A STORY NOT TOLD IN OUR REPORTS

par Annie McMorris, Daniela Bercovitch

10/1/96 - Micivih-Zen

Cité Soleil has the dubious honour of being Port-au-Prince's best known slum, world famous even, given Tipper Gore's recent headline-catching visit. Everyone has driven by its frontier on the Route National I at some point. Others, like Base I observers, have reason to make that turn down the main road which leads to the police station on the wharf - a paved road, brick houses on either side, bustling with commercial activity. Initial appearances can be deceptive. Penetrate deeper into the labyrinth of Cité Soleil and you will find a teaming mass of humanity going about their daily business of basic survival. Observers go there, listen to the grievances of the people armed gangs and zak kriminèl, the police acting like macoutes, no electricity, no jobs, gran gou we listen and go away to make our reports.

There are some stories, however, which will never be told in these reports. Like that of Jesula, for instance. A gentle and meek woman in her late 20s (although she easily looks 10 years older) living alone with no visible means of support. Her two children are not with her - one is in Les Cayes, the other has been in hospital since birth. Not an unusual predicament for a woman in Cité Soleil.

Jesula was one of the few casualties of the morning of 23 November when Cité Soleil exploded in violence after the accidental shooting of a schoolgirl by a police agent. Out shopping in the market, she received gunshot blasts in both legs, apparently from indiscriminate shooting by the police. Observers first came across her that same morning at the General Hospital, a pathetic figure on a bed bathed in blood and crying out in agony. Several days and visits from MICIVIH doctors later, her condition was much improved except that she had no other visitors, no clothes and was extremely hungry.

Due to Jesula's desperate plight observers decided to assist her the day of her release from hospital. Turning up unexpected, we found a forlorn figure sitting on the edge of the bed, sparse belongings pushed into two plastic bags, gazing into space. A seemingly invisible presence in the corner, she appeared contused by the sudden activity caused by our arrival: the dressing of her wounds, our entreaties to get dressed, finish packing her things, to get ready to leave. She could barely walk, but in spite of the obvious pain she stopped at each bed on the way out telling each occupant "m'ale, wi.

Armed with her medicines and some food money, we helped Jesula back to her one-room shack in Cité Soleil. Fears that she would have no-one to take care of her quickly evaporated as women and children materialized out of the winding alley ways to take her belongings, find her a chair, fuss over her and discuss her needs. We were moved by this expression of solidarity and left hopeful that she would be well looked after.

On a subsequent visit with the MICIVIH doctor a few days later, Jesula's wounds appeared to be healing well, but what about other aspects of her life? She was sitting half naked on the bed, the only piece of furniture in her tiny room, and the food money was already gone to pay back rent. Soon the responsibility for following Jesula's case will pass out of the observers' hands. And not long after that the Mission will leave the country. We will no longer be in a position to know what happens to Jesula and the thousands of women like her in Cité Soleil.

Port-au-Prince