24780: Hermantin (News) 'Mom' nurtures Haiti's future one child at a time

[sak-pase@bimini.ws]

leonie hermantin <lhermantin@hotmail.com>

Posted on Fri, Apr. 15, 2005
ORPHANAGE
'Mom' nurtures Haiti's future one child at a time
BY JENNIFER SANTIAGO
jsantiago@wfor.cbs.com


PORT-AU-PRINCE -- It is 5 a.m. on a Sunday. The drool on my pillow hasn't 
even dried, and my sleep is suddenly interrupted by screams. ''That is the 
prayer I told you about,'' mutters Jackie from the other side of the room. A 
woman screeches in Creole -- her calls to the heavens then met by deeper 
voices joining in the pre-dawn prayers. I suppose if I lived in Haiti, I'd 
scream at God too.

It is my second day in Port-au-Prince at the orphanage that never sleeps.

I am a guest of Jackie Workman -- my roommate -- and administrative director 
of Christian Haitian Outreach. CHO is a faith-based charitable organization 
with a home office in Miami that owns and operates two orphanages in Haiti. 
One is in Mariani, just outside of Port-au-Prince. The larger of the two is 
about 150 miles west in the small coastal town of Jeremie.

I first met Jackie and the founder of CHO, Eleanor Workman, one year ago 
when they invited me to their home so that I could film a story for CBS 4 
News. Then, the rebellion to oust President Jean-Bertrand Aristide was well 
under way, and daily acts of brutality were keeping Eleanor, or ''Mom'' as 
she is affectionately known, and her South Florida-based employees, away 
from their children. Now, a year later, with more than 7,000 U.N. troops in 
Haiti, the violence hasn't quite subsided. But we feel comfortable enough to 
travel to Port-au-Prince and beyond to check up on Mom's 200-plus kids.

It is a 45-minute ride from Guy-Malary International Airport to Mariani in 
more stop- than-go traffic. At first we speed by rows of decrepit homes made 
of corrugated tin and cardboard. Then, a protracted pause, while a man 
pushes a colorful tap-tap, adorned with red-white-and-blue dollar signs and 
crammed full of exhausted commuters, down the crumbling street. Like the 
tap-tap, things have a tendency to break down in Port-au-Prince.

My driver is Mayel Figero. He handles shipping and receiving for CHO. He is 
also an orphan. ''I lost my parents when I was 15. I was so skinny and so 
helpless. Without Mom what would I have done?'' In Haiti, according to the 
latest figures from UNICEF, nearly half the population is under the age of 
15. It is a country within spitting distance of our own, and I suppose we've 
taken that whole spitting thing a bit too literally for too long.

When we finally arrive at the orphanage, home to 60, every one of Mom's kids 
greets me with sweet kisses and smiles -- smiles that don't exist outside 
these barbed wired walls. Here, infants may wait months before adoption 
papers go through. Some 200 children have found homes in the United States 
and Canada. The oldest, resigned to a life without parents, play soccer in a 
courtyard shared by grazing goats and broken-down schoolbuses.

One is 22-year-old Emanuel. But, here, everyone calls him Mano. The lanky, 
handsome young man wears his pants a bit too high on the waist by 
cool-American-kid standards, but he is top dog here in the orphanage. Mano 
is fluent in three languages, a testament to the quality of education that 
he received through CHO, which provides schooling to hundreds of area kids 
for free.

But Mano is taking an involuntary sabbatical. College is expensive in 
Port-au-Prince -- $4,000 per semester. While Mano waits for a U.S. sponsor, 
he spends his days mentoring the orphans and sharing his dreams with anyone 
who will listen. ''I want to be president of Haiti,'' he tells me. And I 
hope, for Haiti's sake, his wish comes true.

Jennifer Santiago is an attorney and Emmy-nominated reporter for CBS 4 News.