mention of the word is sometimes followed with a smile or even bits of laughter. Goudougoudou doesn’t sound nearly as terrifying as the experiences that most folks will recount when you ask them where they were that afternoon when it happened.
Sandra would not tell me her story at first. I heard it in detail from her mother, Marie, whose voice rose several decibels when she recalled her horror: “Sandra was alone in the city. She went there to register for a course. She had just left the school building, crossed the street to take a tap-tap. She saw it collapse with everyone still in it.” The school was close to the Christopher Hotel (where MINUSTAH was based). Both structures collapsed. Sandra became hysterical during the entire drive home. A woman on the bus threw a piece of cloth over her eyes so she would not witness any more. Buildings were still crumbling, crushing bodies as she made her way home.
When Sandra finally spoke to me, it was an abbreviated version. She focused more on a former classmate who had been buried under the rubble for several days. Along with her family, she was bused out of the capital into the provinces. Since the classmate’s return, she has not been the same. When you look at her, Sandra says, it’s like looking at someone who is no longer there. Her eyes are open, but she is not there.
Maggie could not wait to tell her story. She was in the city with her niece. They both fell down. With her wiry frame, she used every part of her body to re-create the moment. She said, “I didn’t know what was happening. The thing dropped me on the ground, pow! flat on my belly.” As she explained it, “I tried to stand. It dropped me down again and pow!” showing where each arm landed.
Micheline was inside the house. Her father rushed in to retrieve her where he found her standing disoriented. Subsequently, with each aftershock, she became more clingy, crying, screaming, asking her father if it will happen again.
Since Goudougoudou, the women refused to sleep indoors. So the men built a tin-roofed shack in the yard, where everyone still sleeps at night. Those who dare to remain under the concrete, as folks say jokingly, call themselves soldiers. For the kids’ sake they call the shack a hotel. Micheline’s biggest thrill is going to the hotel at night. In the dark, she rushes to it, where she will snuggle next to her brother, her best pal, and a slightly older cousin. When I arrived in Haiti for my first trip since the quake, one of Micheline’s first questions to me was will I sleep in the hotel?
When I asked her about Goudougoudou, she smiled with the brazen timid defiance of a four-year-old who had no intention of answering me. These are stories of a couple of women in my family. Other folks I encountered were not as inclined to be silent. Whoever I asked began to tell their stories, often all at once—each one too often more horrid than the next. The need to speak the trauma and fright they have lived is a psychological one that must be addressed, as it is so necessary for healing.
The government is fumbling with its incapability to deliver and coordinate even the most basic needs as NGOs run amok in country; mental health needs are not a priority. While there are ad hoc efforts to address the trauma, especially among children, it is clear that what is necessary is a coordinated project at the national level to ensure that the post-traumatic stress of Goudougoudou does not remain trapped in the bodies of those who lived this moment and its continuous aftermaths.
10
Why Representations of Haiti Matter Now More Than Ever
April 23, 2010 (talk) / July/August 2010 NACLA Report
Soon after the earthquake, mainstream news coverage of the disaster reproduced long-standing narratives and stereotypes about Haitians.9 Indeed, the representations of Haiti that dominated the airwaves in the aftermath of the January 12 quake could virtually be traced back to those popular in the nineteenth century, especially after the Haitian Revolution, as well as to the twentieth century during and after the U.S. occupation of 1915–34. Understanding the continuities of these narratives and their meaning matters now more than ever. The day when Haitians as a people, and Haiti as a symbol, are no longer representatives of or synonymous with poverty, backwardness, and evil is still yet to come.
As I have discussed elsewhere, Haitians as subjects of research and representation have often been portrayed historically as fractures, as fragments—bodies without minds, heads without bodies, or roving spirits.10 These disembodied beings or visceral fanatics have always been in need of an intermediary. They hardly ever spoke for themselves. In the academy, they are usually represented by the social scientist. And after January 12, enter the uninformed, socio-culturally limited, and ahistorical journalist.
The day after the quake, correspondent Susan Candiotti filed one of CNN’s first on-the-ground reports. Clearly overwhelmed by the scenes of death, she commented on the indifference of those roaming the streets, many of them still covered in dust. “In an almost chilling scene, you would see people in some instances sitting nearby [the dead bodies lining the streets], some of them with vacant stares in their eyes just sitting in the middle of the street,” she said. “At times, you would see young children walking about as though seeing this horror didn’t bother them. And you had to wonder, is that because this country has suffered so much and through so many natural disasters over so many years?”
More than a week later, on January 22, CNN anchor Anderson Cooper appeared on the air with another correspondent, Karl Penhaul, reporting from Haiti. Penhaul related the story of a woman who survived the quake but lost her two young children. Surprised to see her force her way onto a bus to get out of Port-au-Prince, Penhaul said he asked her if she had buried her children before leaving. “And she simply said, ‘I threw them—I threw them away,’” Penhaul said, interpreting the woman’s reply, “Jete,” to mean that she threw them out. The only word he apparently understood was jete (throw, fling, hurl). He did not mention the prepositions that came before or words that came after the verb, nor did it occur to him that the woman was saying she did not have the opportunity to bury them because they were thrown into a mass grave by others.
“Can you imagine a mother saying in any culture, ‘I threw them away’?” the reporter said incredulously. Penhaul was also perturbed that the people he saw weren’t crying. “As I put to this lady,” he continued, “you know, ‘Why don’t you Haitians cry?’” Cooper tried to move the conversation toward a discussion of trauma and even mentioned the word “shock,” but only at the very end of the segment.
In media coverage of the quake and its aftermath, this dehumanization narrative—portraying traumatized Haitians as indifferent, even callous—took off on what I call the sub-humanity strand, which was particularly trendy. It stems from the dominant idea in popular imagination that Haitians are irrational, devil-worshiping, progress-resistant, uneducated, accursed black natives overpopulating their godforsaken island. There is, of course, a subtext here about race. Haiti and Haitians remain a manifestation of blackness in its worst form because, simply put, the unruly enfant terrible of the Americas defied all European odds and created a disorder of things colonial. Haiti had to become colonialism’s bête noir if the sanctity of whiteness were to remain unquestioned.
Haiti’s history would become its only defense against these portrayals, although in mainstream media that same history would be used against the republic by historical revisionists. The day after the quake, the televangelist Pat Robertson proclaimed that the catastrophe in Haiti was a result of the country’s pact with the devil, a belief that many Protestant Haitians themselves accept as true. The “devil’s pact” refers to the ceremony at Bois Caïman on August 14, 1791, said to have sparked the Haitian Revolution. On that day, it is said, rebel leader and Vodou priest Boukman Dutty presided over this ceremony in which those in attendance swore to kill all whites and burn their property. Cécile Fatiman, the presiding priestess, sacrificed a pig to honor the spirits. Robertson’s rereading of the ceremony was yet another example of the racialization of
