The Girl of Salay

What follows is all true…it was originally told by Peter Horan, of Lindenhurst. It is not an OLMM story exactly, but we obtained permission to edit and publish it. A number of people from Lindenhurst come to OLMM to worship, and many of our parishioners have roots in Haiti, so we thought this would be a fitting story to share. Peter’s father, Charles, has been involved in helping people in Haiti for a number of years. Peter had volunteered to go on this particular trip to help out however he could.

Someone once interviewed Mother Theresa and said to her, "You know, Mother, not for nothing but your work here in Calcutta is just a drop in the bucket." She smiled and happily replied, "Yes, and it takes drops to fill the bucket. Last August (2004) I had the chance to go on a missionary trip to Port Au Prince, Haiti. My understanding of the mission was to bring supplies to a school and help repair it. But God had another plan for me. This is the story of my drop in the bucket.

The most vivid description, even one accompanied by photos and videos, cannot convey the suffering and hardship that are routinely endured by Haiti’s citizens every day. The humidity and heat are staggering and stifling. En route from the airport to the parish where I was to work, I observed Port Au Prince (Haiti’s capitol) up close. The streets were teeming with people, many of whom peddled small items-just about anything that other locals would buy, including old, used sneakers and sandals. It was hard to find a happy face anywhere.

The next day, my assignment was building and painting desks at the nearby school. As I enjoy working outdoors, I would have been content to continue with this project all week long, but, again, "God had another plan for me." I learned I would be dispatched the next day to a place called Salay, which, it turns out, is the poorest city in the entire Western Hemisphere.

I’d heard of Salay before, and immediately felt great anxiety about going there, and was resisting the idea. I feared working among AIDS patients and exposure to other dread diseases. But I decided to let my faith carry me-and for some strange reason I felt I had to go to Salay, and I went the next day.

My traveling party included missionaries: Brother Emmanuel, Brother Alexander, Brother John Paul, and John Paul’s foster child, Billy. We drove, leaving at 8am. I began videotaping our journey, but had to stop when we got closer to Salay because we were witnessing so many people suffering the hardships of poverty and disease, and did not want to offend. Horrid odors surrounded us as we continued on. There were shacks and other pathetic shelters all along our route and they got smaller and more pathetic as we neared the center of Salay. Many had no roofs, few had doors, and none had windows.

Children were everywhere. But there was no electricity or running water, and people slept on hard ground floors without sanitation or plumbing services available anywhere nearby, and the rank "aromas" of garbage, human excrement, and morbidity hung in the air like permanent fixtures.

By 9am we arrived at the Missionaries of Charity, where the Brothers resided. Crowding the entrance of the Mission, trying to get in, were hordes of people, mostly mothers with their children. A tour of the hospice there proved very sobering, and with flies everywhere and with an overwhelming putrid stench offending the senses, tears came to my eyes. Yet we were there not to stare and feel bad, but to help people. Bro. John Paul instructed us to start shaving patients, cutting their hair and administering massages to patients who wanted them.

Frightened and reluctant, I put on medical gloves and began to cut the hair of a man in his 70’s. When I finished he seemed so grateful, even happy-and I gave him a piece of candy as I moved on to my next task. All of the men in this hospice were at death’s door and in pitiful condition. There was one man who was fluent in English and French, a well-educated former architect. He had been tragically injured in a gas explosion accident, was severely injured, and not long for this world. I saw many individuals with indescribable skin conditions and with little or no energy who found themselves helpless amid their own wastes and foul smells. It felt as though I were visiting a concentration camp and unfortunately I did become sick to my stomach. But soon I recovered my strength and was able to keep doing what I was there to do.

Still reeling, and trying to comprehend the reality of what I was experiencing…suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the most beautiful child I had ever seen right there in the Salay hospice. She was sitting on a bench with her mother and crying, just an infant. I asked her name and learned that it was Maranatha. Her light brown skin matched her light brown hair and she was quite small. I gave her a lollipop and she stopped crying suddenly and seemed happy all at once. I asked questions and learned that her father was a patient here, having been shot in the leg a few weeks earlier. He was going to be at the hospice for an unknown period of time and meanwhile, Maranatha and her mother had been evicted from their small shack dwelling, unable to pay their monthly rent.

I returned to my duties, and when I glanced back at Maranatha, I saw her mother take the lollipop out of her mouth to put it in her own mouth. I tended to a few more patients, giving haircuts and massages, and then returned to Maranatha who was crying again-and I decided not to leave her for the rest of the afternoon. All I had for lunch was a banana, which I shared with this little innocent. She soon fell asleep in my arms and it dawned on me suddenly that I absolutely had to do something to help this beautiful little baby. Her mother and her father had no trouble deciphering my feelings and they asked me-several times-to please take their daughter to the United States with me. Naturally, I thought this would be impossible, but I was curious and sought the counsel of Bro. John Paul. He looked at me closely and asked, "do you love this baby?" I looked at her as she slept and I answered, "I do." John Paul quickly replied, "OK, we can take her…not to America, but to the orphanage, and she will be saved." A huge smile broke out on my face.

But things would not be so easy to arrange. We had to talk to the Sisters of Charity who ran the orphanage. That night I began to cry when I realized there was no certainty that Maranatha could be taken by the orphanage. I realized that I was experiencing God in a way that was new for me, and I was utterly certain of one thing: my purpose in being in Haiti was finding a safe haven for this helpless little girl, Maranatha. I prayed my heart out-something I had not done for many years-memorares and novenas, in hopes that everything would work out favorably.

It turned out that the next day, along with Bro. John Paul and Bro. Emmanuel, I would get to meet with the Sisters of Charity. After two taxi rides that lasted almost an hour, we still had to walk forty minutes in the heat to get to the orphanage-but I was willing to do almost anything, and it was well worth it. Even though the prospect of moving to an orphanage for most American children would be a complete nightmare…for a Haitian child, living in an orphanage is a monumental upgrade in living conditions, and place where children can actually have hope for a fulfilling future.

Instead of living destitute in poverty with nothing but hardship and difficulties to look forward to, a child in an orphanage such as the one run by the Sisters of Charity can have three healthy meals a day, a clean bed of their own, medical care, running water, and so on…a real life, plus the prospect of someday being adopted by a Haitian family living in America, or another American or European family-though the odds of such outcomes for many children are remote.

When we met with the two nuns from the Sisters of Charity, I was perplexed by the look in the eye of one of them-such a look of deep love I had never seen before. I knew that God was with us. We told them the entire story of Maranatha, and the sisters said they could take Maranatha in if her mother came to the orphanage and filled out all the necessary paperwork.

We were very thankful and left with great hopes. And again, I had a huge smile on my face. Now, we needed to get back to find Maranatha and her mother. Outside the orphanage we struck up conversation with a young man named Alex Jules who offered to help us find Maranatha and her mother. At this point we were a little disoriented in this very overcrowded and chaotic place but we had to get back to the hospice without delay.

In our search, our quest to bring Maranatha to her new life, we witnessed even more of the horrors of Salay-the poorest city in the Western Hemisphere. We saw children scavenging through huge piles of trash-completely filthy and dirty kids. In my two-plus days in Salay I noticed that the children never smile there-or maybe they do for just a few moments, if they are lucky enough to be given a lollipop by a "wealthy" stranger. Again, the odors were overwhelming and there was just so much human degradation-I prayed hard that things would work out favorably for Maranatha. But I felt again that we were doing God’s work and we would not be thwarted. Finally we made it to the hospice. There was Maranatha sleeping on a bench near her father’s bed.

But where was her mother? Nowhere to be found! We would have to wait…but it was not a waste of time. Some of the patients remembered us from the day before: they smiled and even greeted us with high-fives! We discovered another girl, only about 3 years old. She was excessively thirsty, so we kept giving her clean water and she drank five full glasses, hardly stopping for breath! We bathed her too, and though she did not smile, she had a look of contentment now that had not been there a half hour earlier.

Finally Maranatha’s mother returned after we had waited four full hours. We immediately prepared to head back to the Sisters of Charity orphanage. I felt deep twinges of remorse leaving the hospice. There were so many other children there that needed to be helped, to be saved. Why should only Maranatha be the lucky one while so many other children would remain here, continuing to suffer? But I knew I could not help them all. I would have to take comfort in knowing that I was saving one and only one. And of course, it was not just me alone, but the Brothers too, who were angels for me in those unforgettable days in Salay.

We arrived back at the orphange. The papers were signed, and now it was time to turn Maranatha over to the Sisters of Charity. Saying goodbye to Maranatha was one of the hardest things I ever had to do, so strong was my attachment to her. I sat by her crib for a while, and one of the other Sisters came over to me, seeing that I was crying a little bit. "Congratulations, you saved her life!" she said. I thought for a moment and said, "yes, and she saved mine!"