I got a note from a longtime friend, South Carolina activist Kevin Gray, who recently went to Haiti to help out as well as get educated on what really is going on. It said: ” I ran into some of your people in Port-au-Prince.”

Now, I’m not from Haiti so I was in a bit of a quandary as to what Kevn was talking about, but it turns out that a few close friends from Howard University have been in Haiti doing what they can with the skills they’ve been blessed with. So a very public shout out to Dr. Broderick Franklin and Dr. Greg Banks - both HU contemporaries and hang out partners who very quietly do what they do every day without fanfare.

And to all others who’ve lent a hand in any way they could - THANKS!  —  Eric Easter

What makes people think that they can go to another country - in a time of dire need, stress and tragedy - and steal children?  Doesn’t make sense to me.  On the other hand, it does.  Missionary zeal has made many a person cross the line of morality and logic for a long time - especially when it comes to black people.  At any rate, the ten zealots with the half baked plan of setting up an orphanage somewhere in the D.R. are now facing a possible life sentence for kidnapping - in a Haitian jail.  That’s hard time if I’ve ever heard it.  I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and hope that they were sincere in their quest and conviction.  It’s a paper thin allowance though, because I really can’t condone preying on the gross misfortune of others, especially when it comes to children.  I don’t care who told you to do it.  Wrong kids, wrong century.

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My most recent roommate Benjamin Myers, a freelance photographer in Washington, D.C., said that he sometimes feels a little guilty about making photographs of all the suffering and tragedy that we’ve encountered here. There are hungry people just a 10-minute walk away, and some of those who were seriously injured may not have a strong chance of pulling through to a full recovery. A new generation of amputees has emerged, along with thousands of orphaned and displaced Haitians added to the ranks. People will continue to live in tents (or on the streets of Port-au-Prince) for a very long time and the state of shock that many find themselves in may take years to subside – if ever. No one will ever really trust buildings here again and their relationship with the very ground they walk on will forever be different. People need real things immediately and they need their lives back, so I understand Benjamin’s concern.

Just yesterday, I had a young woman in one of the smaller tent cities respond to my request for a photograph by saying, “I need food, I don’t need pictures”. Being the subject of an, out-of-the-blue, photojournalist was definitely not on her ”to do” list for the day. I was feeling her. But I also understand the long-term impact of imagery. And I’ve seen the effects of a well-told, powerful story. Every journalist sent here, or those who came on their own, was here to bear witness - and this was not a simple story. The scale is too large and the layers run fathoms deep. But the word had to go out. It’s kicked most of our butts and I think it really made us question our own professional beliefs concerning commitment to a cause that we cover, empathy towards a subject and our own personal involvement. This was a time for human responsibility. It was too significant an event to keep up the glass wall - at least from where I sit. Haitians are some of the most resilient people that I’ve ever met, and if any group can get past this level of catastrophe it will be them. Judging by the worldwide out-pouring of help, they won’t be doing it alone and that’s a very fine thing.

I said in my previous entry that the “Haitian people don’t need your prayers…(read it for the context)”. I’ll amend that a bit, because sometimes prayer is all folks have to work with. And after spending two weeks watching people survive in the most extreme situations possible, sometimes faith is what gets you through. I suppose that prayer has a lot to do with that. But there’s another type of faith, and it’s not the fatalistic or religious type. It’s the type that says, “I’m going to make it regardless, against any odds. This life will work for me and I’ll be the one to kick in”. That type of faith has been demonstrated here to me everyday. Peace to all.

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I walked up on this white guy today, as he was unloading a full to the brim truck of small kitchen supplies and food items outside of one of the tent cities in Petionville. My driver Onel and I were just cruising, when we spotted one of the many lines of people you see all over town now.  We almost didn’t stop. But this one had U.S. military support, so we decided to check it out. I asked the dude what he was giving away. “Just basic supplies”, he said. He had a fairly dutiful vibe and looked like most of the other aid workers you see here, with a baseball cap and shades – except this guy hadn’t missed a gym day in years and there was something a little different about him. Turns out it was Sean Penn, in Haiti doing his thing. He and his team finished the unloading, and while he was taking a break, I asked him how important it was for the Hollywood community to get involved in the relief effort. Without missing a beat he said, “I think it’s important for all communities to get involved in any way they can”. Way to go Sean.

I’ve heard of a few notables who’ve actually hit the island - Wyclef, Alonzo Mourning, President Bill Clinton, Rev. Jesse Jackson and Reverend Al are just a few. And there’s probably a big fund-raising effort taking place right now, organized by some major black power brokers. Being here, I’ve just been a little out of the loop. But if there’s ever been a time for boots on the ground, this is it. The people of Haiti don’t need your prayers and they don’t just need your money – they need your time, resources, knowledge and energy. There’s a lot of chatter about a rebuilding effort – and most of these ideas get filtered to me from the States. It’s very lofty, but doable, and it needs to be addressed. But when you’re here, you realize that we still haven’t gotten past the stage for basic needs. Where can I get my haircut? Where can I get a meal? Where can I get another job? What will happen to my tent when it rains? Where can I wash my clothes? When will the children go back to school? Where can I find a place to sleep – besides the streets? These are real, life altering questions and the consistent answers to all of them are just being slowly supplied and won’t be worked out for months. Realize this, there are still bodies buried in the rubble. I pass by them everyday.

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Met a young brother yesterday, PFC David Shuford with the 82^nd Airborne, who was experiencing his first time out of the States. He’s only been in the Army for a few months, and his assignment this day was to keep order outside of the general hospital in Port-au-Prince. He was on point, and along with the other members of his unit, held it down. The gate area is mass confusion. Dozens of people crowd the entrance with hopes of visiting family members or to seek their own treatment. Without the 82^nd, order there could quickly fall apart. Whatever your feelings towards them may be, the United States military does what it does very well. Give them an assignment, get out of the way and it’s done. No fanfare, just matter of fact precision. Things are becoming a bit more organized, but you can’t imagine the scale of need and the necessity for systematized distribution unless you’re here. Things still haven’t trickled down and it’s been two weeks. We’re still living very much in the now and it just keeps coming.  Oh, can we back off the “be safe” thing?  I know everyone means well, but I’ve never felt a need to be afraid of other black people.

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With all of the people who’ve now been forced to the streets, I’m relieved and surprised that more of them haven’t been hit by cars. With everything else that’s going on here, we don’t need that. I hope that I’m not conjuring anything up, but to call the Hatian style of driving aggressive is a gross understatement. You have to understand, all of the space gets used here. Many of the houses are stacked or in close proximity, people line up for things very tightly (breaking all the American rules of personal space), buses and Tap Tap’s (a modified pick-up truck with bench seats installed, brightly painted, and used to transport people on local routes) are always packed and everyone understands their place on the road.

Let’s say that you’re heading north on a crowded, two lane winding road. Traffic is tight. You’re in the thick of it all and doing your customary 60 miles-per-hour (in what could be considered a 30 mile-per-hour zone). The car in front of you isn’t quite keeping pace, so you cross into on-coming traffic (on a semi-blind curve to the left), lay on the horn and gun it. Midway through this unbelievable maneuver, a tanker truck appears dead ahead (barreling at you just as fast), but you haven’t yet gotten past the car you were passing – you’re right beside each other. Space is now at a premium and time is nearly gone. So at the last second, you gently (or sometimes not) force the car over to his right and take his lane. The truck goes by (leaving you gasping from diesel fumes), you complete your pass and all’s good. Oh, did I mention the several dozen people walking on both sides of the road, the five motorcycles headed in either direction, the guy crossing the street up ahead with his young daughter, the car at the cross street with its front end peaking out, the little canine that avoids his own demise by hearing you in the nick of time, and it’s dark. Let’s just say that you can’t beat the rush and it gives new meaning to the term “keep it moving”.

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Sunday started off benignly enough, with my initial desire to photograph one of the many Catholic masses that took place in the city. I wanted a church that had been badly damaged, but possessed a congregation resilient enough to continue holding services on the site. Didn’t have a real address to anywhere specific, so we (friend and photographer André Chung) decided to cruise by the National Cathedral for starters. A once majestic building with classical architecture, it now resembles the Alamo. The roof has totally collapsed, the outer walls are badly damaged or gone, pieces of the building are scattered everywhere around its base, and one doorway contains two corpses. They were unfortunate individuals who nearly escaped the wrath of the quake and their upper torsos still lay outside of the doorway, their lower bodies covered with rubble just inside the threshold. They sadly missed the rest of their lives by a mere second before succumbing to falling concrete.

In route to the cathedral, we were sidetracked by the site of a Catholic Monsignor walking up the street with all of the purpose in the world – bible in hand and elegantly dressed in a purple and black robe. We jumped from the car and paced him along his walk for a brief time, making photographs as he weaved his way along the narrow sidewalk, peppered with other pedestrians. He indicated that he was in route to deliver mass at a nearby church and we decided to go there. The church was totally destroyed, but the mass itself took place adjacent to one of the many tent cities sprouting up everywhere. The service itself was very sedate and didn’t make a good picture, so we just watched for a while before moving on. We ran into a couple of other good photo opportunities and worked those for a while, but we decided to go downtown near “Crazy Street”. The reason photographers here call it that should be evident.

As we drove into the downtown area (over the usual abundance of debris and trash) and turned the corner onto one of the main drags, it was like seeing the aftermath of the apocalypse. I had been there a few times before, but earlier. This time, the light was just past perfect and helped cast a bizarre feeling to everything. There were several open fires burning in the street, and a cast of obviously desperate people mysteriously moved around like zombies. Some were crawling in and out of the now crumbled buildings, scrounging for whatever useable items they could get their hands on, while others walked around with a semi-dazed look in their eyes with no apparent destination. Power lines hung down everywhere and the occasional smell of rotting flesh passed through the air. Cat sized rats scrambled back and forth, jumping from one hole in the street to another. While backing up to make a photograph, I stepped near the edge of some burned rubble. Upon closer inspection, four human skulls were mixed in with the ashes. We stayed there for a couple of hours, till the light really started to fade, talked with some of the people and made plenty of pictures. Occasionally, there were altercations between some of the scavengers. We kept an eye on that from down the block. You don’t want to get too close and have the anger direct itself towards you. Of course the police showed up to rouse them, only to have them return moments later to continue their quest.

As if it couldn’t get any stranger, thick black smoke started rising from a set of buildings a few blocks away. Someone had just set a store on fire. It was a fully stocked tire warehouse. The fire department showed up and went through the motions, but rubber can burn for days. I don’t know how that turned out, since we had lost all light, it was late and time to pull out. The pictures had dried up and there was really no other reason to be there.

Dudley M. Brooks

Someone was asking on my Facebook page, how do the journalists manage to work here - considering the severity of damage from the quake. You have to think on the fly, be a good problem solver and up your intensity level - because intensity is Haiti. For some, it can be a hard place to work, even without an earthquake to upset the natural balance - and if you don’t speak Creole, double those difficulties. A good driver/translator is key. They’re not hard to find and are always outside of the hotel soliciting their services. Finding the right one is another matter. I personally prefer good language skills (Creole/English) over car comfort, although you need something to ride in that’s secure and that can get up out of a situation in case something “pops off”. The roads are bad on cars here anyway. I’ve had two flats in three days so far. They also have a tendency to drive like madmen at times, but that can balance out once the two of you establish a good comfort level. The other convenient way of getting around is on the back of a motorcycle, which is good for closer in trips. Can get through stopped traffic much better. Lots of us are doing this.

There are a couple of hotels that have become journalist hubs. I’m staying at the La Villa Creole, which was partially destroyed (with the downed portion, ironically, adjacent to our poolside work area). Rooms are at an availability premium, so lots of folks are sleeping outside under trees, in the courtyard or by the pool (The last few tremors that we had definitely insured a camp out environment around here). We have wireless and we have food – three times a day. The wireless can be slow at certain peak times from overflow, but it’s mainly consistent. The staff is great and extremely helpful, as are all of the other journalists – from all over the world. Everyone realizes the severity of the situation, so I haven’t seen too many attitudes – except when the beer runs out. Days are long (20 hours on an average), hot and dusty (with lots of unknowns floating around in it) - lots of rubble and debris that you’re constantly crawling over or around. The second wave of photographers and writers are coming in now, with the people who were here immediately after the quake starting to leave. Bottom line is, it’s difficult but workable.

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We had to change rooms last night. Too many guys with camera gear, computers, cords, bells and whistles for a one bed, single room to handle - we’re up to six in and out room users now. I think. The plan has been in the makings for a few days now, but we finally put it into execution last night – at 11:00pm.

Too much carbon-monoxide was coming in through the window at night, from the generators on the lawn, and we just couldn’t take it anymore. We’re waking up at 5:30am every morning, and being gassed out shouldn’t be part of the plan, especially when you’re rolling until 1:00am the following morning. Had to trade up.

New problem now, we’re deeper into the hotel, facing the downslide of a hill. Had to make the emergency – which way to run plan – if another quake decides to bring down the other half of the hotel. I figure that we have less than 10 seconds to get up three exterior flights of stairs to the pool area, and that’s if we’re not sleep when it hits. Jumping out onto the balcony (the quickest way out) is not a viable option, unless you want to surf down a 45-degree hillside drop in your shorts. I guess it’s back to sleeping in my clothes. –Dudley

The Cubans run a small hospital facility near the National Cathedral in Port au Prince. Actually, to call it a hospital is a stretch – it’s really a series of tents and plastic tarps, supported by tree branches on the lawn of a non-descript building. The waiting room is the open air and patients recover in areas on the lawn, cordoned off by blankets or whatever fabric is found. They do good work here, because they keep people alive. This afternoon there was only one lifeless body. It was covered and pushed way off to the side of the courtyard. I guess this was a good day for the staff. Everywhere I go, I’m constantly amazed by what people can endure and this situation in Haiti is no different.

An older boy, 15 or 16, came in accompanied by his mother to have his arm dressing changed. His head was also wrapped in a bandage and he was clearly in pain. As the medical attendant unwrapped the arm, an eight-inch long gash was revealed, with muscle torn down to the bone. She grabbed a bottle of iodine and poured it directly on the wound. She continued to pour a second bottle, despite his screams. The wound could very well be an amputation, but they can’t do that here. They only have the facilities to treat. It’s a hopeful, not too temporary save. He looks at me making his photograph and I immediately know the look. He wants to be the hard guy, but the pain is too intense. Tears stream down his face, while his mother pats her hand on his chest and lays her head on his shoulder for comfort. This is hard for her too – it’s damned hard for all of us. To witness someone experiencing unbearable pain is a difficult thing - but at least he’s getting treatment.

Dudley M. Brooks