— More than 4,000 earthquake survivors packed into a soccer field had
little food and access to a handful of toilets. But in a visit to this
camp, in a country that has suffered often under autocratic and corrupt
leadership, I found an intriguing experiment in grass-roots governance.
Some residents conduct security patrols. Some clean up trash, while others try to ensure the aid is distributed fairly.
The efforts, here at
These men and women had been doctors, ministers,
engineers and day laborers before the earthquake upended their lives.
Some have gained a reputation for hard work and honesty, while others
have been more controversial.
But they all share the daily hardships of their
displaced constituents. And when there are problems, they are quick to
hear about them.
“We had no food deliveries for two weeks, and people rebelled,” said
I visited the St. Therese camp and more than a half-dozen others on a recent, 14-day trip to
Everywhere I went in the capital city and suburbs,
there were survivor camps. Some were small outposts in vacant lots,
consisting of little more than clusters of families who formed tents
out of bedsheets. Others sprawled for acres, housing thousands of
people in downtown parks, school yards and even a country club golf
course in suburban Petionville.
Where will all these people eventually live, and how
fast will they get there? With each week, and a looming spring rainy
season that could bring floods to low-lying camps, the answers to those
questions grow more urgent.
I was lucky enough to find a place to stay at the
I slept each night in a tent pitched on the roof of
a three-story office building that had survived the earthquake intact.
Across the narrow street were the ruins of an apartment building that
had collapsed, killing some 40 people.
The tent, unlike many shelters in the camps, offered
ample protection from the rains, and was a great listening post for the
sounds of the city.
Sometimes, the sounds were sweet as a neighborhood congregation gathered next door to sing hymns.
Sometimes, the sounds were spooky. Twice I was
rousted from sleep by aftershocks, quickly followed by a cacophony of
screams from thousands of frightened people, then a furious chorus of
howling from agitated dogs.
I eventually gained enough confidence to travel
about the city in the local “tap taps” — colorfully painted trucks that
offer back-seat benches, and stop when you knock on the roof.
Many streets were crowded with vendors selling
bananas, mangoes, live chickens, rice, beans and other staples. Behind
their stalls, though, almost all the commercial buildings that housed
everything from restaurants to offices were lifeless.
Some were standing, but weakened by cracks; others
were tilted at crazy angles. Several had collapsed into rubble,
entombing victims whose bodies had yet to be retrieved.
Larger camps have become hubs of economic activity.
Residents have set up barber shops, jury-rigged car batteries to
provide cell phone charges and sell savory fried bread or bananas
cooked over charcoal fires.
But frustrations run high.
A massive distribution of tarps — and to a much
lesser extent, tents — has reached 53 percent of the 1.3 million people
in need of shelter, according to a
At St. Therese and some of the other camps I
visited, there were still shortages of food, toilets and bed nets to
fend off malaria-carrying mosquitoes. Asked what he had been eating,
one boy showed me a pot of unseasoned rice that he shared with friends
and family.
Trying to sort out where displaced families will end
up quickly delves into touchy political issues. Many people were
squatters on their old homesites, and it’s unclear what rights they
will have to their old turf.
“One of the most difficult issues in this country will be the land issue and title,”
a Haitian mortgage banker working on reconstruction, told a meeting of
aid officials. “We have to take this really seriously, and work
together. I don’t know yet what will happen.”
Shelter issues are coordinated through a
U.N.-organized committee that meets weekly and includes representatives
from most of the major aid organizations active in
I found big differences in how aid groups are tackling resettlement.
World Concern is focused on helping people in a
multitude of small camps — some with fewer than a dozen tents — reclaim
their houses. Its staff has conducted painstaking surveys of the
damages and has begun to hire people to clear away rubble.
World Concern plans eventually to have 2,000 people
on its payroll. Some will repair damaged homes; others will construct
transitional shelters made of metal, rebar and other materials that can
be recycled as more permanent structures are built.
“The studies from past disasters indicate that the
longer people stay in camps, the more they fall behind compared to
people who return home,” said
Mercy Corps, based in
The main push in the years ahead will be to support Haitian President
coast where residents, short on water due to drought and
earthquake-cracked cisterns, are coping with an influx of quake
survivors.
In coming months,
The housing, hopefully, will be situated next to new industrial parks,
government and university campuses that can provide jobs.
over the next year to call for up to 5,000 metal-frame structures —
each measuring 16 feet by 16 feet — that can be wrapped with tarps and
eventually turned into permanent housing. The structures, which can be
built for less than
“We’re negotiating now on getting the land, and that’s been the biggest hang up,” said
In the meantime, there is mounting pressure to shut down some of the camps.
Those plans sometimes pit camp leaders against politicians.
I visited one small band of distraught survivors who
had been booted off a small parcel of land by the mayor of Delmas.
Residents said the mayor showed up with armed guards, burned some of
their bedrolls and ordered them off the tract so he could build a
school there.
They protested because one camper had title to the land. They saw no reason anyone should have to leave.
Elsewhere in Delmas, a much larger camp of more than
12,000 people is spread across the spacious grounds of a prestigious
Catholic school. Before the earthquake, the site had included tennis
courts and a swimming pool.
Remy Asnel, a committee member, said the Delmas
mayor had warned residents to be out at the end of February or face
eviction. But Asnel stood firm. He said Preval eventually intervened
and allowed the camp to remain at the school.
“We know that we will eventually have to go,” Asnel said. “But you have to give us some place to live.”
Perhaps when Asnel gets a new home, he will return to his old accounting job and try to put his camp days behind him. Maybe not.
Perhaps these camps will forge a new generation of leaders who will help guide
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