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, hurricane, political protest. Headlines about Haiti move inexorably from crisis to crisis. But I've just returned from Haiti -- my fifth trip in three years -- and have stories to tell that the world needs to hear.


Haiti is more than its poverty and disaster, more than its current cholera and elections. Haiti is moms and dads, teachers, religious leaders, farmers and masons. Haiti is families and communities that know well what survival demands.


A few weeks ago I visited the mountain village of 

. On Jan. 12, Bigonet's homes fell. Its school and church buildings collapsed; its burial crypts ruptured to reveal ancestors long dead. But people of rural Haiti know what's required. Over weeks and months, they've cobbled together tarps and tents from every available source. Without machines, they've cleared by hand tons -- literally tons -- of rubble. Day after day, they continue the arduous task of re-creating their community. 


In Port au Prince, too, are countless stories of grace and dignity. A family in a meager tent brings joy to a child dying of cancer. A religious community provides sustenance and love to old women otherwise alone in the world. People throughout the city arduously work to rebuild: a home, a market stall, a place to bathe.


Of course people depend on help from outsiders: $60 to pay a teacher's monthly salary so a school can reopen. A truck to distribute drinking water; a tent to bring a modicum of shelter to one more family. But even receiving help requires strength and ingenuity: walking hours to a distribution center, staying alert to where resources might be found.


My friends in both village and city are visibly weary and talk openly of their discouragement. In a land without government infrastructures -- communication, health care, education, electricity, clean water, waste disposal -- dreams have been shattered. The pride of providing food for one's children, now made impossible by destruction of livelihood. A tiny house reduced to tangled metal and debris. No economic safety nets; no dependable networks of information and assistance; no hopes for old age.


But the burdens on Haiti's shoulders have not destroyed its people's vitality and joy. As friends say amidst laughter and song: If we can find humor, we can find hope. When we find hope, we can see a future. And for the sake of the children, above all for the sake of the children, we must believe in a future.


"Things will get better," a group of women explained one evening. "If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then next week; if not next week. ..." 


So when next a Haitian disaster hits the headlines, remember that much is hidden from reporters. By sheer dint of hard work, ingenuity and joy, Haiti's people continue to build a future. For that they deserve great respect.


Ruth Anne Olson travels to Haiti as part of a partnership between 

 in Minneapolis and Legliz Bonne Nouvelle Episcopale in Bigonet, Haiti. She has written the life stories of Haitian people, 

 available in local libraries and bookstores.

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Ruth Anne Olson

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People in Haiti know from long experience what is required of them: Hard work, yes, but also humor and hope.

In Haiti, the stories are about much more than pain and loss

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