U.S. Fund for UNICEF President and CEO Caryl Stern visited Haiti last week. These are her notes from the field.
I woke up with the sun again and checked my watch—5:03am. A peek through my tent flap told me it was already too late to join the shower cue, which was too long to consider since the promised second shower stall had still not arrived. Instead I waited on line to share one sink with five others and decided not to even look in the mirror for fear I'd scare myself!
We packed a few bottles of water in our bags and off we went to the tent city in Port-au-Prince's huge soccer stadium. The first thing you notice when you arrive is how tightly the tents are packed in there. We came here to visit the UNICEF Baby Tents—special tents for Moms of newborns and infants less than one year old to get counseling, nutrition checks, lactation assistance/advice, and other natal care. Many of the babies had been born since the quake—right here in the stadium.
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| © UNICEF/NYHQ2010-0189/Noorani |
| Sofia feeds her five-month-old daughter a cup of ready-to-use infant formula, in a baby-friendly tent set up in the Champs-de-Mars Plaza in Port-au-Prince. |
Mom after Mom told me similar stories of surviving the quake, trying to protect their unborn child, the juxtaposition of giving birth in a dirty camp as opposed to what they had envisioned before the quake, nutritional challenges as they themselves are under nourished and trying to breastfeed, the usual difficulties of being a new mom while also just fighting to survive. Yet they all expressed hope. They see their babies as signs of hope—of possibilities for a future in Haiti that is better than what exists now. They talked of their difficulties but not of anger or helplessness.
We went to look at the water situation for these people. We were led to the spigot outside by a 4-year-old with her mother who was going to brush her teeth. There were at least 30 people there doing laundry in buckets—kids running naked as their moms dumped water on them and even some adults stripping down to bathe. Privacy and modesty are privileges that the quake survivors have had to forego. It was as if they felt that if they did not look at us, we were not there. Just about 20 feet from the water was the trash pile filled with rubbish and plastic bags that serve as make shift latrines inside the camp. Children kept wandering over to the trash, only to be pulled back by half naked adults.
As we drove from place to place we looked upon utterly devastating destruction: rubble everywhere; people, whole families, living in the streets or in tents alongside the rubble; a destroyed church with half its steeple in tact and people praying outside of it; long lines at water distribution site; teams of people trying to clean up by hand—removing one piece of stone at a time and walking them to the few dump trucks trying to cart the stuff away.
Imagine trying to dismantle your home by hand and you begin to understand what they are up against. Then imagine every one of your neighbors facing this same challenge simultaneously and then collectively trying to disassemble all that exists in your community—stores, offices, schools, and government buildings without cranes, trucks, dumpsters, tools, or sufficient manpower—all in excruciating heat and humidity and with no water or AC to seek refuge in. Add to that what you and your neighbors may (actually, more than likely not "may" but "will") find in the rubble.
I experienced this first-hand in my final moments on the ground there. We were filming all my "thank you messages"—brief tapes that give a shout out to donors—in the center of Port- au-Prince. I looked down and realised that where I was standing, there was a leg sticking out of the rubble. Evidently the rest of the body was buried underneath. Most of the flesh was gone. A man came over and told me it had been a young girl—he then pointed her boyfriend out to me as he sat off to the side, on the sidewalk, openly sobbing. It is a hard reality to balance the life around you with that limb sticking out of the rubble.
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