The days are warm and still. Broken up by the occasional breeze that stirs the coconut trees. But the nights. Something falls asleep, and in its unconsciousness, a force awakens. The nights herald rain and songs on the wind. You can hear the rain chasing the cars on the street. Puddles fill up, kids jump in them, smiling - lifting faces to the sky. Oh, the nights. A warmth settles across the continent; broken and restored by this rain.

The days are warm and still. 

Rain falls, quickly, fervently. It comes and goes before gumboots can be put on. Get out there. Sing - dance. Do not forget what childhood is. The darkness is broken by pouring rain. Concrete becomes fields, floods. Buildings - trees. We cannot see the concrete, we can believe in the nature beneath our feet. The rain renews souls, refreshes spirits. Do not hideaway. Do not duck and run. Stop - pause, breathe deeper than ever before. Oh, the beauty, the love, the joy we find in the sounds of rain falling.

A few years ago I had the opportunity to live and work overseas in a very small, yet very complex country. My journey started when I was in the Australian Army. I remember the night so clearly, like a still image frozen in the back of my mind. My grandfather had just passed away, I hadn’t seen my family for months, I was emotionally and physically exhausted, and I was bawling my eyes out around midnight as I finished reading Mitch Albom’s book, “Finding Chika”. I didn’t realise it then, but that book would change my life.

A few months later, I was on a plane that flew over the Pacific Ocean, the entirety of the United States, and eventually landed in the Capital City of Haiti, Port-Au-Prince.

I wouldn’t change this experience for anything but essentially it happened as follows; I read a book, I cried, I found a contact number, I emailed them, and soon enough I had a zoom meeting with the author and owner of the orphanage. Going into it, I knew about three things about my role, I read on Wikipedia about the state of Haiti and I flew to a foreign country all on my own.

But along the way, I met my lifelong best friend, I met beautiful and strong children who had the unfortunate experience of being born in a destitute and war-torn country, I got to learn another language, and I got to grow in gratitude and reflection.

Moving to a new country is extremely scary, it takes you out of your comfort zone, it tests your limits, it drives you, and it teaches you so many things about yourself. Like, can you survive with cold showers every day? Or can you eat boiled dried fish with plain-no-sauce-pasta for breakfast? Or can you wake up every day to kids banging on your door like there’s a life-threatening emergency, when really all they want is a pair of socks at 6am?

Okay but all jokes aside, moving overseas changes your perspective on life, your priorities, and your goals. Before I moved to Haiti I had no direction for my life (which is perfectly normal and definitely allowed at any stage of your life!), but being exposed to an underdeveloped country, with no government, no health systems, and no safety, really awoke within me a desire to work in the humanitarian sector. On top of that, I met Halie.

Ah, Halie! An angel, a beautiful human, and most definitely a comedian in another lifetime. A nurse who knew she wanted to help kids in need, who put her entire life on pause to move and volunteer at this mission, and did it with graciousness, love, and patience every day.

So not only did the experience change me, but the people I met along the way. I saw how much of an impact her having a qualification in health had on the kids, and how this could bring about important changes with the knowledge and information she held.

For the first few months living in Haiti, our compound was barely large enough to house over 40 kids, 4 permanent staff members, nannies and grounds-men. We were enclosed in a concrete jungle, with the smallest playground, and one tree. We dealt with bed bugs (it was disgusting) and unfortunate food.

It was a stark change and an awakening for me – we are surrounded by privilege, we exist in comfort, and we might never see anything differently unless we go out there and see it. To live in it, is a whole other thing. I was not a tourist walking down the street or a foreign diplomat, but I was living and existing in this space. I was exposed to the conditions these kids were exposed to. I was eating the orphanage food (you’ll notice me talk about the food a lot, on account of it being barely edible and not nutritious at all),  speaking their language, and working within their culture and beliefs.

Learning the language was the most important thing I did while I lived there, and is very much a transferrable lesson from this experience. Haitians speak three languages; French, Haitian Creole, and English. So while learning Haitian Creole was not an essential, it showed the staff and kids I was working with that I had respect for their culture, and I was invested in understanding things from their point of view, rather than imposing my beliefs and language on to them.  I had not expected to learn Haitian Creole when I left, and yet it became a defining point in this journey, and a way for me to gain respect and create connections in a deep and meaningful way.

We were regularly awoken by gunfire - rapid, automatic shots, not 3km from our home of, at this time, over 50 kids. We were affected by food, water, and gas shortages. Gang violence ruled the streets and homes of Haiti. They set up roadblocks to stop people getting to work and stop people having access to food and water. They stopped all trade for gas, which sent the country into an even worse spiral.

We lived in fear of not being able to leave, of not having food or water, of not being able to care for these children. What about those with medical conditions? What about basic care such as menstrual products, soap, clothes?

It was a scary, tumultuous time.

We were awoken one night by violent tremors and shakes. Deep in sleep, I thought the entire world was tumbling, spinning, and falling all around me. Those few seconds felt like an entire lifetime as the world shook and shook. I sprang out of bed as my mind finally clicked that it was an earthquake, and it was right below us – it had to be to be so strong. We rushed out of our rooms, and already the frantic sounds of kids clamoring out of bed and rushing through the hallways out - out, out - filled my head. The earthquake was already finished, but the stomping of kids feet as their terror propelled them outside became a new sort of earthquake.

Some kids, especially the babies and toddlers, stumbled around, dazed and confused – it was the middle of the night after all. But other kids, especially the oldest of them, were rocked and shaken by the earthquake. PTSD from life shattering earthquakes hit them, and some froze on tables, or huddled over themselves and sat and cried.

But whatever the reaction, all the kids were shaken by this earthquake. Not because it was a massive, dangerous one (it turned out it was just a small tremor, but our earthquake proof building swallowed the entire earthquake so it felt as though it was an 8 on the Richter scale), but because of what earthquakes have done to them before.

All these experiences I talk about are things that not only changed my perspective, but gave me perspective. I had never been exposed to these threats that constantly lurk in the corners of people’s minds. This daily struggle – is there enough food? Are we safe? Are gangs going to break in and kidnap us? Kill us? If the gangs don’t get us, will the earthquakes? Or cholera or insufficient medicine?