38, mother
Driving north on Route Nationale #1 out of Port-au-Prince, the land is dry, covered in dust and thorn bushes with mountains rising quickly to the east and Port-au-Prince bay lying to the west. The once-barren hillsides are now dotted with tens of thousands of tents, mostly fading shades of gray and blue, and an increasing number of cement-block buildings. This desolate stretch—which has been the city’s trash dump for decades—is called Titanyen. During the Duvalier dictatorship, many of the regime’s victims were buried here. After the earthquake, Titanyen became the site of the nation’s largest concentration of mass graves. The number of dead laid to rest here reaches into the tens of thousands.
In January 2013, a few hundred yards up the road from the graves, we spoke with some of the displaced families who now call Titanyen home, including Nadege Pierre and some of her family. We sat on their single shared mattress on the plastic tarp floor of their tarpaulin tent to talk.
I have nothing. This is what made me choose this place. If I had something, I would not have chosen this place. We had this little tent and bought some wood and put the tent on it. No one helped with the house. No organizations. Some blan—foreigners—came last month and they offered medical checkups but they didn’t really offer anything.
The house we were in was destroyed. We lived in Cité Soleil.1 The house fell down on January 12, 2010 in the disaster. After that we lived near the post office on the Plaza.2 At the refugee camp on the Plaza, there were some organizations that took our names but they didn’t do anything. Where we were was very crowded. Everyone was in the same situation. Their houses were all broken. We all built tents to live in. Then the burning started.3 It was always at night. Only God knows who was burning our homes. Jesus knows.
Everything of ours was burnt down, so we came here. This was in January 2012, almost two years after the earthquake. No one helped me find this place in Titanyen. I looked and looked. I don’t know anyone here. I only recognize a few people who stay in this area.
Someone gave us this little ground to stay on but I don’t really know who owns this land. Even if I had money, I wouldn’t build a home here. I can’t really do anything here. We’ve been displaced for three years, since the earthquake. There have been homes burned in this camp too already.
Here there are really no services. Even this little bit of water we had to buy, bucket by bucket, for 5 gouds. When I have a little money to get food, I have to take a bus to buy anything. The only thing we can buy here is a little food for the children. We’re here for one year now. We have nothing.
I have eight children. One of my daughters has her own child. They are all here. Right here. I have a lot of family. I am thirty-eight years old. I had children frequently. We are all here. I still have a lot of family in Bainet where I was born.4 I don’t want to go back there. My mother has died. My father has died. I’m not going back.
I am pregnant with my ninth child. I don’t know when it is due. There are no doctors here. Only God knows if I can deliver in a hospital, if there will be enough time.
My husband is out, in the street. L’ap chache lavi li.5 He doesn’t have any work. He’s looking for a little food.
I was in Port-au-Prince for a long time before the earthquake. I came to the city when I was about twelve years old. I didn’t finish school. My mother died when I was young and my father didn’t have much. I had to work from thirteen to fourteen years old. I was always paid for work but never very much. I washed, ironed, things like that. I always stayed with my family but I always worked.
I was in Cité Soleil since 1988. We had a little house of our own. It wasn’t in very good shape, and then it was destroyed. We didn’t have the means to rebuild it so we made a tent on the Plaza. And then this was burned down. There are still a lot of people in Cité Soleil, a lot like it was before. I wouldn’t go back even if I could. People are suffering there and we are suffering here. I think there is worse. I feel pain for everyone who is still in Cité Soleil. Things are too “hot,” too many people, too much crime.
On the anniversary last week there were a lot of people. They didn’t stay. They appeared and then they left. They didn’t really do anything for a memorial. It was for nothing. They stayed for an hour, no more. They didn’t bring anything. Lots of foreigners came. The president was here; he didn’t stay.
I am grateful to be alive. God is taking care of my children. It’s God who knows what time, what place he will send me. God will put someone else in my path to take me to another place. I have confidence in God. I have confidence.
Carrefour is the south coast of Port-au-Prince. To get to Okai, to Jérémie, to Léogâne, all those places, you have to go through Carrefour. It is hilly and rocky. The epicenter of the earthquake was south of the city. This part of town was completely destroyed. The place where they took all the bodies, where they have the memorial, is in the north. It’s a wasteland, a burial place. They’ve been burying people there forever.
—Jean Pierre Marseille