When I was in Haiti in February on a mission trip, our team spent a couple of days at an orphanage in a Port au Prince slum called Carrefour. What we saw there would surely break your heart. It tripled any sad scene you ever saw on “Annie.” Dozens of preschoolers and toddlers were crawling around in filth, with flies buzzing relentlessly around their eyes. They were underfed and crying. Their caregivers had vacant expressions and gave little attention to the babies with sodden diapers. It had only been a few weeks since more than 50 children in their care had been crushed or slowly suffocated in the devastating earthquake that killed hundreds of thousands of Haitians – children and adults alike were still traumatized. One small girl squatted in the dirt, in the midst of a dozen people, to defecate and no one even blinked. Most of the children had skin conditions and our small medical team did what they could to give treatment with few supplies.

 

 

Because I have no medical training, I spent time playing and interacting with the kids at each of the sites we visited. One of the things that seemed to inspire wide smiles was their seeing themselves on the display screen of my digital camera. So, for hours, I took pictures of their smudged-but-oft-beaming faces and presented their own smiles back to them as entertainment.

 

 

 

As we played, I noticed a young boy sitting quietly to the side, observing our every move. He wasn’t participating – just taking it in. Bit by bit, I made my way near him, taking and showing pictures along the way. Finally, I was sitting on a bench across from where he was perched. I looked directly at him and smiled. He didn’t move.

 

I aimed and took his picture, then turned the screen in his direction and patted the seat beside me. Still nothing.

 

 

 

I shot another image and showed it to a child nearby, who smiled broadly and pointed at the young boy. Finally, a hint of curiosity showed on his face. I patted the bench beside me, again, and he slowly scooted over to see himself on my screen.

 

We sat that way for awhile – me taking images of the kids around us, him peering at the screen and smiling at each shot. Slowly, I put the strap around his neck and showed him how to properly hold the camera.

 

He timidly shot a couple and we looked at each one, then I modeled how to better fill the screen with each scene before clicking. A quick learner, he took a few well-composed pictures and sat there, beaming as I praised him in a language he couldn’t understand.

 

 

 

I nudged him and waved my arm, showing him it was fine to wander around, capturing images of his choice. At first he was hesitant, but soon he was shooting away, returning to me from time to time to show off his work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eventually, it was time for our team to leave. Reluctant to go, I took out my Blackberry and attempted to add his name. He looked at my screen and corrected the spelling of his name and age. He was 10.

 

I gave him a big hug and smile and he joined the others in waving to us as we left. Then, when we pulled beyond the guarded fence into the bustling street, our driver stopped to speak to someone he knew. I looked back and there was my new friend, smiling and walking behind our van.

 

 

 

I was puzzled, since surely the orphanage children weren’t allowed to wander such dangerous streets. I couldn’t stop worrying about him and mentioned it to my husband, who was also on our team. That evening, we called the orphanage to ask whether there was any way we could help the boy.

 

We were stunned when we were told they had no child by that name or age living at the orphanage.

 

How could that be??

 

Baffled, I insisted that we had spent the day together and described him more thoroughly. Yes, they acknowledged, there was a boy who lived on the streets nearby with his mother and sometimes came in, because he was hungry, but she was unable to care for him. They would ask his sister to find out more.

 

So he at least has a mother and sister. Family.

 

To most of us, that means safety and solidarity. Who knows what it means to a child who roams the streets of Haiti – when few are lucky enough to even have tents for housing? When many are snatched for child trafficking or slavery? When food is practically nonexistent, water is tough to get and the potential to find either is slim?

 

I have called the orphanage many times, but no one answers the phone. I’ve tried to hire someone to see if they can find the boy and identify his circumstances, since I would like to send him to school and keep his family together, but have only met with a shifty opportunist who demanded thousands of dollars as monthly payment and the purchase of a car. I’ve exchanged letters with a man who says he is freelance media in Haiti. He promised to look for the boy that same week – but didn’t and then stopped answering my emails. A fellow team member who was scheduled to return to Haiti promised to look for him, but then her trip cancelled, because of the increase of violence there.

 

I feel worried and disheartened, but my God is BIG and, for some reason, He has given me this kid’s back to cover. I want to be there for him.

 

I need to be there for him.

 

So why look for a 10-year-old child who probably can’t be found in the chaotic, ever-shifting street masses of Haiti?

 

Why be haunted by the memory of someone with whom I only spent an afternoon?

 

Why bother?

 

There only seems to be one answer:

 

Because he matters.