Medair

Haiti: Days Are Where We Live

Medair’s Vanessa Nicholson reflects on her days in Haiti.

Days are where we live. That’s a line from a Philip Larkin poem that I’ve often thought about during my time in Haiti.

Our days here are filled with building houses for people who lost where they lived when the earthquake struck.
 
Jonès Valentin, 61, now lives in a tiny shack the size of a chicken coop. He can’t stand up or move around in it. There’s no room for his wife Fédéna, so she stays with their daughter and grandchildren.

Of all the people I’ve met in my time in Haiti, Jonès’ story moved me the most. I first met him in March during an assessment trip to his home village in Gris-gris in the remote mountain region of Côtes-de-Fer. He didn’t look very well that day, probably from exposure, poor shelter, and the unsanitary living conditions.

Jonès is a proud man, in the best sense of the word. His age is only betrayed by his shrinking frame and the slight shake in his hands and tremor in his voice. His posture and manner are authoritative and you can tell he takes his responsibilities as head of his household seriously.

Even though living apart from his wife in such cramped conditions must have been difficult, Jonès didn’t complain. “It doesn’t leak,” he said, with a nod of appreciation at the tiny shack.

Jonès had worked hard to build a new house, paying local labourers to assist him. But the same construction mistakes were being made that had led to the collapse of so many houses in the earthquake.  Termite holes riddled its rotting timber. The frame was set on the lip of a mountain with no foundation. I didn’t think the house would survive heavy rains, let alone a hurricane or earthquake.

Poorly constructed buildings are like unexploded mines all over Haiti. You see them everywhere, perched precariously on hillsides or in towns. People are aware of the threat their own houses pose to them. They are nervous their houses will become tombs in the next big earthquake. They leave their doors unlocked at night even in cities to be able to get out more quickly, or they sleep on the roofs in the summer.

When I returned from the mountains to the city of Jacmel, Jonès  lingered in my mind for a long time. It seemed so inevitable that history would repeat itself for his family if they didn’t receive help.

On a return visit to Gris-gris, I found a Medair construction team hard-at-work building a house on a familiar mountainside plot. Our team had identified Jonès and his family as one of the most vulnerable in Côtes-de-Fer and now they were receiving a new home. I was delighted.  As the construction team hammered away, they chatted and laughed with Jonès’ extended family.
 
“Someone came to tell me that we would receive a house a few months ago,” Jonès told me. “I was so happy when I heard. I told my wife and family and they were very happy too. We had to destroy the old house to make room for the new house, but we demolished it with joy!”

Meeting him this time, Jonès seemed to be a different man. With construction for his new house going on behind us, there was now a perceptible transformation—something different in his manner. “We could not build this house ourselves,” he said. “We pray every night for Medair.”

We spoke among the piles of imported high-quality timber that would become his home for the rest of his life. He occasionally told a grandchild to stop scrambling over the wood. He was relaxed, at ease, contagiously peaceful: a new house built and a head of household restored.

Jonès seemed dignified when I met him for the first time, despite his terrible circumstances. But meeting him again, I felt I could see his homestead and his dignity being rebuilt before my eyes. It was so clear the impact that poverty and disaster can have on a person’s dignity, and how extraordinary it is when that dignity is restored.

Rehabilitation of a country includes the rehabilitation of its people.  Jonès stands a little straighter now, watching his house come together before his eyes. This is where he will grow old. It is where he will watch his grandchildren grow up.

Before leaving, I showed Jonès and Fédéna the photos I had taken of them. They laughed at their serious poses. We stood and admired the work of the carpenters. It’s cool up in the mountains this late in the year so the construction team weren’t roasting in the sun as they normally might. They smiled and soaked up our admiration.

I probably won’t meet Jonès again. I won’t need to. They won’t need us in the next disaster.  We can move on to new communities hidden deeper in the mountains. We can build more homes, teach safer construction methods, and work to make dangerous housing in Haiti a thing of the past.

That’s the hope. Haitians need safe homes. Because days are where we live and homes are where we spend our days.
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We’ve now built more than 3,200 homes in Haiti and brought safer housing to almost 20,000 people. Lives are changing for the better. But half a million people remain without shelter. Please join with us and make a life-changing donation for the people of Haiti.

Read more about Medair’s work in Haiti.

In Côtes-de-Fer, we have committed to build 250 homes for the most vulnerable people in the region, while also repairing another 750 homes. Each home we work with will receive rainwater harvesting tanks and sanitary latrines if needed. We are also training community members how to build their own safe shelters in order to reduce the risk of damage in future disasters and we are training communities in good sanitation practices.


This web feature was produced with resources gathered by Medair field and headquarters staff. The views expressed herein are those solely of Medair and should not be taken, in any way, to reflect the official opinion of any other organisation.