I’ve never much liked the story of the Lion and the Mouse. It’s about a mouse that falls into the clutches of a lion. The Great King of Beasts then releases the mouse because he’s amused by the mouse’s claim that he’ll return the favor some day. That day comes when the lion is caught in a hunter’s net and the mouse chews through the rope to set him free. I suppose they all live happily ever after.

What I haven’t liked about it is that I don’t really have questions about it, at least none that seem worth asking a Wonn Refleksyon group. I don’t want to feign interest. I’ve never been good at feigning anything. So the challenge for me every time I use the text is to find a way to engage myself in the possibilities for conversation that it offers.

I had to smile to myself when Frémy met before I left for my trip to the States to figure which of us would be responsible for which text in our work with the women of Kofaviv. He would be going to Guadeloupe to see his wife and son, and our trips would be slightly out of sync, so each of us would have meetings to manage with the group alone. The text that fell to me was the story of the Lion and the Mouse. It seemed all the funnier since in the sequence we use it falls right between two texts I like very much.

Kofaviv is the Komisyon Fanm Viktim pou Viktim which is to say the Commission of Women Victims for Victims. It was established by women who suffered rape and other forms of violence during the coup d’état years of the early 90s. They offer health and counseling services to women in the poorest neighborhoods of Pòtoprens, particularly women who are victims of violence. They also work towards organizing those women. Their leaders asked Frémy and me to prepare about twenty of the women to run Wonn Refleksyon groups in the various neighborhoods, and we’ve been working together for about a month and a half. Each week we do two things: First, we lead a discussion using the guidebook for leading discussions that a group of us created a couple of years ago; then we read the day’s lesson plan together and reflect on how Frémy and I used it to lead the discussion. Our goal is for the women to feel ready to use the guidebook to lead discussions on their own.

I hadn’t seen the women for a couple of weeks, so I was excited on my way to see them. I got to their inconspicuous Pòtoprens office and was pleased to see that they had acquired chairs. Our first meetings had been held sitting in a circle on the floor. There was nothing wrong with meeting that way and, in fact, it established an ease among us that might have otherwise been hard to achieve, but the fact that they had been able to find the money to buy chairs was a good sign. When they started our session by distributing nametags, including one marked “Steeve” for me, this seemed like an even better sign. Neither Frémy nor I had suggested nametags. Frémy’s great at picking up names, and I never think of it. So this was entirely their own idea, and showed they feel ownership of the work we’re doing together.

And the meeting went really well. Their sense of ownership extended to ownership of the objectives we share. Things took a more serious turn than they had in our previous meetings. When it came time to discuss they ways I had used the day’s guide to lead our class, they had lots of questions and comments. They noticed places where I had followed the guide exactly and places where I hadn’t. They asked for detailed explanations, and suggested reasonings of their own. Questions started to emerge that showed they are starting to image themselves as discussion leaders, questions that begin “What should a discussion leader do if . . .?”

My answers led to further questions. They asked about the importance of keeping track of time, about the role that small group work plays, and about the role of a leader during small group work. They are particularly concerned with learning how they can work with participants who are generally silent: though they are dynamic and articulate, the women they work with can tend to be shy. That they are already imagining the problem is a very good sign.

But this was not the only serious turn that our conversation took.

The main question the group wanted to discuss as we spoke of the story was whether people who are small really can help people who are bigger than they are. In a sense it is a silly, uninteresting question. Any sensible person would immediately answer “yes.” We’ve surely all experienced the question from both sides. Since one of the principles that we teach when we talk about developing good questions is that we should only ask questions when we don’t know what they right answer is, the question about small people helping larger stronger ones seems as though it could not be good.

It turns out, however, that our principle doesn’t quite apply in this instance, because the question is less direct than it seems. Though it appears to be a straightforward yes-or-no question, what it in fact does is invite participants to share examples that occur to them. Many of those examples will be distant – how political leaders could learn if they would listen to citizens, how parents could learn if they listen to their kids – but some participants share particular stories either of times when they’ve been useful to someone older or more important than they were or of times when a child has helped them. Most of these stories are charming.

But at one quiet moment of the conversation, one of the women spoke of one of the women in her group. She said that the other woman had been beaten by her husband. At the time, that woman’s oldest child, whom she had had with another man, was five. Her husband must have been beating her horribly, because she said she was lying helplessly on the ground as he was approaching to continue his attack. The five year old boy picked up a knife, stood in front of his stepfather, and told him that if he struck his mother again he would stab him. It’s difficult to imagine what went through the husband’s mind, whether he feared the armed little boy or was shocked to his senses by the sight, but for whatever reason he broke off the attack.

For a moment, we sat in stunned silence. But then floodgates opened, and story after story came of children somehow helping their mothers at difficult times. None of them matched the story of the boy with the knife, but each was able to involve one or more of the participants in the now-very-serious exchange.

I had always known that my fondest or lack of fondness for a text is unimportant. What matters is how a text works for a group. It’s hard, though, to really bear that in mind. It’s easy for me to slip into thinking that my own curiosity is the engine that will drive a group. In my classes at Shimer, where students are required to read hard books that they sometimes approach thinking that they won’t be interested, my curiosity has had an important role to play. It can tend to infect the other in a class.

But working with the Kofaviv women has been an important reminder that, at least right here and right now, my own engagement in a question is not at all the main thing. It certainly can help, but it’s less important for me to lead an inquiry than it is for me to help open a space in which serious conversation can begin. They’ll be plenty of time for inquiry once the habit of conversation is in place.

I have to admit that I was a little disappointed to see American peanut butter on the table for breakfast in the priest’s guesthouse in Cerca Carvajal.

Disappointed and a little surprised. It must be a nuisance to keep a supply. I didn’t see anything in Cerca that could be called a store, much less anything that sells standard American groceries. Even in Ench, which is a hard ninety minutes away by truck, such an item might be difficult to come by. It’s likely enough that the large plastic jars of Jif are bought in Okap or Pòtoprens, hours away in one direction or the other.

And it’s strange that anyone would make that effort, because Haitians produce such wonderful peanut butter. It’s made, as far as I can tell, all over the country. And since Cerca is an area where lots of peanuts are grown, I figured that acquiring a delicious, locally-produced supply would be easy.

The church group I was in Cerca with had been there many times, so I asked them whether they had tasted Haitian peanut butter, or manba. When they said that hadn’t, I thought I would get to work.

The next morning, I went to the market early to have coffee, and asked the coffee merchant whether I would find someone selling jars of manba in the market later that day. She said that I would not, but the merchant next to her immediately chimed in: If I wanted to buy manba, she’d be happy to make it for me. I could come back to pick it up later in the day. And as we continued talking, I learned something.

I love manba. I really do. I think I could pretty much live on the stuff. I especially like it when it’s made with the very hot peppers that many Haitians grind right into it. It’s a surprising taste for someone who grew up with Skippy and the like, but I think it’s wonderful.

So I asked the woman to be sure to add peppers, and she answered, “We don’t make it that way in Cerca.” She went on to explain that, in Cerca Carvajal, manba is typically made with a little sugar, some cinnamon, and ginger. I had never heard of such a thing, but I was very happy to give it a try. It turns out, it’s great.

The experience reminded me that even within Haiti, a small enough country, there are cultural differences. When I tell my friends in Ka Glo, for example, that the folks around Twoudinò snack on fried horse meat they stare in gaping-mouthed wonder. When they hear that, in parts of the central plateau, people saddle and ride bulls instead of horses, donkeys, and mules, they are just as surprised.

The cultural differences between a group of Americans who come to visit a community in rural Haiti and the Haitians they’re visiting can, of course, be much greater. Those differences were what brought Frémy and me to Cerca Carvajal.

We were invited there by parishioners of a Catholic church in the Richmond, Virginia, area that has had a partnership with the parish in Cerca for a number of years. Groups from the Richmond church visit annually. They come with medical workers to run a two-day clinic. They also provide financial support to help run the parochial school and the church itself. Over the years, they’ve found their ties to the Haitian community that they visit abundantly rewarding, but frustrating as well. Father Ketnet, the priest who hosts them speaks English well, but other members of the Cerca community do not. All communication has had to be through Father Ketnet. The folks from Richmond have had little chance to actually speak with other people from Cerca Carvajal.

It’s not that they distrust Father Ketnet. Far from it. They seem to have a very good relationship with him. But they want something broader and richer, something that would allow them to learn from and respond to the whole community that they feel so attached to and that would allow the people in Cerca, whose lives so touch theirs, to feel a little more connected to them, too.

Frémy was asked to facilitate a large gathering at which members of the two groups would speak to one another without priestly intervention. I would be his lead translator. He would be introducing a method called Open Space. It’s a way to run a meeting without fixing its agenda in advance. Participants are invited to propose a series of topics at the start of the meeting. Each topic becomes the theme for a small group discussion. Multiple such discussions are then held as the same time. Participants choose the one whose topic interests them.

Or they don’t. A good deal of what makes Open Space work is the freedom it offers to participants. They come and go as they please. They’re not even encouraged to stay put once they enter a group. Someone might wander into one small group discussion ten minutes late, get up after five minutes of listening, and that walk off to join another. Or even just hang around without entering into any of the small groups at all. In the language of Open Space, it’s called the Law of Two Feet: If you’re not gaining from or contributing to a conversation, use your two feet to take you someplace else. It creates an ambiance that’s as unfamiliar to many of us as peanut butter with hot pepper mixed in. No one is in charge. Folks wander around. It can look and feel chaotic.

But the seeming-disorderliness of the ambiance is just the point. Because it is the loosening of the framework that a fixed agenda, clear leadership, and regimented procedures normally provide that opens up a free space where people can organize themselves to pursue the questions and tasks that really interest them. Open Space works because it invites people who are together because they are interested in something to exploit their own interest, their own passion, so that they can take responsibility for addressing the issues and solving the problems that they see as facing them.

The folks from Richmond were hoping that a meeting that broke up into separate little working groups would create an opportunity for more direct dialogue with their counterparts from Cerca Carvajal because Father Ketnet would be able to be in one small group at most. Also, paying attention to the topics that folks from Cerca propose might help them understand better what their Haitians friends were hoping for. The only things limiting what people could talk about would be their interest and their imagination.

But there would be problems. First of all, I could not do all the translating. We would have to hire a group of translators, and English speakers don’t grow on trees out in the Haitian countryside. We addressed this by inviting strong English speakers from Ench to join me as translators. I would translate Frémy’s facilitation from Creole to English, and help with other parts of the translating as well, but when participants divided into small groups, the translation team would divide with them, assuring that there would be one of us in as many different places as could be.

Using translators in the small groups, however, is tricky. Spontaneity and free flow are important parts of the atmosphere that makes Open Space work, and a translator, even a pretty good one, is almost bound to interfere with both. It is too easy for a translator to become the center of attention, making decisions about who speaks when. When translators are inexperienced and participants are also unused to speaking through translators, things are much harder. People can tend say more in each speech than the translator can remember, so things need to be repeated if they are not to be lost and that can further clog things up.

We had what appeared to be a bigger problem, however. When we got to Cerca on Wednesday afternoon, we learned that no one had yet been invited to the meeting scheduled for Friday morning. So when Father Ketnet asked at dinner that night what the maximum number of participants was, and explained that he thought 80-100 would come – if that was ok with us – I thought he was nuts.

But it turns out he can mobilize his people. There might well have been almost a hundred people – including Frémy, thirteen Virginians, and me – packed into the parish meeting house by the time things got going. Just going through introductions took a lot of time.

There’s not much to be said about what might seem like the important question: Namely, How did it go? Open Space always goes well in a way, almost by definition. As long as the person or group convening it has the ability to put things in the participants’ hands, the process can’t fail.

I don’t say this lightly. It’s certainly possible that an Open Space meeting could fail to lead to the specific consequences that those organizing it envision. But bringing about a predetermined effect is not what the process is designed for. It’s designed, rather, to free those who participate to pursue what they want.

And what these people wanted was, mostly, just to talk. The participants from Cerca wanted to share their problems and their hopes with their visitors and to feel heard by them. They also had specific questions about some of the activities that the Virginian parish sponsors. The visitors, for their part, wanted to express their interest and their appreciation to a community that has been sharing its life with them for a number of years, and to take some first steps towards understanding that community better. The small group conversation I translated was certainly lively and seemed pretty frank.

It’s hard to tell where things will go next. The Virginian group appears committed to Cerca Carvajal for the long term. Ideally, that would mean that they’ll have lots of opportunities for many more conversations.

Also ideally, it will mean that they’ll get to eat years of Cerca’s wonderful manba as well.

I have several memories of Madanm Marino that will, I think, endure. My strongest impression is of her energy. It was apparent the first time I met her, when she was visiting Pòtoprens with her fourth son. Though a fully-grown young man, he was quite sick, seriously anemic. He had been a promising student, but had been forced to drop out of school. He just didn’t have the strength for it. She was tireless, leading Ronal around, hovering over him, ensuring that he got the attention he needed. He’s fine now.

It was apparent, too, the first time I visited her at her home in Ench. She was a cyclone, working and making an array of other people work to ensure that I, as her guest, had everything I wanted, needed, or could be imagined to want or need.

The memory of that first visit made my visit in October with Papouch especially striking. She was in tears as we said our goodbyes because her failing health had not, in her eyes, permitted her to receive us – this although the son still at home, her two visiting daughters, her son and daughter-in-law next door, another daughter-in-law around the block, and the young boy that lives in her house were all minutely attentive to us, very lavishly hospitable. She was nonetheless unhappy because she herself hadn’t been the one.

But I think that the single image of her that I will always carry with me will be of the last time I saw her. She was in a hospital bed and had known for over a month that she was dying. She was in a lot of pain. The various medications that her family was buying for her when they were able were becoming less and less effective.

It was early evening, just after dark, and a friend and I had come to the medium-sized hospital ward she was in for a last visit before we would head back from Ench to Pòtoprens. As we stood, awkwardly trying to make some kind of conversation, a group of well-dressed women filed into the ward. Most of them were in their 50s, I suppose. They were members of a church choir that she had been part of. The group began to sing slow, soft gospel music, and Madanm Marino, who had been lying down, wanted to sit.

But she didn’t have the strength to hold herself up, so she called her daughter-in-law, Anna, over, and asked her to sit on her bed. Anna very gently raised Madanm Marino and sat directly behind her so Madanm Marino could lean on her. Madanm Marino closed her eyes as she listened to her group’s song, her full weight propped up by Anna’s side. The combination of the grace she exhibited as she faced death and of Anna’s devoted service as her support will be with me always.

That was in January. Madanm Marino passed away on March 3rd. Ronal, the son she had fought so hard to save, was the one who found her in her room, where she had returned from the hospital to spend her last weeks.

The funeral was on the 6th. I didn’t hear about her death until the 4th, so it was something of a rush to get to Ench for it, but I couldn’t be happier that I decided to go. I went with a group of Saül’s Pòtoprens friends. Saül is Madanm Marino’s oldest son, the father of my first Haitian godchild. He’s the live-in custodian in the office of an NGO. Two other of the NGO’s Haitian employees were part of the group: Eklann, who is the housekeeper, and Joseph, who runs errands. Daniel, the custodian for a wealthy doctor who lives next door to the NGO’s office, went with us as well. We slept at the NGO’s office on Saturday night so we could get an early start Sunday morning. We would be going to Ench on the 5th, attending the funeral on the morning of the 6th, and trying to return to Pòtoprens that same day. Ench is a hard five-ten hour journey from Pòtoprens, but I’ve written enough recently about traveling in Haiti, so I’ll leave out those details.

When we arrived in Ench, we were led directly to Rosemond’s house. Rosemond is Saül’s cousin, but he’s also much more. He is Marino’s – that’s Saül’s father – godson, he’s Saul’s godfather, and Saül is godfather to one of his son’s. The two families have thus made a series of decisions over the years that weave them together as closely as could be.

Rosemond is a successful gasoline merchant. Ench doesn’t have a functioning gas station, so gas is sold in gallon jugs by merchants that bring barrels full of it in trucks from Pòtoprens. He has a large house, just around the corner from Madanm Marino’s, and for the days around the funeral, that house became a simple extension of Madanm Marino’s home. It’s where her children put the four of us that came together from Pòtoprens up, and its where not only we four but also where all her immediate family and an array of other guests took their meals.

The night before the funeral, there was a wake. It began with a service at Madanm Marino’s church, a memorial of sorts. It involved lots of singing, both by a choir and by those in attendance, a fair amount on prayer, and a sermon. It wasn’t much more than two hours long – a short service by Haitian standards – and it was well-attended. After the service, everyone went back to Madanm Marino’s home, where her husband and children and daughters-in-law and a few other near relations received them as best as they could. They put out chairs, and offered drinks and snacks.

I went around the corner to Rosemond’s house at about 10:00. I was ready for bed. Madanm Marino’s fifth son, a medical student named Job, snuck away with me. He just couldn’t manage any longer. Sleeping space was limited, so the two of us squeezed into the same small bed. I don’t know where the bed’s usual occupant slept.

Job wanted to talk. There was so much on his mind. But he was also exhausted, and knew he had a hard day ahead of him. So he drifted off to sleep soon enough.

The funeral would start with a viewing of the corpse in the church at 7:00 on Monday morning. The service itself would begin at 8:00. So we had to get up and get ourselves ready rather quickly. I felt fortunate that things were starting early, however, because the trip back to Pòtoprens would be long, and I am not accustomed to arriving late.

I wish I had words that could really do the funeral justice. A couple of things seem especially worth mentioning:

First, the yelling. Haitian funerals include a way of displaying grief that is very far from my experience. Mourners, especially women, scream about their loss. They shake. They go into convulsions. They can fall to the floor if unsupported. They shout to the one whom they’ve lost. They shout to other loved ones. They shout to god. They cry. I’ve read about such grieving, but only in Haiti have I seen it. And the sight of it and the sound of it grab every bit of one’s attention.

Second, the ceremony’s length. In my experience, very little of what Haitian’s do in church is brief. Madanm Marino’s funeral was almost four hours long. There was every very long sermon. There were several long, seemingly free-form prayers. But what really made the service long was the third thing I want to mention.

The choirs. By all accounts, Madanm Marino was an enthusiastic member of several churches in her lifetime, from the time she was growing up and then first raising her children in the countryside, to when she moved into the city so her kids could go to secondary school, she was always an active member. She especially loved to be part of her churches’ choirs, and several different churches sent a choir or two to perform in her honor. I think there were seven. Each sang two or three long pieces, and they added up.

The most stunning performances were by her last church’s choir. It was a large group, with maybe 50 members. Not only did they sing beautifully, wonderful pieces in four-six voices. It turned out that their conductor and musical director is her younger brother. He and his wife live next door to her house in Ench, so the brother and sister must have spent very nearly all of his 50-odd years together. She herself was 58 when she died.

His performances were beautiful. He held the choir’s attention without drawing excessive attention to himself. He had been spending much of the funeral walking on and off the stage. Between the choir’s numbers he would walk down to be with his nieces, Madanm Marino’s two daughters, comforting them as best he could. He took a break to give the most unassuming eulogy I have ever heard. It consisted mostly of a short biography of his sister and then a long list of the many loved ones she left behind. At the end of the eulogy he too was overcome but that didn’t keep him from returning a few minutes later to conduct another piece.

We walked from the church to the cemetery, where what had been Madanm Marino was placed in a tomb. From there, Joseph, Daniel, and I ran to get out of our suits and into traveling clothes. We needed to be off. Madanm Rosemond wouldn’t let us go before we had a bite, but we boarded a truck and were on our way to Pòtoprens by 2:00. I was home by 9:00 that night.

Saül contacted me through Job mid-week to ask whether I could return the following weekend to travel back to Pòtoprens wife his wife and their boys. They needed to get back to school – they’d already missed a week – and traveling with both of them was a lot for even Jidit to manage. It was, as always, a long hard ride back from Ench. We left on Monday at about 3:00 AM. The hardest thing for me was not making the trip with Cedrick on my lap. What was hardest was the realization that while I winced and grunted with each painful bump in the road, Cedrick was having a grand time. He seemed to take it as something like a carnival ride.

Here are Madanm Marino’s six grandchildren. The second from the right is my godson, Givens. The second from the left is his brother, Cedrick. I took the photo during my second visit to Ench after her death, when I was there to bring my makomé and her two boys back to Pòtoprens.

Yesterday I was in Cité Soleil for the third time in the last couple of weeks. It seems important to share this fact as a sign of how the country is changing. Just a month ago, I would not have considered entering that part of Port-au-Prince. It has been the center of a kidnapping industry that took off after the removal of former President Aristide in February 2004. It’s been dangerous for outsiders and for those who live there as well.

It is there that Jacob was murdered last August. He was a long-time Cité Soleil resident who founded the group of artists whose other leaders have been living with me since late November. It’s been the base from which very heavily armed gangs have been operating, and it’s where kidnappers have been bringing their victims. And all this doesn’t even mention the most serious, persistent danger: dangerous living conditions, with few jobs or other sources of income, poor sanitation at best, overcrowding, and all the other problems that accompany serious urban poverty.

In any case, I’ve been there recently. The first visit occurred a few weeks ago when I was on my way back from Lagonav. I was on a bus, and when it got to the edge of Cité Soleil it did something no bus I had taken in over a year had done: it continued. Busses have been avoiding the area completely, taking various detours to do so. This bus went right along the edge of the Cité, and what was most striking was that none of the passengers complained. Haitian passengers feel free to speak up if the route a driver takes is not quite to their liking, but these passengers had no qualms about passing along a neighborhood they have scrupulously avoided for many months. I asked several who were sitting near me, and they affirmed that there was no longer anything to worry about.

My third visit to the area was a similar instance. I was on a bus headed to Lagonav, and it not only passed along the edge of the Cité, it drove right through. It took the express road to the north that has been all but abandoned since the beginning of the troubles here. Drivers have instead taken a much longer and more congested road through very crowded areas called Croix de Mission and Bon Repos. That detour can easily add an hour to the trip.

The second visit is the one I want to talk about, however. I spent Saturday afternoon walking around Cité Soleil with Jethro, one of the artists who have been staying with me. The main purpose of our visit was to see his grandmother, but we used the chance to wander a little. The comfort we felt was striking.

I had gone to Cité Soleil with him once before. That was in the summer of 2001. I was partly responsible for a Wonn Refleksyon workshop to be led by two of my Haitian colleagues. They had never led a workshop before, so my role was to provide them with support during the workshop and to help them evaluate their work afterwards. It’s a neighborhood that can be confusing, so I had asked Jacob whether he could send someone to help me find my way, and he sent Jethro. Jethro was a teenager at the time. He led me to the workshop the first day, and met me at the end of the second day so we could walk over to where he and Jacob and the others were making banana bark cards and other crafts.

When Jethro asked me a few weeks ago to visit his grandmother with him, I was pleased but a little surprised. He had been staying with me because he himself was in great danger in Cité Soleil. The night that Jacob was murdered, he had to hide with another friend under a neighbor’s bed while their workshop was ransacked. They fled during the night and spent several months hiding in the countryside before they moved in with me. During their first weeks with me they had been wary of getting to close to Cité Soleil, preferring to spend as much time as possible up on the mountain, going down to Pétion-Ville only on the most necessary errands.

But Jethro finally entered Cité Soleil on the day of city-wide demonstrations that brought supporters of René Préval into the streets to protest what appeared to be efforts to manipulate ballot counting. The demonstration Jethro was part of passed right through Cité Soleil. There, Jethro crossed paths with gang members close to those who had killed Jacob, and they assured him that he would now be safe if he wanted to return. The main murderers had themselves been murdered, and new gang leadership not only wanted, in a general way, to respond to Préval’s announced efforts to end the violence, but also felt that the murder of Jacob in particular had been unfair. They recognized that he had never done any of them any harm and attributed their predecessors’ decision to murder him to simple jealously.

The day Jethro told me all this, he was jubilant. We were hiking down to Pétion-Ville from Ka Glo. He had his arm wrapped around me as we walked, and he went on and on about how Haiti is starting to change. For all his exuberance, he could easily have been excited about a new girl friend. He was giddy. I don’t want to give the wrong impression: he’s prudent. He’s said that he’ll never live in Cité Soleil again. He understands things can change there as quickly as one gang leader is murdered and replaced by another. But he’s convinced that things in Haiti are moving forward, and he’s very excited about that.

It was important to him that his grandmother meet me, and I found that fact intensely flattering. His parents both passed away long ago. It was his grandmother raised him. She was the one who fed him, clothed him, and sent him to school. He calls her “//manman//”, or “mom”. She was worried about him, he knew, and he wanted her to meet the person he’s staying with, as a way to help her feel that he’s alright.

We took a tap-tap down Delmas to the intersection with the airport road and then took a second truck a little of the way towards the airport. We got off at an intersection that had been particularly notorious as a place of kidnappings. It was convenient for kidnappers because they could pick up victims from the heavily-traveled airport road and whisk them straight into Cité Soleil.

The intersection could not have been less exciting when we got there, and we strolled along the very road into the Cité that the kidnappers had been using. Jethro exchanged greetings with various people he knew, and I spoke to the children who amused themselves by calling out “//Blan! Blan!//” as Haitian children who see a foreigner often do.

After we crossed the street that defines where Cité Soleil begins, we walked along it for awhile. Then we came to a door. It was really just a rectangular piece of tin roofing, nailed to hinges attached to a scrap wood frame, but it appeared to be the entrance to a private residence.

It wasn’t. It opened onto a small yard that led us directly into an alley. Cité Soleil has some streets, but is mainly an irregular web of narrow alleys. Those who know me will agree that I am not wide. Even so, there were alleys that I could only pass by turning sideways. And they are crooked, winding through puddles and around houses and walls, with intersections popping up at the oddest moments. That’s one reason that gangs can function so well within it. There’s really no way to pursue them. I had some trouble keeping up with Jethro, and he was trying hard not to lose me.

We finally got to his grandmother’s house. It’s a one-room shack made of scraps of wood and roofing. She was there. He had said that she rarely goes anywhere anymore. She had worked for years at what had been a large, mission-run hospital across town. When she retired, they gave her a pension in the form of one lump-sum and occasional smaller payments. The hospital had been taken over by the government, however, the payments had stopped, and I wasn’t exactly clear when she was living from. Nevertheless, she immediately offered us coffee and apologized, saying that if she had known that we were coming there would have been bread for us as well. She was obviously delighted to see Jethro, saying over and over again how worried she had been.

We chatted a little, but Jethro had various people he wanted to see, so he asked me whether I would mind staying with his grandmother for awhile while he wandered. That was fine with me. I was, frankly, tired and glad of the chance to rest. He went off.

This is where things got interesting. His grandmother told me that she was sorry Jethro had come to see her. As lonely as she is without him – she has no one else with her now – she’s just not convinced that he’s safe. I told her how careful he seemed to me to be, and also what Jethro had reported about the gang members’ assurances that he could safely come to visit, but she was not convinced. She pointed to holes in her tin roof, and explained that they were bullet holes. She talked about days spent alone under her bed as shooting went on outside her door. Her story was more frightening and more miserable than anything I hope to ever know. It’s not that she was ever a target. Jethro had often told me that the gangs in Cité Soleil leave old people alone, and his grandmother’s explanation seemed to confirm that. But bullets fly off and do damage they were not supposed to do. My own grandmother passed away only recently, and I struggled as I imagined her at 80 or 90, trying to find a way to hide from heavily armed young men.

The last thing she asked me before Jethro rejoined us was whether he had been going to church. I explained that I couldn’t be sure, that I myself am not home very much, but that I had seen him go a couple of times and that he read his Bible a lot. She seemed satisfied.
When Jethro got back, it was almost time for us to go. We exchanged a few more words, and then promised to return.

Jethro and I talked a lot all the way home, partly about the various people he had spoken to and his impressions of the day, but mainly about his hopes and plans for the future. He doesn’t expect to be staying with me much longer, but when he moves out it will be into an apartment where, he hopes, his grandmother with come to live as well. He’s anxious to find her a place where they will be together and where she will feel truly safe.

Here’s a photo of Jethro in front of his grandmother’s house.

One measure of the importance of conversation is how willing people are to fight through obstacles to make their conversations possible. Our first meeting with Kofaviv was a case in point.

Kofaviv is the Creole acronym for the Commission of Women Victims for Victims. Its members are women who suffered violence of the worst kinds against themselves and their families under the regime that ruled Haiti after an U.S.-supported coup d’état overthrew Jean-Bertrand Aristide in 1991. The women organized themselves to form a support network for other women who’ve suffered as they have. They provide rape counseling, a health clinic, educational programs, and other services. They have an office not too far from downtown Pòtoprens, but do much of their work through field agents who are scattered through the city’s poorer neighborhoods, bringing many of the services right to the women who need them in places like La Saline, Martissant, Cité de Dieu, and the famous Cité Soleil.

Frémy and I had been trying to arrange to meet with the group for quite some time. They had been sending representatives to annual meetings of Open Space practitioners in Haiti for several years, and consistently impressed us when they spoke of their accomplishments. Funding from BIA, an international lawyers’ group, had enabled colleagues of ours to provide them with an introduction to Wonn Refleksyon a couple of years ago, but we were curious as to what they were doing with the experience.

When we finally were able to sit down with their leadership team in February, they talked about how much they had enjoyed participating in their Wonn Refleksyon group and how it had benefited those who participated with them. The experience had, they said, made them better at talking and at working together. What their field agents lacked, however, was the sense of how to lead groups of their own. They asked us whether we could organize a weekly group for Kofaviv field agents that would have as its goal to prepare them to be discussion leaders. Each agent works with a group of roughly twenty women, and the leadership team thought that these groups might accomplish more if they could learn to talk together more effectively.

For our part, Frémy and I were excited about the opportunity to work with a group that was already accomplishing so much. We also looked to it as a way to begin to establish more of a presence in Pòtoprens, especially in its so-called “popular neighborhoods”, or slums, and to bring more women into the network of our collaborators.

When we got to the Kofaviv office, we knew it would be a hard morning. The least of the problems was that there weren’t enough chairs. That was easy enough to solve: We’d simply sit on the floor.

The room they chose for us was dark which made reading a little bit of a challenge, but it wasn’t too bad. Its shape was more of an issue. It was long and narrow. We had to sit in an oval, rather than a circle, and this can be a real difficulty. Members of a group learning to talk with one another need to be able to see each other well. Any shape they sit in, other than a reasonably good circle, creates blind spots, places for participants to sit in where they are, at least partially, unseen. This is a bigger deal than might at first appear, because part of the challenge is to nurture the participation of those who are more comfortable with silence, and having spaces where they can sit more or less unseen only facilitates their silence. It cuts them off from the group. Nevertheless, the space we were in was the one the group had. Wishing for a room shaped differently would accomplish nothing.

With a large gasoline generator running in the building next door, listening would also be a real challenge. And when the office’s own generator joined in, I began to wonder whether I’d be able to hear at all. My Creole is constantly improving, but listening can still be hard, especially the first few times I work with a group, when inexperienced participants are still a little shy about speaking up and participants are unaccustomed to my limitations and I to their voices.

This can force me to make a hard choice. If I ask participants over and over to speak up or repeat themselves, I put myself at the very center of the conversation, which is what I most of all want to avoid. If, on the other hand, I settle for partial understandings of what’s said, I cannot support the conversation they way I’d like to.

In my first years in Haiti, I always chose the second course, settling for partial understandings, and adapted by minimizing my participation. But that had a consequence: Many of the discussion leaders who worked with me during that period came to think that they should be saying hardly anything at all. Their near-silence was helpful as a remedy for the way group leaders here traditionally dominate in meetings, but it’s a poor solution indeed because it robs a group of contributions of the one who is often the most experienced member.

But asking the office to turn off the generator was not an option. It was powering a water pump, working because of the third, most serious problem. The smell. They were emptying the rainwater cistern under the house. Some poor soul had fallen in. They weren’t found right away. The smell was thick and horrible, not least because one knew its source. The water itself was a real hazard and had to be eliminated, as quickly as possible. The pump, and therefore the generator, had to run.

Frémy and I had a simple plan for the two-hour session. During the first hour, I would run a discussion using the first Wonn Refleksyon text in the first of the participants’ books. That text is an introduction to Wonn Refleksyon, its rules and its objectives. I would lead it roughly according to the instructions in the guidebook for discussion leaders that our team created to accompany that first book of texts. Frémy would then use the second hour to introduce the guidebook and invite the participants to talk about the way I had led the class.

This is our favorite approach to developing discussion leaders. Ideally, we’ll be able to go through the entire guidebook with them by meeting weekly during the next couple of months. Sometime before we finish, we’ll them to start meeting weekly with their own groups, and at that point we’ll set aside time each week for them to talk with one another about their experience leading those groups.

From the moment we started, it was clear that these women were not the sort of participants we are accustomed to. They responded immediately to instructions, asking for additional explanations if they were unclear about anything. We I asked them to separate into small groups, they divided themselves quickly, working with energy and focus on the question that I had asked them to address. When I brought the small groups together to report, they had a lot to say, and they gave their reports clearly and concisely. Later Frémy divided them into small groups again to ask them to identify and think about ways that I had strayed from the lesson plan in leading the class, and they picked up the changes I made and had interesting comments and questions for me. As far as Frémy and I could tell, every one of them participated actively in the small group work.

But in another sense, they were very much like the groups we work with all the time. At this first meeting, when they tried to work in the large group that included all sixteen of them, only seven of them managed to speak up. Four participants whispered to the women next to them, but only two of these shared what they were thinking with the group as a whole, and one of them did so only at my prompting. Speakers interrupted other speakers several times, and almost everything said was directed to me. None made any effort to encourage quieter participants to join in. This is all typical of a meeting early in the history of a group’s development.

So, notwithstanding the talents and skills that the women already show, they will have a lot of work to do as they learn to speak together and to take responsibility for helping groups of other women learn to speak and work together as well. Frémy and I are thrilled to be able to be part of their work because the work they already know how to do and the strength of character they show as they do it promises a lot.

Traveling can be hard in Haiti. But its difficulty can be hard to write about, too.

For one thing, one doesn’t want to whine. I’m constantly in busses and trucks with Haitians whose need to get around the country is more urgent than mine and who put up with troubles much more genuine than the little inconveniences I face. For another, one tends to run out of suitable images, pictures that communicate the difficulty well.

On Monday, I came across a solution to the latter of the two problems: As I watched the two young men standing in front of me on the bed of the truck, holding tightly onto to its ropes as their well-ironed jeans bunched up around their ankles, I knew I had come across an image. The guys were so afraid to let go of the ropes which they clung to that they couldn’t be bothered to reach down and pull up their pants. An older gentleman seated next to me eventually reached over and pulled up the pants for one of the kids. He carefully tucked in his shirt – This was a message: The young man’s shirt had been distinctly un-tucked. – and then hitched up his belt. I followed his lead, reaching over and doing the same for the other. I left his shirt, however, as untucked as I found it. I’m not in any position to deliver messages.

They were lucky. One of their companions had shrunk to the bed of the truck, unable to weather the battering he was taking. Seated on the floor, with his head between his knees, taking the very same battering, he vomited. A lot. The nice man next to me explained that his heart had been overturned too much. A couple of market women were sitting next to the young man on the floor. Unflustered, they helped him to remove his jersey, to wipe himself and his backpack off with it and some rags they had with them, and to settle himself in for the rest of the ride. The kid took a lot of teasing, but he seemed relieved by their help, and he gave himself up silently and unresistingly into their hands.

We were all on an afternoon truck from Okap to Wanament. Okap is Haiti’s major city in the north, and Wanament a large commercial town right on the border. The road between the two cities is terrible, just terrible. Strangely so. It’s a very impotant commercial route, constantly travelled by trucks, busses, motorcycles, and cars of all sorts. Oh: bicyles, horses, donkeys, and mules as well. Some people even walk.

So there are strong reasons to make it a good road. It’s wide in most places, but rough, covered entirely by bumps and holes and ruts as it crosses the northeastern lowlands. There are rocky, gravelly stretches and broad, swampy pits, six-ten inches deep with oozy brown mud.

Most of the trucks that work the whole length of the route are a size or two larger than big pick-ups. Some are much larger. More importantly, perhaps, they’re higher off the ground, so the bumps, the holes, and the various gashes in the road don’t bother them much. Drivers really keep them moving. And the trucks transmit that motion, every bone-rattling bit of it, to the parts of their passagers that they are in direct contact with.

I was sitting on a hard, narrow wooden bench, along the side of the flatbed. I had been one of the first to get into the truck because I just missed getting onto the previous one, so I had a reasonably good seat. It had taken me some time even to get to the Wanament station in Okap, so I was anxious to finally get to the city of Wanament itself.

I had walked out my door at just before 4:00 AM. Busses leave Pòtoprens for Okap from a station at the very base of Delmas, about two hours away. The first part of the journey from my house to the station takes longer in the early morning because you have to walk all the way down to Petyonvil. The trucks that normally take you there from Malik don’t start working until after 5:00. So it was after 5:00 when I got to Petyonvil and found a truck loading up for the trip to the base of Delmas. To make up for the extra time you spend walking at that hour, the rest of the trip tends to be quicker because you don’t have to deal with the Delmas traffic, which can be considerable.

When I arrived at the station at around 6:00, two busses were loading competitively for Okap. It seemed clear which would finish loading first, so I bought my ticket and got on.

It was past 7:00, and we were still sitting. The bus certainly seemed full, but drivers won’t leave until they’ve sold all the places that they think they can sell. The bodies of the busses are old schoolbusses, which are grafted somehow onto larger, higher truck frames. They sell three tickets to a bench, and people making the long trip tend to bring lots of luggage, so one tends to feel pretty packed in. They also sell a certain number of reduced-price, standing-room places, so you can easily have large adults very close to you in every direction.

And then there’s the music. Haitians like it loud. Really loud. Our driver had one cassette tape full of popular Haitan dance music, and it was coming at me in waves from 6:00 AM until I got to Okap at around 2:00.

We finally got going around 7:30. The other bus was nowhere near full by then.

It’s a long ride to Okap. Six-eight hours depending on an unpredictable range of variables. There’s a ten-minute stop for snacks in Pastrel, just north of Gonayiv,a little less than two-hours from arrival. The people around me on this trip all seemed very nice, but they were also, quite uniformly, large. I was pressed firmly into my place for the whole ride. We chatted a little bit a couple of times, but the music and the heat and the fatigue didn’t leave a lot of room for dialogue skills. It was easier to pretend to sleep.

The leg from Okap to Wanament is much shorter, but much harder, too. I arrived in Wanament, a little ragged, but none the worse for wear, shortly after dark. Technically speaking, I had both – and I believe I’m using these words correctly – contusions and abrasions on the part of me that enters a room last. But they’ll heal.

And that’s the point I suppose. They will heal. And I am none the worse for wear.

It is tempting to get wrapped up in the little discomforts that belong to the kind of work I do. But such temptations – And they are very real: I had great fun writing a fuller, anatomically more vivid version of this piece for a friend. – are a distraction.

They are rooted in the most intimate, the most fundamental aspect of the privilege that I grew up with. I am accustomed to an extraordinary degree of physical comfort: pleasant places to sit; quiet places to converse; easy, roomy ways to get around.

Facing – maybe “facing” is the wrong word – a hard, narrow bench on a heavily-rutted highway might actually be as good for my soul as it is bad for my rear-most parts. It can remind me that comfort is a privilege. It might just make me stronger.

But whether it’s good or bad for me or for anyone else is not really the point either. The road is not there to teach me a lesson. Struggling to draw a lesson from it is as much of a temptation as the temptation to playfully whine is.

The road is not a challenge. It is simply the one route from Okap to Wanament for those who want to or need to make the trip.

I think the market women understand things best. They just sit in the truck, discussing the day’s purchases or sales, talking about their families and their friends. And if someone throws up, they take care of him.