The word Haiti and tragedy have been virtually synonymous since Christopher Columbus first landed on the island in 1492. Columbus and his countrymen nicknamed Hispaniola, "paradise island." Today, the island, especially the Haitain third of the island, is an abyss of suffering. It has essentially become, "The Somalia of the Western Hemisphere." A dreadful history stretching from the slave rebellion against the French, to the U.S. occupation of Haiti from 1915 to 1934, to a steady chain of incompetent and unscrupulous leaders has haunted Haiti for more than two centuries. The last government installed was, and continues to be, corrupt, inept, and unaccountable. I was shocked to hear the words of René Préval, incumbent President of Haiti, as he spoke to journalists and lead organizations from around the world. He is taking a back seat approach to the whole crisis, he could not deal with Haiti's immeasurable problems pre-January 12, and while his country suffers, it seems that President Préval has again chosen to do nothing. Instead of guiding the relief effort, Preval seems to be handing the reins over the the United States, and other International actors--a pattern Haiti knows all too well. Haiti needs to take charge; sure their system is in utter disarray, but it needs to take the control seat and not give it up to foreigners. It is no surprise that many people in Haiti have come to believe anarchy is better. Haiti is broken. It was on a wheelchair before this cataclysm; now it is in its grave. Haiti needs to take leadership in this disaster, but paradoxically it is up to us, the international community, to resurrect this distressed island nation.
Yesterday, that call to help was answered as hordes of volunteers swarmed the Haitian Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue in Washington, DC; turning it into a Salvation Army of sorts. People were on foot, curling three grocery bags to an arm--filled with food, toiletries, clothing, toys, and even prosthetic limbs. A good friend and I alerted others that we were collecting donations to deliver to the Embassy in the afternoon. Our friends came through; in less than a half hour we had mobilized a hefty sum of donations and were off to the Embassy. Ten minutes later we found ourselves in the middle of a "do-gooder traffic jam" of cars and hordes of people, as far as my eye could see, making their way to the Embassy to help in some capacity. We pulled up alongside a curb about a block from the Embassy, and before I could even ask for guidance, three volunteers without hesitation began helping my friend and I unload the donations. I was in Washington, DC, 1,430 miles from Port au Prince, in spite of that I saw scenes of misery, death, and despair all around me. While it was heartwarming to see the masses mobilize for such a great cause, despondency yet seemed to eclipse hopefulness as I stood there observing the hundreds of nameless faces surrounding me.
Hurdling some of the donation sorting piles along the sidewalks, I made solemn steps toward the Embassy until I heard a woman yell, "Two men, muscles, right here, here we go...!" I dropped what I was carrying and yelled out that I could help. An enervated Haitian man with a strong French accent, made his way towards me as we lifted a refrigerator-sized box off a U-Haul truck and gently placed it on the sidewalk. I motioned to high five him, but he had disappeared--hurrying to help someone else I presume. I picked up my bags, and sauntered towards the drop point. But before arriving, I stopped for a moment, reached into my bag, and found the baseball I had included in my donation. I snatched a ballpoint pen from my pant pocket and secured the ball in my left hand. On the ball I wrote two simple words: "Play Ball." The cowhide baseball won't help a man with a crushed leg like a prosthetic limb would, but maybe, just maybe, amidst all the heartbreak, someone in Haiti will find a reason to smile, to escape the anguish, and, "Play ball."
