Paradise Defiled

There was a soft knock on the door as she secured her backpack. Kate crossed the room and opened to door. Emmanuel filled the small space easily. "Bonjour…"

"Good morning, Emmanuel. How are we looking to be there at 8:30?"

"I've traced the route – should be good. For now, but we need to go." He closed the door behind him, "And, I don't know if you've heard, but two journalists were taken last night."

"Oh no…" Her heart sank. The second report in as many days. She quieted the need to throw up. "I hadn't. Foreign?"

"No, Haitian. But working with European outlets – French media, I believe."

Kate particularly admired her Haitian counterparts. They simply risked too much to help get their stories told. 

"Alright… well," Kate tossed her backpack over one shoulder. "Let's get going… before we can't get out of here. Or he changes his mind – I wouldn't blame him."

Downstairs, Kate ducked out onto the street first, turning to follow Emmanuel's earlier path. In one long stride, he was alongside her left shoulder, a huge human shield between her and the tumult of the crowd. Despite his looming protective presence, Kate's eyes darted back and forth on the street ahead of her for potential danger beyond just the crush of the expanding crowd.

She spotted the police intervening in the crowd beyond to their left. Kate averted her gaze forward. Along with the military, the police weren't to be trusted. She recalled her recent conversation with the director of a Haitian peace organization, "Police officers see journalists interviewing gangs or protesters as evidence that they have sided with them." The conditions left journalists very vulnerable to violence, ironically by law enforcement.

They walked briskly, focused. Despite the early hour, beads of sweat collected between Kate's shoulder blades and under her breasts. Rounding a corner, she could see Emmanuel's car about half a block down. 

Just as Kate exhaled with relief, Emmanuel suddenly buckled, grunting violently beside her, instinctively pushing her aside. Kate lurched back, crashing against the bullet-scarred concrete of the building beside her. The large man doubled over as his attacker brought an elbow down hard between Emmanuel's shoulder blades.

Between blows, Emmanuel bellowed, "Va! Run – go, Kate!" The large man was bent over his knees as another blow sent him reeling sideways. The young attacker's eyes darted to Kate as she fled from Emmanuel toward his car. While older, Emmanuel had not only inches but several pounds on the younger man. Emmanuel took his opportunity with the assailant's attention diverted for that split second. He dove forward, driving his attacker into a light post just beyond. The young man fell from the impact. With one kick to the gut and another to the chest, Emmanuel left him curled, fighting for breath. Following Kate, he staggered to a run.

Approaching the car, Kate glanced back to see Emmanuel struggling to retrieve the keys from his pants pocket. He looked over his shoulder, clearly expecting there had to be others. 

Now upright, running strong, behind him, rounding the corner, were two other young men in pursuit. "Emmanuel, hurry! There are others!" At the car, he scrambled to unlock the doors. Inside, with large, deft fingers, he started the ignition. Kate looked out the back window, "They're coming – hurry!"

Leaving their colleague, now recovered to his knees, the two young men sprinted towards the car. The engine turned over, loud with Emmanuel's foot heavy on the gas. Emmanuel pulled away from the curb with a screech as the two men approached. There was a loud thump on the trunk as they sped into the street, rounding the next corner out of sight. 

Kate's breath was short and fast, her eyes fixed on the road behind them, "Oh, God. Emmanuel… thank you. Who were they?"

Emmanuel, seemingly fully recovered, calm, his gaze darting between the city street ahead of them and the rearview mirror. "I'm sure, hired thugs. Given your interview with Etienne."

Kate nodded. Yes, yes. Of course. She thought of the morning before. The palace was grand and imposing, with its marble floors and ornate decorations. The contrast between the opulence of the palace and the poverty and squalor on the streets of Port au Prince was striking. Kate had reached out to the government and was surprised to get the opportunity to talk with Senator Etienne. No doubt, he figured that a woman would be easier to manipulate – or intimidate – convince her that the government was doing all it could to alleviate the despair. A typical autocrat, despite the chaos outside his doors, he arrived well-dressed and polished. An erudite middle-aged man, he greeted Kate respectfully, but with condescension he made no effort to conceal. No matter his calm air, she picked up on his wariness. The writing was on the wall – the government was all but finished. Relentlessly she questioned, allowing him no room to take control of the conversation. Yet, he continued denying the level of corruption and human rights abuses, abandoning the Haitian people to poverty, violence, and sickness.

She glanced back again just as Emmanuel checked the rearview mirror. "I think we're OK…."

"We'll see. Let's get there first…." He checked the mirror briefly again.

"It's their last gasp – silence the media amidst violence and starvation. And cholera. They know they're losing control."

Emmanuel nodded solemnly, "The gangs are taking over. The senators can't hold government without a recognized president. They couldn't do it with…."

They left the city's centre behind, making their way through the quiet, more suburban areas of Port au Prince. Large parts of the city, now reduced to slums. She looked up, tiers of colourful homes one on top of the other up the mountain. Before the earthquake's devastation, the view would have been cheerful and idyllic. Rows upon rows of homes, now just pale, crumbling concrete steps extending up as far as the eye could see. 

They'd arranged to meet Augustin at his chosen place, presuming he would opt for the safest location possible, given his agenda. Rather than a restaurant or cafe, he chose a local corner market. Despite the chaos brewing in the city centre, there was a sense of peace in the outer reaches. As they approached, Kate noticed several manje kwit or Chin Jambe cooks lining the square. 

A lifeline for the many Haitians living on less than two dollars a day, the stalls or tiny houses made of sheet metal and draped with sheets fed everyone from labourers to teachers to students and their families. People milled around, smiling and laughing amongst themselves despite the limited selection. 

It was on the northeast corner of the square amidst a collection of shanty restaurants where they would meet Augustin. 

Jean-Luc Augustin, a renowned rebel, agreed to talk to Kate shortly after she'd arrived a couple of weeks ago. Despite the increasing danger, he continued to organize within Port au Prince rather than from a safe house outside the city. His life was in danger at all times. But, given his high profile and efforts to maintain secrecy around his movement, it had meant rescheduling twice. Kate knew how fortunate she was to finally have a meeting. And she was prepared that it would be very brief.  

The quickly deteriorating situation they'd left behind, however, played in her favour. The government and military's focus was singularly focused on managing the last thread of control they had. It left Kate and Augustin an advantageous window.

As they slowed alongside the square, a young man approached, no more than a teenager, Kate guessed. He stepped into the street, motioning towards the curb. Slung over his shoulder was a semi-automatic weapon. His hand rested on the trigger as he used the weapon to guide them. Kate looked to Emmanuel as he nodded to the boy, pulling the car between a pair of equally run-down vehicles. 

"Augustin's man…." 

"Man? Emmanuel, he's just a boy." She watched the young man, his head darting side to side, on guard for anyone who might have followed. His was a nervous energy – the vitality of youth funnelled through the harrowing realities of surviving daily violence. It was clear that he'd pull the trigger beneath where his fingers rested without hesitation.

"You grow up fast on this island, Kate."

The boy led them into a corridor within the square. It was part of the market shielded from the sun with threadbare tarps strewn overhead. There were stands with meagre selections of produce, eggs, meats – sides of hanging beef, pork and some goat – and other goods; most Kate assumed were handmade.

Between the market stalls, the Chin Jambe cooks dished out Haitian tchaka – a hearty stew of corn, beans, squash, and smoked pork legs – rich bouillon and dumplings, and a particular favourite of Kate's, griot, pork meat cubes in a sweet, spicy, and tangy marinade. 

Between the young man and his high-powered rifle, the mountain that was Emmanuel and the busy, bustling crowd, Kate felt safer than she had all morning. Another young man approached, slapping their guide on the shoulder, saying a few words in Creole. Their young companion scanned the crowd. He turned to face them and swept his rifle to guide them to a food stall beyond where several men sat on metal stools. She turned to Emmanuel, who eyed the group warily. He looked down at her, his voice low, "Augustin and his men."

"You know that's Augustin?" Emmanuel nodded briskly, "Oh yes."

As they approached the food stall, two of the men stood to greet them. The taller of the two stepped forward, his hand extended. Nearly as tall as Emmanuel yet far more slender, Kate was struck by Augustin's charismatic presence and penetrating gaze. His eyes were a luminous amber, intense yet sincere despite his serious demeanour. It was no wonder Emmanuel was so sure it was him – you don't forget a face like Augustin's. He was dressed in worn but clean clothes; determination chiselled the line of Augustin's square jaw. 

"Ms. Osbourne…" In perfect English. She took his outstretched hand, captivated by the warmth of his gaze. "Please, call me Kate." He nodded, smiling. Gesturing towards the man at his shoulder, "This is Timothée." Shorter but slender and as muscular as his compatriot, he had a solemn confidence. Kate assumed him to be Augustin's right hand. Timothée lifted a broad hand to his shoulder in greeting.

"And this is Emmanuel, my translator." Augustin shook Emmanuel's hand, a broad, ironic smile spread across his handsome face. "Translator?" He chuckled to Timothée, "I could use such a translator – we should talk." Emmanuel's expression was unreadable, guarded. Augustin nodded respectfully to the larger man before looking back to Kate, "But you shouldn't need his services for our interview." He motioned to the food stall, "Emmanuel, please, have a seat. Feel free to help yourself to food. Coca-Cola?" 

Emmanuel looked at Kate. She shrugged, "It's fine, I think. we won't be long." Augustin motioned to the cook, who smiled and nodded, reaching for dishes to serve food. He gestured to Timothée, who, along with Emmanuel, moved towards the stall, leaving Kate with Augustin. 

"Please, let's get out of the crowd." With a gentle hand on her back, he guided her behind the stall to a table amongst stacks of produce boxes. "Would you like anything? A Coca-Cola? Food?"

Kate settled at the table, surprised at his easy geniality, "No, thank you. I'm fine. I don't want to take too much of your time." Her stomach grumbled with the offer. She had yet to eat, but she resisted the temptation. 

He sat in the small metal chair across from her as a man appeared with a bottle of Coke. He disappeared back into the fray as quickly as he arrived. "You are courageous to be here. It's gotten very bad over these years and months. These last many weeks, but now… anarchy is on our doorstep." His eyes narrowed, glints of gold penetrating the amber depths.

He watched her, his amber gaze intense. "When you requested the interview, I did some research. I agreed to speak with you because I respect your work – your stories from the Middle East."

Kate arranged her phone to record the conversation and a notepad. She looked up, "Thank you." She shook her head, "But, I'm hardly brave… I'm afraid all the time. It's Haitians who are brave. Year after year, generation after generation, being brave."

She motioned to her phone for permission to record. Jean-Luc nodded, "Yes, you are right. Haitians are brave – very brave. But we, too, are afraid. Always – like you. And that's why we fight."

She regarded him carefully. She had expected someone much harder, with edges sharpened into razorblades of anger and hatred. She'd heard the stories of his relentless attacks. The homes of senators and other officials set ablaze. Acts of violence coordinated to impose intimidation and fear on the ruling class – resulting in lives lost. But, now, face-to-face with the frightening and enigmatic Augustin, she found a softness – a vulnerability. 

"Can you tell me a little about yourself and your background, Mr. Augustin?"

"Of course – but please, Kate, call me Jean-Luc. I was born and raised in Port au Prince. I grew up in a poor neighbourhood and saw the injustice and inequality that plagues my country from a very young age." He took a swig of his Coke. "My father died in the '91 coup defending the Aristide government." I was seven years old." 

Jean-Luc leaned forward on his elbows, "After that, life was tough. I grew up very fast. When I was still very young – only a teenager – I joined a rebel group that fights for the rights of the Haitian people."

"This group – what are your goals and objectives?"

"We are the National Revolutionary Front, formerly the Artibonite Revolutionary Front, after the Artibonite region of Haiti, upon which the group was initially focused. But in 2004, it was renamed to emphasize the national scope of the group. We are both civilians and former soldiers. We fight for the rights of the Haitian people who have been marginalized, neglected, and abused by the government for far too long. We want to end corruption and poverty and for the government to be held accountable for their actions."

"What kind of actions do you take to achieve these goals?"

Amber eyes intense, penetrating, He regarded her carefully, pausing to consider his words. "We organize protests and strikes to raise awareness of what our people face and endure." He took a swig of his Coke. "We also engage in sabotage and guerrilla warfare against the government forces. It's important to understand that we are, first and foremost, a peaceful group. We only use violence as a last resort."

She nodded slowly, "But that violence has been extreme in some cases… a senator and his family – with young children – died in an ambush leaving the palace."

He sat back and, with a fingertip, ringed the top of the bottle, his brow furrowed, "Miss Osborne – Kate – do you know how many Haitian children have died throughout this conflict? At the hands of the Haitian government?"

She nodded solemnly. Kate did know. The number of men, women and children victimized in so many ways over so many years was overwhelming. 

"I understand that you come from a place of relative stability, where violence is mostly limited to a socioeconomic class or places far removed. I've lived there – I studied at George Washington University in DC." He leaned onto his elbows, his warm amber gaze suddenly glacial, "But when the issues – the corruption, the consistent abuse of human rights, the poverty – permeates every aspect of your society, there's nowhere to watch from only a distance, say, from the news or the media. It's on every street; it touches every family. You either bend – and die. Or you fight. With, and by, any means possible."

"So now, as things descend, as you say, 'into anarchy', what's next? The government will soon no longer exist – what is the group's strategy?"

"With all of his senators fleeing, Henry will now stand alone. He will try to hold power with his military and the police. But he is wildly unpopular. He's promised to reestablish an electoral council to organize elections. He will talk about it, promise it, but, like two years ago, they'll not happen. 

"And what does that mean to your group – to Haitians?"

Jean-Luc sighed, leaning back again, his broad hands spread flat on the table in front of him, "Well, gang violence, inflation, now cholera – those effects will get amplified. There are many unknowns. There is the drug trade, with which my arm of the group is not affiliated.

"But it funds you, no?"

Shifting in his chair, he regarded her thoughtfully, bright amber veiled to deep gold, "Yes, yes… and, unfortunately, we need that money. But we focus on community, organizing, and partnerships that help move food and necessities to people in and around Port au Prince. And, like I mentioned, using the tools we have to make that happen."

"I have a question for you," He met her eyes, concentration furrowing his brow, "You are an intelligent and beautiful woman – why do you put yourself in danger like this?"

"Because, as you said, most of us North Americans – westerners – enjoy living in a lovely, protective bubble. A unique bubble from much of the rest of the world. And that bubble lets us live insulated from the terror that so many millions of people live with daily." She swallowed, looking around, avoiding his eyes, "I want – no, need – to do what I can to penetrate that insular existence with stories and truth. A truth that is so often obfuscated by government, corporate, and media interests."

Jean-Luc nodded, taking in her words, "Intelligent, brave, beautiful… and noble. I appreciate your motivation; I do. But, in a place like Haiti, as with so many others, that seems a goal simply not realistic. Is it not futile?" He leaned forward again, "Forgive my scepticism, but the fact is, no matter how compelling, how truthful, your words, there are so few people who will allow themselves to hear them." 

Her eyes narrowed, meeting the intensity of his amber gaze, "Just because it may seem hopeless doesn't mean you give up. You know that better than anyone. This is my small way of trying to impact some change, no matter how small. Even if it's simply to provide greater awareness of the depth and breadth of our privilege – someone might learn something. And teach someone else. I know… it sounds completely inadequate. But, that's what keeps me going – what sends me to places many others refuse to go."

His eyes softened, brightness returning to illuminate their amber depths. A smile softened his carved features, "I think we understand one another, Kate Osbourne. And I think we can help one another achieve even our inadequate aspirations within this overwhelming, unthinkable disaster."