eaths of innocent children. The request to work in Haiti presented for me an opportunity (even an obligation) to question the limits of my work. Can I in good conscience talk about trade in the face of needs more pressing and more acute? To be perfectly honest, I made the decision to take on the project for my own selfish reasons. As a Haitian American who has done trade projects throughout the African continent, this was the first opportunity I had to make a contribution to the land of my ancestors. I could not imagine not going, even as I questioned whether my contribution would be "enough" (significant enough, useful enough, relevant enough . . . )When I landed at the airport in Port-au-Prince, I was assailed by memories. I was reminded of the day my grandmother took me to that very same airport and explained to my siblings and I that we would be joining our parents in New York--but that she would stay behind. I was four years old at the time. I remember flying back to that airport just five years later so that we could bury my mother on Haitian soil just as she wanted. And I remember returning to that airport in my mid-twenties at last ready to confront that part of my history and my past--I had not been back to Haiti for years, and my sense of connection to the Island was tenuous at best. Now here I was a decade-and-a-half later returning to Haiti on a trade and development project.
What I learned from my time in Haiti far exceeded any contribution I might have made. Yes, I worked hard to put together a meaningful workshop on rules of origin obligations under international agreements, but what I got in return was a sense of renewal. After years of work in this area, I had come to loath incrementalism. I was tired of the one-small-step syndrome and wanted to be part of something that could usher in a sudden, quantum leap of change. I wanted to waive a magic wand that would right the economic and political wrongs of Ethiopia and allow that huge, fertile country to prosper. Ditto for Senegal, The Ivory Coast, South Africa, Cape Verde and every other country I had worked with over the last decade. And if I could not do that, I wanted to do nothing. It is a terrible thing to lose faith that the work you are doing is meaningful. Haiti allowed me to once again see meaning in my work.
At the rule of origin workshops, I met Haitians who were strong, committed advocates of trade. But I also met many who believed (as I secretly did) that Haiti had more pressing problems. Rather than suppressing those sometimes combustible opposing views, I welcomed them. Our discussions were hot and heavy at times as we explored the many ways trade laws both help and hurt developing countries. And there was something about seeing these folks grappling with the same dilemmas I had that renewed my commitment to be a part of the larger debate. Inexplicable perhaps, but true.
When I returned from Haiti, I immediately began work on a new writing project: How history has shaped Haiti's current role in the international trading system. I want to understand the current impediments to Haitian trade--both internal and external. The only way to do so, in my view, is to understand how international trade shaped Haiti's destiny. I am not interested in history for its own sake, but rather want to understand the lessons of history to apply them to the present.
Talk about incremental change!
