Mother's Day in Trou Sable

GONAIVES, Haiti -- On Wednesday and Thursday, as I walked through the the neighborhood and stumbled to exchange a few sentences of conversation with Creole-speaking residents, I started to notice a number of people -- especially teens -- wearing black ribbons.

Sunday, the 28th, is Mother's Day, I was told.

So? I asked. What do black ribbons have to do with Mother's Day?

They are worn by people whose mothers are dead.

Still, the people celebrate. Children came home from school Friday with class-made cards for their mothers. The fronts featured drawings of flowers colored by the child.

The first Mass this morning at Holy Family Church, celebrated by Father Gerard of Hands Together, was packed. It started at 6:30.

I arrived a few minutes late and had to stand outside, with about 50 other people. Most of the Mass -- with the exception of the two readings and the Gospel -- is sung. The choir is accompanied by two men playing drums with their hands. Choir practices take place throughout the week; they are a primary social gathering for parishioners.

At the end of Mass, several drawings were held to present winning mothers with gift baskets of household items that they can share with their families and stretch already thin budgets.

I felt like a Protestant -- and I mean that as a compliment to Protestants; Mass lasted two hours, twice as long as normal in the States.

People dress beautifully for Mass. It's like Easter or Christmas every week. Women wear skirts and brightly colored outfits. Children often wear their school uniforms, and some girls as old as 14 or 15 wear what appear to be First Communion or Confirmation dresses, their hair also done in matching ribbons.

After a small breakfast of bread and peanut butter, I took a nap here at the guest house. Though my stay in Haiti is coming quickly to and end, I arrive in Cincinnati on Thursday night, I am getting sad to leave.

Still, I sleep to escape. I am wearing out from the combination of the oppressive heat and nature of the neighborhood. The numerous burning charcoal fires can make breathing difficult. I have seen too many naked children with burns on various parts of their bodies, and though the vast majority of the people would never think of asking for anything, the pleas from the hungriest and poorest are heart-breaking.

Three times, women have told me they want me to take their baby to the United States with me because he or she otherwise would die. A fourth women on the street wanted to sell me her infant.

An elderly man with poor vision and a voice that sounded like he had throat cancer approached me twice today. He wore a dark blue baseball cap with the NFL emblem on the front. Talk about worlds colliding. He said he had not eaten in three days. I did not have any money -- U.S. or Haitian -- in my wallet, otherwise I would have given him some.

Food is scarce in the streets. I met for the final time this afternoon with my third of three families, and the woman of the house told me her children had not eaten since have ears of corn Friday night. Twice in the past week, I had given her small amounts of money. She and her sister are widows. Their brother is a widower. All three live in the same two-room house with their combined 10 children. The brother went back to the neighboring Dominican Republic this morning, where he has found work in the past. He left his 2-year-old daughter with the sisters. The older of the two sisters left with us and walked two kilometers in the other direction, to the main market on Rue Liberte, (Liberty Street). She sells chickens, live chickens, whose feet are tied together. Refrigerators do not exist for the poor, because of their price and infrequent spurts of electricity available in the slums. Poultry is sold live.

I have eaten some of the chicken during the past two. Meals, even here at the guest house, are scaled back. Portions are less than half a modest meal in the United States. You receive one small piece of chicken -- a malnourished leg, for example -- dark rice with black beans and cabbage. It is good. After dinner, if available, blended mango shakes are served. They're wonderfully cold.

Of course -- mercifully -- clean, safe drinking water is plentiful at the guest house. As is bread.

I've probably lost 5 or 6 pounds, through a combination of modest diet and the unrelenting heat and humidity. You never stop sweating. You move and you sweat. To my surprise, my night sleeping in the slum home of one of my three families was one my best. It was cooler and less humid, and the bugs were not as thick.

The people are so kind. So many of them are deep-thinking and intelligent, if not formally educated. I probably will not file again from Haiti. Monday will be spent touring more Hands Together sites -- a clinic, a hospital and orphanage-school. Tuesday, we will drive back to Port-au-Prince. On Wednesday, with founder Father Tom Hagan of Hands Together, I will visit many of the organization's projects in the Citi Soleil neighborhood. As gang violence and political instability drove some relief organizations out, Hands Together has stepped up its presence: The group enrolled 1,145 more students in its schools and increased massive feedings two twice a month.

I will be scheduling two Hands Together appeals at weekend Masses at two churches in the Columbus Diocese in July. I have much new information to share.

I will leave a piece of me here in Gonaives. Though I am looking forward to coming home, I plan to return at the same time next year. In the meantime, I have vowed to learn a good bit more Creole. The stories in the slums are intoxicating and, though surrounded by death and veiled in sadness, full of life.
-- Mark Curnutte