Changing Eyes

It’s now been a year since I first arrived in the Dominican Republic and lately I’ve been noticing more and more the new “eyes” through which I view this entire island. When I initially lived in Haiti over five years ago, I thought very little about what was happening on the eastern side of the island. I must admit, I was rarely even conscious that there was a whole other country sharing the same small geographical space with Haiti. I knew little of the cultural differences, and even less about the constant flow of Haitians heading east. Daily, they leave their homes in search of work, some remaining for life, others, caught between two worlds, repeatedly traveling to and fro. It’s a phenomenon that now has me living, learning and interacting with a perspective that is constantly challenging me to better understand, and to use my new “eyes” with great responsibility.
During my last trip to Haiti, I spent several days in the rural community of Makari, located in the mountains of the southern coast. Mileage wise, Makari is not terribly far from the Dominican border, but there are no paved roads that lead there directly. Unintentionally, I discovered that many members of this community, young and old, had spent time living and working in the DR. The connections seemed endless and the stories filled with struggle. Jelko, a young Haitian man who frequently visited the family I was staying with in Makari, shared with us, on several occasions, about his experiences in the DR. He had made his way to the capital, Santo Domingo, where construction jobs are flourishing as space is being eaten up by tall apartment buildings. “I was working, yes, but usually the money wasn’t even enough for me to eat on”, Jelko explained. He also mentioned that he and many others would often have to sleep in the half constructed buildings for lack of any other affordable housing.
Worst of all was the anger and sadness I heard in his voice when he spoke of the Dominican people he had encountered and the level of disrespect with which he was treated. It was all too much for him and so he returned to Makari, his home community, where he’s now contemplating his return. In Makari, there are the comforts of home culture and family, but he doesn’t want to be a burden, there is no work for him there. Jelko is one of so many Haitians caught between these two very different worlds.
Across the street from my house in Santo Domingo, they’ve just torn down a private home and a photo of the large apartment building to come has been placed on the front gate. Each morning as I leave for an early run, I see the Haitian construction worker who has been charged with “protecting” the construction site for the night – he is usually sleeping peacefully in his plastic chair. As I run through a wealthier neighborhood to the park, I often encounter strings of Haitian men, also construction workers, walking long distances to work on the latest site here, saving the money for the public transport. Occasionally, I encounter a Haitian worker sliding open a gate from the inside, exposing a co-worker who has just woken up, brushing his teeth in the midst of the unfinished building, his current “home”.
I’ve always held compassion for these workers, feeling that I at least have a slightly more intimate understanding of the struggles they may have faced in Haiti that caused them to come here. But now, as I travel back and forth from Haiti with my new “eyes”, with a new perspective, I now have names, faces and communities to put to these struggles. Each morning I think of Jelko and all the others like him, here in the DR and back in Haiti, caught between these two worlds. They are two worlds that are infinitely linked – through geography, history, and the blood, sweat and struggle of every immigrant worker that gives of him or herself in the search for a better life.

*Thanks to Sarah Cool for these pictures of Makari