Yves Laurent

After spending a year studying development in grad school and more time before that in undergrad, I’ve come to learn that it’s easy to lose sight of what you are trying to do and for whom you are working. The daily problems in the world are overwhelming and the maze of bureaucracy one must often sort through in order to try to enact change can bring you to your knees, making even the most zealous idealist question his or her ability to improve the lives of others. But at the lowest of low moments, it’s almost always the story of an individual that scoops me from the pits of discouragement and reinvigorates my determination. It’s the smile on a child’s face or the perseverance of 80-year old woman. It’s the personal stories of people who struggle, but who keep on going. These are the people for whom “development” is working. This is one story of one of my best friends I’ve made in Haiti. It’s nothing extraordinary, but it’s people like Yves that make me realize even when nothing seems to be going right, we must soldier on…

With a name like Yves Laurent, if I didn’t know better, I’d picture a man perched at a cafe on a boulevard in Paris, nibbling on a baguette, watching the world pass him by. The Yves I know strolls down the streets of Port-au-Prince instead, similarly nibbling on a baguette, watching the world pass him by too. The main difference between the two scenes, however, isn’t the location, but just how the world is passing him by. As a man in Paris has the luxury to soak up relaxation time on a plaza, the man sitting on the street in Haiti hasn’t necessarily made the choice to pass the day idly. Instead, for the man in Haiti, or in this case Yves, the world simply hasn’t given him the opportunity to do much else. Yves, like many Haitians, tries to find things to do to make money and to improve his life, but when you’re without as social safety net (as most are here), modest gains are so often followed by hard falls—the kind of falls which demand each individual to make a choice whether it’s worth it to get back up at all.

Yves just turned 31 last month, hard for me to tell because he’s usually got a boyish grin on his face while he imitates the sounds of a whoopy cushion. He used to come over every other day, but lately his visits to my house have been picking up. In fact, nowadays he quietly spends most nights downstairs in our house while we sleep up above. After getting married two years ago, he’s been hitting some rough patches in his marriage over the last few months. Yves sells cell phone minutes on the streets, but that barely brings in enough money to buy food. Business is slow as any given street is crowded with many people trying to sell minutes. Telecommunications is of the few sectors of the economy that even the poor participate in. But when you’re married here, your job is to provide for your wife, and he simply can’t always do it. She lets him know it, too. “The other men I could have married finished school.” “You aren’t a man if you can’t feed your family.” She’s partly right to be angry. That’s the way marriage works here. But to see the demoralized looks after a day spent selling on the streets and the subsequent rebuke from his wife, it’s a wonder how he evades serious depression.

If Yves’ responsibilities lied just with his wife, however, things might not be too bad. Unfortunately he bears the financial burdens of his entire family. While Yves works here near my house in central Port-au-Prince, he also is constantly thinking of his mother and two brothers who live about 20 minutes away in the Carrefour Feuilles section of town. There, in a one room shack nestled in the back alleyways of a mountainside, his other family members rely on him for income too. His father passed away from cancer in 2005, leaving Yves to take care of his mother.

At the time of his father’s death, Yves was spending two years as a missionary for the Mormon church, as many Mormons do during young adulthood. These were undoubtedly the best years of his life as rarely a week goes by without stories of his days living with American Mormons around Haiti. He got to travel the country during these years and inherit a wealth of experiences, something only very few Haitians are afforded the opportunity to do. When he began his mission at the age of 23, he put school on hold after completing the equivalent of sophomore year of high school with the intention of returning later. As he’d find out though, life here in Haiti sometimes sweeps blueprints to the winds.

Following his father’s death he was now supporting the entire family, but he had two other brothers, Gary and Junior, who were around his age were on track to help out as well.  Unfortunately, the next years would become marred by even greater tragedy. On December 22, 2006, Yves received a call in the evening from his youngest brother Toto who said he thought Junior was in trouble. Junior had friends in the neighborhood who were involved with gangs. And while he was never involved himself, a rival gang decided to get revenge by taking it out on Junior. After not hearing from Junior all night and as his family anxiously awaited news, Yves finally got a call that he had been dreading. His younger brother had been kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. His body was found in the street shot six times, finger cut off. The despair of Haitian poverty and violence had never touched this close before. But it was reality now.

Only weeks after this, Yves’ other brother Gary, who had received a college degree in architecture from the Dominican Republic, became blinded by dust only to lose his vision forever. Once again the plan he had in mind would have to take a detour. Now as the only breadwinner, Yves had to forgo school to provide for his mother, his brothers, and his new wife—a situation that lives on today. Now almost 3 years removed from the years of greatest tragedy, Yves continues on. He constantly is looking for a better, more-sustainable job. But even for those with a education, the Haitian job market is a barren wasteland. Yves relies on church as the driving force in his life. He’s not just there every Sunday, but he uses its message to support him through the rough times. He loves to cook and he’s just started taking some classes to finish his high school program, not that I have much hope a high school degree will truly be of much benefit—call me a pessimist.

As I sat down with him on his 31st birthday to have him tell me more details about his life, it was clear this annual milestone was a time for reflection. He explained the deaths in his family, the joyous years of his mission, and how still today there are days when his mother cannot find food to eat.  “Lavi a di an Ayiti”, he said, eyes welling a little. “Life is difficult in Haiti”. He batted a tear from his eye and stared at the ground for a moment, partly ashamed to look weak, partly just angry at his situation. Quiet for a minute, he lifted his head, he shrugged his shoulders, and he got back up. Not because he necessarily wanted to, but because he had to. Because here in Haiti, and elsewhere in developing countries, you are on your own. There’s no government waiting to get you back on your feet. There’s no life-savings sitting in a bank somewhere. There’s just hope… in it’s pure, unadulterated, and sometimes naive form. And that is what keeps him—and me—going.