A few months ago, I was talking with my sister-in-law,
Naomi. Naomi’s first pregnancy was with
her son Benji, who at 37 weeks pregnant, unexplainably passed away. Naomi explains that in the months and years
following the loss of Benji, she felt terribly isolated in her grief. She had daily felt his movements, talked with
him, sung to him, anticipated his personality, prepared for his future, and
loved him deeply. But no-one else had
yet “met” Benji, as he had lived in a world largely private to her; so when
others mourned his loss, it was in a somewhat detached way. But to her it was deeply personal and
real. And despite being surrounded by
love, Naomi felt a deep isolation in her heart wrenching grief.
In many ways, losing Michelet and processing on my own in
the States, has felt much the same.
Michelet was a remarkable part of my life; someone I called my own, was
inexplicably proud of, and for whom I spent many hours dreaming of his future,
preparing in the ways I was able. While
I know those around me pained at the loss of him, and even mourned, no-one else
in the U.S. had loved him or palpably knew the extraordinary person he was or
hurt for his loss in the deep ways I did.
Just as Naomi describes, I felt numbingly isolated in my grief.
I knew that going back to Haiti was going to be difficult,
but it was also necessary. I needed to
come out of my numbness, join alongside his family, classmates, and my
employees, and mourn together. Whatever
denial I had left, I needed to face head on.
And whatever anger and pain I had buried and tried to push past, I
needed to look in the face. I needed to
mourn with those also mourning. And I
knew his brother TiCris and sponsor sister Illiomene, were also in desperate
need of comfort; comfort I could help provide.
When I finally had the opportunity to travel back to Haiti in May, I had the added privilege of having my father along as a travel partner for his first trip. Our first couple days in Haiti, we spent meeting up with Gardy and Jacob (my two translators/employees), holding a few meetings in Fort Jacques, and then hosting a graduation party for Claudette and Wisline. The time in Kenskoff (where Michelet lived), would be reserved for the second half of the trip.
I knew that connecting with Illiomene (who lives in
Kenskoff) was going to be one of the most important aspects of the trip. Eight years ago, Illiomene left her entire
family many hours away, in order to seek a better life and education in
Kenskoff, and in the transition Michelet had become her adopted family; always
a gentle, kind and loving soul, Michelet looked out for her when she was
struggling, and spoke up for her when she needed an outside voice.
I arranged transportation for Illiomene to come from
Kenskoff to Fort Jacques, and join us for the festivities celebrating
Claudette’s graduation. When I saw her,
Illiomene melted into my arms. The first
evening, we spent several hours sitting together, holding hands, sharing
numerous hugs, and exchanging small gifts of necessities (thank you to my friends who helped me
collect a few personal items for her).
It was clear that she was hurting deeply and feeling very alone, but
finding comfort in our ability to mourn together. It’s amazing how little communication
actually depends on verbal exchange.
After the festivities and meetings in Fort Jacques the first
few days in Haiti, we were able to make it to Kenskoff. We rode into town on two motorcycles: my dad
and Jacob on one, Gardy and I on the other.
As we drove into town, there was a deep sadness and anticipation.
We first went to the school to talk with the principal and again
meet up with Illiomene. Illiomene was
proudly wearing some of the items I had given her. As with every meeting, her eyes shyly
searched for mine, and when she knew it was okay first kissed me on the cheek
in a formal and respectful greeting, and then melted in my arms for a warm
hug.
Meeting with the principal, I was
able to learn a few more of the details of Michelet’s death. He was playing soccer, and a neighborhood kid
known to be a bully, jumped and beat him.
Afterwards, Michelet was able to make it home. Upon arrival home, he asked his father to
take him to the doctor, but not knowing what had happened, not understanding
the magnitude of the injury and without easy access to a doctor, his father
declined. Michelet went to bed, and when
Keke woke the next morning, Michelet was cold and with dried blood from every orifice. Keke called the principal desperately, who
contacted a nearby physician, but it was too late. Without
funds to pay for the burial, the body sat in the house (really a 7x7’ shed
structure with a single piece of plywood for a bed) as Keke figured out what he
could sell to pay for the burial; it was around this time I was able to send
funds, and immediately an informal funeral was had in the yard and the body
carried away. The town knows who beat
Michelet (there were several witnesses), the boy has since gone into hiding and
the police are searching for him. The
principal expressed a deep remorse and sadness at the loss of Michelet, thanked
us for our role in his life, and shared his concerns for Illiomene’s well-being
and isolation since his passing.
After business at the school was conducted, we headed to
Michelet’s home, where his father Keke and TiCris still live in that same
single room 7 x 7’ structure. His
neighbors had alerted Keke that we were in the area, and he sat waiting for us
outside his home. As per our usual,
greetings started with a warm kiss on the cheek and niceties. With a quick glance over, and upon leaning in
for the cultural greeting on the cheek, it was clear that Keke had been
drinking heavily. I was aware alcoholism
was a long standing problem for him, and had guessed that it had become a
bigger issue since Michelet’s death. It took
only moments for the tone to shift and the unique nature of our visit to
surface. I expressed my most sincere
condolences and shared grief, and immediately Keke began to vigorously shake
his head and tear up. He first expressed
deep grief, which was then followed by anger, and then again grief.
I tried to pick my timing well, but I knew it was going to
be hard however it was approached; I had brought with me an 8x10” framed photo
of Michelet, smiling charmingly at the camera just six months before his
passing. I had also brought with me an
enlarged photo of the entire family, arms around each other, the three (Keke,
Michelet and Ticris) smiling broadly at the camera. Without ready access to cameras in Kenskoff,
I had guessed that Keke probably hadn’t seen much of Michelet’s face since his
passing (in comparison to the USA, where we have constant access to pictures of
both living and deceased loved ones). I
warned him before I showed him, but no warning could prepare Keke for the flash
back and emotions that would flow. I
turned the photos slowly around, he took a look, quickly teared up, and then
quickly pushed the photos back at me. He
wanted nothing to do with them. I
understood, and said I was supportive of whatever he wanted to do with them;
perhaps he should hide them in his home until he decided if he wanted to burn
or keep them, or I could take them with me if he preferred. He turned the photos over for a couple more
very quick glances, followed each time with more tear filled shakes of the
head, and then tearfully took them and stored them inside his home.
In the presence of Keke’s very real grief, and with the pain
of standing in the same place I had watched Michelet grow up and celebrated
with the family their victories over poverty, I lost my own composure. I walked to the side of the property, to face
away from everyone else, and tears drenched my face. It was no subtle cry. At this point, Keke was an emotional and
drunken mess. He expressed anger at
TiCris for not being there for his brother and amounting to nothing in
comparison to Michelet, he expressed anger at God, he expressed despair for the
future…and he spoke words that gave reality to a deep and ugly fear I had been
quietly hoping would never come to surface: he expressed resentment that I had
ever come into their lives, and that by doing so I had placed a target on
Michelet’s back. Both because of his
words, and at coming to grips with the entirety of the loss, I had nothing left
to give. I sobbed heaping sobs. My father walked over, and placed a hand on
my shoulder, but nothing would help my soul in that moment. Gardy was also a tearful mess and unable to translate further through his emotions, but there was no need. When it felt appropriate, we excused
ourselves and mounted our bikes again.
We let him know we would be back the next day.
Five minutes later, as we rode out of town, we passed TiCris
in the streets who energetically and excitedly waved us down. Gardy and I were still caught in the grief of the few
moments past, but love-filled kisses on the cheek and embraces were exchanged,
and we agreed to meet more the following day.
The next day, we decided to just have Gardy and I return to
Kenskoff while the others stayed behind, in order to save money on
transportation and streamline the work. As
Gardy and I entered Kenskoff, TiCris saw us riding down the streets, and waved
us down again. After a few niceties,
Gardy was distracted talking to a neighbor when TiCris pulled me aside and
very specifically asked, “photo?” At
first I wondered if he wanted another picture together and I began to dig my
camera out, but he shook his head and made motions with his hands of a square
and then gestured as if he were holding on to something. The look on his face was intent and pleading
as he again asked, “photo?” I quickly
realized what he wanted were physical pictures.
While I had printed photos of the other students prior to
leaving the States, with the intention of giving each of the students pictures
of themselves, I hadn’t purposely packed any of Michelet beyond the large
framed ones I had given the day before.
But I knew I had a few spare ones floating around that I had printed off
for my own memory, and quickly fished out my business folder to find them. I found a 4x6 version of the two larger
prints I had given Keke the day before, and a couple other older ones, and
handed them one by one as I found them to TiCris. We stood in the street for a few minutes, as
he carefully took each photo into his hands and studied them, his eyes
glistening but his face never once breaking.
We agreed that Gardy and I would head on to the Mountain
School to do some quick business (where we finished setting up the Michelet
Memorial Scholarship Fund), and then meet TiCris back at his house. When we returned to their house, Keke and
TiCris were sitting outside. TiCris had
retrieved from somewhere a photo book I had given Michelet the year before,
that I had filled with pictures I had taken over the years of Michelet. TiCris had almost finished stuffing the new
photos into vacant spots in the photo book when I sat beside him. I asked to see the photo book, and together
we looked over each of the pictures. The
new photos stood in stark contrast from the old; the old photos were well worn,
with significant fading of the photo edges, some water damage, and numerous
small bends in the photos. It was clear
the photos had been looked at hundreds of times and “well loved” over the last
year. TiCris and I motioned to a few of
the photos, and smiled and laughed. I
pointed to the picture of TiCris and Michelet standing together years prior, and I
told TiCris I loved the picture. TiCris
agreed.
 |
| With TiCris and Keke, looking through photos in front of their home |
As Gardy and I sat with Keke and TiCris, the neighbors
quickly gathered around again to see what was going on. Keke was once again drunk, and this time was
going on about how perhaps if TiCris had been around more or had been a better
brother, that Michelet would still be alive.
TiCris stared off into the distant field, and it was clear TiCris had
heard all this before, but he gave a few quick side glances to see how my face
was registering what Keke was saying. I
stared deep into TiCris eyes as I shook my head back and forth, and told TiCris
that his brother’s death had nothing to do with him, and that Michelet knew how
much TiCris loved him. You could see
TiCris’ shoulders relax and him sink in closer to me, and I had to wonder if
anyone had ever stopped to try and tell TiCris since Michelet’s passing, that
the death was not his fault and that TiCris was deeply loved.
Keke went on for quite some time about various things,
trying to blame others for Michelet’s death or his hardship since, but two
particular additional moments stand out to me as profound that afternoon. The first, Keke was lamenting that as an old
man who had seen much of life, he would have rather died than Michelet. Reflecting on a thought I have had many times since his death, after a moment of silence, I told Keke that
in the months past, I had felt the same.
Keke laughed as if trying to dismiss what I was saying. I shrugged and told Keke, “you don’t have to
believe me; it doesn't change anything”. There was a silence among
us all as Keke processed. Keke then
looked to his neighbors and casually shrugged, “she was like a mother to
Michelet; he was like her son.” With
that, the neighbors’ stances all softened, and a couple of the neighbors locked
onto my wet eyes and slowly nodded an understanding nod.
The second moment that stands out was a little while
later. After a few minutes of gathering
my words (my Creole is very rough), I spoke carefully. “Mèsi Jesi pou le vie sa a ki ou bon
Michelet, api mèsi jesi pou ou renmen.
Men….poutèt!?” Translated: Thank you Jesus for the life that you gave
Michelet, and thank you for your love.
But…..why!? Again, there was a
deep rooted silence, followed by audible cries from Keke and a few of the
neighbors. The pain felt was and is
immense.
It didn’t take long for conversation to move on. The drunken Keke was soon on to his next
topic of choice, and by the end Keke was requesting my financial assistance
with purchasing fertilizer (an annual assistance I had given him the six years
previous). My group obliged, and after arrangements for a neighbor to go pick up fertilizer for him and exchange
of warm wishes, we were on our way.
 |
| Keke and a couple of the neighbors, in front of Keke's home |
By that point, TiCris had wandered off. I wasn’t sure where he had gone off to, but we
hadn’t made it far from the property when TiCris came back into the street and
waved us down – no longer in view of his father’s property. He gave an earnest and long hug, and then
asked if I would consider helping him get back into school – but perhaps
somewhere away from his father, where he could start his life fresh.
Now, six months later – at 18 years old, TiCris is enrolled
in the 1st grade. And six
additional students are attending 1st grade at the Mountain School,
utilizing the Michelet Memorial Scholarship. I have not once met one of these students –
only seen their pictures and heard their stories – but I am somehow okay with
that.
In writing this after, I can’t express in words the depth of
my pain, or the confusion my soul has felt. So much was sacrificed for Michelet and his family to have a better
life, and I acted in ways I felt wise. I often took steps much more slowly than I
wanted to or others urged, trying to be as ultimately mindful of the community
impact I was having (there is always so much more downwind impact than the
immediate act we are doing, when working in such an impoverished area). My soul has repeatedly shuttered at the
fleeting thoughts and fears that perhaps my involvement had in some way
contributed to the bullying that killed him.
Not just for the sake of my guilt, but for the sake of the beauty of his
soul! Michelet was too precious a being for
my naïvity to have a part in his demise. And I have to continue to hope that it wasn't.
I cannot say that my soul is okay; but perhaps for the first
time I am coming to terms with that being okay for a season. For I am processing for the first time in its
depth, what it truly means for the world to be unjust. And perhaps just as significantly, processing
that for nothing that I have done, I am for some reason on the favorable side
of injustice while also loving people on the other side. Meant in the most heart-wrenching and
tear-drenched way: this world is not fair.
And until we are on the other side of this world, it never will be. Grasping that for the first time; staring that
in the face and allowing ones soul to be crushed by that truth; is no simply
thing.
But it is something we must all attempt to do.
But it is something we must all attempt to do.
Rest easy, sweet Michelet.
Revelation 21:4 (In heaven...) "He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death' or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."
