Haiti wakes up fresh in its strong body, cities stretch before they run, and the countryside groggily walks to the porch to check the weather.
Haiti is magical realism. It’s colors I didn’t know the eye could see. It’s a young boy who learned from the birds to fly. It’s Boukman fighting for freedom as a beetle.
Haiti is a quiet women whose face holds back pain, silently, like a dam bellow a long river.
Haiti is that same dam when it bursts.
Haiti is cheery organ music at the end of the day, and a symphony of street sounds. “Dlo, Dlo, Dlo,” and the sizzle fried bananas.
Haiti is mountains on mountains. And waves on waves.
Haiti is a beating drum, broken systems, a rebellious rhythm. Perseverance.
Haiti is inspiration and desperation.
Haiti is polite hellos and sassy exchanges. It’s excitement to see a friend you just saw the day before. It’s sharing with neighbors and dominos with the boys.
Haiti is spice.
Haiti is si bondye vle, if god wants.
Haiti is being comfortable. Except on Sundays, Haiti is suits and ties.
Haiti is never hidden but still always mystery.
I took a break from my blog for a while. I needed some time to walk barefooted, and feel Haiti, but I’ll be sharing more soon!