Conversations with the Living: The Haitian AIDS Crisis

I’m sitting at my laptop looking at video rips from the Conversations’ crew’s  recent voyage to Haiti. They were lucky and plucky enough to get some great footage of a tremendous Fete Gede at the national cemetery in Port Au Prince on the Day of the Dead. As my eyes dance across the computer screen, suddenly a strange feeling stirs violently inside my head. The sea of proud black faces flooding the cemetery jars my memory and prompts the sweet aroma of burnt incense and peppered rhum to flood my nostrils. Instantaneously I’m propelled back in time  almost 3o years as I relive one of the most significant  Day of the Dead ceremonies I’ve ever experienced.

1980 was a tough year for me and my brood. We were fresh off of an eviction, my behavioral problems at school were now beginning to move into more serious fare (fighting, 1st cigarette smoked, and 1st beer imbibed), and my mother was having serious issues with her supervisors at work. Our home was far from inviting; in fact, on any given day you could cut the tension in our tight living quarters with the flaming machete of Papa Ogoun Feraille. Anyhow, we were in desperate need for divine assistance on many fronts and my mom and grandmother decided that a Fete Gede on Novemember 2nd could bring some much needed levity and valuable spiritual guidance to our home.

The actual details of that inaugural Fete Gede has blurred as the years have melted away, but I clearly remember hustling  around our cramped one bedroom apartment  assisting my mother, grandmother, aunts, uncles, and various members of the extended family to transform our humble abode to the spacious, inviting, and mystical palace that it would be hours later.

As the youngest person in the house at the time, I was made the designated gopher.  No assignment was beyond my call of duty. I made several trips to the Botanica and the liquor store (NY was a different place back then!) to pick up candles, images of St. Gerard, and bottles of pickled moonshine to summon the fickle and cocky Gede Lwas. This went on for hours until finally at about seven o’clock  the festivities began.

I recall being fascinated by this wondrous and sensual all night ceremony filled with wild and dirty dancing, the random spiritual possessions, the legion of dark purple candles spread out all over the house, the haunting images of black suited skeletons and zombies strategically affixed on our altar, and the mouth watering food and liquor we consumed that day. But what I remember most was the sense of calm when everything was finally over and the words of wisdom that were imparted by the wise Gede Lwas were analyzed. No matter what kind of ailments were troubling you at the moment, everything would end up being alright at the end of that wondrous ceremony.

Flash forward to the year 1996. My family is again preparing for another Gede feast but this one is slightly different. The same family and friends that congregated at our home were there but this time our Fete Gede had a more personal agenda. At that point I was at the end of my fourth month of chemotherapy treatment for Hodgkin’s Disease. The chemo was going well but my body was in excruciating pain. See, I had been diagnosed in December 1995, but wasn’t able to get health insurance for a good seven months, hence my oncologists were concerned that I might be in danger. Being the devout vodouistes that we are; we couldn’t leave my fate in the hands of  Western  doctors alone.

Needless to say our Fete Gede was a rousing success that year. I was told by one of my patron vodou Lwas, Papa Gede, that I was going to make a full recovery but that I was going to be in a great deal of pain for the rest of my remaining years. I also would have to continously pay homage to the Gedes as they were the Lwas that were responsible for healing me. An even trade in my book and I’m glad to say that I’m cancer free thirteen years later.

I’m not sure that anyone could understand the role Vodou plays in the life of Haitian people, especially in regards to matters of health. It seems that our specific brand of human instinct when staring face to face with death is to go back to our ancestral beliefs. Sure we’ll go to the doctor, take our prescribed medicines, go to follow ups and take on a healthy regimen to keep ourselves in good physical condition; but when the chips are down you better believe that we’re going to light that purple candle, throw some pickled moonshine out, and summon the ever present Papa Gede and pray for his healing touch on our bodies and souls.

To all my fellow moun lackaye kap suffrit avec SIDA, keep lighting your candles and keep serving the Lwas. Remember they were there before us and they’ll always be there for us. Kembe!!!!

- Greg C.

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