the horizon.
Amos Oz
Just before I left for Haiti on January 5, when we were having dinner together, Saint-Ãloi gave me a book:
The Same Sea
by Amos Oz. It was my first contact with a writer who has long attracted me. Since Saint-Ãloi had brought his copy with him, we took out our two books to read Oz out loud. My confidence in poetry is unlimited. It alone can reconcile me with the horror of the world. Saint-Ãloi read standing up. I was sitting on a suitcase. He thinks I have the same obsessions as Amos Oz: the relation with my mother, my village, and wandering. He read me these brief lines:
â¦My view is different. Wandering is fitting for those who have lost their way. Kiss the feet my son of the woman Maria whose womb, for an instant, returned you to mineâ¦
I felt the small differences between us. My mother doesnât speak; she murmurs, like a song inside her. The voice of Amos Ozâs mother seems surer. She orders him:
Kiss the feet my son of the woman Maria
. My mother doesnât know the imperative. Amos Ozâs mother is a woman of passion; mine is one of gentleness.
Washing Up
Saint-Ãloi goes with me. We fill a bucket of water from the pool. The bathroom is under the restaurant. No one outside of the hotel employees has ventured that far. We found two large towels near the pool. We donât go too far inside for fear of getting trapped in that narrow room if an aftershock were to strike. We rub ourselves vigorously to remove the stain of misfortune. We dry ourselves as we converse, like a couple of athletes after a tough game. We put on clean clothes and step outside. On the tennis court, I open my suitcase and take out my razor and aftershave. People watch us, surprised at first, then they get moving too, as if awakening from a nightmare. Michel Le Bris announces that heâs going to wash his hair, and for the first time, he is willing to separate himself from his computer. He returns a few minutes later, a new man. The women bring out their lipstick. I exhibit my two mangos like war trophies. Which makes sense: when I went up to my room, I felt I was penetrating enemy territory. Someone hands me a jackknife. I offer everyone a thin slice of mango. It took an earthquake to get me to share a mango.
The Decision
That ceremony had just ended when I saw people coming up from the other side of the fence. They were officials from the Canadian Embassy searching the hotels and offering a flight out to Canadian citizens who wanted to leave. The departure to the airport was scheduled for one p.m. from the Embassy. The decision had to be made immediately. Saint-Ãloi couldnât go because he doesnât have Canadian citizenship. I wouldnât leave without him. I asked the officials to wait a minute. He and I went under a tree to talk it over. Stay or goâitâs always the same dilemma. After a while, I went back to the Embassy staff and said I was going with them. Iâve learned to make up my mind fast. The same way I had to decide quickly during the first seconds of the earthquake. You have ten seconds to figure out whether youâll stay where you are or go elsewhere. That makes a difference, but I still wasnât completely sure Iâd made the right decision. I hesitated between my heart that told me to stay with these people, and my mind that told me I would be more useful for them back there. In the end, I figured that this was probably the last time someone would offer to repatriate me.
A Semantic Battle
When I heard the question that a Canadian TV journalist asked me as I was walking across the tarmac at the Port-au-Prince airport, I understood that a new qualifier had been invented for Haiti. For years, the country had been recognized as the first black republic in the world, and the second to win its independence in the Americas after the United States. Independence wasnât handed to us over martinis, after a few hypocritical smiles and
Amos Oz
Just before I left for Haiti on January 5, when we were having dinner together, Saint-Ãloi gave me a book:
The Same Sea
by Amos Oz. It was my first contact with a writer who has long attracted me. Since Saint-Ãloi had brought his copy with him, we took out our two books to read Oz out loud. My confidence in poetry is unlimited. It alone can reconcile me with the horror of the world. Saint-Ãloi read standing up. I was sitting on a suitcase. He thinks I have the same obsessions as Amos Oz: the relation with my mother, my village, and wandering. He read me these brief lines:
â¦My view is different. Wandering is fitting for those who have lost their way. Kiss the feet my son of the woman Maria whose womb, for an instant, returned you to mineâ¦
I felt the small differences between us. My mother doesnât speak; she murmurs, like a song inside her. The voice of Amos Ozâs mother seems surer. She orders him:
Kiss the feet my son of the woman Maria
. My mother doesnât know the imperative. Amos Ozâs mother is a woman of passion; mine is one of gentleness.
Washing Up
Saint-Ãloi goes with me. We fill a bucket of water from the pool. The bathroom is under the restaurant. No one outside of the hotel employees has ventured that far. We found two large towels near the pool. We donât go too far inside for fear of getting trapped in that narrow room if an aftershock were to strike. We rub ourselves vigorously to remove the stain of misfortune. We dry ourselves as we converse, like a couple of athletes after a tough game. We put on clean clothes and step outside. On the tennis court, I open my suitcase and take out my razor and aftershave. People watch us, surprised at first, then they get moving too, as if awakening from a nightmare. Michel Le Bris announces that heâs going to wash his hair, and for the first time, he is willing to separate himself from his computer. He returns a few minutes later, a new man. The women bring out their lipstick. I exhibit my two mangos like war trophies. Which makes sense: when I went up to my room, I felt I was penetrating enemy territory. Someone hands me a jackknife. I offer everyone a thin slice of mango. It took an earthquake to get me to share a mango.
The Decision
That ceremony had just ended when I saw people coming up from the other side of the fence. They were officials from the Canadian Embassy searching the hotels and offering a flight out to Canadian citizens who wanted to leave. The departure to the airport was scheduled for one p.m. from the Embassy. The decision had to be made immediately. Saint-Ãloi couldnât go because he doesnât have Canadian citizenship. I wouldnât leave without him. I asked the officials to wait a minute. He and I went under a tree to talk it over. Stay or goâitâs always the same dilemma. After a while, I went back to the Embassy staff and said I was going with them. Iâve learned to make up my mind fast. The same way I had to decide quickly during the first seconds of the earthquake. You have ten seconds to figure out whether youâll stay where you are or go elsewhere. That makes a difference, but I still wasnât completely sure Iâd made the right decision. I hesitated between my heart that told me to stay with these people, and my mind that told me I would be more useful for them back there. In the end, I figured that this was probably the last time someone would offer to repatriate me.
A Semantic Battle
When I heard the question that a Canadian TV journalist asked me as I was walking across the tarmac at the Port-au-Prince airport, I understood that a new qualifier had been invented for Haiti. For years, the country had been recognized as the first black republic in the world, and the second to win its independence in the Americas after the United States. Independence wasnât handed to us over martinis, after a few hypocritical smiles and
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