Combating sexual violence in Haiti camps, one tent at a time
It’s rare to see women smile in Haiti. Whether they’re working or taking their children to school, or selling vegetables on the side of a road, their smiles are barely visible between the tires of trucks and the heavy diesel smoke. But if you’re driving and actually stop to allow a woman to cross the street, many times she’ll hesitate before slightly turning to reveal a timid but unforgettable smile.
The heavy expressions on every female’s face in Haiti symbolize decades of humiliation and abuse -- mental, physical and sexual. Rape is not just tolerated; it's a given. It was also a political tool during the worst decades of Haiti’s repressive regimes up until 2005. That year, the culmination of years of underground movements led by some of Haiti’s most daring women led to the passage of women’s rights legislation. Rape was finally a crime equivalent to assault, punishable by law.
These women worked alone or in groups, and continue their advocacy today. One of them is Delna Charlotin. Soledad O’Brien and I met her in a refugee camp on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince, where she found refuge after the earthquake of 2010.
Charlotin has been working to protect women and girls in Haiti for more than 20 years. For nearly four years now, she has become a sentinel for the women living there. Every night, she knocks on every tent “door” to make sure everyone, and especially the women and young girls, are safe. There are 203 families here, with more than 1,000 women, men and children.
"Every day at work or on the street, I would hear the stories of women who had been abused -- those who finally dared to confide in each other," she said. "One day, there was a young woman who had been violently raped not far from us. No one dared to come to her rescue. That’s when I decided that we needed to come together, to unite and fight -- that we couldn’t let this go on anymore."
She formed a group of women who would meet each week -- in secret. It was simply too dangerous, she said, to campaign against sexual violence out in the open. After rape was criminalized eight years ago, Charlotin formed a "real" group, but that didn’t mean any more resources.
Charlotin does this as a volunteer, walking though the camp every night, knocking on each door to let them know that she and her group are there, watching.
“We don’t have any support, no funds to do what we really need to do,” she said, “but with our presence, our rounds, at least we can provide protection."
We went to the camp one night and spent many hours following her. Our camera light was the only light. The tents were woven so closely together, one could barely pass through the multitude of tiny alleys that linked them all into one sea of tattered tarps. At one point, I had to split off from our team to get an item from our car. All of a sudden, I was in complete pitch-black darkness. I tried to find my way in vain through the labyrinth, and strained for the slightest flicker of a candle behind one of the tents. But there was nothing.
In that moment, I was overtaken by a terrible fear of being trapped, and vulnerable. It was the smallest glimpse of what it must be like to go through that night after night, year after year, afraid that at any moment something could happen. But more than anything, that single panicked minute in the darkness made me appreciate Charlotin’s courage to come out here every night, in the dark, bereft of any means, knocking on doors. And most remarkably, her expression was so serene all the time. She smiled.
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