Mission Anywhere: Ki Jan Ou Rele?

(Continued from "A Meeting Among the Thorns")

Photos by Matt Parks

The chalky sand crunched beneath our feet as we marched down the country road. The air was eerily silent, broken only by the occasional passing bike or scooter. We were heading for the village of Chambrun, and once again out into the unknown. The church we just attended was on the Nehemiah Vision Ministries (NVM) property, where our cross cultural interactions happened in a safe, controlled environment. Outside the compound I felt completely exposed, similar to how I felt when attempting my first outdoor rock climb (sweaty palms, praying that the next handhold was solid, wondering if the worst could happen at any moment). Some of us made small talk to break the tension, but the nervousness remained.

Our translator Clairece was in front showing us the way. As we walked I asked him about his childhood, where he was raised, and how he came to work at NVM. He was born in North Haiti, a place he described as "more rich” then this area. He went to school, learned English, and made his way to NVM through contacts at his local church. I liked learning about people from other cultures. We are all human, but are stories are so very different. I enjoyed hearing part of his story and couldn’t wait to hear others' stories.

We turned right into the village and walked along a path littered with trash and lined with barbed wire. Livestock roamed freely among us and in the surrounding brush. The path opened to a common area surrounded by mud and stick huts. Although primitive, I was surprised to see them arranged in an orderly fashion, much like city blocks. My expectation was to see people living in a trash pile, as depicted in Slumdog Millionaire. It wasn’t like that at all. The community was poor and dirty compared to many areas in America, but also quite functional. They made a way to survive, no matter what resources were available.

The scene was life as usual. People pumped water from the village well and shuttled containers here and there. They wore modern clothes with flip flops or Croc’s. Their clothes looked new from a distance, but up close I could see they were tattered and worn. Some younger children only wore shirts, and a few didn’t have any clothes at all. One guy was taking a shower (more like dumping cups of water on his head) behind a small piece of sheet metal, while a group of about 20 people gathered around a 14 inch TV to watch a soccer game.

We stopped in an open area to wait for the rest of our group. “Have you ever seen a voodoo temple?” Clairece asked. “No,” I replied. “There’s one right in front of you!” He said. I never would have guessed that this building was a house of voodoo. It had the picture of a guy pained on the outside with words coming out of his mouth. A gothic, stone cross stood at the buildings' side, its significance of which I did not know.

I looked through the door from a distance but couldn’t see inside. Voodoo is the dominant religion in the village, to which a large portion of the villagers prescribed. I was fascinated and wanted to go inside. What was in there? How did they worship? Was the “priest” like the voodoo lady in Pirates of the Caribbean? This I pondered, but didn’t dare attempt to try. I don’t know much about voodoo, but I know it is very dark and mystical. If I went in there, I might not have come out.

Our group eventually came together at the orphanage. NVM built this as a safe haven for about 12 children. They went to school on the NVM campus, but they lived in the village. There they had access to clean water, food, and were cared for by a house mother. The building was a little bigger then a modern 2 bedroom house, but it was safe. It was gated so that access was only permitted to the kids, NVM staff, and guests. Even though it was centered in the middle of a voodoo-practicing village, the people respected the work being done there. This is part of NVM’s strategy to show the love of Christ in that place.

We left the orphanage and went to an area where a large group of children had gathered. Our drama team performed the Rag Man skit; a depiction of how Jesus takes away our sins and casts them on Himself.

After that, we played with the kids and showed them that they were loved. Our students handled this brilliantly! They needed no instruction on how to make these kids feel special. They simply did what was natural to them. Some braided hair while others played games. Justin brought his guitar and played them music. A few of the boys began kicking around a soccer ball and a game soon followed.

The rest of the children just wanted their hands held. I was surprised to see that holding hands was common, even among boys. I didn’t know where Clairece was at the time so I wasn’t really able to talk to them. The only phrase I could remember was "ki jan ou rele" (what is your name)? For a while I just walked around asking "ki jan ou rele, ki jan ou rele?" To my amazement, the children were quite responsive to this question. Speaking their language allowed me to cross a border of trust which resulted in many piggy back rides and tossing kids up in the air. It’s amazing how powerful language can be.

I noticed that a lot of children had small round patches of hair missing and distended bellies, signs of malnutrition. We couldn’t tell they were hungary by their their energy level though. They laughed and played as children do. We gave them our time and showed them love as best we could.

Some kids aggressively begging us for stuff but we were instructed not to give them anything. Our instinct was to give out of our abundance, but open charity is actually detrimental there. One of NVM’s missions is to break the cycle of begging and instill the desire to work. Haitian culture, especially in the South, is largely that of beggars. Why work if someone will just give you things? We weren’t even suppose to give them our simple prayer bracelets. This was a good thing though. Once they realized they wouldn’t receive a handout, they could relax and just be kids.

As soon as some of the older boys saw us kicking around a ball, they immediately asked us to play. These kids were good. Despite having terrible footwear and no formal coaching, their ball handling was excellent. This was their PlayStation. This was their cable TV. You could see the freedom and excitement on their faces as they played. They enjoyed the competition and camaraderie. We thought the game was over when the ball landed in a thorn tree and popped. They wanted to keep playing even though that ball was flat! Their circumstances didn’t matter. They just wanted to play.

As evening approached, we said goodbye and headed back to the crunchy dirt road. Some kids walked with us while others stood on the road and watched. How many of those children are unloved? How many must spend their childhood learning how to survive instead of playing? How does the voodoo culture teach parents to care for their families? I don’t know these answers, but I do think we helped them to be kids, if only for an afternoon. We gave them attention, showed them loved, and simply cared. Gifts I think they craved much deeper then a plastic bead bracelet.