By now, we’ve all sponged up round after round of commentary on President Trump’s purported remark that Haiti and various African countries are “s—holes” whose people should not be let into the United States. Some of the rounds have involved attempts to deny or obfuscate the statement. The disclaimer would be easier to believe if this were not exactly the sort of thing he often likes to say.
I have been misunderstood on the subject of Haiti myself. In 2013, I was there with a medical mission group running a mobile clinic in greater Port-au-Prince. Each morning before the doors opened, the patients for the day would have gathered, and we (local medical staff supplemented by American volunteers) would introduce ourselves. On this balmy morning in the fishing village of Luly, in halting French, I thanked them for welcoming me to their beautiful country. This was met with derisive laughter, my words apparently interpreted as sarcasm. I felt terrible that a heartfelt courtesy was taken as an insult and that I lacked the language and other skills to clear it up.
But it was true. The village—which does not even appear on Google Maps—was composed of one tidy tiled street flanked by cottages the color of Easter eggs. The businesses were graced with picturesque names like “Je Crois en Dieu Coiffeur” (I Believe in God Hairdresser) and “Glace au Nom de Jesus” (Ice Cream in the Name of Jesus). The people were dressed to the nines; one featherlight 93-year-old woman reported for her checkup in a pink satin dress and fancy hat. The Alexandre Dumas Kindergarten stood nearby, namesake of the dashing writer of Haitian descent, implicitly promising a life of adventure to the children of an uncharted village. The shore, oddly, was a solid 18 inches deep in giant, perfect conch shells of the sort you’d spend a lifetime of beach vacations looking for (or cheat and pay $10 for at a tourist boutique), a souvenir to “listen to the ocean.” Here, they were discarded by the fishermen after harvesting the meat, heaps of natural treasure.
Luly is not far from the former slave market Arcahaie, where the Haitian flag was first raised in 1803. There is a memorial there to the anonymous slave who died defending that flag, trading his life for one moment of freedom for himself and the possibility of it for others. Inspired by the success of the Americans and the professed ideals of their own French rulers, Haitians fought for their independence too. It was the most successful slave rebellion in the history of the world. This distinction is a matter of fierce pride for Haitians, who achieved it bravely and paid for it dearly—Haiti did not enjoy support on the world stage like the United States did, and since then, a long list of externally and internally inflicted wounds have compounded to keep it in a constant state of desperate struggle. Today, these revolutionary neighbors are the poorest and the richest countries in the Western hemisphere, parallel universes separated by a small stretch of ocean.
Although over an hour afield from Port-au-Prince, Luly came to be in the clinic’s rotation after reports of people drinking methanol and dying made their way to our lead doctor, Vladimyr Roseau. He went to find out what was going on and, learning that there was no professional health care in the surrounding area, he started swinging by every week or two to offer what help he could. Dr. Roseau (along with his wife and sister-in-law, the clinic’s other permanent Haitian physicians) seemed to have a hand in social services everywhere he touched down, involved in schools, orphanages, churches, and all sorts of bright ideas for the future. One of 12 children, all the rest of whom are now doctors or other professionals in the United States and Canada, he alone felt a strong patriotic obligation to stay.
The way he understands his origin story, his mother, overwhelmed by such a large family, had tried to abort him with a potion, but in the middle of a failed attempt had a stern dream warning her not to. Years later, she ran into the woman who sold her the potion, who reported the same dream and from that time onwards had not provided abortions. Vladimyr was raised to believe that he was chosen for a purpose, and every effort was made to ensure that he received an academic and religious education. After the near-miss, he grew up very close with his mother, and at 18, as she lay in a diabetic coma, he begged for her life from the God who was supposed to show him special favor. She died. He wanted to die too. But ultimately he found solace in the church again and connected with some missionaries who sponsored his medical training. Today, he notes, he treats many patients with problems similar to the ones his mother suffered from. Day after long day, he does his best to buck the odds and make life a little better for his countrymen.
In Haiti, the best plans are often laid low by misfortune, such as the devastating 2010 earthquake or the cholera brought in by aid workers in the aftermath. Corruption and crime are rampant. You can’t blame people for giving up on fundamental change and seeking opportunity elsewhere, and our country is a better place for the many immigrants from Haiti who have found it here.
But there are also those who remain and give their all for a larger vision, like Dr. Roseau and the man who died for his new flag. Their ambitions deserve more respect than they received from our head of state and should, frankly, inspire anyone who wants to make his country great (again?). It is this kind of courage and devotion to the common good that will produce American greatness. There is no reason that any of us cannot begin today.
Caitrin Keiper, editor of Philanthropy, went to Haiti on a Novak Journalism Fellowship.
