According to Compassion Haiti’s Disaster Response Coordinator, his country will not perish, but will rise up. It will rise up when the poverty-stricken youth of his country are taught that they can defeat poverty. He should know – he used to be one of them.

The plains of Saintard are a patchwork of plantations, sitting on edge of the Caribbean. Elissaint Jean Jacques grew up under the palm trees of his rural Haitian town, but he also grew up knowing poverty.

Those who have jobs in this area earn about $80 a month working the plantations. Most have no jobs at all. Elissaint grew up knowing he was one of the lucky ones. Other little children in his community got malaria or diarrhea and died young. Other little children dropped out of school young to work with their parents.

But Elissaint’s life was different. He was registered at a Compassion-assisted center at the local church in Saintard. He got treatment when he was sick. He got to stay in school all the way through graduation. Most of all, he learned that though he was born in poverty, poverty could stop with him.

Elissaint was a star student, and after he graduated, he became one of Haiti’s first Leadership Development Program students, a program that provides university education and leadership training to formerly sponsored children.

Elissaint was a star student in the Leadership Development Program as well, and when he graduated with his degree, he was awarded a Fulbright scholarship to study at the University of California, Davis. In two years, he completed Master’s degrees in Community Development and Agriculture and Resource Economics.

Rather than join the diaspora of Haitians in North America, Elissaint knew he wanted to return to his troubled home to help spread what he knew — that it is possible to defeat poverty.

“Many people have left the country, but those who love Haiti have stayed. That’s why I came back. I decided to put my skills to the benefit of my country. The Bible tells us that those who are given much are asked to give back. I feel this is the will of God for me.”

After gaining some work experience, he was hired at Compassion Haiti in 2005 to manage the interventions program, which includes initiatives such as water, malaria response and community development.

When the earthquake rocked Haiti on Jan. 12, 2010, Compassion Haiti turned to Elissaint, now 37, to step in as the Disaster Response Coordinator. It’s a big job. Compassion Haiti has been implementing more than 20 strategies to respond to the crisis. This includes such activities as distributing food kits immediately after the earthquake, providing shelter materials to the homeless, organizing medical and vaccination clinics, rebuilding church and school buildings, and providing microloans so parents can restart their businesses.

Although the amount of work to be done and the devastation around him is still daunting, Elissaint believes it is possible to overcome.

“It is possible to defeat poverty — poverty is in the mind. When you encourage children that they can overcome poverty, that they have potential, and give them a little help to take off, I think we can defeat poverty.”

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For Elissaint, those aren’t just empty, hopeful words. He has experienced it.

“If you motivate and inspire the youth that they can change their world, we can overcome poverty. Because I was born in it, and I am not poor. It was possible for me to come from peasant parents and complete university studies — if you have this mindset, you can make it.”

The work is still large. It won’t happen overnight or even in a year. It will take years for Haiti to come back from this earthquake. But Elissaint isn’t leaving. Compassion Haiti isn’t leaving. And the local churches who implement our programs aren’t leaving. They are raising a generation of children to believe that their life doesn’t have to end with poverty. They are raising a generation who believe that God wants to save and redeem His Haitian children to change their country for His glory.

“For this country to come back to where it was is going to take a lot of years. But when people decide that Haiti will not die, I believe it is possible to come back even better.”

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Brandy Campbell, a Compassion writer, is accompanied in Haiti by photographer Chuck Bigger and videographer Allan Spiers, who are there to gather information for the 1-year anniversary of the earthquake.

Last night was much quieter than the night before. Every few minutes I would hear “phantom riots.”

Was that chanting? Was that shouting? Were those gunshots?

Each time, I would tiptoe to the door and slowly open it a few inches. And each time, I was met by deafening silence. The only sounds I actually heard last night were a pack of dogs, the rattling air conditioner and a demented rooster at 3 a.m.

This morning dawned muggy and gray. If Port-au-Prince was smoldering yesterday, it’s soggy today. I walked on the freshly mopped tiles to breakfast, past a deflated Santa and Rudolph playing golf in front of the hotel.

We ordered breakfast, and our eggs and pancakes came in waves. Some mornings there is syrup. Others there is not. These are the things that occupy our time. We chatted with some geologists who are here to make seismic maps to help with building codes. Talked to a few guys from a non-governmental organization (NGO) in England. Begged the waitress for more coffee. We are all bored and restless.

Phones began buzzing at 7:30. The news changed every five minutes. You can go. You have to stay. Maybe you’ll go. Maybe you’ll stay. By 9:30, the “official” word came in. Sit tight. Again. We all understand. The situation can change in a moment. Peaceful protesters this morning can turn violent by this afternoon. Political rallies are scheduled today, and nobody knows what they will bring. The presidential candidates are doing little to diffuse the situation.

“Non-violent protests are the people’s right,” one candidate says.

But how do you define “non-violent?”

The streets are still filled with debris, smoldering tires and overturned cars. Few cars can pass, so transportation is limited to motorcycles and feet. There are still pockets of violence throughout the city, but it’s so much quieter today. Quiet enough for me to think (which can sometimes be dangerous).

We’re hoping to get out tomorrow. The airport is closed today, but there’s no word on what tomorrow will bring. I think we’re all feeling frustrated. We came here for a task. But that task, that goal, was buried under the feet of protesters. If yesterday was boring, today already feels maddening.

The Internet is a lifesaver. It helps us to feel less isolated. Gives us some purpose during the long days.

So here we are. At the Coconut Villa in Port-au-Prince. With deflated Christmas decorations and swarms of flies. Raindrops form circles on the surface of the pool a few feet away. We’ve spent the morning chatting, telling funny travel stories and fighting over the two 3-pronged plugs for our laptops.

That is our day so far. We’ll see if things change. We’ll see what stays the same. And we’ll continue to pray for the peace of this broken, volatile nation.

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Brandy Campbell, a Compassion writer, is accompanied in Haiti by photographer Chuck Bigger and videographer Allan Spiers, who are there to gather information for the 1-year anniversary of the earthquake.

We got the call at 4:30 on Tuesday afternoon. “Get them back to the hotel. They’re announcing the election results tonight.”

We piled back into the van and made our way through deeply rutted paths that tried to pass for roads. We were in a tent city, visiting a family who had lost everything in the earthquake.

Our photographer and videographer sadly watched out the window as the “golden hour” of perfect sunlight passed and we drove farther away from that lonely gray tent. It was a bone-jarring ride back to the hotel. I noticed the streets were filling with people – but they looked like people simply arriving home from work. I checked my watch every few minutes. The results were supposed to be announced at 6 p.m.

Ahead of the car, I watched a brilliant sunset unfold as I gripped the seat in front of me, tension building in my shoulders. I felt like a rag doll flung around that back seat. But rag dolls don’t get migraines. When my watch finally read 6:00, I looked out the window of the van expectantly. I expected a magic switch to flip. But nothing seemed to change.

We finally arrived back at the hotel. Dinner, then back to the room. Still nothing. Maybe it blew over. At 10:00, I finally lay down. But in the quiet of my room, over the hum of the ceiling fan, I heard the night change.

I thought I was imagining it at first. I do have an overactive imagination, after all. But I couldn’t mistake the chanting. I crept to the window, and as icy cold water from the air conditioner dripped on my feet, I heard the city exploding. Nothing had blown over. It had blown up. I lay back in my bed. The voices outside grew louder, then quieter. I willed them to fade away. They didn’t.

The gunshots. Those were what shook me. At first they were far away. But still close enough to hear. Pop pop pop. Each time, I would jump. I wouldn’t call it terror. But a healthy dose of fear. A shot every few minutes. Just enough for my shoulders to un-hunch before they jerked upward again.

But then there was a bang-bang. Too close. It sounded like it came from just outside the gate. I walked across the cold tile to the door. Cracked it open. Enough to hear the too-close voices. To smell the smoke. I shut it firmly, crawled back in bed, and prayed.

I prayed for peace. I prayed for safety. I prayed that the protesters would be quieted. I even prayed that they would just get tired.

My prayers were interrupted when I heard a knock. I couldn’t tell if it had come from my door. I threw a sweater on over my T-shirt and flung open the door – just as an armed guard patrolled past my room. I’m not sure which of us was more frightened.

I crawled in bed again. My hands were shaking, and I felt nauseous. I picked up my prayers. I prayed for rest. Then I fell asleep.

And then there was morning. Our plans for the day were canceled, and we were told to stay close to the hotel. Some members of our team checked the conditions and ventured out to get footage. I knew that, as a female, I would only attract unwanted attention. So I stayed. I listened to the helicopters.

I sent e-mails and chatted with friends, beyond thankful for contact with the outside world. I checked the web for news, almost laughing at the fact that I could smell the tires burning, but needed to go online to know what was going on with the riots.

And I sat in my room and let myself have a good cry. I had been fighting it. Telling myself that the Haitians have to deal with this kind of violence and crisis all of the time. That I shouldn’t let it affect me. I got the first part right.

Haitians do deal with situations like this constantly. I live in a world where presidential elections are filled with political ads, debates and, at worst, annoyance when my candidate doesn’t win.

They live in a world where presidential elections are filled with fires, protests, and at worst, death. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect me. I cried. This was all too real. Because I’m NOT used to gunshots in the middle of the night. I’m NOT used to barricades and garbage burning in the streets.

I hate that they have to deal with it all of the time. But I also needed to give myself the grace enough to hate to have to deal with it for a few days. That cry felt good.

Later I sat with the rest of my team and looked at their videos and photos. The protesters seemed to have calmed down somewhat from the long night before. But there were thousands of them. Filling the streets. Lighting garbage and tires and cars on fire. They were tired and confused and angry and frustrated.

All of that emotion is seething under the surface. Like a pot of hot water just before it boils. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I do know that tonight, things seem quieter. The chants are less frequent. I have heard no gunshots. So tonight, when I go to bed, I will pray again for peace. For the Haitians. And for my heart.

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I feel a tremendous burden to bring Haiti to you today.

Haiti is both exactly what I thought it would be, and nothing that I thought it would be.

On the drive through town, I saw the piles of rubble I anticipated. But I also saw buildings twisted precariously, like dark versions of a Dr. Seuss illustration. Concrete curving as concrete was never meant to curve. Nearly collapsed structures, held up by a single plank. Haiti somehow defies gravity.

I saw people begging on the streets, just as I thought I would. But I also saw a young man, profoundly handicapped, sitting in a dark alley, pounding his head against the wall. That single image of brokenness, of pain, sits in my chest like a stone. Haiti somehow breaks my heart.

I listened to a classroom full of Haitian children sing “Joy to the World.” But while they sang their precocious tune, a translator told me that not 50 feet away, bodies were found a few weeks ago. Ten months after the earthquake. Haiti somehow knocks the breath out of me.

Today I heard stories more devastating than I could have imagined. Each with an undercurrent of hope so strong, so relentless, that I had to bite my lip to keep from sobbing. Haiti somehow cuts to the core of me.

A man told me today that Haiti was broken. This I knew. But then he told me that Haiti, his country, his home, is also beautiful. Haiti somehow lives.

It is my tremendous honor to bring Haiti to you today. Battered, broken, beautiful Haiti.

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Ketsana hit the Philippines on a Saturday, the day when registered children gather at the student centers. But on September 26 not many arrived at Marikina Foursquare Student Center. Ketsana was already pounding hard.

However, some children did come.

Bernadette, the center director, fed them and instructed them to go home immediately. And as she planned to visit the homes of other children to give them some food because the floodwaters were rising fast, she was called by her own family. Her home was flooded too.

“What I have learned from this is not to look back on the possessions I lost, but rather focus on saving myself and my loved ones. On that day, I couldn’t attend to the needs of the children since my own home was in disarray.”

In the following days Bernadette reports that none of the children from her student center were hurt, although all of their homes were flooded, damaged in some way or destroyed completely.

The student center and its surrounding communities were completely submerged under water. And five days after the typhoon, homes and communities were still flooded, muddied, stinky and a mess.

Mirasol, a mother at the church, says,

“It is still a nightmare for me. I still vividly recall images of people being swept away by the water. I couldn’t sleep thinking that I was not able to help them as they were crying, as they were swept away towards the river. My child was crying the loudest, ‘Mother, Mother, the water is so high already!’”

Two of Mirasol’s children, Maribel and Dominic, are registered at the student center. They are safe but their home is still under water.

Miguel, another child from the student center, says he was so afraid because he got separated from his father when his father took his mother to safety first, but could not come back for Miguel and his younger brother because of the dangerously strong current.

Miguel and his brother were rescued by a neighbor, also a Compassion parent, as the boys jumped from roof to roof. They were reunited with their parents the next day at the church, but their tiny home was washed away completely.

Miguel’s father confesses,

“I pounded on my heart in anguish, crying. I was thinking of my boys all the time. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to look for them several times. I even waded back and forth in the water calling out for my sons.”

But despite the situation he and his family now find themselves in, Miguel’s father says,

“I won’t complain because I still have what truly matters.”

His family.

When natural disasters strike, Compassion’s Disaster Relief Fund provides sponsored children and their families with food, clothing and basic supplies to help rebuild their lives. Learn more about the Disaster Relief Fund.

*Editor’s note: In the wake of a disaster we contact each sponsor who has a child affected by that disaster. We do so once we receive details from the country office about the child. If your child was affected by either Typhoon Ketsana or Typhoon Parma, you will be contacted when we receive information about your child.

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But if your call to serve the poor extends beyond holistic child development, which it does for many people, we’d like to introduce you to our partner TEAR Fund New Zealand.

TEAR Fund stands for The Evangelical Alliance Relief Fund, and its purpose is to glorify God by extending His kingdom in ministry to the poor, oppressed and disadvantaged, and to encourage God’s people to live out the values and principles of His kingdom by sharing with those in need.

TEAR Fund New Zealand represents the compassion of Jesus. This organization partners with local Christian organizations and churches in developing countries who use local staff to work directly with the poorest people, helping the poor find their own solutions, cutting out the middleman and reducing costs.

Microenterprise, community development projects and disaster relief are TEAR Fund New Zealand’s key activities, but that’s not all this ministry does. Right now, it’s working to eradicate the Guinea worm in Côte d’Ivoire, and also has programs to fight adult illiteracy and sexual slavery, among others.

TEAR Fund New Zealand offers child sponsorship too, but does that through us. Sponsoring a child with TEAR Fund New Zealand is sponsoring a child through Compassion.

Although our friend is from New Zealand, you can still partner with this Christian aid and development agency. Visit tearfund.co.nz to learn more.

We promise they don’t write with an accent…then again, maybe they do.

Oh yeah, you may like this. TEAR Fund New Zealand’s non-sponsorship programs are conducted in places of the world we don’t currently work.

• Afghanistan
• Cambodia
• China
• Malawi
• Mongolia
• Myanmar
• Nepal
• Niger
• Palestine
• Sudan

So if your heart is in those parts of the world, TEAR Fund New Zealand would be pleased to meet you.

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After a disaster occurs in one of our countries, we often raise money to help those affected. We do this to help provide things such as food and water, shelter, bedding, trauma counseling or medical treatment, among other needs. Many times we also send disaster relief kits.

Let me tell you what we mean when we say “disaster relief kit.”*

A couple of weeks ago there was an earthquake off the northern coast of Honduras. Buildings and homes were damaged, including some homes of Compassion-assisted children. (Don’t worry … if your child is affected, we will let you know individually.)

In response to the earthquake, the Compassion Honduras office provided disaster relief kits to the affected families and our communications guy sent me a picture. (Thanks, Yuri!) Anyway, I thought you might like to see it …

*This is just an example of one disaster relief kit we recently provided. Contents of other kits may vary.

UPDATED: Feb. 9, 2010 – Disaster relief kits for our 15,000 beneficiaries and families affected by the Jan. 12, 2010 Haiti earthquake include two weeks worth of supplies for one family:

• 14 pounds of rice
• 14 pounds of beans
• one gallon of cooking oil
• four packages of pasta
• two 16 ounce jars of peanut butter
• bottled water
• up to four packs of canned meat / tuna (when available)
• baby formula (where applicable)

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• 1,300 city blocks disappeared.
• 24,000 people were evacuated.
• 83 of Iowa’s 99 counties were declared disaster areas.
• Nearly every river in Iowa flooded that week.

As I watched the floodwaters rise, my 4-year-old turned to me and said, “Mama, I think we need to get on the ark!” Had there been an ark in the vicinity, I may very well have gotten on it.

In the end, we Iowans are going to be just fine. The prayers of the nation have been with us, and we thank everyone for that. Help has arrived from all corners — from churches to government agencies. So many people have mobilized to get us back on our feet. We know it will be a slow process but, as a community whose roots are in farming, we have learned to be patient — patient with the growth of our crops, patient with the regrowth of our city.

But the impact of the floods on the world community is yet to come.

Iowa is the number one producer of corn and soybeans in the United States. It is estimated that 1.3 million acres of corn and 2 million acres of soybeans — roughly 16 percent of our grain crops were destroyed. (1) And this disaster is just one of many that decimated global crops in 2008.

So how does this impact the global food supply? In a nutshell, it means higher prices and a shrinking supply of food.

For countries in the developing world, this is a cataclysmic combination. In regions where people are already spending 80 percent of their salaries on food, the prices are going to get higher.

If 100 percent of a family’s income goes toward food, how then do they afford clothing, shelter, medical care and an education for their children?

And when the price of food eclipses what a family is able to earn, who in the family goes without? Parents, grandparents, children? How does one make such a decision?

As Thornton Wilder, the author of Our Town, once said: “I know that every good and excellent thing in the world stands moment by moment on the razor-edge of danger and must be fought for….”

We must stand together in the fight against poverty and hunger.

If you have a heart for flood victims, consider sponsoring a child in Haiti, Mexico, Bangladesh or India. These are countries that experience regular flooding, often with much loss of life, and an infrastructure that makes it difficult for families to recover.

You may also consider a donation to the Disaster Relief Fund. In the event of a natural disaster, Compassion provides food, blankets, shelter and replacement belongings to children and their families.

Please do what you can.

(1) Iowa State Farm Bureau

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