Robert Ettienne’s voice is soft, his demeanor shy. He speaks carefully, with introversion that nearly denies a lyrical Haitian-French accent. He has lived in Los Angeles for a decade and works at the Victor-Benes bakery in Marina del Rey. It is ten p.m. and his shift will start again tomorrow — Sunday — at 5 a.m. But he will speak tonight as long as it takes.
He stands uncomfortably in my living room with his sister Jeanette. Both in their thirties, I had invited them to an intimate dinner fundraiser in their honor. Neither were accustomed to such fanfare. As a customer of the grocery store where Jeanette works, I learned that her family had lost everything in Haiti and were now barely surviving in a park in Port-au-Prince. I wanted to do what little I could.
Robert lives the classic immigrant story. The eldest of five children, and the only son, family responsibility has exiled him thousands of miles away, while he takes portions of an already pithy paycheck and sends it to the poorest country in the western hemisphere. Three years ago, Jeannette joined him and works bagging groceries in Gelson’s Market, the grocery store that houses the bakery where Robert works. She makes $8.50 an hour and is only guaranteed 24 hours a week. Each week, she begs to take anyone else’s shift.
Last night in my home, I queried the two before my group of friends and friends-of-friends. As we stuffed our bellies with pasta and wine and threw twenty dollar bills in a glass vase bearing the Ettienne family name, some horrific facts haunted the room. Start with this one: At the very moment that we communed in abundance, Robert and Jeannette’s three sisters and their fourteen children were under the same moon in a crowded, bug infested, public park with no tent, or food or water. With them is Robert’s sixteen-year-old son, who has now become quite ill. Robert’s only goal for this evening was to raise enough money to buy his son a tent so that he could escape the searing sun and virus-carrying insects while he worked through his flu.
Sounds like a simple goal — A run to an RIE camping store and a Fedex shipment right?– until you remember that no infrastructure means chaos. If this were our family, it indeed would mean a quick run to Target for tents and sleeping bags and an overnight shipment. Not in earthquake devastated Haiti. Where deliveries are impossible because no one has an address. And the black-market for simple living necessities has driven $40 tents into the $300 dollar range. Where those with generators charge $25 just to charge one’s cell phone battery. And water and rice have become the currency that drives people to homicide.
As for the organized relief efforts, the Ettienne sisters have not been beneficiaries. The distribution point is a long, hot walk away, and at least a day’s waiting in line. And then a bag of rice on one’s heads is like a bounty. Without male protection, these mothers are vulnerable to violence. All three fathers were at work when the quake hit and are presumed dead. Weighing their options, these sisters mostly choose to stay put and pray that their family in American can wire money. There is now a bank in Port-au-prince up and running and able to receive wire transfers.
On Monday, Robert will wire the $1000 that we raised last night. But it will be a temporary band-aid.
The most uplifting part of the evening was the ingenuity of the guests for continued ways to help this family. One man, a builder, offered to build a house for them if we could find a way to get building materials donated and laborers to help. The one thing not short of these days in Haiti are laborers. Another woman suggested that with so many service providers in the room that we work out a kind of barter-for-charity system. Already I “bought” a facial at a local spa and plunked the money in the Ettienne jar. Another woman is happy to auction off her photography services. There will be more.
Jeanette sat with me by the fire speaking with quiet gratitude late into the night. But I noticed the cracks in her facade. Three weeks of pain is wearing on her otherwise flawless face. From time to time her deep brown eyes welled up as she expressed polite desperation. Clearly her entire being is rocked with terror for her family’s future.
I’m sitting in bed under my cozy duvet this morning as I type this. Wondering who will read these words. Wondering who can help the Ettienne’s fourteen children aged, 2 through 22. Wondering if the babies will get water and food today. And if the fever assaulting Robert’s son will be down this morning. Robert has already been at work for four hours. Toiling in a hot bakery surrounded by food. A cruel joke of fate.
Tags: Haiti, Haiti relief, Jeannette Ettienne, Robert Ettienne