An Afternoon of Discovery

By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Marion_Williams]Marion Williams
The streets of Port au Prince shimmered rhythmically in the afternoon sun under a lapis lazuli sky, unmarred by even the faintest wisp of cloud. Haiti was in the grip of an interminable heat wave. Although it was the time of siesta, the city pulsated quietly and persistently, unwilling to be held prisoner by the relentless sun.
Since I was in Haiti for only a few days, I determined to see and experience as much as possible. Stopping outside the large but unpretentious palace, I remembered that President Duvalier was, according to the western media, as oppressive a dictator as his father whom he succeeded.
I was taking pictures of the palace when a young black woman, carrying articles of crocheting over her arm, interrupted me. "Please Miss. You buy something. I give you this for only two dollars." She held up a large doily.
Having been solicited by begging waifs and pleading mothers so many times, I'd inured myself against feeling sorry for them. After all I rationalized, the few coins I doled out wouldn't alleviate the tremendous problems I saw on every side. I'd quickly discovered that any indication of charity was a catalyst encouraging other youngsters to come out of the woodwork rubbing their little round bellies to make sure I understood their need. I shook my head. "No thank you. I don't want anything," I said with a little smile, hoping she would understand I was not unsympathetic, I just wanted to be left alone.
There was silence as she folded the doily back over her arm. Raising her head, she looked at me sadly. Her brown eyes, soft as a doe's, seemed to look past my outward shell to penetrate my soul. "My baby is starving. I have nothing for him," she said simply, in a monotone born of despair.
As she turned away I reached out to her, no longer just a tourist who had arrived on their shores leaving nothing of myself behind, unfeeling as a moth that settles on a window pane, peers in, then soars away on the breeze. No, I also was a mother and that made us soul mates. "Please," I said, "Let me help you." I pulled out my wallet and handed her ten dollars.
The woman's eyes widened in disbelief. She held the money like a precious gift, then her face broke into a grateful smile. "Oh, miss. How can I thank you? This morning I prayed to the Holy Mother to help me." She grasped my hand and kissed it.
Embarrassed, I gently pulled my hand away. "I am a mother too," I said. "And your baby is beautiful."
She thrust the doily into my hand. "Please take it. Remember me in your prayers."
With a deep sense of fulfilment, I continued down the street. A small cafe displaying a sign for my favourite soft offered relief from my advanced state of dehydration. The waitress was a tall, slender almond-eyed girl whose tawny skin glowed in the muted light of the cafe. She walked with the grace of a gazelle and the bearing of a queen. Captivated by her beauty, I asked, "Would you mind if I took your picture. You're a very lovely girl."
"Of course, if you wish," she said pleasantly and sat on a stool at the counter, and with the natural poise of a professional model, looked unaffectedly at the camera. Elated to have had the opportunity to photograph her, I asked for her address so I could send her a copy of the picture and noted that she didn't live in the city. When questioned, she replied, "I take the bus every day. I do not get paid enough to live in the city."
"How long have you lived here?" I asked.
"I went to university," she replied, "but this is the only job I can get. Life in Haiti is very hard for us," she added matter of factly as if stating an obvious truth.
"Yes, I can see it is. Do you think things would be better if there was a change of government?"
Her expression made me wonder if I had crossed the line, but I was truly interested in hearing a Haitian view of life in the country, one of the poorest in the world.
She looked around the room as if to assure herself no one was listening. "We do not speak of such things," she said warily, then added, "but one day we will be free to say what is in our hearts." Then she smiled, her eyes radiant as the afternoon sun, and I knew this marvellous young lady would somehow transcend the poverty and degradation that was the reality of Haiti.
I ventured out onto the street once more and made my way to a white-walled cathedral that dominated the plaza. Behind dark glasses, I watched the tableau in front of me. Women, some young, some bent with age, offered prayers and votive offerings of bananas which they threw over a wrought iron grille to land at the feet of a statue of the Virgin enclosed behind it. Some kneeled on the hard packed ground while others raised their arms in gestures of supplication, praying as if the cadence of their voices might by some miracle bring the statue to life.
I watched briefly before climbing the broad stops of the cathedral. The inside was mercifully cool, and an aura of serenity permeated the interior that was almost palpable. As I admired the stained glass windows and statuary, I sensed the mysterious omnipresence of the saints and martyrs of the faith and the earnest petitions of the faithful that had filled the sanctuary. One did not have to be Catholic to feel their presence. This cathedral was obviously a place of calm in the eye of the storm, but how had this splendid building been erected in the face of such poverty?
I seated myself before a Pieta, a statue of the Virgin robed in the palest of blue cradling her crucified son. Envisioning the women outside, I experienced a glimmer of understanding why they were willing, impoverished as they were, to give of the little they had to help erect a cathedral as magnificent as this.
Here, in a building made possible only by sacrifice, rapturously confident in a God who looked benevolently down upon them through the eyes of the sculptured saints that adorned the cathedral, the parishioners of this Haitain diocese had provided a milieu where artisans could display the icons they had carved for the glorification of the church, and in so doing enabling devoted parishioners to vicariously share in the ecstasy and fulfilment of their work.
Over the centuries, under the aegis of the church, masterpieces have been created that not only uplift the soul but enlighten culture as well. To some, their house of worship is a sanctuary, a place where beauty reveals the true potential of the human spirit. This was such a place.
An hour later as I cooled off in the air conditioned hotel, the image of the Pieta lingered still in my mind. The Holy Mother, too, had suffered deeply and through her suffering women everywhere could well identify with her, suffusing them the courage to carry on in the face of adversity. Undoubtedly, the praying women I had seen considered no sacrifice too burdensome to repay her for the message of love and comfort she brought to those who worshipped her.
The people of Haiti, in their dignified way reveal a possible explanation for the magnificent cathedrals, synagogues and mosques that dominate the poorest of cities, towns and villages everywhere in the world. But whatever the true answer, the dynamic spirit of the Haitians, symbolized by the lovely white cathedral, will prevail against the forces of not only corrupt governments, but more important will rise up and rebuild after the appalling devastation caused by the earthquake that flatted Port au Prince, including even the presidential palace.
One day I would like to return to a reconstructed Haiti to enjoy the lushness of the countryside, the exciting music, the primitive works of native art, and the pervading vibrant colours that that are so much a part of life on that
Marion Williams
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?An-Afternoon-of-Discovery&id=6552527] An Afternoon of Discovery