I knew a girl named Charlotte when I was a child growing up in Haiti. I’m not sure how old Charlotte was, but I think, she was older than I was. She had a lot more responsibility that I did and she did not go to school, that much I know and I’m sure of it. I remember the first time, I saw Charlotte. The curious child in me, prompted me to go and play with her. Of course, I prefer her companionship than that of her “Aunt Therese” as she referred to Madame Celestin.
Madame Celestin was a friend of my mother’s and at times, my mother would take me there with her. Somehow, my mother stopped visiting Madame Celestin and I don’t know why. I don’t remember exactly what Madame Celestin looked like. Aside from her dark complexioned skin, I don’t remember what she looked like. I do remember her hands moving about as she dismisses Charlotte to hurry Charlotte out and away. Whenever, I was at Madame Celestin’s house, I was hoped that I’d get to play with Charlotte. She could show me her dolls and toys and we could engage in conversations about them as I did with my other friends. I had no interest whatsoever listening to my mother talk to people her own age and listening to her as she talks to Madame Celestin was even worst. I did not even like Madame Celestin.
Naturally, I drifted towards Charlotte rather than listening to my mother and Madame Celestin.
The first time I saw Charlotte was not the first time that I had gone to her house. Somehow “Aunt Therese” as Charlotte refers to Madame Celestin as, kept her out of sight because I had never seen Charlotte before It was a hot day, with perspiration dripping from our faces, Madame Celestin, cried out Charlotte’s name and ordered her to fetch water cold water for my mother and me. “Hurry up” Madame Celestin said gesticulating her right hand as if fanning Charlotte away. “Salope” “vagabonne” she said, “I can’t tolerate how slow the girl is” Madame Celestin said of Charlotte to my mother. “It’s hot and she’s young” my mother replied. “No, she’s just lazy, and if I don’t push her, she’ll become useless” Madame Celestin commented.
When Charlotte returned with the water, I wanted to go and play with her rather than staying around Madame Celestin. It was a “no”. Madame Celestin promptly pulled me and put me back in the chair when I got up to go speak with Charlotte. “Children of the house don’t play with the Restaveks”. I sat down and refused to drink the water that Charlotte had brought in the water pitcher filled with water and ice that the heat was rapidly melting and turning into water. Charlotte had placed the pitcher in the center of the large tray into Madame Celestin’s cluttered living room’s cocktail table.
Madame Celestin had a busy home. Her mosaic topped wooden cocktail table had for what I know a million little porcelain figurines and some of them; Charlotte had to push towards the center to make room for the tray. As ugly and tacky as I found, Madame Celestin took pride in those little annoying place taking figurines. There were so many of them that I lost count trying to count them.
As Charlotte pushed some of the figurines towards the center to make room for the water pitcher, one felled; that, triggered an instant anger outburst from Madame Celestin prompting her to call Charlotte “imbecile”. Ms. Celestin grabbed Charlotte by one of her ears and threw her out of the living room. Fearing for Charlotte, and Madame Celestin’s anger, my heart pounded as I began to urinate in my starchy pressed white dress. I became fidgety. I don’t know exactly how many times I tried to redo the ribbon that was tied in the back of my dress as I tried to stop more urine but unable to get up. My fingers trembled behind my back, with each unsuccessful tie I made to the ribbon until I realized that it was pointless. I returned my hands and put them in my lap trying to keep them folded so I control the fidgeting as my teeth shuddered. I realized that I was uncomfortable with Ms. Celestin and I immediately developed an aversion to her. I did not like Madame Celestin and I wanted to go home immediately. To me, and at that particular moment, Madame Celestin became the folkloric symbol of evil or “lougaroup” as many Haitians call vicious people. I’d like to tell you more about that, but I don’t have the time and would rather continue telling you about Charlotte and what she went through as a Restavek and modern day slave.
It was a good thing that my parents did not have Restaveks. They had so many of us anyway plus my mother did not believe in not sending children to school. If she had taken a child to live with us, the child would have been an extra mouth to feed- an expense, I’m sure. My mother avoided taking other people’s children in to live with us at all cost. I’d hear my mother tell women that she had enough children of her own and that she’s not interested in a having an extra child. On the Restavek (English translation “to stay with” or child servitude and child slave) issue, my mother did not entertain or accept it.
After we left, on that hot and humid afternoon, the next time we saw Madame Celestin was at my father’s tailor, which was not far from where she lived. Madame Celestin insisted that my mother goes to her house for coffee, and so we walked the few short blocks to her house. Of course, Charlotte was ordered to bring in the coffee and a glass of milk for me. Because Madame Celestin ordered Charlotte away, I noticed that Charlotte’s eyes were swollen and she was visibly upset. My mother was so busy talking with Madame Celestin; I don’t think she noticed Charlotte’s swollen eyes and physical discomfort.
The moment my mother walked away with Madame Celestin who always wanted to show off her latest clothes and shoes that she had purchased, I walked outside and found Charlotte. Charlotte was crying. “I don’t want to go there anymore,” she kept repeating. I was obviously a nosy child and I noticed a lot. I knew Charlotte was upset about something and whatever I understood, I told my mother.
After I got home, my mother lectured me and informed me that I’m to keep away from men and strangers. I don’t why she told me about keeping away from men and strangers, because I was always supervised anyway and could not go anywhere on my own anyway. My mother was upset that Madame Celestin did not believe Charlotte and that Madame Celestin even beat Charlotte with a cowhide thread marking Charlotte’s already whipped scarred body for “telling lies”. Madame Celestin’s next-door neighbor, an old bachelor who lived alone and whom Madame Celestin esteemed and beat Charlotte over for telling lies. Everyday, Charlotte had to bring dinner to the old bachelor who lived next door. Charlotte had told Madame Celestin that the old bachelor insists on touching her breast and had begun to touch her from under her dress. “He takes off his pants and wants me to touch him” Charlotte complained keeping her eyes down the entire time she told my mother why she’s afraid of the old bachelor while Madame Celestin accused Charlotte of being a “little liar” and “Satan” for making accusation against the gentle “foreign” bachelor who lived next door.
Charlotte could not be believed because she was but a Child slave. My mother, not knowing what to do went over to the gentle “foreign” bachelor’s home. I don’t know exactly what she said to the “foreign bachelor”, but I heard her say, I’ll send my husband to speak with you more on the subject later. That day was the last time I saw Charlotte. I’ve not heard of her or about her since. What I didn’t t know then, I know now and I believe Charlotte wholeheartedly. Strange things happened when I was a child. And, from what I know, not much has changed. All I know is that there is an estimate of 173,000 to 225,000 to 300,000 Haitian children Restaveks in domestic servitude in Haiti. And, I thought slavery was abolished. Have you been told the same?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Jesusla
Jesusla was barely 6 years when she came to live in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Jesusla’s mother had become ill right before she gave birth to her and had returned to her native town of Tomozeau a town west of Port-au-prince. Unable to provide for Jesulsa, she decided to send Jesusla to stay with the family she once worked for in Port-au-Prince in exchange for food, shelter and a promise that the host family would send Jesusla to school.
While the host family’s children attended school, Jesusla would spend her mornings and afternoons preparing food, cleaning the house and helping with the family laundry. At six years of age and since Jesusla joined her mother’s previous boss, Jesusla never once missed the sunrise. If you’ve ever been to the Caribbean or to South America, you’d know how beautiful the sunrise and sunsets can be.
Always the first to rise, Jesusla found herself the last to go to sleep too. As the children of the house walk to school, Jesusla would carry their books so the 10 and 12-year-old girls would not tire before they reach their school. The mistress of the house did not want the children to carry their books because they were too heavy so Jesusla had to carry the books for them. Luckily, the family had Jesusla and Jesusla was always there to protect the children. It was convenient too, because both the children of the house attended the same school so Jesusla did not have to walk extra with the heavy load of books that she carries for both children.
Jesusla, walking back from the girls’ school would wonder, when, she herself would start school. Her mother had told her that the host family promised to send her to school. Five years later as a Restavek, Jesusla had not yet gone to school but her duties in her household had increased. She had now begun to prepare all the family meals and not simply fetching water and doing other household chores. The only Jesusla did not do was to go food shopping alone. The lady of the house did not trust her so Jesusla was never allowed to go to the market for food by herself. When she went, her duties were to carry the groceries and always she went with someone because the lady of the house thought she would steal the money. Regularly, the lady of the house would search Jesusla belonging to see what the girl had. It always humiliated Jesusla but she could not stay anything.
Jesusla was not always confined to the host’s family home. At times, the host family will lend her out to special friends and relatives when they needed help during special events and could use an extra pair of hands. They enjoyed having Jesusla as she proved dexterous and capable around the house. She had begun her career at a tender age. Jesusla never enjoyed going, because, often the people were even more abusive then her host family; and the men would slap her behind and squeeze the breast that her body had begun to develop.
Despite the hard work, nature had blessed Jesusla with good looks; something that the mistress of the house did not like much since the mistress’s husband and other male guests would often take turn at staring at the girl and some even would fondle her often publicly. Jesusla was almost teased for her good looks by the mistress of the house and even held in contempt. It could be because her husband paid attention to Jesusa not that the girl enjoyed the attention. “If you think you’re that beautiful, I will burn your face for you if that’s what I need to do to teach you to have respect” the mistress of the house would tell Jesusla.
Jesusla took her mistress seriously. The mistress burned her once with a piece of charcoal she held against the girl’s face. She knew the mistress of the house did not play games and that she always carried out her threats. “Oui” was not enough. Jesusla knew that she had to say “oui madame” or yes maam, or she’ll get in trouble and the mistress would slap or spit on her face. Once the mistress of the house, was furious, so she beat jesusla with a “rigoise”- a thick threaded thong of cowhide until Jesusla’s body had sore on it. Normally, she’d throw the liquid of hot pepper and vinegar mix on Jesusla’s body, which penetrates the sores and intensifies the pain. Then she’d force Jesusla to genuflex on both her knees on a large grater where Jesusla would remain for an entire day until Jesusla would pass with pain and unable to move her lambs or body.
Bruised face from being slapped and hit with the thong of cowhide, knees bleeding, scraped and sore from kneeling on the grater, swollen eyes from tears she shed, broken spirit, Jesusla, like a 16 century slave dragged from across the Atlantic to labor in the sugar or cotton plantations in the Americas, ate the corn meal that her mistress fed her and fell asleep on a dirt floor around the kitchen in a home in Port-au-Prince Haiti-the very same country where the slaves revolted against the French and won. Ironic, isn’t it?
At 15, Jesusla became pregnant. Five months in the pregnancy, the mistress of house sent Jesusla back to her hometown of Tomazeau. “Ingrate” she called Jesusla, “I took her out of poverty and opened my home to her and looked what the whore did, she slept with my husband” and the circle continues.
Break the circle. Abolish slavery in Haiti and in every corner of the world.
While the host family’s children attended school, Jesusla would spend her mornings and afternoons preparing food, cleaning the house and helping with the family laundry. At six years of age and since Jesusla joined her mother’s previous boss, Jesusla never once missed the sunrise. If you’ve ever been to the Caribbean or to South America, you’d know how beautiful the sunrise and sunsets can be.
Always the first to rise, Jesusla found herself the last to go to sleep too. As the children of the house walk to school, Jesusla would carry their books so the 10 and 12-year-old girls would not tire before they reach their school. The mistress of the house did not want the children to carry their books because they were too heavy so Jesusla had to carry the books for them. Luckily, the family had Jesusla and Jesusla was always there to protect the children. It was convenient too, because both the children of the house attended the same school so Jesusla did not have to walk extra with the heavy load of books that she carries for both children.
Jesusla, walking back from the girls’ school would wonder, when, she herself would start school. Her mother had told her that the host family promised to send her to school. Five years later as a Restavek, Jesusla had not yet gone to school but her duties in her household had increased. She had now begun to prepare all the family meals and not simply fetching water and doing other household chores. The only Jesusla did not do was to go food shopping alone. The lady of the house did not trust her so Jesusla was never allowed to go to the market for food by herself. When she went, her duties were to carry the groceries and always she went with someone because the lady of the house thought she would steal the money. Regularly, the lady of the house would search Jesusla belonging to see what the girl had. It always humiliated Jesusla but she could not stay anything.
Jesusla was not always confined to the host’s family home. At times, the host family will lend her out to special friends and relatives when they needed help during special events and could use an extra pair of hands. They enjoyed having Jesusla as she proved dexterous and capable around the house. She had begun her career at a tender age. Jesusla never enjoyed going, because, often the people were even more abusive then her host family; and the men would slap her behind and squeeze the breast that her body had begun to develop.
Despite the hard work, nature had blessed Jesusla with good looks; something that the mistress of the house did not like much since the mistress’s husband and other male guests would often take turn at staring at the girl and some even would fondle her often publicly. Jesusla was almost teased for her good looks by the mistress of the house and even held in contempt. It could be because her husband paid attention to Jesusa not that the girl enjoyed the attention. “If you think you’re that beautiful, I will burn your face for you if that’s what I need to do to teach you to have respect” the mistress of the house would tell Jesusla.
Jesusla took her mistress seriously. The mistress burned her once with a piece of charcoal she held against the girl’s face. She knew the mistress of the house did not play games and that she always carried out her threats. “Oui” was not enough. Jesusla knew that she had to say “oui madame” or yes maam, or she’ll get in trouble and the mistress would slap or spit on her face. Once the mistress of the house, was furious, so she beat jesusla with a “rigoise”- a thick threaded thong of cowhide until Jesusla’s body had sore on it. Normally, she’d throw the liquid of hot pepper and vinegar mix on Jesusla’s body, which penetrates the sores and intensifies the pain. Then she’d force Jesusla to genuflex on both her knees on a large grater where Jesusla would remain for an entire day until Jesusla would pass with pain and unable to move her lambs or body.
Bruised face from being slapped and hit with the thong of cowhide, knees bleeding, scraped and sore from kneeling on the grater, swollen eyes from tears she shed, broken spirit, Jesusla, like a 16 century slave dragged from across the Atlantic to labor in the sugar or cotton plantations in the Americas, ate the corn meal that her mistress fed her and fell asleep on a dirt floor around the kitchen in a home in Port-au-Prince Haiti-the very same country where the slaves revolted against the French and won. Ironic, isn’t it?
At 15, Jesusla became pregnant. Five months in the pregnancy, the mistress of house sent Jesusla back to her hometown of Tomazeau. “Ingrate” she called Jesusla, “I took her out of poverty and opened my home to her and looked what the whore did, she slept with my husband” and the circle continues.
Break the circle. Abolish slavery in Haiti and in every corner of the world.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Child of the House
I don’t know about you, but I tend to remember all good and bad parts that are associated with my life. There are memories that simply refuse to leave my mind no matter how much I try to forget or push them in the back of my mind. They sort of haunt me and cause much discomfort and even pain at times. Perhaps, I’m just overly sensitive and care too much. I’m still not sure if that’s even possible to care too much.
In any case, one of the most painful incidents that I know is not even personal but somehow it chews through my heart. Each time I recall that incident, if I could ever hate, that feeling blossoms.
I knew a girl named Chantal was I was a child. She lived with a family whom I knew very well. Years later, Chantal was separated from her family abruptly and it was the end of her. What pained me most, is that Chantal had called me and told me that was happening to her. I just felt so helpless that I could not help her. It’s one of those situations that make you wonder, what would I do now that I could not do then?
Chantal was one of those lucky little girls. She was born of a 17 year-old boy named Jacques. Jacques was of a well to-do Haitian family. Chantal’s mother was older and was considered “moun andeyo” or people from outside of the city who would normally have no social standing or connection. Such a girl had no chance or marrying into a decent family especially after she’d lost her virginity and got pregnant.
Luckily, when Chantal was a few weeks old, Jacques’ parents took her to live with them and they raised her as their own until Chantal was about 10 years old. By then, Jacques had gotten married and had taken Chantal to live with him and his new wife. Chantal was never treated as a “Restavek” and she was lucky. Indeed, one day I heard Chantal’s step mother referred to Chantal as “Pitit Kay” (children of the house). There’s a big distinction between Pitit kay and a Restavek and she made it point clear in her voice when she said it. Before that, I had never heard of that word before. In my home, we never had any Restavek. My mother was totally against that and told us so. When Chantal’s stepmother said the word, it was a warning that the person was not to disrespect Chantal and clearly meant that Chantal was not a child domestic/child slave better known as Restavek.
Within 3 years, Chantal’s stepmother had 2 children of her own and she continued to treat Chantal as a “Pitit kay”. The following year, Chantal’s stepmother left Haiti and her husband joined her in Boston soon thereafter. The two children that Jacques and his wife had along with Chantal went to live with Jacques’s mother. As usual, Haitian Immigrants work for a few years and send for their children. Chantal’s family was no exception. Chantal’s 2 younger siblings left Haiti to live with their parents in Boston while Chantal remained with her Jacques mother and Jacques younger brother. He was single and apparently took a big part in helping raise the children. Chantal could not come immediately due to required DNA testing that immigration Officers ordered on the children.
It was a sad that Chantal was left behind in Haiti. She had lived in two different homes and now had to return to first home until she could join her father and stepmother and siblings
Despite the few years since that incident, I can still hear Chantal’s voice begging me to “tell my mommy to call me please” she was inconsolable. I had received a call from Chantal from Haiti, which truly surprised me. Within minutes, Chantal had called me again. It was confidential and she had to speak with her stepmother whom she referred to as “mommy”. Why was she not calling her father and stepmother’s house? She knew my number as an emergency contact and she called me. “They said he’s not my father, I have to speak with my mommy, I don’t know what to do” she cried out to me. By then, I had called her stepmother and asked her to come to my house because Chantal had an emergency and needed to speak with her.
Shaking, I called her stepmother’s house again. There was no answer. It could only mean that she was on her way. Hearing the panic in Chantal’s voice and tears, I waited by the door and kept my eyes on the peephole for Chantal’s stepmother to arrive.
“What’s wrong” Chantal’s stepmother asked me as I opened the door for her. I explained that Chantal was upset and that something had happened to her.
After she had spoken with Chantal, the Stepmother looked at me and I saw the tears in her eyes. “Chantal” told me I told the Stepmother and it’s ok to talk about it.
The DNA test concluded that Chantal could not possibly be Jacques’s child and that Jacques and Chantal could not even be related. There was no match with any of the family members that immigration had tested her against. Based on the results of the DNA test, Immigration had denied her Immigrant visa that Chantal needed to join her family in Boston. Chantal was stuck in Haiti. She was 15 years and alone. Rejected by the grandmother who had cared for her for years, Chantal face life in the streets of Haiti.
Her Uncle, whom had been her brother and Uncle impregnated her because she was not a blood relative as he had thought. Chantal’s social status had changed. She was longer protected and men who lived in her household could take sexually exploit her and her Uncle did just that. The little girl who had escaped the life of a Restavek had run out of luck and finally became a Ti Sentaniz. Chantal made clear hat she would rather live in the street rather than subject herself to more of her Uncle’s sexual abuse. She stood her ground.
I pleaded with her Stepmother to contact a boarding school and have her live there. I’m not sure how much of my advice they took, but a few months later, I heard Chantal had given birth to her Uncle’s child. Unable to accept her Uncle and former brother’s sexual exploitation, Chantal had left Port-au-Prince seeking comfort in the bosom of her maternal relatives in the countryside of Haiti where she gave birth. During the birth, Chantal died. Chantal lives today in the life of her child. Jacques insisted that his brother adopt and provide for the child he had fathered with Chantal. After all, when all goes wrong, some stand up and make their voices heard. And to Chantal, today I tell your story.
April is Child abuse prevention month, let’s protect all children from every corner of the world by criminalizing the act Restaveks system and demand the emancipation of all Restaveks in Haiti. I challenge you.
For more information on the history of Restaveks in Haiti visit the Maurice Sixto Foundation
http://www.fondationmauricesixto.orgr
L’animation Ti Sentaniz An animation of a Restavek plight by Jud-Alix François)
For a Haiti without Restaveks/Slavery
( based by the original work written and sang by Maurice Sixto)
http://www.restavekfreedom.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=cms.page&id=1037
In any case, one of the most painful incidents that I know is not even personal but somehow it chews through my heart. Each time I recall that incident, if I could ever hate, that feeling blossoms.
I knew a girl named Chantal was I was a child. She lived with a family whom I knew very well. Years later, Chantal was separated from her family abruptly and it was the end of her. What pained me most, is that Chantal had called me and told me that was happening to her. I just felt so helpless that I could not help her. It’s one of those situations that make you wonder, what would I do now that I could not do then?
Chantal was one of those lucky little girls. She was born of a 17 year-old boy named Jacques. Jacques was of a well to-do Haitian family. Chantal’s mother was older and was considered “moun andeyo” or people from outside of the city who would normally have no social standing or connection. Such a girl had no chance or marrying into a decent family especially after she’d lost her virginity and got pregnant.
Luckily, when Chantal was a few weeks old, Jacques’ parents took her to live with them and they raised her as their own until Chantal was about 10 years old. By then, Jacques had gotten married and had taken Chantal to live with him and his new wife. Chantal was never treated as a “Restavek” and she was lucky. Indeed, one day I heard Chantal’s step mother referred to Chantal as “Pitit Kay” (children of the house). There’s a big distinction between Pitit kay and a Restavek and she made it point clear in her voice when she said it. Before that, I had never heard of that word before. In my home, we never had any Restavek. My mother was totally against that and told us so. When Chantal’s stepmother said the word, it was a warning that the person was not to disrespect Chantal and clearly meant that Chantal was not a child domestic/child slave better known as Restavek.
Within 3 years, Chantal’s stepmother had 2 children of her own and she continued to treat Chantal as a “Pitit kay”. The following year, Chantal’s stepmother left Haiti and her husband joined her in Boston soon thereafter. The two children that Jacques and his wife had along with Chantal went to live with Jacques’s mother. As usual, Haitian Immigrants work for a few years and send for their children. Chantal’s family was no exception. Chantal’s 2 younger siblings left Haiti to live with their parents in Boston while Chantal remained with her Jacques mother and Jacques younger brother. He was single and apparently took a big part in helping raise the children. Chantal could not come immediately due to required DNA testing that immigration Officers ordered on the children.
It was a sad that Chantal was left behind in Haiti. She had lived in two different homes and now had to return to first home until she could join her father and stepmother and siblings
Despite the few years since that incident, I can still hear Chantal’s voice begging me to “tell my mommy to call me please” she was inconsolable. I had received a call from Chantal from Haiti, which truly surprised me. Within minutes, Chantal had called me again. It was confidential and she had to speak with her stepmother whom she referred to as “mommy”. Why was she not calling her father and stepmother’s house? She knew my number as an emergency contact and she called me. “They said he’s not my father, I have to speak with my mommy, I don’t know what to do” she cried out to me. By then, I had called her stepmother and asked her to come to my house because Chantal had an emergency and needed to speak with her.
Shaking, I called her stepmother’s house again. There was no answer. It could only mean that she was on her way. Hearing the panic in Chantal’s voice and tears, I waited by the door and kept my eyes on the peephole for Chantal’s stepmother to arrive.
“What’s wrong” Chantal’s stepmother asked me as I opened the door for her. I explained that Chantal was upset and that something had happened to her.
After she had spoken with Chantal, the Stepmother looked at me and I saw the tears in her eyes. “Chantal” told me I told the Stepmother and it’s ok to talk about it.
The DNA test concluded that Chantal could not possibly be Jacques’s child and that Jacques and Chantal could not even be related. There was no match with any of the family members that immigration had tested her against. Based on the results of the DNA test, Immigration had denied her Immigrant visa that Chantal needed to join her family in Boston. Chantal was stuck in Haiti. She was 15 years and alone. Rejected by the grandmother who had cared for her for years, Chantal face life in the streets of Haiti.
Her Uncle, whom had been her brother and Uncle impregnated her because she was not a blood relative as he had thought. Chantal’s social status had changed. She was longer protected and men who lived in her household could take sexually exploit her and her Uncle did just that. The little girl who had escaped the life of a Restavek had run out of luck and finally became a Ti Sentaniz. Chantal made clear hat she would rather live in the street rather than subject herself to more of her Uncle’s sexual abuse. She stood her ground.
I pleaded with her Stepmother to contact a boarding school and have her live there. I’m not sure how much of my advice they took, but a few months later, I heard Chantal had given birth to her Uncle’s child. Unable to accept her Uncle and former brother’s sexual exploitation, Chantal had left Port-au-Prince seeking comfort in the bosom of her maternal relatives in the countryside of Haiti where she gave birth. During the birth, Chantal died. Chantal lives today in the life of her child. Jacques insisted that his brother adopt and provide for the child he had fathered with Chantal. After all, when all goes wrong, some stand up and make their voices heard. And to Chantal, today I tell your story.
April is Child abuse prevention month, let’s protect all children from every corner of the world by criminalizing the act Restaveks system and demand the emancipation of all Restaveks in Haiti. I challenge you.
For more information on the history of Restaveks in Haiti visit the Maurice Sixto Foundation
http://www.fondationmauricesixto.orgr
L’animation Ti Sentaniz An animation of a Restavek plight by Jud-Alix François)
For a Haiti without Restaveks/Slavery
( based by the original work written and sang by Maurice Sixto)
http://www.restavekfreedom.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=cms.page&id=1037
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
When the palsy girl had a baby
During a recent telephone conversation I had with one of my sisters, we reminisced on our childhood and the life we left behind in Haiti. Since the recent earthquake, I must say that Haiti often comes to mind much more than usual.
During the conversation, a girl I knew back then, came to my mind. Her name was Evelyn.
Evelyn must have been in her early teens from what I can recall. I was much younger but I remember her as clearly as if she had been and had remained a part of my everyday life. I’m not sure exactly why, but there was something that made her a permanent feature of my memories.
My sister was very impressed that I remembered someone so vividly whom she herself could not remember a thing about. “Who is that, I don’t remember her”, my sister continued to tell me during the conversation. “You have to remember her” I insisted. Unable to understand how she could have forgotten Evelyn, I made every attempt at describing Evelyn to her. I could visualize Evelyn and remembered exactly what she looked like, her height, the way she walked and spoke. “ Evelyn spoke differently and walked differently”, I said to my sister trying to bring back her memory. That too, didn’t ring the bell.
I remembered Evelyn’s facial gestures, her unsteady gait, the constant move that body made, her arms moving in every direction, Evelyn seemed never at rest. The way Evelyn walked was different than anyone else that I knew. Her gait was a slow movement followed by a quick pull of one leg almost as if her legs had a mind of their own. The way Evelyn would move her legs dradding one while the other seemed not wanting to move, it seemed a constant struggled but she always won. Evelyn was a live and happy marionette. The way her tongue would come out when she talked was unique. Her tongue would stick out as she if were making funny faces, and often, that, would make me smile. Whenever Evelyn spoke, her body would go through spasms, when she walked, her gait reminded me of the marionette the nums used to give to me during holidays The sound of her voice, a monotony that would elevate at anytime during the speech, was almost entertaining. She simply stood out. Evelyn seemed so determined and never still. What I remembered mostly about Evelyn was the big smile that she always had on her face. Than one day, the smile disappeared.
In a culture that holds people in contempt for being different, a culture that mocks the mentally ill, where people with learning difficulties are referred to as “egare” or stupid, and those with any physical impairments as called “Kokobe” or “retarded” it was not the best environment for Evelyn. She was often called “Kokobe”. Evelyn would go about her business and murmur, “no, I have cerebral palsy”, and “it’s palsy, I’m not retarded”. It was from her that I learned the term “cerebral palsy”. From the smile that never left her face, I learned pride. I had no idea what cerebral palsy was then and I’m sure none of these folks knew either. I’ve also learned that folks don’t always know what they are saying. I have to admit that Haiti is not he most hospitable place for anyone with any sort of impairments and Evelyn was not the only one to have experienced extreme unfairness so prevalently ingrained in the Haitian culture.
Clearly to the grown ups around me, Evelyn was a “kokobe” because had a speech impairment and she walked with a limp. To me, she was just Evelyn and she was as different as everyone around me was.
Evelyn, did not need a cane or crushes or a wheel chair, she walked by herself just like everyone else did. She was independent and did a lot around where she lived. Evelyn was one of the modern day slave girls a “restavek”. She lived with relatives and did the housework for them in exchange for being fed and a place to stay. In all of these cases, the “restavek population is abused sexually and physically, emotionally and is kept illeterate. She had to face that status too. Her cerebral palsy was not the only difficult that she faced in life. As a matter of fact, cerebral palsy did not seem to stop her, afterall, someone took her from her family and used her for free labor.
The day I saw her head down, Evelyn was without her smile. I also noticed Evelyn had grown much. Her waistline had gotten thick. Everyone kept saying that she was going to have a baby and she eventually she did have a son. She was 13 years old I heard.
Folks used to comment that the boy was a carbon copy of the man whose wife had taken Evelyn into their home to work as a “Restavek”. I hope that stops with the boy, the circle of course.
I just can’t understand how my sister managed to forget Everlyn. I was just 8 years old then and still remember Evelyn as if it were just yesterday. Would you have forgotten?
During the conversation, a girl I knew back then, came to my mind. Her name was Evelyn.
Evelyn must have been in her early teens from what I can recall. I was much younger but I remember her as clearly as if she had been and had remained a part of my everyday life. I’m not sure exactly why, but there was something that made her a permanent feature of my memories.
My sister was very impressed that I remembered someone so vividly whom she herself could not remember a thing about. “Who is that, I don’t remember her”, my sister continued to tell me during the conversation. “You have to remember her” I insisted. Unable to understand how she could have forgotten Evelyn, I made every attempt at describing Evelyn to her. I could visualize Evelyn and remembered exactly what she looked like, her height, the way she walked and spoke. “ Evelyn spoke differently and walked differently”, I said to my sister trying to bring back her memory. That too, didn’t ring the bell.
I remembered Evelyn’s facial gestures, her unsteady gait, the constant move that body made, her arms moving in every direction, Evelyn seemed never at rest. The way Evelyn walked was different than anyone else that I knew. Her gait was a slow movement followed by a quick pull of one leg almost as if her legs had a mind of their own. The way Evelyn would move her legs dradding one while the other seemed not wanting to move, it seemed a constant struggled but she always won. Evelyn was a live and happy marionette. The way her tongue would come out when she talked was unique. Her tongue would stick out as she if were making funny faces, and often, that, would make me smile. Whenever Evelyn spoke, her body would go through spasms, when she walked, her gait reminded me of the marionette the nums used to give to me during holidays The sound of her voice, a monotony that would elevate at anytime during the speech, was almost entertaining. She simply stood out. Evelyn seemed so determined and never still. What I remembered mostly about Evelyn was the big smile that she always had on her face. Than one day, the smile disappeared.
In a culture that holds people in contempt for being different, a culture that mocks the mentally ill, where people with learning difficulties are referred to as “egare” or stupid, and those with any physical impairments as called “Kokobe” or “retarded” it was not the best environment for Evelyn. She was often called “Kokobe”. Evelyn would go about her business and murmur, “no, I have cerebral palsy”, and “it’s palsy, I’m not retarded”. It was from her that I learned the term “cerebral palsy”. From the smile that never left her face, I learned pride. I had no idea what cerebral palsy was then and I’m sure none of these folks knew either. I’ve also learned that folks don’t always know what they are saying. I have to admit that Haiti is not he most hospitable place for anyone with any sort of impairments and Evelyn was not the only one to have experienced extreme unfairness so prevalently ingrained in the Haitian culture.
Clearly to the grown ups around me, Evelyn was a “kokobe” because had a speech impairment and she walked with a limp. To me, she was just Evelyn and she was as different as everyone around me was.
Evelyn, did not need a cane or crushes or a wheel chair, she walked by herself just like everyone else did. She was independent and did a lot around where she lived. Evelyn was one of the modern day slave girls a “restavek”. She lived with relatives and did the housework for them in exchange for being fed and a place to stay. In all of these cases, the “restavek population is abused sexually and physically, emotionally and is kept illeterate. She had to face that status too. Her cerebral palsy was not the only difficult that she faced in life. As a matter of fact, cerebral palsy did not seem to stop her, afterall, someone took her from her family and used her for free labor.
The day I saw her head down, Evelyn was without her smile. I also noticed Evelyn had grown much. Her waistline had gotten thick. Everyone kept saying that she was going to have a baby and she eventually she did have a son. She was 13 years old I heard.
Folks used to comment that the boy was a carbon copy of the man whose wife had taken Evelyn into their home to work as a “Restavek”. I hope that stops with the boy, the circle of course.
I just can’t understand how my sister managed to forget Everlyn. I was just 8 years old then and still remember Evelyn as if it were just yesterday. Would you have forgotten?
Friday, March 5, 2010
Time to Act Against Hunger
TIME TO ACT against hunger
When it comes to hunger, talking about it delays food delivery, conferencing holds things up and blaming prolongs it. There is food, people and technology and now, it’s TIME TO ACT.
According to WFP, “Every six seconds a child dies because of hunger”. No mother should have to watch her child die because of a lack of food no matter what her religion, creed, nationality or marital status. On the international women’s, let’s use this day, as the day the world will act to fight hunger.
Just imagine dying because of hunger. Imagine the pain and suffering that a small child goes through before his or body experiences before it reaches the end!
If you’re a woman, look into your heart and feel the unimaginable pain of a mother’s inability to feed her child. No where to go, no help, no New York City garbage in which she would certainly find decent meals for her child, no access to the abundance of food that many take for granted and throw away without the thought of the availability of food to millions of men, women and children in many corners of the world.
Today on international women’s day, I ask you to reach into your heart and do something to relieve human beings of hunger. It’s TIME TO ACT NOW!
If you’re a man, see yourself as unable to feed your child, to feed yourself.
Let’s not forget that in a downturn economy, families still have to feed themselves and their children. While many may go hungry, some will be too proud to admit it and seek help. Reach out to those you know may be experiencing hunger. Keep in mind that hunger is not limited to developing and poor countries. Throughout the world, many go without food. Single women with children especially are more vulnerable. Reach out and help fight hunger. Don’t talk about it, don’t conference on it, ACT NOW!
Here are 10 little steps you can take to help fight hunger:
1. Tutor a child. It will ensure that child will succeed in school (education helps against hunger)
2. Mentor a child and be a positive role model (mentoring can discourage truancy, prevent a teenage pregnancy, drug and alcohol abuse and help prevent a young person from entering the circle of poverty)
3. Give to your local food bank
4. Freeze your leftovers or eat them the next day and give a little to a church for charity
5. Teach an illiterate person to read or write (education is key in fighting hunger)
6. Read with your child or take your child to a trip to the local library (it will help reinforce education as the best tool against poverty)
7. Give to organizations that feed the hungry (make sure when you give money, the administrative cost is at least less than 50% than what you give)
8. Grow a garden and share it with your local food bank or homeless shelter
9. Share less costly recipes with your friends, colleagues and neighbors
10. Get rid of your clutter and hold a garage or yard sale and donate the money to organizations that fight hunger
It’s time to ACT NOW against hunger.
When it comes to hunger, talking about it delays food delivery, conferencing holds things up and blaming prolongs it. There is food, people and technology and now, it’s TIME TO ACT.
According to WFP, “Every six seconds a child dies because of hunger”. No mother should have to watch her child die because of a lack of food no matter what her religion, creed, nationality or marital status. On the international women’s, let’s use this day, as the day the world will act to fight hunger.
Just imagine dying because of hunger. Imagine the pain and suffering that a small child goes through before his or body experiences before it reaches the end!
If you’re a woman, look into your heart and feel the unimaginable pain of a mother’s inability to feed her child. No where to go, no help, no New York City garbage in which she would certainly find decent meals for her child, no access to the abundance of food that many take for granted and throw away without the thought of the availability of food to millions of men, women and children in many corners of the world.
Today on international women’s day, I ask you to reach into your heart and do something to relieve human beings of hunger. It’s TIME TO ACT NOW!
If you’re a man, see yourself as unable to feed your child, to feed yourself.
Let’s not forget that in a downturn economy, families still have to feed themselves and their children. While many may go hungry, some will be too proud to admit it and seek help. Reach out to those you know may be experiencing hunger. Keep in mind that hunger is not limited to developing and poor countries. Throughout the world, many go without food. Single women with children especially are more vulnerable. Reach out and help fight hunger. Don’t talk about it, don’t conference on it, ACT NOW!
Here are 10 little steps you can take to help fight hunger:
1. Tutor a child. It will ensure that child will succeed in school (education helps against hunger)
2. Mentor a child and be a positive role model (mentoring can discourage truancy, prevent a teenage pregnancy, drug and alcohol abuse and help prevent a young person from entering the circle of poverty)
3. Give to your local food bank
4. Freeze your leftovers or eat them the next day and give a little to a church for charity
5. Teach an illiterate person to read or write (education is key in fighting hunger)
6. Read with your child or take your child to a trip to the local library (it will help reinforce education as the best tool against poverty)
7. Give to organizations that feed the hungry (make sure when you give money, the administrative cost is at least less than 50% than what you give)
8. Grow a garden and share it with your local food bank or homeless shelter
9. Share less costly recipes with your friends, colleagues and neighbors
10. Get rid of your clutter and hold a garage or yard sale and donate the money to organizations that fight hunger
It’s time to ACT NOW against hunger.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Earthquake destruction in Haiti
I can feel the heart felt prayers and good wishes for the people of Haiti. An earthquake of that magnitude hitting an already vulnerable country is a devastating and heart breaking. My heart goes to Haiti and the people of Haiti.
Earlier today, I received an email from a World Food Program coordinator asking bloggers to blog and to help reach out for assistance for Haiti. Everyone can make a difference. You can click on the link or go directly on the World Food Program (www.wfp.org) to learn more on to participate in the helping Haiti fight the devastation of the earthquake.
Earlier today, I received an email from a World Food Program coordinator asking bloggers to blog and to help reach out for assistance for Haiti. Everyone can make a difference. You can click on the link or go directly on the World Food Program (www.wfp.org) to learn more on to participate in the helping Haiti fight the devastation of the earthquake.