19th March 2010

by Archbishop Thabo Makgoba: From 4 to 8 March 2010, I was in Haiti. It is an experience that has changed me, and that will remain with me to the end of my life. Six weeks after the devastating earthquake, I found a nation, a people, traumatised and largely still in shock, and I too was stirred to the very depths of my being.

I now offer these reflections: on my own grappling with what I experienced; on the socio-economic and political context in which the tragedy occurred and which exacerbated its impact, and how this must be addressed by the international community to best assist reconstruction; and on the response that is demanded of us as Africans.

As well as being an account of a journey half-way round the world, it is the account of a faith journey, as I have walked alongside grieving men, women and children, learning new lessons of what it means to lament in solidarity with all who suffer tragedy, and wrestling to find appropriate discernment both for theological understanding and for practical response to this almost unimaginable human suffering.

I travelled to Haiti with Revd Canon Robert Butterworth, the Provincial Executive Officer of the Anglican Church in Southern Africa, under the generous auspices of The Gift of The Givers, and of Ms Louisa Mojela. We joined Bishop Pierre Whalon of The Episcopal Church (of which Haiti is numerically the largest Diocese), who is President of the Anglican Communion’s French-speaking Network, and Bishop Laish Boyd of the Bahamas. Our purpose was to express together the solidarity of the Anglican Communion with the Bishop of Haiti, Jean-Zaché Duracin, and those in his care, and offer what pastoral support we were able. I also delivered an initial cheque for $15,000, donated by parishioners towards the Diocese of Haiti’s relief and reconstruction work, and discussed how further funds we raise might best be used.

The bare statistics are this: an earthquake struck on 12 January 2010 at 4:53pm, as a result of which close to a quarter of a million people are estimated to have died, a figure that is expected to rise further. Perhaps some 300,000 were injured, and a million left homeless – but in the chaos these are at best ‘guesstimates’. Behind these numbers lies human tragedy on an almost ungraspable scale. This is what we found ourselves encountering. Some of what we saw is almost impossible to put into words, but I am at least going to try, for compassion at the human level must be intrinsic to our response.

The devastation is overwhelming. Infrastructure of every sort has collapsed. Endless building rubble fills the streets. Again and again, the air is heavy with the stench of rotting flesh, of bodies trapped within ruined buildings too unstable to enter. There is little normalcy and vast disorientation – both emotional and physically literal, as, with landmarks collapsed and many streets impassable, our driver often had great difficulty negotiating our way from place to place. The endless pain this caused him tore at my heart. He was always so polite and generous to us with his time and care. It was only after three days of travelling with us that he told us of the destruction of his own home, speaking with quiet grace. We were overcome with guilt that we had not thought to ask him earlier.

Everywhere we saw people wandering aimlessly, overcome with hopelessness by the enormity of what they have lived through, and at the unimaginably vast task of rebuilding their entire lives. The Government too seems to be rendered largely incapable of giving a firm lead and direction. People even commented that, terrible though he was, their former dictator ‘Papa Doc’ Duvalier would at least have taken a stronger grip, and started things moving in repairing basic services. Everyone knows that soon the monsoon season will begin and adequate accommodation to withstand the rain must be provided, yet fear remains etched on too many faces, of people seemingly unable to take responsibility for their lives, their futures.

Our host, Bishop Duracin, has seen almost all that he has striven for in the Diocese over 17 years ‘gone, gone, gone’. In Port au Prince and across the country his priests, religious sisters, trainee clergy, teachers, students and school-children, church-workers and parishioners have died. Buildings are in ruins. Institutions are destroyed. Welfare projects have collapsed. We visited one church high school, and could smell that there were still bodies of teachers and learners trapped in the fallen 3-storey structure that is too unstable to enter or even pull down at this point.

The Cathedral of Holy Trinity, like its nearby Roman Catholic counterpart, is just a shell. So is the convent, and another diocesan school next to it. As we walked by, I smelt the bodies, and I could not help seeing a human leg bone protruding from the precarious structure. I cannot put into words how terrible this sight was.

Everywhere it is the same story. At the diocesan university a half-filled grave contains the bodies of 9 students, with space left for those known to be under the ruins. Eight had been pulled out of the rubble alive. We spoke with the Vice-Chancellor and the chaplain, a retired Canon, who were tearful and devastated. Their tears were contagious, and, after seeing so much pain over the previous days, I too was overcome with weeping, embarrassedly wiping my eyes with my purple clerical shirt sleeve, an archbishop at sea in the surges of grief that overflowed from everyone I met.

As the university was diocesan- not state-owned, they will struggle to afford to rebuild. Yet for the Bishop, rebuilding schools, colleges, seminaries, was a higher priority even than restoring his own completely flattened home, so vital is education in reconstructing their country. I was deeply touched by this selfless child of God and servant of the people, who prioritises their needs above even his own accommodation.

On the Sunday morning, almost at the end of our visit, our group joined in a service of the Eucharist, then shared lunch with the bishop and clergy, sitting together at a long table like Leonardo’s famous painting of the Last Supper. I spoke with them of the resurrection hope we have in Jesus Christ, who died in agony and was raised to new life. We then persuaded Bishop Duracin to take us to his home. It had been a beautiful house, next to a private university on the hill, but now it was ‘gone, all gone’ as he kept saying. His home was flattened, his possessions lost, his Land Cruiser crushed. He showed us where his wife had been trapped. She has been hospitalised in Florida, while he, for a long time, was denied a visa to visit her. He had been forced to travel to the Dominican Republic to obtain one, and would finally fly out of the country with us later that day, to see her, to meet with fellow Bishops of The Episcopal Church, and take a few days’ rest before returning to his people.

As he stood beside his home and spoke and wept, we all wept too, feeling his pain. Next door, the mass grave on the university ground held the bodies of a Catholic priest and nun, whom he knew. Finally, for the first time on our visit, the sun came out and brought some warmth. This brave man pointed to all he had lost and said ‘We still have to sing alleluia, for in the midst of this, Christ is risen.’ He then added, ‘The church is wealthy in Haiti. Our wealth is in our people, who have worked so hard to serve the poor, and we have found ourselves so blessed through our commitment to service. This wealth remains ours, and we will continue to serve those in need.’

Sleeping out in the open, and then in a tent alongside his parishioners, Bishop Duracin has worked tirelessly to bring a sense of shape and direction to his people’s lives, so they in turn can take courage to act constructively, strengthened by the compassionate love of God in the midst of this indescribable suffering, and dare to go on loving their neighbours through tangible acts of service. Today, all are neighbours in the tent cities that have sprung up on school playgrounds, church compounds, every available open space – even along the pavements. My heart breaks for those who try to establish new shelters alongside former homes that still contain the remains of their loved ones.

It is not all doom and gloom. Resilient street traders were visible, selling all sorts of products, and though they would not say how they obtained supplies, this should be seen as a positive sign. Others are beginning to take the initiative to rebuild their homes.

But the risk is that many of the past weaknesses will be repeated. It was evident that the quality of much recent building, from housing through to the Presidential Palace, was deficient. Haiti was badly socially engineered in first place, with major overcrowding across Port au Prince, and an inadequate building code. Just as with the tent cities springing up today, it seems longstanding practice in most places merely to find a piece of land and build. Ironically, it is the older buildings – often those of the old French colonial masters, many now serving as restaurants – which withstood the quake, whereas newer constructions pancaked, and cars parked in the streets were reduced to flattened sandwiches.

This is just one symptom of Haiti’s economic situation. Even before the earthquake, Haiti was the poorest country in the Americas – the extent of the devastation of the earthquake goes back a long time before 12 January. Inequality is vast, corruption has been a major problem for decades, and politics have often been unstable and undemocratic, with international aid intermittently halted in consequence. The economy has suffered in other ways, particularly where US domestic subsidies and trade policies have undercut Haitian industries such as coffee and cement. Seeing the impact of his country’s actions on its impoverished neighbour deeply affected Bishop Pierre.

It is understandable that the international community will look to the US to take a particular lead in assisting Haiti, as happened in the immediate disaster relief. In the longer term both the Haitian diaspora and France, as a former colonial power, might also play significant roles within the wider global community. The US presence is still very visible – including through their troops, who, with UN military, are there to ensure peace and security in the face of concerns that growing desperation might bring about the collapse of society into anarchy.

However, the situation cannot just be policed. More is needed, or rather demanded, from the global community, both in immediate relief and in longer-term reconstruction aid. Everywhere we went, Haitians of all walks of life spoke of the pressing requirement for both forms of assistance. Everywhere, we saw graffiti imploring for help. Yet how shall that aid be directed? The status quo ante cannot be recovered – and indeed, it was not something to aspire to. Surely better can be created.

And it must be done so in ways that fully include the Haitians themselves. Helping them to see themselves as masters of their own destiny; encouraging them to take responsibility; providing education and skills training in every area of private and public sector activity which they can then use to carry forward their society into the future – all this must be done. It worried me to overhear a conversation between an American and a South African relief worker, suggesting the time had come to abandon the city and rebuild elsewhere.

Yes, I could see the sense of moving out the population so that the devastated buildings could be pulled down and destroyed, the concrete crushed and recycled. But such a programme could only be considered in full consultation with, and with the full agreement of, those it was intended to assist. Total, respectful, inclusion is a vital principle that must be at the heart of helping Haitians to help themselves build a better future for their country. Those with whom we spoke identified infrastructure, agriculture, tourism and education among their priorities.

What then is Africa’s stake in Haiti? We should hold this country in a special place in our hearts. Most of us are unaware that Haiti is the world’s oldest black-led independent republic. A large proportion of its people are descended from the children of our continent. Now our brothers and sisters face a time of dire need. And while poverty remains for us a serious and fundamental problem requiring our continuing attention, it is not the only story in Africa. We have received so much, and we have many success stories. We must share with those who are now in acute and urgent need, both for now and into the future.

It is for this reason that, before my trip, I was glad to lend my name to the Africa for Haiti initiative, spearheaded by Mrs Graça Machel. Having now been there, I am doubly glad I did so. In many ways, this country of sunshine with its clear blue sea at Mowe where we stayed, so much like Xaixai in Mozambique and Malawi's Lakes, and its warm-hearted people getting on with life in the face of considerable hardship, reminded me so much of my own home and people. I felt connected.

Therefore, it pained me to see so few African faces among the many relief workers who had travelled from around the world to offer help. We can do more; and I think we can especially do more in longer-term reconstruction. Because creating much out of little is the area where we have worked so hard within our own countries. Building capacity, developing skills, growing expertise – these are the stuff of life on so much of our continent. Many individuals have given from their pockets, but now the time has come for Corporate Africa to come to the party in a big way.

African multinationals operating across our continent have particularly pertinent expertise in training and equipping staff to bring new services and develop new markets, in previously untouched areas. Surely the time has come to share this spirit of initiative, this experience, this expertise with our brothers and sisters in Haiti, through deliberate commitments across our private sector. Governments too must offer what they can – and must use their considerable combined weight in international fora to lobby for greater justice, greater generosity, for this stricken country.

The insurers will no doubt call the earthquake 'an Act of God' which in many cases will relieve them of any obligation to make pay-outs. But what does it mean to say this is an Act of God? On one level, I do not know. I do not know why it is that earthquakes happen, why it is that we have shifting tectonic plates under the earth’s crust, that can move to such devastating effect. Before God, I can only say ‘Why?’ and share the tears of those who suffer.

But I do know that humanity has choices and responsibilities. All that I have written about assistance, about trade and economics, about democracy and human dignity, is grounded in my Christian belief about what God ordains as right relationships within human society. There is no doubt that many of the factors that made the earthquake’s impact so great are the consequences of greed, irresponsibility and injustice, in other words ‘acts of humanity’, in stark contrast to the standards of the God of justice. Will we have the grace to let his justice prevail in rebuilding a better future for Haiti and its people?

Our God is also the God of love and of compassion. Uniquely, Christians follow a God who does not remain distant, and is not enshrined merely in words of ancient Scripture. We believe that in the man Jesus Christ, our God took human form – he was unafraid to become one of us, sharing in all the joys and pains, the hopes and fears of human life. Most of all, he shared in the experience of human suffering, and of painful death. To such a God we can come, bearing our agonies, our grief, our anger, our despair, knowing that he can truly empathise, and that his compassion is rooted in genuine understanding of our trauma.

This is what it means to lament. Lament is to open ourselves with all our burdens, our sorrows, in honesty before God. It is not to diminish our suffering, but rather to lay it out, in its full extent, before the throne of God. We do this as a way of inviting God to meet us in this suffering, to touch us where we are, to acknowledge our griefs and pains, and then to take them up in his own hands, and to work in them his promises of healing and wholeness, or redemption and transfiguration, as he wipes away our falling tears. I pray that God will grant the people of Haiti the gift of lament, and call us into true lamentation alongside them, in the weeks and months ahead.

I thought of this as I watched the process of clearing up that has begun at the Anglican Cathedral. A piece of altar mural, painted by an indigenous artist, remains standing. It depicts the story of Jesus' baptism. I was reminded that we understand our own baptism as the beginning of our Christian journey. Through baptism, we believe ourselves somehow mystically incorporated into the body of Christ, alongside all other believers.

Because we are united with one another in this way, we are compelled to respond when any other child of God is hurting. Haitians are reeling in pain. How can we authentically share in that pain? How can we respond with integrity to their suffering, their need for the hope of new life?

The God of love and compassion is also the God of hope and of new life – a God who did the impossible, in raising Jesus Christ from death to life beyond the grave. Therefore we too can have hope, even at the darkest point of the valley of the shadow of death. We have hope for our loved ones who have died, that they are now held safe, beyond pain and suffering, in the everlasting, ever-loving, arms of our heavenly Father. And we have hope for ourselves here, because our God is in the business of bringing newness of life in every deathly situation, if only we will open ourselves to receive this from him.

And I truly encountered this newness of life and hope at work in Haiti: in the commitment of Bishop Duracin and his people to care for others; in the return to the streets of laughter and play among children; in gestures of kindness and generosity from strangers; in the care people take of themselves, even in the sight of someone carefully washing in a basin on the street. I met it in the warm family atmosphere within tent cities; and in the celebration we had for the blessing of a make-shift clinic with state of the art operating theatres and wards, all housed under canvas. I even met it as people continued to pause and show respect when yet another funeral cortege passed by. I felt the upholding of the intrinsic dignity of humanity – a humanity which Christians believe reflects the image of God. I met it in those who still dare to say ‘Alleluia, Christ is risen – therefore we are risen.’

I particularly felt it in the beautiful music that we heard wherever we travelled. Voices were lifted up in song – and even if they were just everyday tunes, these seemed to me to be nonetheless songs of hope, that life will go on. Alongside the deep, deep currents of sadness, there was also a sense of aliveness, of energy that could not be quenched, and of conviction that life will triumph over death.

The memory of song has stayed with me, a brighter note alongside the sights and smells of death. It was hard to come back. I felt guilty at leaving these people for whom I felt such compassion, to return to the easy life of Bishopscourt. Volunteers we met felt the same. Somehow it was a privilege and a gift to have been allowed to walk alongside these people, to sit and eat, to sleep, to pray, with them in all that they faced. My own prayer is that what I have experienced will teach me so that I may in future be more fully part of the ‘solution’ rather than the ‘problem’ in the issues we face within God’s world.

Though I had never expected to encounter human suffering on such a scale, I remain hopeful that the future belongs to God. The Christ who was born in a stable and died on the cross will find his own place among those born in tents, raised among rubble, or selling bananas by the roadside. There is no human person to whom he cannot reach out with a strengthening hand, an encouraging word, a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear. There is no-one for whom he does not offer the promise, the sure and certain hope, that comes from knowing that the pain and death of the cross can be transformed to rising in glory.