Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (33 page)

— We are African.

— Exactly! Very good. This ethic is a simple summation—

— A what?

— An easy way to remember a much bigger idea. There is an African philosophy to which I subscribe, that I take as if it were my very own. It is called “
Ubuntu
.”

— What does that have to do with the phrase?

— Be patient, Libète. First, an example. When our forefathers and mothers lived in Africa, before those from Europe came, many lived by Ubuntu even if they called it by another name. Say a man in Guinea saw a wandering stranger on the road. What does our Guinean friend do? Give him food and drink, show him kindness, and wish him well on his journey. This same man valued peace in the community, and when there was a dispute he would always choose conciliation over violence. When a fellow villager stole from another, instead of casting him out he would seek to restore the wrongdoer, because he knew cutting him off would destroy his very soul. But this all changed.

— When the slavers came.

— Ah! Excellent. And what do you think happened when they arrived?

— They broke the community. They mixed peoples up. They put them — she butted her fists — against one another.

— You’re too right. So our Guinean friend, when captured and brought to Saint-Domingue, what would be Haiti, was made a slave. He was sold. He was told to work because of fear. If he cared for the needs of others at cost to himself, he himself would die. So his heart hardened. He hoarded so that he might suffer less. But this scarcity was artificial, imposed by the owners. Slavery made so many Africans forget from where they came. For hundreds of years, systems of domination created distrust. Man and woman feared their neighbors instead of embracing them, feared each other. While Ubuntu suffered, it did not die. Deep down the people still knew it to be a better way.

He took a breath and shifted his weight to his club.

— When independence came in 1804, it was infected with the individualism of the
enlightened
French. The Haitians who took control assumed the colonial mindset. They pushed out plantation owners and all other blan and substituted themselves in their place. Power, wealth, individual enrichment—these became their ends. They lived, and their heirs continue to live, by a different ethic: “I am because I am.”

— I see, Libète murmured. “I am because
we are
.” The two ideas—they’re against one another.

— Right! Right again. It is a battle. Every action can be weighed against these two ethics. Does this thing I do bring me closer to benefitting others or benefitting myself?

Elize was becoming caught up in his own words, and Libète watched his passion take over in wonder.

— What is beautiful is that Ubuntu is alive in Haiti, no? Maybe you saw this when you lived in La Gonâve as a child, or maybe here in Cité Soleil. I have been all over our country, and know it still exists. Where there is poverty and despair, it remains a necessity. Wealth isolates us from one another, breaks apart a society. It runs on the belief that says, “Maybe I too can reach such heights and that power can be mine.” It is insatiable unchecked. And trust breaks down. In times of scarcity and poverty, two things happen.

He held up an index finger. People find wellness through the community…

And an accompanying middle finger.

— …or destruction through individualism. Because the fates of the powerful are not tied to one another, they don’t care about the consequences of idolizing the individual. So be it if they bring violence and poverty upon the community—they must secure their own.

Elize stopped. Libète sat on the edge of the stool, attention rapt, trying to absorb every word her teacher shared. Elize smiled, taking long breaths.

— A simple phrase, but deep! At its essence, Ubuntu says my humanity is tied up with your humanity. It says that if a part of the community is suffering, then I am suffering. Solidarity means if I am higher, I lower myself, so that you may be lifted up and we can stand together.

— But how—how does this work for me? I’m only one child, and I am low. If I live by this—this—
ethic
, and I’m alone in doing so, it won’t matter!

— If that is so, we are hopeless, and if hopeless, dead. It’s true—you can’t change our country alone. But you mustn’t forget the thousands of others who
are
willing to sacrifice with you rather than choose power, fame, and wealth—to choose themselves. You are not alone. You have been placed by God where you are for a reason. Don’t forget this. You can always choose to love your neighbor rather than hate him. You can care for the sick in your midst. You can share the little food you have with the one who has even less. Even in our misery and pain, we can’t forget the need to ease the misery of others. This makes us truly human. But you must
choose
to do so, Libète. If you are forced to live this way, well, things fall apart.

**

The rains fell heavily that night, the patter of rain on canvas keeping Libète awake. She lay in her tent tossing, thinking over Elize’s challenge. His code seemed the opposite of the one her cousin and friends imprinted upon her three years ago. Her experience showed sacrificing for others was just as dangerous as standing up for one’s self. It was hard to imagine what things Libète could do to lessen others’ misery with her few years, small stature, and empty pockets.

It was late when her Uncle crashed into the tent, wet and covered in mud. She feigned sleep to avoid talking to him. Without a word to Libète, he collapsed on his mat and began snoring. She swore at him quietly before retreating into sleep herself.

When she awoke the following morning, Libète was about to leave to meet Elize. As she lifted the tent flap, light broke inside and played across her Uncle’s face. His eyes shot open. Libète swore again, this time not so quietly.

— You, Libète. Stop. You must clean, he stammered. Clean up my clothes. His words fell out of his mouth, clumsy and hard. He still smelled of liquor and likely his own piss. He had shed much of his coat of mud, the clumps of which Libète now saw dirtied the floor.

— But I have my lessons! I’ll do it later.

— You’ll do it
now!
he shouted. And make me some food. My stomach needs settling.

He was fortunate not to hear the verbal daggers Libète used to stab him in her mind.

Fuming as she filled a basin full of water, she threw a handful of detergent in, bubbles forming on the surface. He had begun to stir and was stripping down to his tattered, yellowed underpants. He piled the rest of his sorry rags at the mouth of the tent.

— You’re sickening, she hollered back inside. You hear me? Pathetic!

— Shut up and get me some bread! he growled as he looked about for his other pair of trousers.

— I’ll wash your damned clothes, but I can’t make you any food because we don’t have any! You gamble our money away, barter our oil for rum, trade our rice for cigarettes.
Pathetic!

He mumbled something back, an insult about her being more shrill than a barking dog.
Oh, he doesn’t dare.

She stepped inside, basin in tow, and looked him squarely in the eye. He shirked from her stare, his lumpy body almost entirely on display.

— Wash yourself, old man! she shouted. He braced himself as she flung the soapy water on him. It soaked the floor of the tent, on his side at least, and he stood there dripping.

She didn’t know what to expect. What would he do? Hit her? Yell? Curl up in shame?

He began scrubbing his face and body.

— Many thanks for preparing my bath, he said.

—
Pa
-
thet
-
ic!
she roared, storming out.

She refilled the basin, fresh curses on her lips, and placed the last portion of powdered soap in the water. She sat on one of their stools so as to not ruin her back with the washing, and started with his dirty shirt, holding it in one hand and a bar of soap in the other to smear on particularly bad stains. Next she rubbed cloth on cloth in the palms of her hands before submerging the shirt again, scrubbing every corner of the garment in this fashion. She knew washing their clothes would take hours and leave her hands chafed and raw. She spit, rubbing it into the ground with her sandaled foot. Her day was ruined.

As she kept scrubbing, she looked out upon the street to see who came and went. It was the usual combination of purposeful walking and lazy ambling. Her Uncle left for a bit after he “bathed” and came back with a borrowed mop from a man a few tents down. He re-entered without speaking, pretending that Libète was invisible.
Fine by me.
She returned to her washing, looking up periodically. It was not long before something out of the ordinary caught her eye.

Across the way, in the narrow gap between two tents, she saw one of her neighbors trying to hide herself. She was crouched, and periodically wiped her eyes with her wrists. The woman was clearly crying. Libète recognized her as Marie Rose, one who often argued with her brute of a husband Lionel.

Libète tried to watch her inconspicuously, stealing glances. She pinned the now-clean shirt upon one of the support lines used to stake their tent into the ground and continued to watch the woman, alone in her quiet distress. Libète picked up the soiled trousers and dunked them in the water, watching them absorb water and dampen. She looked up at the woman again, Elize’s words coming to mind.

She knew what she had to do.

Libète wiped her wet hands on her dress and walked across the way. When she reached the gap, Marie Rose took notice and began to wipe her eyes furiously, as if to close up her tear ducts for good.

— Please leave me, she whispered, knowing that the tents had thin walls. She refused to look at Libète directly. I’m OK.

— Marie Rose, I don’t believe you, Libète whispered in return. What’s wrong? You can tell me.

The woman reluctantly turned her face. Its right side was puffy and swollen, the white part of that eye the color of blood. Libète inadvertently flinched at the sight and Marie Rose saw this.

— I know something is very wrong, because…I cannot see out of this eye.

— We must go to the hospital, you and I. Now. This minute. I will take you.

— I can’t.

— What? But—

She pointed silently to the tent and mouthed Lionel’s name. Libète understood and grimaced. Marie Rose bit her lip and tried to stem the flow of tears.

— You must come with me. You have no choice, you understand? She reached out her hand, but the woman would not take it. Libète’s brow furrowed, and she ran back to her tent, broke inside only to meet harsh grumbling from her Uncle (which she ignored), grabbed a clean hand towel, and rushed back to her.

— Cover your face. We’re going. We can be there before anyone sees you.

— But I have no money to pay for treatment.

— We’ll overcome that problem one way or another.

Libète grabbed the woman’s hand and pulled her. She showed reluctance before letting the girl help her do what she could not do herself.

They were a strange pair. Marie Rose kept her face down to hide her wounds while Libète, still holding her hand, strode ahead intently, a dour look on her face. To the onlookers on the road, it appeared Libète was a disciplining parent upset with her overgrown daughter’s wrongdoing.

They reached the gates of St. Sebastian’s hospital some minutes later. Libète was surprised to see it greatly changed.

The deluge of injured and dying after the quake had been reduced to an ordinary trickle of people diseased and broken by life in the slums. There was a long line of men and women queuing up to receive treatment under a shaded canopy. Few of their ailments appeared urgent. Marie Rose tugged at Libète’s arm, pulling her toward the end of the line.

— No, Libète whispered harshly. This is an emergency!

She turned to the people, nearly twenty in total, and cleared her throat. Excuse me!
Padonnen’m
! she announced. All eyes turned to the small girl and her humiliated ward.

— My friends, Libète began. I know that you are likely suffering greatly. But I have a friend here who needs help bad. Her eye, it can’t see. Please, can she go first to see the doctor?

Though her request was met by one or two sneers, the more patient let her move to the front of the line, shaming those who grumbled. Marie Rose was unable to look at anyone as she took her place.

— Libète, you shouldn’t have done that, she whispered. I could have waited.

—
But you shouldn’t have to
, she whispered back.

It was not long before a squat and bespectacled male orderly came over to the queue and called for the next patient. Libète supported Marie Rose, who turned to the others in line and spoke.

— You are all kind, and I thank you. She gave a small, meek bow, still holding the towel over her face, and moved toward the hospital ward’s double doors.

Libète held Marie Rose’s hand as the orderly led them into a low-ceilinged examination room, lit by a single bulb. He collected her information with the patience and interest of one who has seen too much pain, that is to say, without much of either.

— A doctor will see you in a moment.

He left the room and something occurred to Libète. She followed after him without explanation to Marie Rose.

— Mesye, she asked after the orderly in a low voice, looking about to see if anyone watched. She signaled for him to lean in.

— I want to let you know that if there is a cost for this—

— You can’t pay? That’s no surprise.

She frowned. It’s not that. Her thoughts went to her buried money, pawned from the killer’s golden watch. The woman can’t pay, she said, but I want you to know if it is a difference between treatment or no treatment, then I can pay myself.

— You? He revealed a bulging smile with wild teeth, and chuckled. A child? Pay with what? That’s good of you, girl, but we shall see what the doctor says. Don’t worry, your friend won’t be denied help here. Ah, here comes the doctor now.

Libète looked over her shoulder.
Mon dieu! The blan doctor! The angry one from after the quake!