A Haitian Orphanage

There are three orphans who live at the hospital. By “live,” I mean that they have tiny cribs in the corner of the pediatric ward, and I assume they get some kind of food. One of them is a six year old girl who sleeps in a crib that is barely long enough for her body.

I don’t know how long they have been there. They are wards of the city. My NGO identified an orphanage near Port-au-Prince that would accept them if we can get permission from the city of Jeremie to release them.

I was asking for help from the hospital social worker when I suddenly realized that my concept of “orphanage” was not the Haitian concept. To me, an orphanage should be a place that tries to find families that will adopt its wards.

“Fedy, we would like to move the orphans to an orphanage, near Port-au-Prince.” I explained in French.

“Ahh!” he smiled gently. “A place where they would be able to give the children better attention, more care?” he asked happily.

I shook my head. A place where they might get to live in a home with a family, I explained to him. My head was a mess of creole and French, so I tried to remember the word in English: “ADOPTION.”

Adoption does not exist here. There are not enough parents for children. “So, in the United States, a woman can choose to adopt a child instead of having her own child?” Fedy asked me. Exactly. It wasn’t until that moment that I understood why those three children were just living in the hospital. No one liked it. No one believed it was good for them. The pediatricians wanted to help the children. But people do not adopt other children here -- my idea of an orphanage didn't exist.

In Haiti, Fedy explained to me, many children are said to be “without fathers.” I've met numerous women have children from different boyfriends. Abandonment of their children is widespread, commonplace. To the extent that parliament is trying to pass a “responsible father” law.

“What are they going to DO!” I asked Fedy. “Make them pay a fine??” I raised my eyebrows at him. “It’s in parliament, they are still working on the law.” He reassured me. “Mmm, Fedy, and who is going to go find these fathers and enforce it?”

We’ll see what happens, if this law gets written and passed.

Anyway, before the hospital will write me a letter allowing me to leave with the three orphans, I need permission from the UN military. I have been waiting for someone from the UN to arrive at the hospital so I can get the kids released.

“Michelle, MINUSTAH.... they are never going to show up. You have to go to the office of the UN Military. To get permission.”

“And I just walk into the UN office and ask who is responsible for these kids? Who do I ask for?”

Fedy shook his head at me. “Just go.”

Trying to find someone from the UN who will admit to having any responsibility for these children is going to be a nightmare. I am going to be shuffled from desk to desk, until I am unable to continue speaking French. I just know it.