Johane, 18, a high-school student, is living in a makeshift camp on a football pitch in the Corridor Icare district, less than 2km from the presidential palace in Port-au-Prince, which was wrecked in the 12 January earthquake. She spoke to IRIN about her experiences:
“My days now start around 4am. Every night since the earthquake is a trial,” she said. “I don’t think I really sleep until everybody wakes up, but that’s the time of morning prayers."
Many Haitians see the earthquake as a punishment from God, the consequences of sin. Catholics, Protestants and believers in voodoo all pray together in Johane's camp without discussing their faiths, while self-proclaimed pastors shout about spiritual victory and praise God for seeing another day.
"In the early morning we don't think twice about sharing our thoughts and fears while brushing our teeth. [We hear] the sounds of helicopters which remind us [of our new reality, and] the earthquake.
"In the morning my big brother starts looking for an [aid] distribution. Twice he has not managed to get anything to eat. He doesn’t want to loot. It's a bit sad to know that you’ve still got nothing to eat but you’re risking your life [by going outside the camp].”
Johane’s family is headed by her mother. They were desperately poor before the earthquake. "We wait for help all day, it still hasn’t come."
Humanitarian aid has started fanning out along the main routes of the capital, but most Haitians in the city's hard-to-reach slum districts have had to fend for themselves for more than a week.
"Yesterday I could have died of thirst. Now it costs US50 cents to buy [600ml] of clean water. This makes me angry with the authorities," Johane said.
The lack of clean water and the stench of decomposing bodies and human waste make life even more miserable.
Nearly 250 families live on the football pitch at Corridor Icare, ringed by damaged houses. The authorities estimate there are about 326 similar camps in Port-au-Prince; they hope to concentrate people into 150 sites, one of them holding up to 100,000 people.
"I go to bed early, even if people are up and still talking. Stories of rapes and looting are increasing. My mother worries about me," said Johane, nervously rubbing her hands and not wanting to say any more.
There are limited UN patrols in the city, the national police are in disarray, and foreign military forces are largely deployed at strategic points.
"At about 8pm I am already lying down. The temperature is cool, the sky cloudy and rain is coming. Sleep takes over from time to time, but we don't really sleep. All the boys have grouped together as a guard force and the women keep watch. When a stranger appears the sentry sings a song to warn the community. The night continues until the next sunrise."
* Johane did not want to give her surname
cra/bp/ail/oa/mw
* This article was amended on 20 January 2010. The original had an error in the size of the new IDP camps
“My days now start around 4am. Every night since the earthquake is a trial,” she said. “I don’t think I really sleep until everybody wakes up, but that’s the time of morning prayers."
Many Haitians see the earthquake as a punishment from God, the consequences of sin. Catholics, Protestants and believers in voodoo all pray together in Johane's camp without discussing their faiths, while self-proclaimed pastors shout about spiritual victory and praise God for seeing another day.
"In the early morning we don't think twice about sharing our thoughts and fears while brushing our teeth. [We hear] the sounds of helicopters which remind us [of our new reality, and] the earthquake.
"In the morning my big brother starts looking for an [aid] distribution. Twice he has not managed to get anything to eat. He doesn’t want to loot. It's a bit sad to know that you’ve still got nothing to eat but you’re risking your life [by going outside the camp].”
Johane’s family is headed by her mother. They were desperately poor before the earthquake. "We wait for help all day, it still hasn’t come."
 All the boys have grouped together as a guard force and the women keep watch |
"Yesterday I could have died of thirst. Now it costs US50 cents to buy [600ml] of clean water. This makes me angry with the authorities," Johane said.
The lack of clean water and the stench of decomposing bodies and human waste make life even more miserable.
Nearly 250 families live on the football pitch at Corridor Icare, ringed by damaged houses. The authorities estimate there are about 326 similar camps in Port-au-Prince; they hope to concentrate people into 150 sites, one of them holding up to 100,000 people.
"I go to bed early, even if people are up and still talking. Stories of rapes and looting are increasing. My mother worries about me," said Johane, nervously rubbing her hands and not wanting to say any more.
There are limited UN patrols in the city, the national police are in disarray, and foreign military forces are largely deployed at strategic points.
"At about 8pm I am already lying down. The temperature is cool, the sky cloudy and rain is coming. Sleep takes over from time to time, but we don't really sleep. All the boys have grouped together as a guard force and the women keep watch. When a stranger appears the sentry sings a song to warn the community. The night continues until the next sunrise."
* Johane did not want to give her surname
cra/bp/ail/oa/mw
* This article was amended on 20 January 2010. The original had an error in the size of the new IDP camps
This article was produced by IRIN News while it was part of the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs. Please send queries on copyright or liability to the UN. For more information: https://shop.un.org/rights-permissions
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