The downtown, around Grand Rue in the old part of the city, looks like a modern-day variant of Pompei. Nothing but ruins. Here the tall buildings didn’t even pancake; they just crumbled.
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“Yon sèl dwèt pa manje kalalou,” says Christroi Petit-homme, a member of a peasant farmer organization. You can’t eat gumbo with one finger.
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As Haiti moves forward from the current point of devastation of its population, capitol city, and economy, what could a different nation look like?
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“Collapsed house, no number” is an old expression that Haitians uses to indicate that their flimsy homes of sticks-and-mud or shoddy cement blocks have finally fallen apart.
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“A loss for the whole nation.” That is how one of Magalie Marcelin’s friends described the death of this women’s rights leader in Haiti’s earthquake January 12.
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Sony Esteus is squeezed into an elementary school chair, the kind with the curved piece of wood in front, in a courtyard. Around him are chickens, a fly-swarmed pile of compost, a truck, and a tent.
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One of the first things that Haitians now living in the streets want to talk about is their disgust over the international food aid program.
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