Laverite se tankou lwil nan dlo, li toujou anlè
Truth is like oil in water, it always comes to the surface

Chapter I                                                                                                                        A New Way of Life

I registered the sound as gunfire but it was several seconds before I realized that it was live, and coming in my direction. A second, third and fourth round of shots followed in quick succession, each one increasing in volume and proximity.

Suddenly a blue pickup truck burst through the northern gate of the Haitian National Palace, careening straight across the street towards the National Snack, where my friend Shari and I were sipping a glass of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. Uniformed soldiers stood upright in the back of the vehicle, swaying in unison, a mass of blurred camouflage; weapons like lightning rods propped them up as the truck swerved around the tight corner in front of the picture window where I sat. Despite the rust, the guns reflected the sun’s rays in our direction. The men were tossed like Pick-Up Sticks as the truck sped west towards the water. They were so close I could have identified the color of their eyes if not for the oversized olive green helmets that flopped towards their noses, giving them a cartoonish look. But nothing was funny about this, particularly since I had no idea who was doing the shooting or why, or even where it was coming from. The only thing I knew for certain was that I had picked the wrong spot to take a respite from the burning heat outside.

The gunfire overpowered the usual street noise. The blasts were deafening and without thinking I dived under the table like everyone else, sending plates of french fries flying, ketchup and ice-cream cones splattering. Coke and Sprite bottles crashed alongside the mango and passion juices that pooled on the floor. Above the background noise of shooting, screeching tires, honking horns and cries of terror was the squeaking of the side door as people stampeded out.

Minutes later there was an eerie silence. There were no more gunshots, nor were there sounds from the street or snack bar, except for one lone Coca-Cola bottle rolling on the cement floor. When it finally came to a stop it was deathly quiet, which was far more frightening than the chaos of the last few minutes.

“Shari, we’re the only ones left,” I whispered in near hysteria. Peeking out from under the table the only movement in the now empty restaurant was steam rising from the food under the heat lamps, food that was never going to be served. “Let’s get out of here.”

We untangled ourselves from the mess around us and made a beeline towards the door, our adrenaline racing faster than our feet. “This way,” Shari said as she grabbed my hand. “My office, it’s that building on the corner – right there. Run. Run hard.”

I’d met Shari one week earlier through a mutual acquaintance – she was an intern at Catholic Relief Services (CRS), where she received a stipend for her commitment to help out with several social service projects. We’d just come from downtown Port-au-Prince, where we’d been perusing the streets for artwork. Shari had been thinking of buying a painting with four funny-colored hens just minutes before. Now we were running for our lives.

“Pierre,” Shari shouted to CRS’s skinny caretaker, the lone figure visible on an otherwise empty street. He was just pulling down the heavy metal security gate by the front entrance when he heard our unexpected cry, an eerie shriek cutting through the moment of calm like a bolt of lightening. We squeezed through the small opening before Pierre reached with what little strength his scrawny, weathered arms could muster and clanked together the iron bars. Then he clipped the heavy lock in place and followed Shari and me as we bounced up the stairs, a nervous laughter resounding in the tight stairwell. “In here,” Shari motioned towards her office, and I joined her at the window. The only thing we could see was the deserted square facing the Palace, which was hidden from our view. “What the hell is happening?” 

I shook my head, reeling to catch my breath and slow my heartbeat. My shirt was soaked from perspiration, first from the heat, then from nerves. It clung to my bra, and I gave it a self-conscious tug. My mouth was dry, parched from angst and fear. Splotches of dried, crusty ketchup peppered my sandals. 

Outside, the only movement was military. We watched the silence, startled when intermittent shots rang out, rattling the windows with their vibrations. Then silence again. Then more shooting. It was really frightening and I had no context for this kind of overpowering fear. I was the manager of a handicrafts store in San Francisco, and I’d come to Haiti on a three-month trip to buy handicrafts. My initial plan was to take intensive Creole lessons in Haiti’s capital;  my high school French wasn’t going to get me far in a country where less than seven percent of the population spoke it. Then I planned to travel to the countryside to meet artisans and learn about their crafts until my money ran out. I’d been thinking wooden trays, painted metal work, and paper mâche, not machine guns, armed thugs and military takeovers. That I was in the midst of gunfire just minutes earlier made me wish, for a brief second, that I’d listened to the skeptics who’d told me I was nuts for thinking of going to Haiti at all, let alone for three months. 

Shari and I had no information; no way to get any and no idea what was going on. The phone line worked but neither of us had been in Port-au-Prince long enough to think of a single person to call.

“Whatever it is, it can’t be good,” I said to Shari. I knew just enough about Haitian politics to know that anything was possible. Shortly before my arrival in Haiti, armed gunman stormed the Catholic Church of a popular priest they thought too radical, hacking to death more than a dozen parishioners. “Do you think this is connected to the incident at St. Jean Bosco church?” I asked.

“No way to know, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Everything here is connected,” said Shari, visibly shaken. Her fair complexion, which had been rosy from our walk in the sun, was now flushed with fear. Tall and stately, her lean body seemed to have shrunk in the last half-hour, and her shoulder-length black hair lay plastered with perspiration against her neck. “How long do you think we’ll be here?”

 “I have no idea,” I said, not wanting to think about the possibilities. “What a nightmare. We don’t even know who is shooting at whom. Do you think President Namphy is in the Palace? Is there a radio?”

“Broken,” Shari said. “We’ll probably be the last in the country to find out what’s going on. I can just see the headlines when they find us next week: Two White Women Found, Bodies Paralyzed from Fear.”

 “Come on, it’s not that bad.” I poked her with my elbow. “Think of how much mileage we’ll get out of this story later on.” It was a tactic that I was familiar with in real life, replacing fear with humor, but I couldn’t think of a single example in my 33-years where I had been in a situation as intense as this, with real guns and real danger.

 “Rather not,” Shari said, settling down in a desk chair. “At least we have water, and there’s a supply closet, with things like toilet paper and cups. No food, but at least we won’t die of dehydration.”

I hadn’t thought of that. Why would I? Things like this just didn’t happen in my world. The closest I’d ever come to being stranded was when I was traveling in Nicaragua several years earlier and I’d been robbed of all my personal documents – passport, traveler’s checks, plane ticket. I was in emotional distress then, but not physical harm. I’d anticipated having some adventures in Haiti, but nothing like this, and it was only the first week. 

“Don’t plan on being here that long,” I said, pulling her from the chair. “Come on, let’s go see if there’s a better view from another window.” We went from room to room looking for clues of what might be going on outside, but the only view was of the deserted streets below and National Snack, its doors still open. Wooden crates where street vendors had been sitting outside lay toppled on the sidewalk, various goods scattered on the side of the road. All the traffic, congestion, and bustle of people that filled the block when Shari and I first arrived at National Snack seemed to have melted into the blazing tarmac without a trace.

The stretches of silence eventually outlasted the periods of shooting, but we didn’t believe that meant it was safe to go outside. It did give me time to reflect on the seriousness of the situation, and I began to draw on reserves that I didn’t know I was capable of.

“We have to make a plan,” I said. “We could make a run for your car.

“But to get there we have to run through the square,” Shari said. “Are you really willing to do that?”

“No,” I said, stating the obvious. The adrenaline of the moment had dissipated and it was no longer exciting to be in the center of whatever it was that was going on. I was unnerved and scared – not so much that I’d be the target of a stray bullet or get caught in the melee – but frightened in a distressed way, similar to how I felt as a child when I was thrust in the middle of a playing field, ignorant of the rules or even which game was being played. If Shari felt the same panic that I felt she didn’t share it with me, perhaps out of the same sense of courtesy that I didn’t share mine with hers, which given the situation almost made me smile at our politeness, but I didn’t, of course. Our distress was apparent. The pitch of her voice was a few notches higher than usual and she clasped and unclasped her hands anxiously. Sweat seeped from my brow, my armpits, hands, and my right arm trembled.

We debated what to do for what seemed like forever, but it was still daylight.  The sky was an unnatural blue, as if it knew something unseemly was happening. Suddenly, we saw a white station wagon pull into the National Snack parking lot from which we had fled.

“Mennonites,” I said. Just as there were numerous groups of missionaries in Haiti, there were also a fair number of Mennonites. They were easy to identify by their clothing – plain, white, long sleeved. Two women sat in the back seat, their hair pulled tight into buns covered by a white cotton cloth at the base of their necks. A young child sat between them; the two men in front both had long beards.

“Let’s go, then,” Shari said, and shouted for Pierre to let us out. We tripped down the stairs three at a time, tumbling along the way. From out of the dark Pierre appeared, fumbling with the keys to raise the gate high enough for us to crawl under. We were so anxious to get to the car before it drove away that we didn’t stop to consider Pierre’s fate, leaving him alone as we dashed towards the car. We knocked on the window of the driver’s side, startling the Mennonites, who were deep in conversation. They had just come from the countryside and were as surprised to find National Snack closed as they were to learn why. I was so grateful for their presence and generous offer to give us a lift to Shari’s car that I felt my legs go weak with gratitude and held onto their open window for support. They nervously waited for us to get securely inside Shari’s green Toyota before waving and driving off in the direction from which they’d come.

The motel that I was temporarily staying in while I looked for an apartment during my three-month stay was on the other side of town, so Shari suggested we return to her apartment, just a mile east of the Palace. I’d never seen the area around the Palace so empty, and for a brief second I was able to soak in the contrast between the whiteness of the Palace and the dirty, worn buildings around it. Dusk was finally setting in, casting a pale glow over the bleached streets. But we didn’t linger; the drive was mercifully quick. Shari drove in fourth gear and didn't pass a single vehicle on the way. I let out an involuntary shudder of relief once we passed through the gate that separated Shari’s compound from the street. Immediately inside we met a small group of her neighbors, all foreigners, who were gathered by the pool. Two were in their swimsuits. Surreal. There were soldiers shooting up the town, and these people were sunbathing.

“What have you heard?” Shari asked.

 “Nothing,” said a Frenchman, “only that a friend of mine who lives close to the palace called to say there had been a lot of shooting, and all the streets are empty.”

“Right,” I said. I went inside to peel off my sweat-soaked clothes. I felt deflated, like a tire gone flat. Shari offered to make some pasta but I had no appetite. I took a cold shower but couldn’t get rid of the nervous sweat. I didn’t realize how tired I was until I put my head on the pillow, falling asleep to the banal music on the radio. Not one of Haiti’s radio stations was broadcasting news.

The next morning I awoke to the sound of General Prosper Avril giving a speech on Television Nationale d’Haiti, the National Television Station, TNH. The camera was fixed directly on his pale caramel face. The skin around his eyes strained in an effort to project the seriousness at hand. Still, he wasn’t very convincing when he called himself President Avril and announced there had been a change in government. He never called it a coup d'état, though everyone else did.