We've faced it already in little ways, and we'll continue to face it bigger ways. Other Americans we know have found this hard, too. When we ask expats who have already been here for some years to give us counsel, they say things like, "Good luck. There aren't easy answers."

On birthdays, for example, we have given the kids we live with stickers, which were a hit. We had a whole pack of stickers, but we just gave each child on her birthday one sheet of stickers. Giving the whole pack would have been too extravagant, would have outshone the gifts everyone else in the family gave the girl, which is not what we're looking for. At the same time, they know we have access to more resources, and we don’t want to be cheap.

Giving is on my mind now because we've been thinking about what to give our family as thank you gifts when we move out in a week and a half.

We don't want to be viewed in our neighborhood as foreign patrons, reinforcing an unhealthy historic paternalism (that was combined with exploitation) that can lead to unhelpful relationships of dependency. We don't want to just be seen as giver-outers-of-stuff (whether food aid or cheap toys), which seems to be the main reputation of some of the missionaries who work in our area. We don't want to give inappropriate gifts. But we want to be generous. We want to give everything we have, everything we could possibly get our hands on. It's nearly impossible to convey how complicated this subject feels here. I honestly don't know if this is characteristic of the situation of receiving foreign aid in most countries, or if Haiti is an especially difficult situation.

Here's an example: There's a neighbor, about my age, who has lost about half of his teeth already, and the other half are blackened and decaying in his mouth. Why not just take him to the dentist and pay for the best possible care? Well, then would you do it for everyone else who has nearly as serious problems--because if you helped him, then it’s guaranteed that the next day twenty people with problems just as bad would show up? And what about people who have chronic stomach problems...or a million other real, genuine, pressing, painful problems? We can't afford to fix everything, and the needs go on and on. And then, if we're honest, all of our relationships would instantly change because we'd be seen as a source for these expenses. Yes, but so what: even if you can't change the world, at least help the one guy who’s on his way to being toothless by thirty-five. Okay, but what does it do to his relationships in the community? And does it reinforce a damaging cycle of relationships between Haitians and Americans that needs to be reinvented? Yes...but, then there's just basic human need, and who cares about psychology and sociology and history when a guy is suffering fifteen brutal cavities. Alas, this is but a sample of the debate that continuously swirls in my head.

So there is complexity in giving, which is a shame. We try to think of the big picture, of the relationships, of the systemic economic/historic/social problems. (I think “giving well,” it would be fair to say, is a central concern for Beyond Borders/Limye Lavi.) It would be easy to just give hundreds of dollars to our family, but would it do more harm than good? I honestly don't know--though, before we moved here, the answer to that question would have been much easier: "Yes, give all we can!" Well, though one is loathe to consider this, a few hundred dollars might be much more of what our host-family needs than a relationship with Shelly and me. But then you see giving being done badly, and you cringe and know there has to be a better way, though it might not be as easy or immediate or as instantly gratifying.

And then you walk down the path, see a neighbor, and say hi and chat with him as you walk together toward our village. He's walking home from his garden with eight ears of freshly picked corn in his hand, the husks tied together so they're easy to carry. And with a smile, but without making a big deal of it, he puts all of the corn in your hand, and waves off your genuine attempt to refuse the gift because it’s the second time he's done this in three weeks.

And then last week Shelly and I piled into the tap-tap to ride into town. We then saw that we were sitting across from another of our neighbors. He's really nice, has a great smile. We chat from time to time. I don't remember his name. We said hi to each other. Halfway through the trip, when it was time to pay the twelve cents per passenger for the ride, he quickly gave the collector money and said, pointing at himself then Shelly and then me, "For the three of us." Then he timidly smiled at us.

We are left humbly grateful again and again. And we pray and we're working hard to know how we can give in a way that honors the dignity and complex reality of people who give so much--and who need so much.

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Thursday, July 10
Three days ago, on the side of the highway on the way back from Port-au-Prince, we saw a man lying on his back--dead and naked. It seemed he had been abandoned there for a while, since his limbs reached stiffly into the air and nobody was around him, no one paying attention. Everyone in the bus looked as we zoomed by. It was shocking to see. "What happened," we asked. “He was a thief, so people killed him," was the answer on the bus. I don't know why or how it happened or why he was left there or who did it or the answers to any of the other questions that come disturbingly to mind.

Two days ago, we gave out the photos in our village. It was lots of fun. Everyone was enjoying their own photos and everyone else's too. They were very enjoyable gifts to give.

Last night, the little five-year-old in our host-family started to understand that next week we're moving out of our host-family's home and to housesit for friends in Port-au-Prince for the next five months. So he was being especially cuddly with us, sitting on our laps, cute as ever. At one point he said, "So, you're not going to be here next Wednesday night?" "No," we said, "we'll be sad because we won't be with you next Wednesday night. We're moving." So he said, "Well, then when will you visit us?" "We're not sure yet, but we'll definitely be visiting you," we answered. He thought about this for a second, then looked up and said, "How about you visit next Sunday?" How do you respond to that kind of heart-rending cuteness?

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Final Journal Entry

Wednesday, July 16
Our going away party was yesterday, and we moved out of our family’s home this morning. Here’s how these special last two days went.

Monday morning:
We spent the morning slugging through the muddy (up to six inches deep) market to find the best deals on party food and provisions—rice, beans, cabbage, charcoal, cooking oil, carrots, beets, Coke, ice, and so on. We were guessing about a hundred people would come to the party, though we’re told there’s no way to know for sure. Beyond Borders has given us money to pay for the party, and we’re doing all we can to help with the preparations, but this is far beyond our capacity. So we followed the lead of our host sister (the twenty-eight-year-old daughter who is strong and funny and very competent in just about everything) as we made our way through the market, dealing, haggling, circling back to various vendors, and then finally, when the price was right, buying. Our purchases were too big for even the three of us to carry, so our host sister hired a man who is a market porter and carries heavy loads in a wheelbarrow. We walked together the couple miles back; he was barefoot. We helped him lift the wheelbarrow across the muddy canals.

Monday afternoon:
We recovered briefly, then our host sister and I headed off to a larger market in the next town over. We were after beans and chicken and rice (cheaper at the market in town an hour away). Meanwhile, bless her heart and hands, Shelly did our final load of laundry by hand—towels, sheets, drapes, etc. Hand-washing is hard, and having to wash sheets and towels by hand—for someone who knows about and is accustomed to washing machines—is enough to make even Mother Theresa question her convictions.

Monday early evening:
Shelly and I packed and got our room ready to leave, knowing that Tuesday was going to be a full day. Meanwhile, the women and children were preparing the chicken—cutting and preparing spices and boiling and so on. Haitians make the best chicken I’ve ever had, and it’s a long process of spicing and cooking.

Monday night:
Shelly and I had told the family that we would like a little family time, with just them, since Tuesday would be crazy. This family time happens regularly (almost every night), but we wanted to be sure to get this chance to thank them for everything. We sat under the stars in a circle in the yard, with a huge pot of chicken in the middle that needed occasional tending. We talked about how much they meant to us, how grateful we were that they’d taken us into their lives and taught us much and given us their friendships. The son-in-law and father spoke kind words about the experience we had shared. Then we gave them each small gifts.

Tuesday morning:
Everyone was working, including a steadily increasing number of women from the neighborhood who arrived to help with the cutting and cooking, and with the sitting around and talking, too. The other men and I were sent on various errands, like to buy paper plates and plastic cups, forks, spoons. I also had to run a few final errands, like going to the post office and the bank. Meanwhile, Shelly shredded cabbage by knife with the women for about three hours.

Tuesday afternoon:
As the day progressed, the kids, who had been busy getting water and doing different jobs, were getting more and more amped up. This is best illustrated as follows: the one-and-a-half-year-old in the family (son of a cousin who has come to live with us) was at one point so excited by all the energy and anticipation around him that he somehow felt led to prostrate himself on the ground (he was naked) and start rolling back and forth in the dirt as he smiled and made cheerful noises.

Tuesday night:
The party was fun chaos. Grabbing bites to eat. (My belly is fully better, so I’m enjoying every bite.) Handing out plates of food. Saying hi, saying bye. About a hundred people showed up. Small speeches by us and others were made. The small radio was blasting. The night eventually dwindled down to just family and neighbors, dancing in the dark. We danced with friends. Shelly and I danced together. We felt sadness and relief, joy and gratitude about the chapter that was closing.

Food and Costs:
Each guest received: A plate full of a few deep fried plantains, pikliz, beet salad, a few pieces of lettuce/greens, a piece or two of chicken, and rice/beans—as well as either a Coke, Sprite, Cola (like cream soda), or beer. Each person also received two pieces of candy with gum in the middle. The total party cost about (in U.S. dollars) $110. This might sound extravagant considering our surroundings, but it was culturally right where it should be. We’d been to some marriage, wake, and first communion feasts, and they were comparable or even fancier. People wondered if we would get a generator so we could play music on a big stereo or even get a band, but we couldn’t afford it. About a hundred people ate a nice dinner. It was a wonderful way to thank, and celebrate with, the community.

Final benediction:
Both Monday night with the family and then during the brief speeches during the party, the son-in-law we’ve lived with (who knows some English) quoted from Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. He quoted, in a good preacher’s cadence: “I have a dream that one day the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood…. Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.” Then he said, “I think Martin Luther King Jr. would be smiling if he saw us now and how we have lived with each as equals for the last six months.”

And, of course, I agree (though, it’s for him to say, not me) that this is something deeply meaningful that we’ve shared. But it doesn’t take much looking around to see that, no, neither they nor we are yet completely “free at last.” Thank God, indeed, that the chains of slavery have been shattered. But other chains of poverty and politics, etc., still keep a strangling grip. He knows this, too, of course. But he was saying that it was remarkable that white middle-class Americans and poor black Haitians could come together like this. It testified to important freedoms that have been hard won. And it testifies, we all hope, to freedoms yet to be won—won together. Being even in a tiny part—in our own stumbling way—of the healing vision of the kingdom of God, articulated so amazingly by Martin Luther King, leaves me profoundly humbled and grateful for the last six months and for whatever the months ahead may bring.

(This is the last entry of the journal. Shelly and I have now moved to a rural, mountainside community closer to Port-au-Prince, so that we can start to integrate with the work of Beyond Borders. If you want to continue to follow, learn about, or support the work of Beyond Borders, see other sections of this web site or email the U.S.office at mail@beyondborders.net. If you have questions or comments, my email address is kentannan@hotmail.com. Thanks for reading!)

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