Be Still

Above: Men place a casket in a stranger's crypt in Port-au-Prince after breaking it open and removing the old contents. Andy Olsen photo

Saint-Louis du Nord, Haiti

If you were looking for someone who is angry at God, surely you would find them here.

In this country where a magnitude 6.1 aftershock woke thousands from their sleep this morning and sent terrified crowds into the streets, just a week after the initial earthquake razed their capital city.

In this country where so many still have not heard about loved ones they fear are dead. In Port-au-Prince, where I watched men open a crypt and remove old bones with their bare hands, refilling the hole with a cheap casket and wedging it closed with broken rocks.

But if you are looking for fists raised to God, you'll have to look hard. In the streets of Haiti, there are more often hands lifted in prayer, in praise, and in thanks.

Even in the midst of great sadness -- and there is plenty to go around here -- Haitians have a remarkable ability to remember God's goodness.

To be sure, I do not intend to idealize Haitians, because every culture is enveloped in its fair share of evil. But it is nonetheless remarkable to watch so many people singing and praying as they are surrounded by death.

Less than 18 months ago, some of the worst flooding in recent history nearly destroyed Gonaives, Haiti's third-largest city. Like many foreigners here, I have wrestled with God over the past week about how He could allow such tragedy in a country that was already besieged by it.

In Haiti, there are abundant attempts to answers to that question. Some blame foreign governments, some blame Haiti's practice of voodoo, some blame sin, and some do blame God himself. I reject all of these as too simplistic.

I believe we all have the right to ask tough questions of God, but we are not always entitled to answers. I choose to accept that I am incapable of comprehending the mind of God.

Yesterday, I was struck by the words of Psalm 46:10 - "Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth."

Most of us have been anything but still over this past week. We've rushed to help in the ways we could, and tensions have run high at times. We've been glued to news reports, the same as many of our families in the United States.

But there have been moments of stillness when God unexpectedly broke through, like the rainbow I saw arcing over a mountain peak as I drove to Port-au-Prince the day after the quake, a reminder of God's promise to Noah that he is still watching over the earth.

In those moments, I have heard eternity calling, a quiet assurance that all I've witnessed does not invalidate who I know God to be.

Those same moments help me see that God still smiles on me, even in seasons when I despair that I am not doing enough to make a difference.

I was shooting one day in Port-au-Prince when a stranger called out to me, "What is your name?" It's a common question foreigners in Haiti might hear a dozen times a day.

"Andy," I told him, and walked away.

A few minutes later I passed by him again, emotionally and physically exhausted.

"Hey," he said and smiled. "You know, your name means 'warrior.'"

He's was right, I've checked. I walked away, wondering if I'd seen an angel.

The View from Here

ABOVE: Patients and doctors. Andy Olsen photos

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

The vast majority of us usually view human catastrophes of this magnitude through a television screen, myself included. Even as a photographer, this is the first time I've seen anything like this from the inside looking out.

Our hotel is swarming with media, busy people scurrying about with expensive equipment, private security guards (in some cases), cigarettes on their lips, and thick European accents. I don't mean to perpetuate stereotypes, but that is what I see. Journalists and TV crews are sleeping anywhere they can find a clear spot: Conference rooms, truck beds, and pool chairs (I spent a night on one myself earlier this week). Laptops and video equipment glow all evening, and Anderson Cooper's ever-present voice on CNN is both comforting and good for a laugh.

I've watched them do some great journalism, and I've also watched them do some pretty lame journalism. I've observed the power to transform: How one gunshot in an otherwise calm city (for Haiti) appears on the front page of every news outlet in the world and, suddenly, Port-au-Prince is transformed into a dangerous and gun-ridden ghetto in the public eye (I have seen no one here with guns so far except for police, soldiers, and private security guards, though I'm sure they're out there).

I've also watched UN helicopters drop food into masses of people which, as one would expect, caused something resembling riots. Those who have done relief work in Haiti for years and who are truly thoughtful and successful in their approaches know there are better ways to organize food distribution. I am beginning to understand how a poor plan can turn people upon each other and, when captured on camera, the ensuing chaos can shape the entire world's opinion of a nationality.

I also watched some great relief work done today by missionaries in Port-au-Prince, people I do not know but for whom I developed a great respect after spending a few hours with them. Their relief efforts -- medical care and food distribution -- were small-scale, to be sure. But they were well done and done with much love. While I appreciate the bravado and eagerness I've seen among the "big guys" like international rescue teams and military personnel, I find something almost more comforting in the quieter efforts of the Christian groups and grass-roots organizations here. Long after all the big planes fly away, I know the little guys will still be here, working quietly as they always have.

I really enjoyed shooting today (as much as anyone can enjoy Port-au-Prince right now), though I am exhausted. This city has moved past the destruction-and-dead-bodies chapter and is getting on with the real work of relief and healing. There is a real sense that we are no longer just gawking at a train wreck, but we are beginning to pick up the pieces.

But oh, how far there is still to go.

It is only beginning to dawn on people here what a historic moment this is. It will shift the balance of power in unknown ways here. It will ensure Haiti remains at the very bottom rung of the global economic ladder for decades to come. It will reshape the Haitian identity in profound ways. And it will surely alter the course of the future for an entire generation, shattering dreams before they were even dreamed.

But not too many folks are thinking about that at the moment. Right now, there is only one dream here: Stay alive and find a doctor, food, and something to drink. Then find somewhere to sleep and do it all again tomorrow.

I plan to return to Northwest Haiti tomorrow with a team of people, for there is more to be done there.

When the Earth Flexes Its Muscles

ABOVE: The dead, the wounded, the orphaned and the rescuers. Andy Olsen photos

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

It took nearly 500 years to build this city. It took less than 60 seconds to level it.

I've been wandering the streets of Haiti's capital city for the last two days since a magnitude 7.0 earthquake split the streets and crumpled buildings here on Wednesday afternoon. Words and photos fail to describe the devastation that hundreds of thousands of people here are living through.

I am well and safe, staying with a good team of folks at the Visa Lodge, one of the city's few remaining hotels. We've felt many of the more than 28 aftershocks that followed the quake. They've become so common at the hotel, at least, that most of us don't flinch. But mattresses still line the parking lot outside where many of the hotel guests sleep at night, safely separated from the concrete building. Erika is helping an equally great team of people back at Northwest Haiti Christian Mission's main campus in Saint-Louis du Nord, manning the mission's phone lines and e-mail and sifting through the hundreds of communications that are coming through.

Time and fatigue won't allow me to write everything I should, but I trust there will be moments for that later. Nothing here is easy now -- diesel and gas are scarce, cell phones have been useless until just today, and nearly every remaining building in the city is shuttered. It took two days to find a local person who was finally able to provide us with a cellular device to access the internet. As I type, the drone of C-130 cargo planes rumbles through my room, goliaths with bellies full of gifts for a badly hurting country. They are now taking off and landing at the Port-au-Prince airport 24 hours a day amid swarms of helicopters.

We stopped by the airport this evening and found a disappointing lack of food, water and supplies. Instead, there was an army of journalists and expensive broadcasting equipment, waiting to meet the heroes of Haiti as soon as they arrived. At the moment, they outnumber the heroes.

I have no idea why God chose to place Erika and me in this country just a few days before the darkest day in its history, but I have no choice to but see a reason behind it. It has been a trying few days in many ways, and I have had to turn down offers from photo editors at national media outlets in order to be faithful to my commitment to working for NWHCM. I trust they are decisions God will honor.

To my family and friends, thank you for all your prayers. I'm sure it has been hard to be out of contact due to the extreme limitations on communication. Erika and I cherish each of you so much. The plan at the moment is to head back to Northwest Haiti on a truck that's coming Sunday, not a lot of other options. As much as it pains me to leave Port-au-Prince while half of the other photographers in the world are here, I have a lot of other things to tend to before we head home.

I'll try to post more as I'm able. As for tonight, I'm going to take a shower to try and wash off the smells I've accumulated across the city. Port-au-Prince smells like death.

Rainy Haiti

Back in Haiti for a couple of weeks. This is perhaps my favorite time of year to be here -- cool and cloudy, the best you could ask for with day-long shooting, giving you maximum control of the light. The downside is the risk for multi-day stretches of rain, not so conducive to shooting.

So hoping for good weather. This time we'll be mostly video for a handful of new projects rolling out this spring. Always fun to try new things...looking forward to it.

More later...

The Politics of Fear and Why the Church Should Stay Far From It

Above: THE UNINSURED - Nemsley, 14, walked through Northwest Haiti Christian Mission's clinic on crutches in October, a week after visiting surgeons had to amputate his lower right leg because of cancer. If Nemsley had regular access to good health care, as most of us do in the United States, he probably would still have his leg.


I spend much of my time photographing in a country where health insurance is a non-issue because there is no such thing. In Haiti, virtually no one has anything resembling health coverage -- if you have the money, you pay a doctor; if you don't have the money, you just don't get better. Or perhaps you die.

Haiti's derelict economy affects doctors as much as it affects patients: Namely, there are hardly any doctors. Even if a Haitian had the money to pay for a specialized surgery, for example, there is a strong chance he would have to leave the country to find a doctor to perform it. A Haitian doctor there told me recently there is one pediatric surgeon in the entire nation.

None of this is new, of course. It's been that way for decades. But it's been on my mind lately as America watches what could potentially be the final days of the debate over health care reform on Capital Hill.

For me, the case for health care reform has always seemed entirely without any need for defense. It should be a no-brainer.

Full disclosure here: I have a bias. But it's not of the "conservative" or "liberal" sort. My bias is that I call two places home -- one place is Haiti, where I have seen firsthand the devastating effects of poor health care, and the other place is Kentucky. In Kentucky, nearly 700,000 people are uninsured, 16 percent of the population and one of the highest rates in the United States (per the Census Bureau).

That fact should be unacceptable to anyone with a pulse.

Anyone who has been on the losing end of America's dysfunctional and discriminatory health care system would support reform, right? (Even my wife and I have been burned by our insurance company, even though our age and good health supposedly make us the industry's most desirable customers.)

Unfortunately, reform has not come easily . The political rhetoric surrounding this issue has been the most vitriolic and, dare I say, uninformed of any issue I can recall (then again, I was thankfully not alive during Sen. Joseph McCarthy's tenure).

Which is why I, like most folks, will just be glad if Congress passes something -- anything -- and all the talk fades out in time for us to enjoy Christmas morning.

But what concerns me most about this whole situation is that the driving force behind the debate (at least among the general public) has not been facts, reason or civil discourse. Instead, the motive has largely been fear. Most Americans acknowledge there is a problem with our health care status quo, yet the arguments of those who oppose reforming it seem to boil down to fear -- fear that we might not do it perfectly, fear that it might cost money, fear that it would force us to rethink some things.

But the most consistent and obvious fear has been this: If we allow reform to pass, it would cede power to the "other" political party, and that would surely cement America's long and perilous slide into ruin because "those people" think differently than we do.

What is so sad is how much we Christians have bought into such fears.

Beloved, we in the Church have put far too much stock in politics. If we truly believe that one civic leader or another has our destiny in his or her hands, then we have tragically lost sight of the transcendence of God. He is ultimately in charge, not democracy or its mechanisms.

We must not forget this: As Christians, we know who wins in the end! So I am compelled to believe that whether health care reform is passed perfectly or botched splendidly, I will still be able to trust in the God who keeps his promises to watch over us and keep us.

That is the root of faith, is it not? And that also means that I refuse to pay any attention to politicians, radio talk jocks, self-described entertainers, and anyone else when they are more interested in getting reactions and consolidating their reputations than they are about seeking the truth.

In the health care debate, reform proponents have worked tirelessly to craft solutions to the problem, imperfect though they may be. Opponents have done little but retort with fiery speeches, occasional lies, and tired political cliches about "big government" and "small government." Though some criticisms leveled against reform are certainly valid, few if any legitimate alternatives have been proposed.

This should not be a politicized, right-versus-left fight, but it has sadly been reduced to that. It's hard to imagine how anyone could favor inaction at all costs, especially when lives are quite literally at stake.

So this Christmas, as organizations like the one where I work seek funds to provide health care to thousands of sick and dying people in poor nations, let's hope that millions of sick and dying people in the world's most powerful country can hope for the same.

And let us Christians, who should know the power of Christmas better than anyone, refuse to have anything to do with the politics of fear.

The Great Fall

Baby photos, normally not allowed on this blog, are being permitted just this once for Christmas. My wife made me do it. And I admit, I do think babies are cute. This one belongs to my neighbor.

What Makes Someplace Home?

I don't have the perfect answer to that question, but it must have something to do with the security to comfortably embrace imperfection and even feel comforted by it.

Miami International Airport redeemed itself a bit today: I gorged on exquisite Cuban food (Haiti is nice but no culinary destination, for sure) and felt welcomed by a city where I speak the language (that would be Spanish in Miami, still not much English to be found there).

But the real homecoming, as usual, began on the flight from Dallas to Lexington: Our rag-tag group of passengers crammed onto the Embrear commuter jet and most of us nailed our heads on its the low ceiling. The man in front of me couldn't get his seatbelt around his bulbous figure and requested a belt extension piece. To my right, a well-dressed businessman was fighting nausea and explained to the whole cabin why eating that plate of hotwings was a mistake. A young redneck-looking man with impressive diction shouted from the rear into his phone at a woman, peppering his public conversation with innuendo that made the other passengers blush.

And as we descended into Lexington, we buzzed Commonwealth Stadium, its packed stands lit up in the chilly darkness as tiny white players ran some yards.

I smiled at the whole scene and actually teared up. There's no mistaking this place and the twangy accents of its inhabitants. I love it here.


Above: Our normal return-trip routine, recovery.