37, laundress and housekeeper
Juslene Marie Innocent, like many girls in rural Haiti, was sent to Port-au-Prince as a restavek at a young age and placed in the home of an aunt.1 In that house she was sexually abused and raped by her uncle. Eventually, Juslene got a job in the home of people who cared for her. Later, she met the man who became her husband.
Juslene lost most of her family on January 12, 2010. During the earthquake, she lost consciousness and woke to find her husband and her three children crushed under rubble. At the time she was rescued, Juslene was unaware she was pregnant. Six months later, she gave birth to a son.
I met this gentleman years ago and we started dating. His name was Lidye.
About two months into the relationship, I became pregnant. I told Lidye. He said he would rent an apartment for us so we could stay together with the baby. I was still so ashamed that I had to leave my job. I didn’t want to tell the kind family I was working for that I was pregnant. They had two daughters. I didn’t want to be a bad example for them. So I left and moved in with Lidye. Lidye was a mason. It wasn’t easy for him to find jobs, but he did his best to put food on the table. I went back to work as a housekeeper to help out with the bills. I was twenty-five years old when my first child, Mildred, was born.
After a few years, we got married. We didn’t have much money, but we invited both families to the event. My husband had nothing but praises to say about me. He was so proud of me. My aunt that I lived with as a child didn’t come to the wedding. She sent her children. Even though my aunt mistreated me, I forgive her. My mother didn’t come to my wedding, either. And after the wedding she sent me a letter to apologize for sending me away all those years before. One of my siblings wrote the letter, since my mother doesn’t know how to read or write. She called me “my dear.” I was so touched, I cried as I read the letter. My mother was finally acknowledging me. She’s my mother. She carried me for nine months. I owe her my life. Now I go back to Jérémie to see her when she’s sick.2
I was with Lidye for seven years. We had four children. Our youngest was still in my belly when the earthquake hit. He’s in school now. When he started talking, the first word he said was “father.” At about one year old, he asked me for his dad. I told him that my brother was his dad. As he grew up, he figured out that I had lied, and I told him that his father had died during the 2010 earthquake. He cried and wouldn’t eat. The neighbors found a way to comfort him by telling him that all the men in the neighborhood were his dads.
Even though he never knew his father, he misses him. I haven’t told him about the three siblings he lost in the earthquake. He’s too young for it all.
I ended up here in Ti Place Cazeau.3 I have a new daughter, Néhémie. She is eight months old. She says “mommy” and “daddy.” The father is a married man. He lied to me about being married.
I think about my husband a lot. Every day. I’m sure we’d be better off if he’d lived. Right now, I do laundry for people. I set the price and the customers give me a barrel of water, soap, and Clorox. I wash from morning until late in the afternoon. Sometimes the skin comes off my hands. Still, the money isn’t enough. Many times when the children are hungry, I say to myself, if Lidye was alive, my children wouldn’t be hungry. He always worked hard. Anyway, I am not going to question why my husband had to die. God is all knowing.
My son and I are close. He always receives “Very Good” as a grade in school and shares with me what he’s learned—the songs and poems. I always show my joy and kiss him to congratulate him. He is a very attentive and a sweet child. He gives me strength to keep fighting for him. I think he is a gift from God.
My children will not suffer the same fate as I. Never. Even if I have to beg in the street. I know what it feels like to suffer as a child. I would never inflict such pain on anyone. Sometimes I am impatient with God, but when I remember what He pulled me through, I regain strength.
The other day, we were going to church. As we were walking, he saw the pastor’s car, and he said to me, “Mom, one day I will have a car like this one.” I asked him how. My son replied that he will be working one day. Then he will buy his car and drive me and Néhémie around in it. That put a smile on my face. My son has dreams.
I wrote two articles about the earthquake, but not literature, because I was there. That night I walked for three hours. I walked all the way from Delmas 48 to Pétionville because we were sponsoring some writers from abroad who were studying fiction there. I went to make sure they were alive. What I saw in the streets, what I felt myself, and what I saw in the people’s faces—I don’t have it in me to write a text that would be as powerful. And if literature doesn’t add something, why try? Every time people ask me, “Are you going to write a novel about it?” I say, No! And listen, I’m telling you, the worst catastrophe was not the earthquake. It was—it is still going on—it is what the Haitian government and the so-called international community did after. The lies and the social injustice are worse today than before the earthquake. The distance between the rich and the poor. The so-called help, international help, has not in any way helped to restructure this society.
—Lyonel Trouillot, novelist