"Madame Dread: A Tale of Love, Voodoo and Civil Strife in Haiti" by Kathie Klarreich (Nation Books).
According to a Creole proverb, truth is like oil in water; it always comes to the surface. Kathie Klarreich's first book, a memoir of her years in Haiti, is a tale of truths -- personal, religious and political.
The title, "Madame Dread: A Tale of Love, Voodoo and Civil Strife in Haiti," comes from the nickname given to her by the kids in her Port-au-Prince neighborhood. In Haitian tradition, women take on the first names of their husbands; in her case she was named for the dreadlocks of her boyfriend (who later became her husband). She also refers to herself as a "Voodoo Jew."
The book is timely reading as Haitians took part in long-postponed national elections on Feb. 7, aimed at restoring democracy, two years after the ouster of President Jean-Bertrand Aristide. Klarreich's impressionistic writing goes far in explaining the ongoing political turbulence that rocks the Caribbean nation -- once known as the Pearl of the Antilles, it is the poorest country in the Western hemisphere.
On the eve of the elections, Klarreich was in Haiti, reporting for Time magazine. In an e-mail she wrote, "It's sort of bittersweet to be covering elections again, seeing how much people want change and how slow it's been to come."
From the time of the author's first visit to Haiti in 1986, the place got under her skin in ways that go beyond words. Something about the warmth and graciousness of the people, the landscape, the vibrancy and color of the place and the music touched her in a profound way. A second visit in 1988, with the goal of spending three weeks researching handicrafts for her San Francisco shop, turned into a stay of more than 10 years.
The book opens in September 1988 with gunfire, when Klarreich found herself a front-row witness to a coup d'etat, the first of several she'd experience. Information was scarce, and she was not sure what had happened or where to find safety, but following her instincts she made her way to a friend's home. She was then unsure whether to remain in Haiti, and it was her worried mother, who in a long-distance phone call advised either to "get involved or get out," who convinced her to stay.
Another friend suggested that since she was in the midst of history being made, that she try reporting. She made contacts, wrote and rewrote, and got published in the San Francisco Chronicle and broadcast on Pacifica Radio. After a quick and determined study of what makes a good reporter, she took on more assignments and soon found that major newspapers, magazines and television networks were calling her. As years passed, she felt less the foreign journalist and more as though she were recounting the history of her own country.
Soon after the 1988 coup, she went with a friend to hear a traditional music group perform at the National Theater, and when she first saw the drummer, "it was as though someone sliced a vein from my heart into the center of his." Several months later, she met Jean Raymond and, ever aware of their differences in culture, education and economics, fell deeply in love. Their first son was born on the same day as another coup d'etat, in 1991, while they were in San Francisco. Jean Raymond felt displaced in America, homesick for Haiti, so he returned and she joined him later on.
Klarreich writes with honesty and humility, aware of the privilege of her upper middle-class background and ability -- not shared by her Haitian friends -- to leave at any point if the dangers, frustrations, government corruption and violence were to become too difficult to bear. She writes of adjusting to weeks with only 10 random hours of electricity, being mistaken for a CIA agent, losing a dear friend to assassination and interviewing political leaders. The memoir is also the story of her self-discovery as she pushes herself "to pare down the clutter" of her life.
Her curiosity about all things Haitian led her to experience the voodoo tradition. She attended a five-day traditional ceremony and while dancing, was surprised at her writhing bodily reactions, as though spirits possessed her.
"I was not a nonbeliever, but at each foreign juncture with the spiritual, I had only my Jewish spiritual upbringing as a frame of reference. This didn't fit in that box. It didn't fit anywhere. No feelings any rabbi evoked though any sermon I'd ever heard came close to reaching this kind of religious experience," she writes.
Her husband is a practitioner of voodoo and she is not, although she says that learning about voodoo has helped her to better understand the country and it history. In their home in Haiti, she would light Shabbat candles, with his ritual items nearby. She now lives mostly in Florida, where her 14-year-old son goes to school, and she travels frequently to their home in Haiti, where her husband is primarily based.
In a telephone interview from Key Biscayne as she was about to leave for Haiti, she explains that voodoo is very much misunderstood, promoted by Hollywood as having to do with sticking pins into dolls and some sort of black magic. She's pleased that her openness "allowed me to just observe and take in what it was. In this post-9/11 world, we have to come to other people's religions with open minds and not be judgmental."
Klarreich, 50, grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland where her father served as a city councilman, and she says that one of the gifts her family gave her was travel, exposing her to many places from a young age. Her Jewish upbringing prepared her for her adventure in Haiti, and "for life in general. My parents set the stage for me to feel confident in making decisions and gave me space to do so."
Now, when she looks at photos of her earlier self in Haiti, she sees how much her white skin makes her stand out, but she always felt accepted. Most Haitians, she says, don't know much about Judaism, or Middle East politics.
"It's a very isolated island, with its own language," she said. "I've often thought this to be part of their larger political problem, that they're so insular."
Her mother suggested that she call the book "What's a Nice Jewish Girl Like You Doing in a Place Like This?" The book took her about a decade to write, with several rewrites until she found a way to tell the story, which she does well. She begins each chapter with a Creole proverb -- like "Love turns your head around" and "The lamp won't light without a wick" -- as Haitians invoke idiomatic sayings frequently.
"It's part of Haitians' charm; they see the world with humor, with joie de vivre," she says. "We hear awful things about violence and poverty, but 8 million people get up and make do, often under great duress, and they do it with laughter and grace and creativity. I have tremendous respect for the way they have overcome so many difficulties."
For Klarreich, Haiti remains a country "full of unpredictable flaws and wonders." Each time she arrives, she's enchanted anew.
"Haiti has taught me that there is not only one way to look at a situation, but infinite ways to create a solution, with humor and devotion, heart and determination as key ingredients."
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