarmed her with hugs.
“It made me want to stay,” Sarah said. “I read the kids’ notes they’d given me the night before and I cried. Even though I’m leaving I feel a part of my heart still belongs to Haiti, and still belongs to these children.”
Life, ever-changing.
Ms. Sarah says goodbye
Swiftly fly the years
Who knows what will happen next in this country? There are rumors an international force will be coming to quell the violence and gang-inspired unrest. There is talk that the gangs’ grip on daily life might be nearing an end.
On the other hand, fuel is still impossible to find, the streets remain fairly deserted, and everyone is on the lookout for daily protests and burning tires. Most schools are closed. Many businesses only open a couple times a week, and usually shutter by noon. Food and water remain in scarce supply. Everyone is scared.
The famous book by Tracy Kidder referred to Haiti as “Mountains Beyond Mountains.” It’s from an old Haitian proverb that speaks of life that way: beyond the mountains are more mountains. Beyond your problems are more problems.
We have overcome so much in Haiti. We rebuilt after an earthquake. We cleaned up after hurricanes. We endured life without bathrooms, showers, hot water, a kitchen or a school, and now have all those things and more.
But there are new challenges, new hurdles. We can’t go out anywhere. We can’t take the kids to summer camps or work with other orphanages. It’s harder to find people to hire in Haiti, because they fear the streets or lack the money for gas. Volunteers from America are harder to entice, because they read the news just like everyone else.
There is so much to do and build at the new property, but we need funding to do it, and it’s hard to convince people to donate to Haiti again. There are only so many times you can paint a bleak picture and still get others to empathize.
And yet.
One season following another
And yet the kids make it so worthwhile. This week, I watched our smallest ones march in a line, holding each other’s shoulders and singing. I told a bedtime story to the young boys, lifting and swinging tiny Jeff — who is all of 30 inches tall — as a lad who could fly.
I met with the middle school kids in a private discussion group and one of them asked me, “Mr. Mitch, what is the difference between desire and destiny?” A teenage girl, Bianka, asked if it was possible to study Latin. Chamaika, who is tall for her ten years, painted a beautiful picture then walked it over and said, “Mr, Mitch, this is for you.” Two of our most studious kids knocked on my door one night, sat down and said, “We’d like to apply to college for early admission.”
And the two boys I’ve known the longest, Nahoum and Appoloste — who were knee-high when I first arrived in 2010 — both made me blink this week.
Nahoum had to take the Duolingo English test, a language proficiency exam used to admit international students to American colleges. Other kids had taken it, but only after spending days on practice tests, over and over, until they were confident.
With Nahoum, whose passport arrived late, we didn’t have time for all that. So he took a chair and a small table and we plugged in a computer and he started the test totally raw. No practice whatsoever.
He blew the score away.
And Appoloste? Well. The kid who only knew one word of English when I first met him — “Cookie” — is now taller than me and was one of the young men holding my elbows as we walked down the hill.
“Isn’t this a switch?” I said.
“Yeah,” he smiled. “You used to hold my hand when I was little.”
“And now you’re holding me up.”
“Exactly.”
Mylove and Luxie, sleeping side-by-side
Life, ever-changing. I began this series at a transition moment, the time we decided to move homes. But the truth is, at a Haitian orphanage, everything is a transition moment.
After this week, we will stop publishing “Life at the Orphanage” weekly here at Bulletin, but will continue at least bi-weekly at havefaithhaiti.org and will soon be announcing a Year of Thanks campaign — from Thanksgiving to Thanksgiving — in which we hope to raise enough funds to complete our new home. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to share it with others.
On my last night this trip, I told the kids a joke at the end of our nightly devotions. It went like this:
The big animals were playing the little animals in a soccer game. The entire first half, the big animals won every ball, stomped downfield, and scored goal after goal, the elephant, the rhino, the giraffe. The score at the half was 72-0.
Then the second half began. The little animals got the ball first. And the centipede took it and went dashing right, left, right, left, and zoomed between the big animals for a goal.
“That was great! That was amazing!” the other little animals squealed. “But where were you the first half?”
The centipede said, “Putting my shoes on.”
Sometimes, that’s what it’s like on this adventure. The odds are big, brash and stacked against you. It can take a while to get your shoes on. But little people can do amazing things. I see it every day here.
Our shoes are tied, and our task is endlessly before us. Nurture these incredible children, love them, feed them, teach them, cherish them, and marvel at the changes as the journey goes on.
Life, ever-changing. This place, as always, blows me away.
Did you ever look out your window and see your family there, playing or running through the sprinklers? Did you ever take stock of your loved ones in a noisy moment around the Thanksgiving table, eyeing them all together in one setting?
Here we are. For years I had these “inventory” moments at the orphanage, standing on the second level balcony from which I could see the entire expanse of our cramped, third-of-an-acre facility. If the children and staff were outside, I saw them all, from east to west, north to south, gathered under my watchful gaze. In those moments, I had a feel for the totality of the place, what we lacked, sure, but mostly what we had. Standing there, taking it all in, felt good. It felt…satisfying.
An aerial view of the old “campus”
Times change. This morning, I tried to take stock of “where we are” and realized our little orphanage has spread out in so many ways. It covers more land. It covers more settings. It covers more countries!
It starts, of course, with the dormitories on our new facility, where the kids now wake up. Where we once had all the boys in one room and all the girls in another, we now have divisions: youngest, middle, oldest, boys, girls, eight rooms, multiple nannies.
Our live-in “staff” used to be a few people sleeping where the kids slept. Now we have multiple nannies, nurses, volunteers, administrative staff — many of whom have to sleep in our facilities because the streets are too dangerous to travel back and forth.
It’s not possible to see everyone from a single balcony or window anymore, because the new place is expansive compared to where we were, and at any given moment the kids might be exploring trees, or running on our makeshift “lawn,” or in the school building, or the kitchen, or doing a nature walk.
Here we are.
Family in Michigan
Then I think about our “extended” orphanage, which tentacles itself to America, beginning with our home in Michigan.
This is where you find Knox, 11, Ziggy, 5, and Nadie, 10 months, all here for various medical treatments. They bundle up in winter clothes they never would use in Haiti, they travel freely to doctors and rehab centers, they enjoy an occasional trip to a frozen yogurt store.
Knox holds Nadie as Ziggy leans in
But they still pray before every meal, the same words the kids in the Mission pray, and they still study their lessons during “school time” in the house, and they can’t wait to get back to Haiti this weekend and shed the coats and the boots and run freely with their brothers and sisters.
Then there’s the college kids, seven of them, spread across two campuses, Madonna University in Livonia and Hope College in Holland. There, our kids are plowing through their studies. They call or visit regularly, and this week I heard from a number of them with their midterm grades. Almost all A’s. That’s incredible, when you think about the culture shift they had to endure just to reach their first day on campus. New environment. New laws. New weather. New food.
From left to right around the table: J.J., Esterline holds Nadie, Knox, Kiki, Ziggy, and Samanza
“Yeah,” said Kiki, who had a single B+ in his psychology class, “but I want to have all A’s. I’m going to get up earlier to study.”
These kids have adapted better than we have a right to expect, making friends, participating in campus activities. But they still can’t wait to Facetime the kids back in Haiti, and when they do, it’s a raucous, laughing, shouting exchange, teenagers simply giddy with the excitement of reuniting, even over a computer.
Family home in Haiti
Then there’s the 11th “ex-pat” of our orphanage, Manno (Emmanuel) who takes the bar the furthest. He graduated Madonna last June with the highest honors and a 4.0 grade point average, and while he is now applying to medical school, he is working for the year as a medical scribe.
Manno at work
He lives with us as his own man, earning his own money, arranging his own way. For all intents and purposes, he is a responsible adult in an adopted country. But his dream, as soon as it’s possible, is to return to the orphanage as a pediatrician and take care of those who never had access to such a doctor before.
Here we are. In four different locations, two different countries, various classrooms, various bedrooms. The orphanage that used to fit in a glove is now growing, thriving, opening its palms and reaching to the skies.
In the very first installment of this series, I wrote that we needed to move. And now, a year and a half later, we finally have — but it’s just the start. We need help desperately to build essential areas like a kitchen, a church, a living room, a music room, security facilities. Our costs, like all costs in the world, have skyrocketed. But juxtaposed against Haiti’s current backdrop – gangs that terrorize and murder, politicians that manipulate and don’t care, essential services that shut down at all times of the week, a populace trapped between frustration and desperation — well, those costs seem almost insurmountable.
The money that was raised by this newsletter on Bulletin went directly to help our orphanage. And now, just as our kids have shifted, this format shifts. Bulletin itself will soon go away. But we are taking this newsletter to havefaithhaiti.org, where I will continue to share our joys and triumphs and challenges while we – with your help — continue to build up our new home. There are more stories to tell, and so much work to be done. [**More on the changes to the newsletter, and what this means for your subscription below**]
Our story, like our kids, is shifting location, but it is nowhere near over. I hope those of you who, through these pieces, have grown attached to the Have Faith Haiti Orphanage, will retain the first two words of our name as we move forward. That way, when we look out at our precious children and ask that take stock question — Where are we? — the answer will be here, there, and, with you, everywhere.
The following announcement is for subscribers who originally signed up through Meta’s Bulletin platform, which is now defunct. Your subscription was transferred automatically. Email info@havefaithhaiti.org if you are not received new issues.
Life at the Orphanage is Moving!
If you subscribe to other newsletters on the Bulletin platform, you might have heard that Meta has made the difficult decision to discontinue Bulletin. As part of this process, they are issuing full refunds for all currently active premium subscriptions. ***Please don’t cancel your subscription in the meantime, as only active subscriptions will be refunded.***
If you’re not a premium subscriber, don’t unsubscribe either! We’re going to move your subscription to a new platform that ensure you receive these updates, and want to make sure you stay on the list.
Life at the Orphanage will continue here at Bulletin next week, and move to havefaithhaiti.org in November — stay tuned for the first issue, and how you can support our latest major project.
“WHAT DO I DO NEXT?”
Nothing! We’re working to make this as smooth a transition as possible. The following FAQs have all you need to know. Please continue reading “Life at the Orphanage” here next week, and from havefaithhaiti.org beginning in November.
Am I receiving a refund? Why? When?
If you’re a premium subscriber and your subscription is active, you will receive a refund. As your active monthly or annual subscription is being deactivated, you will receive a refund of your most recent monthly or annual payment at the end of October. Again, please do not cancel your subscription in the meantime – Meta cannot guarantee our refund process will include you if you cancel your subscription. If you previously canceled your subscription, Meta won’t be able to issue a refund.
What if I don’t want a refund because I want to support Have Faith Haiti?
As you know, all proceeds from subscriptions to “Life at the Orphanage” support the Have Faith Haiti Mission & Orphanage. Meta has confirmed that the refund process will not have any negative impact on the orphanage, and that Meta will not be asking for the return of any funds sent on to Haiti — meaning, your previous subscription payments remain with the Mission, and your refund will come from Meta.
My credit card is no longer associated with my Meta Pay Account, will I still be refunded?
Yes, you will be automatically refunded back to the card you’ve used previously, even if that card information is no longer on Meta Pay.
Will I have to sign up again at havefaithhaiti.org? Will there be a charge?
In short, no and no. We are handling subscription for you so we’ll make sure you’re on the mailing list to receive all new editions, whether you’re a premium subscriber or not. And the upcoming version of “Life at the Orphanage” will be available without a paywall — including the archive — at havefaithhaiti.org. Your ongoing support through a donation at anytime will help sustain its efforts.
Speaking of moves…with your help, we can move mountains.
PORT-AU-PRINCE — The last of the stragglers came through the gate and got on board, their backpacks heavy on their childish frames. I walked up and down the street, lingering for a moment in the din of diesel engines choking out black smoke.
We have boarded buses before.
But this time the buses weren’t coming back.
It was time to go. For real. Leaving behind the orphanage that had been our home for years. Moving to a new facility. Bigger. Safer. Newer. We had packed everything. Sent the cargo ahead. Now all that remained was taking the kids. I searched their faces for traces of nostalgia. Most of them could not recall any other home but this one.
But if I expected tears, I found none. Only excitement. They bounced in their seats. They couldn’t wait to get to their new digs.
That left the nostalgia to me. I studied the purple exterior walls of our old place and remembered when we first painted them, covering the pale, dirty yellow. How proud we were. I looked at the front gate, with the words “Have Faith Haiti Mission” in block white letters, and remembered when we first painted those as well.
I looked back on the chapel, the first thing you saw when you entered our gates, and the tilted basketball hoop, and the potholed concrete and the exposed tree roots and the rusting swing set that we had to leave behind because it was bolted into the ground.
The yard, always so raucous with screaming childhood activity, was empty now, baking in the hot sun. You could almost hear the silence questioning itself. “What gives? Where did everybody go?”
The closing of a home.
The opening of a new home
When the bus pulled through the gates of our new place, the kids pressed their faces to the windows. What was absent in nostalgia was made up for in curiosity. They pointed. They squealed. Some seemed to be holding their breath.
The first thing we did was get them to their bedrooms. The last time they had seen them was the surprise “reveal” day, when they ran into the rooms and discovered beds with their names on them.
Those names (along with some deflating balloons) were still there now, and the kids put their backpacks on hooks and turned the bathroom faucets on and off, on and off.
Then it was time to explore. Small bands of children raced from one building to the next, checking out every room, flipping on every light switch, pushing up against every window.
“Mr. Mitch, where is the kitchen?”
“Mr. Mitch, where is the chapel?
“Mr. Mitch, where is the music room?”
Of course, many of these things are yet to be built. We moved in before construction could be completed or in many cases even started, thanks to the endless issues in Haiti that make everyday commerce a dodgy affair.
“Can we walk, Mr. Mitch?”
Walk? Well. At the old place, taking a tour was a simple exercise. You walked from one end of the rectangle to the other.
But here, on a multi-acre parcel of land, we had to grab the hands of the smallest children and make sure they didn’t wander into thickets of trees. And a construction wall separated us from part of the property. And huge piles of dirt and concrete had to be avoided.
“Stay by me!” I yelled, as the kids fell into a long line.
And off we went, exploring.
The opening of a new home.
Gaelson, Richardson, and Knox walking on the new grounds
A hone with good bones
By the end of the day, as the sun lost its glare, the kids had a vague if exhausted sense of where they were. We gathered in the new gazebo for our first night of devotions.
This tradition, more than any other, is the continuity of our orphanage. It’s like our dinner tale moment, everyone gathered around, winding down together, sharing songs and laughter and prayer and conversation, the babies falling asleep in laps, the older kids holding them up.
The new gazebo
The night before we had done this at the old place, and we went around asking everyone what they would miss the most. Many of them said “the kanip tree” which only shows you never know.
And now here we were, in a freshly painted, newly constructed, but same shape gazebo. Everything around us was different. Buildings were different colors. Floors were different materials. There were all these trees!
But as we sang familiar songs, and stood for a familiar prayer, and the kids recited a familiar Bible verse, the place began to break in, like a new shoe as you continually walk in it.
When the kids went to their bedrooms, I visited each one, and kissed all of our precious children goodnight. I kept asking, “How do you like it?” and the answer was almost always a single word: “Good.”
Joseland snuggles up in her new bed
Good. It is indeed that. New? Yes. Confusing? Yes. Expensive? Dear Lord, yes. We will need help with everything. More support than we have ever solicited.
But it is good. And as nightfall settled on 53 sleepy young heads, I found myself outside, under dark Haitian skies, wondering what to say thanks for first.
Struggle. We use that word all the time when talking about Haiti. The struggle to get water. The struggle to find work. The struggle to survive.
With the current gridlock of gangs, protests and government indifference, our orphanage, like the rest of the country, has to struggle for fuel, because the gangs are blockading it. We struggle for water, because the trucks can’t deliver it. We struggle with our school, which remains closed because teachers cannot navigate the dangerous streets.
Haiti today, for those living there or trying to operate there, is an impossible tug of war between desire and denial.
Last weekend, in search of something more positive, I got to witness a different tug of war.
J.J., Samanza, a new school friend, Esterline, a visiting Knox, and Kiki at Hope College
I went to visit our four newest college students, Kiki, J.J., Samanza and Esterline, who graduated from our school last June and are deep into their first semester at Hope College in Holland, Michigan. I chose last weekend to come up because Kiki told me that he’d signed up for “The Pull” and wanted me to watch.
“What is the Pull?” I asked him.
“I’m not sure. But they asked me to come out for it, so I did.”
The Pull it turns out, is a huge annual tradition at Hope — and one of the oldest college traditions in the country — going back 125 years. Essentially, first year students compete against second year students by yanking on a rope.
But this is not your Grandad’s Tug of War.
In the trenches
I arrived on the hot Saturday afternoon, and met up with J.J., Esterline and Samanza.
“So where is this Pull?” I asked.
“Over there,” J.J. said.
We walked to a grassy area on 11th street. From afar, I could see crowds of spectators already on site. To be honest, I expected two groups of college kids in shorts and t-shirts, standing on opposite side of a rope, goofing around until someone yelled “Go!”
What I witnessed instead was a military grade operation. There, on a stretch of turf at least half a football-field long, were two teams, in full uniform, separated by tarp curtains and a long lonely stretch of rope in the middle. Each team had 18 participants. And they weren’t lined up one behind the other. No, sir. These kids were in trenches!
Trenches?
Yes. Perfectly dug, with plywood wedged on the front wall. Each participant was positioned in his or her trench, and wrapped with padding and duct tape on one side, to protect, I suppose, against rope burn and injury.
Crouched alongside each puller was a “moraler,” someone to yell encouragement, wipe sweat, and guide a water bottle into mouths.
Just after 3 o’clock, both sides looked to a signaler and….
Bang! Off they went! Pull! Pull!
Kiki was in the third trench from the front. He had a red shirt that read Lion, a nod to his team nickname “Lionheart.” I thought back to when he first came to our orphanage, with his younger brother, so poor he didn’t even have underwear.They had no idea how appropriate “Lionheart” was.
Battle tension
The Pull went on for hours. Crowds of students, friends and families cheered and whooped and hollered. There is no shortage of school sprit at Hope College. Every time the team did a coordinated yank — gaining maybe a fraction of an inch of rope — the supporters roared.
Poor Kiki — like the others — was trapped in that yanking position all that time. When I looked at his face, it was taut, exhausted, sweaty. He grimaced in pain. But he never gave up. Other participants were taken out when they fainted from the heat.
Not Kiki. He held that rope all afternoon long, his back burning, his muscles twitching, with no idea if he was winning or losing.
Kiki holds on.
Maybe it’s the writer in me. Maybe Haiti is just forever on my mind. But I could not watch Kiki, trapped in that hole, gaining less than an inch for every growling effort, and not think of how much this reflected daily life in Haiti and at the orphanage.
Every little thing is a struggle. Every hour of electricity is like gaining an inch on the rope. Every road closure or gang threat is like losing the same. Everyone feels stuck in a hole, pulling for their survival, with no idea what the final result will be.
“The Pull.” It could be the caption under endless Haitian photographs.
Sometime after 6 o’clock, the competition ended. And stunningly, the first-year students had won. That doesn’t happen often. Kiki celebrated with his new college friends, and told me “I’m really tired” when he got home.
I’m glad his team tasted victory. I’m glad he got to feel that all that pulling on a rope was, in the end, rewarded.
I only hope we can say the same, that everyone in Haiti can say the same when the current crisis is over. Right now it just feels like a dark trench, an endless effort, and a really long rope.
Kiki, Knox, Esterline, J.J. and Samanza in and around the “The Joy of Music” bronze statues by artist George Lundeen. Aplenrose Park, Holland, Michigan.
This is a tale of two cities – and two babies. And, as in the famous Dickens book, it depicts the best of times and the worst of times.
The worst of times seems to always be right now in Haiti. And right now the streets are emptied by fear. Gangs control the traffic, the economy, even the flow of critical goods like fuel.
With disillusion aimed at the current minimal (and totally ineffective) government, the populace has revolted. They protest, knock down telephone poles, burn tires, throw rocks. Life comes to a standstill. People can’t work. Can’t travel. Can’t go to school.
But children are always born, and children must be cared for. An orphanage like ours lacks the ability to shut down, close shop, tell everyone “we will contact you when things get better.”
The same goes for two very young children who have come into our care. The first is an infant named Nadie, whom I have written about before. The second is a one-year-old boy named Marvens, who was brought to us just recently, about a month after Nadie arrived.
Both of them are battling against physical challenges directly related to the poverty in Haiti.
One is luckier than the other.
The spring of hope
The lucky one, Nadie, didn’t start out so lucky. Nadie was brought to us at six months of age barely weighing seven pounds. “She has had nothing to eat but sugar water,” the mother told us, explaining she was not capable of breast feeding due to a chest injury.
Alarmed and shocked at the sight of this emaciated child, we quickly took her to the hospital, where it was confirmed that she was severely malnourished, anemic, and suffering from conjunctivitis. Her life hung in the balance.
Nadie when she first arrived, left; As her health began to improve, right
But thanks to quick help from the U.S. embassy, we were able to get her a passport to come to the U.S. to get healthy. Since her arrival, the word “thrive” is too small for Nadie. She has gained weight rapidly, currently at 13 pounds, twice was she weighed when she arrived just two months ago. The anemia is gone. The conjunctivitis is gone. Her blood test numbers have been fantastic.
She has been seen, thanks to the kindness of physicians in Michigan, by a neurologist, an ENT specialist, two childhood development experts, and a pediatrician who dotes on her care and has arranged vaccines and tests of all different kinds.
Nadie, before and after
Thanks to our friends, family and staff, Nadie never goes a minute without attention. She is the bright light of the household, and has gone from an inert infant to bouncing, flipping, sitting on her own and holding her own bottle. She is flush with clean clothes, warmed bottles, a pack and play, and lots of shaky, rattling toys to stimulate her attention.
She will remain here, in the soothing nest of growth, for a few more months.
Now let’s consider Marvens. He is from Croix-des-Bouquets, one of the most violent, gang infested areas in all of Haiti. Already, at one year of age, Marvens has paid the price for his geography. His father was shot and killed by a stray bullet while lying in bed.
Soon Marvens and his mother were homeless. She had no food or water. She wandered the streets with the baby and her older daughter, Pouchaline, who is 3.
When she came to us, we could tell Marvens was not well. He was fairly limp in her arms. He coughed. The pants he had been wearing slipped off his tiny waist. He had no underwear.
With the streets already nearly impassable, we somehow managed to get the two of them to a nearby hospital. They admitted Marvens immediately and kept him overnight.
The next day we were given the news: he has tuberculosis.
Now we are blessed to rarely hear those words in America. Modern medicine and vaccines have diminished TB down to around two cases for every 100,000 people. But in Haiti, it remains a real threat. And Marvens, it turns out, never got a TB vaccine.
Marvens when we first arrived
“So when do they start treating him?” I asked Yonel. “And how much will it cost us?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “They said they can’t treat him there, we have to take him to another hospital to get the medicine.”
“What? The hospital doesn’t have TB medicine?”
“No. Only the other one.”
As crazy as that sounds, what followed is worse. Because of the protests and gang violence, it quickly became impossible to get to the other hospital. Marvens and his mother remained cooped up in a room, with no treatment for his disease.
Then, days later, we received a call from the first hospital saying we needed to come and get Marvens and his mother, because they were closing down due to the violence.
“They say none of the staff can get there,” Yonel relayed. “We have to pick the baby up.”
“And what are we supposed to do with a baby with tuberculosis at an orphanage? It’s hugely contagious.”
“They don’t care. They just want us to pick him up.”
Had Marvens been in America, we could have this addressed promptly. Instead, he stayed in a hot, airless room in that hospital, crammed in with many others, for more than a week before we could get him. We eventually were able to bring his mother and him to our old property and put them in an isolated room. We needed to buy food, water, clothes just to sustain them minimally.
And still it took days and days before the hospital with the medicine for TB was actually open.
Marvens, at the old property
Little Marvens is taking that medicine now, and we are praying for a recovery. But we can’t get him to any doctors to find out. And of course he and his mother remain isolated from the population.
As for bringing Marvens to the US for treatment? Forget that. Once a baby has been exposed to tuberculosis, the immigration laws make it nearly impossible. Even if we could get the paperwork.
I look at little Marvens’ situation, and I look at Nadie’s, and I wonder, how can this be? Simply by dint of geography, two babies from the same country must battle different poverty outcomes with such different success.
It is the best of times, it is the worst of times. And so much of it depends on where you are. It doesn’t seem fair.
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.
It’s time to answer some questions.
There has been a great deal of media attention to the evacuation of our staff, volunteers, and founder. It’s likely you’ve read or watched the story by now.
Our founder, Mitch Albom, addresses the questions that may be running through your head; they are likely the ones we grapple with every day.
