Whilst life in Haiti is slow, the capital, Port-au-Prince, is one of the most violent cities in the world. Kidnappings continue and the UN has been stationed there since 2004; I couldn’t help but parallel these invading troops with my Belfast upbringing during the Troubles. Few in Haiti venture out on foot after dark, except in Port-au-Prince where some roads have streetlights; most people rise at 5am and are asleep by 8pm. The Haitians’ sense of pride is remarkable; they walk so tall and dress immaculately – when going to church, they look fit for a wedding. This sense of dignity is paramount, yet each day is a struggle.
   During my trip I visited an orphanage, Foyer des Filles de Dieu, which housed 68 girls from the ages  of three to 21. Most had been abandoned by their parents who could no longer take care of them. I was most taken by the Sister of the orphanage telling me ‘they want help outside the gate, not in’ and how relevant this was to Daniel’s text. She explained how many of the children gained basic education but cannot afford higher education. It is sadly too expensive and most families cannot even afford to send their children to basic school. Consequently, it is a verbal culture and over half the population is illiterate. 
   On 6 January, a sacred day, I attended a seven-hour voodoo ceremony. This proved not only to be the highlight of the visit but one of the highlights of my life. It was an extremely positive eye-opening and ritualistic experience. It captured the Haitians’ ability to let go and make the most of life. They are magical, magnetic people, who draw you in and win you over.  We have much to learn from different cultures, and the more we exchange and embrace one another’s differences the more we can make the world a positive place.
    ‘Violent deaths are natural here’, wrote Graham Greene in The Comedians. He wrote this work in the 1930s in Haiti and I still sensed the feeling that every day is like going into battle. In 2004, as a direct result of two floodings, over 6000 people died in Haiti. 
   I will never forget the cemetery I visited in-Port au-Prince – the strange dangerous feelings I experienced. But most poignant of all was the sign above the entrance ‘Souviens tu es poussière’   (‘remember you are dust’). We will never really know what happens to us when we die. We must wait and see – but by which point it’s too late . . . 

Cathie Boyd  © 2008