befallen the downtown area.
When we finally heard on the radio that protesters had taken Lake Shore Drive, Katie came to life.
"Mom! I want to go find them!" she pleaded.
I had heard there would be a demonstration if there were indeed an attack on Iraq but had forgotten about it. Joining a protest that evening could not have been further from my mind.
"Katie, we've got to get home early. It's a school night and your brothers are home alone."
"Please? Please, Mom?" The thought of anti-war activists not giving up seemed to lend her some kind of hope. I gave in.
"Just for a little while. We came here to look for a prom dress."
"All right, I promise."
We parked the car near Water Tower Place and I took only my keys, driver's license, and Marshall Field's credit card with me. By that time the group had reached the area in front of the Drake Hotel. Within minutes I saw a young man hit and being dragged by police. I did not want Katie to be a witness to this and feared for her safety. I took her arm and led her away.
"We're getting out of here," I told her. When we reached Michigan Avenue a line of police in riot gear blocked the sidewalk. I took her back to the other side of the hotel, but police obstructed us there, as well. I pleaded with them to let us go but they refused.
We had no choice but to join the protesters as they were led by police back down Lake Shore Drive and onto Chicago Avenue. I was relieved, as we were closer to our car. But police three-deep surround us. One by one they slowly arrested people who did nothing more than stand there. After an hour or two of asking them to let us leave I heard Katie scream.
"Mom!" I turned around to see her being taken by police.
"Wait!" I yelled. "Take me with her! She's my daughter!"
We were put into a paddy wagon and eventually locked up with hundreds of others. She and I were separated into different cells. I could not imagine how she was handling the situation and ached to be with her.
I later learned that initially she had found a sense of camaraderie with her cell mates, but by the following day had broken down and curled up in the fetal position on the cold, cement floor, sobbing. She was finally brought into my cell, where we were confined with others until late the following night.
I am not sure what prompted me to join the protesters that night, but I spent a good deal of the time behind bars remembering our visit with the bishop in Fort Liberte, who was so saddened by President Bush's stance.
16
Crises
Following the 2003 visit to Haiti, I very much looked forward to returning. It was draining and I wondered how non-Haitians spent so much of their lives there, but I knew there was something between Haiti and me that was not quite finished. However, the next trip would be delayed. Just a year later, Haiti was in turmoil. The violence against the Aristide administration had grown to unprecedented proportions. We had been warned for some time by Catholic Relief Services that tensions were growing, making a return trip unlikely for some time. I underestimated the tensions, and thought the group organizers were being overprotective. It is true that hosting visitors detracts from their own work, so I suspected that a subsequent delegation might be too much to take on for a while. They truly felt responsible for us, and perhaps traveling with the bishop intensified their efforts. But they assured us that they would be happy for us to return sometime later when it was safe. They kindly reiterated that they knew best and had our interests at heart.
In coming months, news of political violence swept news channels and it became increasingly apparent that they had known something we did not. Haiti would not make the news if this had not been a major development. The violence this time was different from what I had heard described before. Or perhaps it seemed so, because I was more familiar with the country, its geography, and its people than I had been. In Fort
When we finally heard on the radio that protesters had taken Lake Shore Drive, Katie came to life.
"Mom! I want to go find them!" she pleaded.
I had heard there would be a demonstration if there were indeed an attack on Iraq but had forgotten about it. Joining a protest that evening could not have been further from my mind.
"Katie, we've got to get home early. It's a school night and your brothers are home alone."
"Please? Please, Mom?" The thought of anti-war activists not giving up seemed to lend her some kind of hope. I gave in.
"Just for a little while. We came here to look for a prom dress."
"All right, I promise."
We parked the car near Water Tower Place and I took only my keys, driver's license, and Marshall Field's credit card with me. By that time the group had reached the area in front of the Drake Hotel. Within minutes I saw a young man hit and being dragged by police. I did not want Katie to be a witness to this and feared for her safety. I took her arm and led her away.
"We're getting out of here," I told her. When we reached Michigan Avenue a line of police in riot gear blocked the sidewalk. I took her back to the other side of the hotel, but police obstructed us there, as well. I pleaded with them to let us go but they refused.
We had no choice but to join the protesters as they were led by police back down Lake Shore Drive and onto Chicago Avenue. I was relieved, as we were closer to our car. But police three-deep surround us. One by one they slowly arrested people who did nothing more than stand there. After an hour or two of asking them to let us leave I heard Katie scream.
"Mom!" I turned around to see her being taken by police.
"Wait!" I yelled. "Take me with her! She's my daughter!"
We were put into a paddy wagon and eventually locked up with hundreds of others. She and I were separated into different cells. I could not imagine how she was handling the situation and ached to be with her.
I later learned that initially she had found a sense of camaraderie with her cell mates, but by the following day had broken down and curled up in the fetal position on the cold, cement floor, sobbing. She was finally brought into my cell, where we were confined with others until late the following night.
I am not sure what prompted me to join the protesters that night, but I spent a good deal of the time behind bars remembering our visit with the bishop in Fort Liberte, who was so saddened by President Bush's stance.
16
Crises
Following the 2003 visit to Haiti, I very much looked forward to returning. It was draining and I wondered how non-Haitians spent so much of their lives there, but I knew there was something between Haiti and me that was not quite finished. However, the next trip would be delayed. Just a year later, Haiti was in turmoil. The violence against the Aristide administration had grown to unprecedented proportions. We had been warned for some time by Catholic Relief Services that tensions were growing, making a return trip unlikely for some time. I underestimated the tensions, and thought the group organizers were being overprotective. It is true that hosting visitors detracts from their own work, so I suspected that a subsequent delegation might be too much to take on for a while. They truly felt responsible for us, and perhaps traveling with the bishop intensified their efforts. But they assured us that they would be happy for us to return sometime later when it was safe. They kindly reiterated that they knew best and had our interests at heart.
In coming months, news of political violence swept news channels and it became increasingly apparent that they had known something we did not. Haiti would not make the news if this had not been a major development. The violence this time was different from what I had heard described before. Or perhaps it seemed so, because I was more familiar with the country, its geography, and its people than I had been. In Fort
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