By Steven Werlin
A "monkonpè" is generally one of two things. He is the father of your godchild or your child's godfather. He is your "con-pere," which is to say your "co-father." The parallel feminine form, meaning “co-mother” is "makomè." These relations are often very important. One becomes a member of a family, almost of the immediate family. Saül is my monkonpè and his wife, Judith, my makomè -- their younger son is my godson -- and we have become quite close. We exchange our thoughts and ask each other for advice. We try to spend as much time together as possible when I'm in Haiti.
Over the last couple of years Saül's told me a lot of stories, and I wanted to share two of them. Each is true as far as I know; each is an experience that one of Saül's six younger siblings underwent. The two stories have something in common: they're both about armed hold-ups. But the difference between them may say something about how things feel these days in Haiti.
I heard the first story a couple of years ago. Saül himself heard it from Vivi, his youngest sister, the last of his mother's seven kids. It happened to her one day when she was on her way to or from school -- I don't know which. She was riding in the back of a tap-tap -- one of he ubiquitous pick-up trucks that serve as privately owned means of public transportation in Pòtoprens. An armed man climbed on and made everyone turn over whatever they had.
He got a few goud from one victim, a few more from another. The Haitian goud was worth less than a nickel then -- now it's worth less than two cents now -- so the robber's take was pitiful.
Apparently it was too pitiful for him. He was dissatisfied, outraged that his victims had so little to give. So this is what he did: He gave it all back. He returned to each person the money they had given him, making sure each received what was her or his due, and got off the tap-tap.
A charming story.
Last week, though, Saül's youngest brother, Job, was robbed on a tap-tap, and his experience was quite different. These are hard times in Haiti.
Job is a second-year medical school student. Med. school is a very long way from the rural cabin he was born in, but he, his parents, and his older siblings have sacrificed a lot, over and over, to make his education possible. He attends a private university affiliated with the Episcopal church. It’s in downtown Pòtoprens. Job is doing well there. This is impressive for all sorts of reasons, not the least of which is that he has very little access to the textbooks he needs. Almost all his work must be through notes he takes in class.
Most of Haitian public higher education has been shut down these last weeks. What it is much too easy to label as mere "political unrest" has meant a lot of turmoil, especially at the various branches of the national university. Job's school has, however, continued to work. Students returned to class after their New Year's break as scheduled on Monday, January 5, and despite increasingly violent demonstrations for and against President Jean-Bertrand Aristide and his Lavalas party, the school was open Tuesday and Wednesday as well.
Midway through the day on Wednesday, the Rector of the university decided that he had to send the students home. The situation in the streets was only getting hotter, and he feared what might happen if he let them work through the whole day. Job and others went their various ways. Job got on a tap-tap -- this one a van -- with some other students, and away he went.
The ride didn't last long. Two pick-up trucks full of heavily armed men topped the van, firing their guns threateningly into the air and forced everyone -- driver and passengers -- to get out. They then made them toss all their possessions back into the van. A couple of students who tried to argue to save their books and class notes were beaten. The passengers were commanded to raise their arms, chant "five years." Then the thieves then took the keys to the van and drove away with it and all their booty.
I saw Job the following Sunday -- he risked crossing disturbances in downtown Petyonvil to come up the mountain to spend a final day with me in Ka Glo -- and he still had no idea how he would study for his next set of exams, by then only two weeks away. I felt badly for him, though I must say that I'm very confident that he'll manage. He's a remarkable young man.
Before I finish, I should explain why the thieves asked their victims to chant "five years." Titid, as Aristide is called, was elected in 2001 to serve a five-year term. Though opinions vary as to where the blame belongs, many would agree that things in Haiti have mainly gotten worse. Domestic production is weak, and prices are rising as the goud’'s value sinks against the dollar. The price and availability of gasoline are especially worrisome issues, because few Haitians could afford to pay more than they already pay to get around the city that they simply call "lavil." Crime is an increasingly serious problem in some areas. The government's resources are very limited, and much of what's at its disposal is lost to corruption. Opposition forces are insisting that Aristide resign before his term is complete, so to chant "five years" is to chant in his support. Since university students have been at the forefront of demonstrations against Aristide, the sight of a small group of them forced to shout in his defense must appeal to the more thuggish of his backers.
It is difficult to say whether Job lost his notes to robbers who wanted to give their theft a political touch or zealots who used their political activities as a chance to grab some loot. Such a subtle difference can hardly matter to Job.
He was scheduled to return to school on Monday, and I assume that he did. My neighbor Frenel headed down the mountain at 5:00 AM that very morning, prepared to ride or walk to work -- whatever would be necessary. His two little sons walked down to school behind him. They headed off with a loud and cheerful goodbye to me, wishing me a good trip home and asking me to give their best to my family and friends.
For most Haitians, people like Saül and Job, like Frenel and his boys, things just seem to go on, amidst political turmoil, economic depression, hunger, violence, and occasional moments of despair. They go on because they have to.