Life in the Box
In an area outside of Port Au Prince, Haiti, there is a cluster of buildings surrounding a gravel parking area. On the outside, everything appears to be a greyish white color, as if every surface is coated with a layer of dust. This is where I came to visit the Box.
The Box has four concrete walls, a roof, and a concrete floor. There are windows cut into the walls but no curtains. The Box has no running water and no toilet or bathroom to speak of. There is more than one level to the Box, but there are no beds in the sleeping area and nowhere to sit except a few wooden or concrete benches. The Box didn't have any toys or books that I could see, no bright pictures on the walls to stare at.
The Box is where 40 children live.
I refuse to say the Box is home to 40 children because I don't think anyone would find that it fulfills the definition of "home." It simply is a box. The barest of places. A concrete containment unit for 40 young lives. One step up from sitting exposed on the side of the road. Only, maybe, if they had been left outside, these children could at least fight stray dogs for a scrap of food in the garbage piles. In the Box, they weren't getting fed.
As our team entered the Box, the children were sitting on wooden benches. Some immediately got up and began to pull each team member into a hug or by the hand back to the sitting area, others remained seated. I was quickly claimed by a sweet young girl with the most beautiful smile named Wildana.
Once she had me seated across from her, Wildana wanted to play the same hand clapping games I play with my little girl at home. She would laugh as we sped up our hand movements, and giggle if I messed up. I took out my camera to take her picture, and she immediately wanted me to take one with her friend. I nicknamed her "my photography assistant" because the next twenty minutes were spent with her pulling me from one child to the next, wanting me to take a picture of each and then immediately checking my screen to make sure the shot turned out okay. Throughout this process, Wildana was attached to my waist, a permanent hug of both arms enclosing my body. She was quick to call me "mama" and bestowed a kiss on my cheek.
But then, she started to say the word, "dlo" again and again. I remembered from my last trip to Haiti that she was saying the Creole word for water. Without an interpreter by my side, my explanation that I didn't have water to give wasn't working. It seems we were both frustrated by our inability to communicate so she dragged me to the nearest Haitian and started talking. He explained that she was asking for water, and answered her that the water wasn't there yet. Not satisfied with that reply, she dragged me to another person only to get the same response.
Water.
The child wasn't asking for anything but water, and I didn't have it to give. Talk about feeling helpless. Thankfully, we purchased a few sacks of little water bags to hand out to the kids, and upon receiving hers, Wildana left me to go sit by some of her friends.
My next encounter was with sweet David. He's such a tiny little thing. At just six months old, he wears a scar on the back of his head where he spent two weeks in the hospital having fluid drained.
But it isn't the only mark he has. On one side of his scalp is a little scab patch from where he's been laying on one side for too long. He's literally rubbed his skin off. Without a single bed, I don't even know where they put him when he sleeps. David was awake but very lethargic. One of the team doctor's mixed up some milk and began to give me tiny syringes full of the liquid. I would place the syringe in his mouth, but he wouldn't attempt to latch on, so I would just give it to him bit by bit, waiting for him to swallow. When he seemed to lose interest in that, I removed his dirty little t-shirt and took a bottle of lotion that one of my teammates had in her pack. Slowly, I rubbed each frail little limb, talking to him all the while, paying attention to tiny toes and fingers, hoping to spark the little synapses running through his body. I placed him in a fresh diaper and a clean onesie we had brought with us. I nicknamed him "King David" and felt the onesie that said "I'm in charge around here" was perfect for him. Next came a small serving of peaches that I would smoosh with my fingers and place on his tongue. I placed him on my lap and sang to him, and he began to make eye contact and tried making a sound or two. I walked him around so he could watch all the other children. I patted his back, rocked him in my arms, and finally laid him on a blanket until he fell asleep. For a moment, the Box seemed a little brighter.
Before we left, we made sure the rice and beans we had brought were fixed for the children. It was dished out in bowls, on plates, on frisbees. Even steaming hot, the children would eat it, and then ask for more. When trying to help hold a plate for one child, the little boy began to cry and get upset because he thought we were trying to take it away. I've read enough about the life of an orphan to know there's is often a life of fighting to survive, of desperately clinging to what you have in order to live. It is one thing to read about it, it's another to see a child refuse your help because he perceives you as a threat.
What kind of hell on earth is this Box? How dark must a heart be to deny a child food and water?
The time finally arrived when our team had to leave. We had seen the children fed, each child had been examined by a doctor, we left more food for them to eat, and we had handed out goodie bags to each child. David was still sleeping and Wildana had returned to my side, arms once again around my middle. I hugged her close and kissed her forehead. She pointed to the benches and tried to lead me back to them. But, I couldn't stay. I had to leave her in the Box where I found her. I walked down the stairs bringing my sunglasses back down onto eyes filled with tears.
I don't know what to do.
How does a person cope with seeing children living in such a place? My head knows I can't legally take them home with me, but my heart says it's not fair.
What if the Box becomes a tomb? What if the next time someone visits, there are only 38 lives and not 40 inside?
That orphanage has been a cloud of despair that has been following the team ever since we left the place. We've talked about it, we've cried. We're losing sleep and looking at pictures that stir an ache inside our hearts. We know about these little ones, and we're trying to find a way to help, but it's frustrating when you've returned home and they're so far away.
So, if I can do nothing else, then let me be a witness. Let me tell you the story of life in the Box. Share it with others. May it break your heart like it does mine. May a tiny piece of us remain bruised by what we've seen so that we can't forget them or the millions of others who live in boxes like this, and may we fight for each and every one of them,
"Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed. Defend the cause of orphans. Fight for the rights of widows." Isaiah 1:17, NLT
*** 10/21/2014 Update! The children of the Box have been given enough food for a month. Someone is now checking on them weekly, and there are efforts being made to find them a new home. Three churches have stepped forward to support these children. Praise God! It's always a blessing to see just what can happen when people step forward and do something. ***
The Box has four concrete walls, a roof, and a concrete floor. There are windows cut into the walls but no curtains. The Box has no running water and no toilet or bathroom to speak of. There is more than one level to the Box, but there are no beds in the sleeping area and nowhere to sit except a few wooden or concrete benches. The Box didn't have any toys or books that I could see, no bright pictures on the walls to stare at.
The Box is where 40 children live.
I refuse to say the Box is home to 40 children because I don't think anyone would find that it fulfills the definition of "home." It simply is a box. The barest of places. A concrete containment unit for 40 young lives. One step up from sitting exposed on the side of the road. Only, maybe, if they had been left outside, these children could at least fight stray dogs for a scrap of food in the garbage piles. In the Box, they weren't getting fed.
As our team entered the Box, the children were sitting on wooden benches. Some immediately got up and began to pull each team member into a hug or by the hand back to the sitting area, others remained seated. I was quickly claimed by a sweet young girl with the most beautiful smile named Wildana.
Wildana is the little girl on the left. Look at that smile!
But then, she started to say the word, "dlo" again and again. I remembered from my last trip to Haiti that she was saying the Creole word for water. Without an interpreter by my side, my explanation that I didn't have water to give wasn't working. It seems we were both frustrated by our inability to communicate so she dragged me to the nearest Haitian and started talking. He explained that she was asking for water, and answered her that the water wasn't there yet. Not satisfied with that reply, she dragged me to another person only to get the same response.
Water.
The child wasn't asking for anything but water, and I didn't have it to give. Talk about feeling helpless. Thankfully, we purchased a few sacks of little water bags to hand out to the kids, and upon receiving hers, Wildana left me to go sit by some of her friends.
My next encounter was with sweet David. He's such a tiny little thing. At just six months old, he wears a scar on the back of his head where he spent two weeks in the hospital having fluid drained.
But it isn't the only mark he has. On one side of his scalp is a little scab patch from where he's been laying on one side for too long. He's literally rubbed his skin off. Without a single bed, I don't even know where they put him when he sleeps. David was awake but very lethargic. One of the team doctor's mixed up some milk and began to give me tiny syringes full of the liquid. I would place the syringe in his mouth, but he wouldn't attempt to latch on, so I would just give it to him bit by bit, waiting for him to swallow. When he seemed to lose interest in that, I removed his dirty little t-shirt and took a bottle of lotion that one of my teammates had in her pack. Slowly, I rubbed each frail little limb, talking to him all the while, paying attention to tiny toes and fingers, hoping to spark the little synapses running through his body. I placed him in a fresh diaper and a clean onesie we had brought with us. I nicknamed him "King David" and felt the onesie that said "I'm in charge around here" was perfect for him. Next came a small serving of peaches that I would smoosh with my fingers and place on his tongue. I placed him on my lap and sang to him, and he began to make eye contact and tried making a sound or two. I walked him around so he could watch all the other children. I patted his back, rocked him in my arms, and finally laid him on a blanket until he fell asleep. For a moment, the Box seemed a little brighter.
Before we left, we made sure the rice and beans we had brought were fixed for the children. It was dished out in bowls, on plates, on frisbees. Even steaming hot, the children would eat it, and then ask for more. When trying to help hold a plate for one child, the little boy began to cry and get upset because he thought we were trying to take it away. I've read enough about the life of an orphan to know there's is often a life of fighting to survive, of desperately clinging to what you have in order to live. It is one thing to read about it, it's another to see a child refuse your help because he perceives you as a threat.
What kind of hell on earth is this Box? How dark must a heart be to deny a child food and water?
The time finally arrived when our team had to leave. We had seen the children fed, each child had been examined by a doctor, we left more food for them to eat, and we had handed out goodie bags to each child. David was still sleeping and Wildana had returned to my side, arms once again around my middle. I hugged her close and kissed her forehead. She pointed to the benches and tried to lead me back to them. But, I couldn't stay. I had to leave her in the Box where I found her. I walked down the stairs bringing my sunglasses back down onto eyes filled with tears.
I don't know what to do.
How does a person cope with seeing children living in such a place? My head knows I can't legally take them home with me, but my heart says it's not fair.
What if the Box becomes a tomb? What if the next time someone visits, there are only 38 lives and not 40 inside?
That orphanage has been a cloud of despair that has been following the team ever since we left the place. We've talked about it, we've cried. We're losing sleep and looking at pictures that stir an ache inside our hearts. We know about these little ones, and we're trying to find a way to help, but it's frustrating when you've returned home and they're so far away.
So, if I can do nothing else, then let me be a witness. Let me tell you the story of life in the Box. Share it with others. May it break your heart like it does mine. May a tiny piece of us remain bruised by what we've seen so that we can't forget them or the millions of others who live in boxes like this, and may we fight for each and every one of them,
"Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed. Defend the cause of orphans. Fight for the rights of widows." Isaiah 1:17, NLT
*** 10/21/2014 Update! The children of the Box have been given enough food for a month. Someone is now checking on them weekly, and there are efforts being made to find them a new home. Three churches have stepped forward to support these children. Praise God! It's always a blessing to see just what can happen when people step forward and do something. ***
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