Authors: Kathleen A. Tobin
AIDS was widespread in Haiti, and there was still much misunderstanding surrounding it.
In my first few years out of college during the early 1980s, AIDS was spreading in the United States, accompanied by fear, paranoia, and hateful discrimination. Not until teenager Ryan White from Kokomo, Indiana died was there much realistic acceptance of people who had contracted it. The fear in Haiti was accompanied by voodoo sentiments suggesting that a curse could cause someone to become ill and with little understanding of how it was spread entire villages might shun the afflicted. It sounds extreme, but in fact not all that different from the way in which people in the United States were deemed cursed by God for their behavior, and shunned by society. Here, some 20 years later, Haitian children were being accepted by one another and taught, through their unique exposure to the effects ofAIDS, that death was a part of life. This was a far cry from how my own children might learn of death. Here it was much closer, and more real.
I did shower extra thoroughly upon returning to my room later, wondering myself just what level of risk I had encountered by hugging the girl. A more or less faithful blood donor, I knew just being in Haiti banned me from donating for at least a year, and by then I would be sure it was safe. I was not in a sexual relationship at the time, which eased my mind. And, I thought, if I did become infected, so be it. But I did not. Knowing so brought a sense of relief. Still, I will never forget the girl's face or the love shared through the face of her friend.
Attending Mass
in other countries helps to illuminate the concept of the Catholic Church as something universal. The languages are different but the ritual is the same. The architectures of the sanctuaries are different but the elements are the same. There is something both peculiar and familiar about Catholic churches that are not your own. The surrounding town and the parishioners are different. But there is something constant about it. There are many things similar in Paris, Guatemala, or Chicago. And it was the case in Haiti, as well.
The bishop celebrated the Mass with translation all week, and on this particular day he did so in a church that felt very old and comforting. It was tall, with a choir loft above and behind, and painted a warm cream, the color of white peaches. The pews were hard and the parishioners reserved. As a chronic people-watcher, the service provided me the perfect opportunity to observe Haitian behavior. Parents' toward children, children's toward parents, community members' toward one another. Two things struck me most. First, the perfection of the "Sunday best" which every person wore. In a place where living conditions are so poor it is difficult to imagine the care it would take to look so wonderful for Mass. Second, the widespread mannerisms of humility were especially apparent. Perhaps they were accentuated under the circumstances, or perhaps I had taken more time to notice. Haitians keep their eyes low and their hands close to their bodies. That may seem a blatant generalization, but in comparison to others of the islands or of the Americas, it is noticeable.
I find myselfvisiting churches when traveling, as others might visit cemeteries or tequila bars. They are fascinating to me. But only on occasion have I taken the opportunity to attend Mass. A few months earlier while participating in an Irish Studies conference in St. Louis I was told there was an interesting church down the street from my hotel, one worthy of a visit. It reportedly was filled with tile mosaics, floor to ceiling. It was just a short walk away and the conference had come to an end by Sunday morning, so I had no excuses. This was at one of those times when Mass seemed to be in order. Feeling alienated from love and my work, I wanted to retreat into the young Kathy who found solace in the Mass.
The church was indeed beautiful, unlike any I had ever seen. The mosaic tile was intricately detailed and seemingly infinite. It began in the vestibule, where I paused, captivated. Then I entered. I crossed myself with holy water, its coolness dripping from the center of my forehead and peppering my jacket. I genuflected and sat in in a pew located in the center right, not too far but not too close, for this was not my church. Even in my own I still felt like a guest and here in a city new to me, I did even more so. The rhythm, the ritual, and the passive calm it brought to me, were familiar. It is sometimes those things which critics point to as symbols of routine in Catholic services. But more often than not, they are exactly what I am looking for.
The structure itself was large, old, and full of echoes, so unlike my circa 1970, carpeted, earth-toned, post-Vatican II comfort zone. It was reminiscent of my second-home church, St. Joseph's, where my grandparents attended and my parents were married. That, too, was large, old, and full of echoes and wooden, unpadded kneelers - the kind just right for doing penance. But the St. Louis Mass was different in one remarkable respect. The priest, during his sermon, spoke about the pending war in Iraq, and not in a favorable way. There he stood, high behind a lectern of wood and marble surrounded by meticulously pieced designs - a setting that could not have been more solid, stable, or conservative, I thought - jutting up and out as if positioned between us and heaven. I had heard countless sermons in my life, and very few had ever acknowledged anything occurring in present time and place. Providing background on the conflict, his comments were enlightening and I agreed very much with him that the direction the U.S. government had taken was dangerous on many levels. My memories turned to the student interested in voodoo who had heard sermons from his pastor which crassly mixed history with religion, and I wondered if there was much difference. Yes there was. What this priest was saying was true for me.
While we were in Haiti, the war was even more imminent. In the Department du Nord-Est we could not have felt further from a climate of hi-tech and oil-driven aggression. On our last evening there, we sat in the living room area, more of a parlor or drawing room, at the Fort Liberte bishop's house where we were staying. He had been a remarkable host, and it was intriguing to watch him interact with his peer, our bishop. It was January of 2003, and George Bush was on the television. Here, so far from home, with such limited contact with the outside world, it was surreal to see the U.S. President. The privileged lifestyle of the bishop allowed for relaxing accommodations, yet another feast of a meal, and now CNN. Those of us in the group had talked of politics along the way and though our perspectives differed on various points, there had been a common frustration with the President and the way he was carrying out foreign policy. We could not be sure of the true role he was playing, as it appeared clearly orchestrated by the people surrounding him. And at this point we were coming closer every day to an attack on Iraq.
Being outside the country when the U.S. government is behaving badly can be awkward to say the least. The behavior exhibited in early 2003 was nothing less than embarrassing and often infuriating. The bishop graciously served us after dinner liqueurs from a beautiful tray and we began to discuss world affairs. The incandescent light warmed the soft buttery yellow walls even more, reminding me of a gathering room at my grandmother's church when I was a young girl. Heavy dark brown woodwork and the scent of beeswax candles took me back. I was also reminded of the presidential speeches of my early youth. My parents never missed a broadcast of John F. Kennedy. We sat close to the television and through his words tried to make sense of the adult world. Listening to Bush made me realize just how jaded I had become. I did not believe what he was saying and wondered if even he believed it. I did not like where his administration was taking the country and how its steps were affecting the world. The north of Haiti seemed so isolated, so insulated, with daily needs detached from global practices, I thought. But I knew that was not the case and at that moment it was difficult to call myself an American.
"We like Americans, we just don't like your government's policies," I had been told repeatedly in conversations with Europeans and Latin Americans. I had grown grateful for their sentiment but not completely satisfied. After all, if this is anything close to a democracy, are we not responsible for our government? Our Haitian hosts knew that perhaps no one in the room had voted for Bush. A significant number of Catholics visiting Haiti included progressives committed to peace and justice. And the bishop did not hesitate to criticize the Bush administration's approach to foreign affairs. When it became clear he was in like-minded company, he retreated to the adjoining room where there was a computer. He had printed a copy of Bush's State of the Union Address, and quoted from it. It was filled with fear mongering and essentially said that he would take action regardless of what the United Nations advised.
I realized just what far-reaching effects this would have on the world. In the past there had been numerous acts on the part of the United States directed at Haiti and surrounding territories. Though protested by some, at the time they were rationalized. As time went by, public outcry grew. Those who studied the history of U.S. foreign policy honestly acknowledged similarities in current developments. On this occasion, when it appeared U.S. policy had nothing to do with Haiti, the reaction there was clear. To engage in war without provocation was reminiscent of past actions and an affront to all who respected peace. The bishop of Fort Liberte expected more from the world's most powerful leaders.
Two months later, the United States followed through on its threats to attack Iraq. My daughter and some friends had spoken out against the war in her high school, as did some colleagues and I on my campus. We argued with reason why this was a mistake politically, economically, and morally. We were by no means the most vocal of the pending war's critics, but our position was clear. When the attack finally did take place, I had resigned myself to the fact that the Bush administration simply could not be deterred. Katie, on the other hand, was demoralized in a way that only an 18-year-old could be.
The following day she asked ifI would take her shopping for a prom dress after dinner. She was not obsessed with prom, but it was her senior year and she looked forward to going with a friend. He was a great guy, very smart, and hilarious, and I knew they would have a good time. It was still some time away and we were in no hurry to get a dress, but she was scheduled to leave the following morning along with her brothers to spend spring break in Palm Springs with their grandparents. It almost seemed like a task she wanted to check off her to-do list, but I also think she wanted to get the war off her mind. I agreed to take her for a quick trip into the city, thinking we could just get some idea about styles and how much this was going to set me back. I also decided that her brothers were old enough to be home by themselves for a few hours, knowing that their father and my mother were nearby.
It was good to be in the car alone with her. Time can slip away and I had heard that car rides with one child at a time give parents a chance to talk and listen, and she was more or less captive. By the time we reached Soldier Field, we had touched on a good variety of topics. But it was clear she was still pretty downhearted. After some time of sitting in stopped traffic, I realized something was wrong. We were at a complete standstill. Several black, unmarked police cars sped north on the road's shoulder, next to us. I could not imagine what kind of emergency had befallen the downtown area.
When we finally heard on the radio that protesters had taken Lake Shore Drive, Katie came to life.
"Mom! I want to go find them!" she pleaded.
I had heard there would be a demonstration if there were indeed an attack on Iraq but had forgotten about it. Joining a protest that evening could not have been further from my mind.
"Katie, we've got to get home early. It's a school night and your brothers are home alone."
"Please? Please, Mom?" The thought of anti-war activists not giving up seemed to lend her some kind of hope. I gave in.
"Just for a little while. We came here to look for a prom dress."
"All right, I promise."
We parked the car near Water Tower Place and I took only my keys, driver's license, and Marshall Field's credit card with me. By that time the group had reached the area in front of the Drake Hotel. Within minutes I saw a young man hit and being dragged by police. I did not want Katie to be a witness to this and feared for her safety. I took her arm and led her away.
"We're getting out of here," I told her. When we reached Michigan Avenue a line of police in riot gear blocked the sidewalk. I took her back to the other side of the hotel, but police obstructed us there, as well. I pleaded with them to let us go but they refused.
We had no choice but to join the protesters as they were led by police back down Lake Shore Drive and onto Chicago Avenue. I was relieved, as we were closer to our car. But police three-deep surround us. One by one they slowly arrested people who did nothing more than stand there. After an hour or two of asking them to let us leave I heard Katie scream.
"Mom!" I turned around to see her being taken by police.
"Wait!" I yelled. "Take me with her! She's my daughter!"
We were put into a paddy wagon and eventually locked up with hundreds of others. She and I were separated into different cells. I could not imagine how she was handling the situation and ached to be with her.
I later learned that initially she had found a sense of camaraderie with her cell mates, but by the following day had broken down and curled up in the fetal position on the cold, cement floor, sobbing. She was finally brought into my cell, where we were confined with others until late the following night.
I am not sure what prompted me to join the protesters that night, but I spent a good deal of the time behind bars remembering our visit with the bishop in Fort Liberte, who was so saddened by President Bush's stance.