A personal account of an American journalist who thought he’d seen it all—until he visited Haiti.

By Randall Frame

Source: Powerhouse

Undeterred, our little group of entrepreneurial Americans, in the comfort of our hotel meeting room, went to work each night. As far as we were concerned, there was no problem that could not be solved, though it would take time. Some cited models of projects that had worked in other parts of the developing world to bring, for example, both clean water and jobs to small communities. Others cited advances in biotechnology that would enable people to grow diverse crops on relatively small plots of land. We discussed also the role the U.S. government could play in improving conditions in Haiti.

As we unveiled our plans and proposals, I made it a point to observe our 40ish looking tour guide, Madam Pierre. I was a bit disappointed at her lack of enthusiasm. Though she nodded in apparent affirmation at our grasp of the situation, her silence suggested she was less than excited with our developing vision.

This didn’t stop us from pressing on. Our wide-ranging perspectives and ideas for fixing Haiti were united by a common philosophy, one that emphasized the practical—things that would actually work. We applied an American business mentality to the challenge, placing a premium on such words as “efficiency” and “sustainable.” We were not after quick fixes here— no Band-Aids™. We aspired, rather, to permanent solutions.

Though we’d not yet done a single thing, we all came away from these evening gatherings feeling a sense of power and success. Yes, there were problems. But we had answers. Indeed, some of those who gathered in that room each night (myself not included) had access not just to the money but to the human expertise that, if applied intelligently, would likely make an impact on this troubled nation even if it could not completely fix it.

I went to sleep feeling good about myself and also about the future of Haiti. We had come and we had seen Haiti’s problems. Next we would conquer them. Plans were in place—or would be soon. In writing about what I had seen—and the solutions that had been devised—I would be doing my part. I had approached my mission objectively and dispassionately: I had proved my friends wrong. I was content, if not proud. I wondered how the Steelers would fare on Sunday.

Then came day five, the day before our scheduled return to the U.S. Our delegation visited a place called La Cay Espwa, which is Haitian Creole for “House of Hope.” Within this simple, two-room structure, a group of nuns dedicated their lives each day to the weakest and most vulnerable of all: starving children. Severely malnourished children would be brought to La Cay Espwa, and these nuns would do what they could to nurse them back to health. Mostly what they did, however, was to hold the children in their arms, perhaps stroke their hair. A few rocking chairs, rudimentary in design, were scattered around the room. These faithful women sat and rocked these children. Day after day. All day long.

I surveyed the room, at once intrigued and overwhelmed by the contrast. Over here were these wealthy, influential businesspersons whose elaborate job descriptions went on for pages— memos, employee reviews, seminars, meetings with investors, advertising strategies, and on and on and on. And over here this small group of women, each of whose job description boasted essentially one item: holding children. Page 2-5