As you may notice from my photographs, it is not easy to take a picture in Haiti that is not a portrait. When a Haitian sees a camera-wielding blan (literally, “white person”, but used to describe any foreigner), he or she is likely to jump in front of the camera and perform a series of poses. This reaction to my presence and my camera took me by surprise; when I was invited to Haiti to create a photo-documentary, I was worried about how I would be received. Haiti, like many other poor countries, is most often represented by the media as a hotbed of violence, poverty, and political turmoil. I feared that Haitians might see me as just another foreigner looking to take photographs of their suffering.

I wondered, would the Haitian poor allow me to photograph their lives? Would they trust me to represent them with the dignity they are entitled to? I also doubted my own ability, as a foreigner with a limited understanding of Haiti’s culture, politics and history, to represent Haitians as they would want to be represented. As I prepared for my trip, I came across a poem written by a Haitian that heightened my anxieties. In part, it read:

Tourist, don’t take my picture
You won’t understand my pose
You won’t understand a thing
My affairs aren’t yours, tourist
Gimme five cents
And be on your way

With no answer to these questions, I left for Haiti with these concerns at the forefront of my consciousness.

When I arrived in Haiti, my fears were immediately assuaged. My host, an American volunteer, has many Haitian friends who were open to being photographed because of their strong relationships with foreign aid workers. Strangers we met were also supportive of my aim to illustrate their home for an American audience. Each day, I picked up a few more words of Haitian Creole; this had a warming effect on those whom I asked, “M’kapab fe foto ou?” (Can I take a photo of you?)

I cannot discount the effect of novelty in my efforts to photograph life in Haiti. Many Haitians were simply excited by the prospect of being photographed; both cameras and white people are a rare sight in Haiti, especially in rural areas. On several occasions, I was waved into homes and enthusiastically encouraged to photograph large families, friends, and neighbors. I took this openness and enthusiasm as an opportunity for me to photograph Haitians honestly, representing them as they presented themselves to the camera.

My photographs illustrate daily life in Fondwa, a rural village high in the mountains of Haiti. The activities and landscape that make up the daily routine in Fondwa seem foreign to the average American eye. I have captured these scenes to give you a sense of what life is like in the poorest country in the Western hemisphere. Most of my audience has not had the opportunity to witness the realities of life in the third world; I want to share it with them. At the same time, I aim to share the beauty and local flavor of Fondwa.

My mission as a photographer is to use my camera as an agent of change. My photos create a dialogue between my subjects, who tell their stories through their poses, and my audience, who ‘listen’ to their stories by viewing the photographs. Separated by language, culture, nationa, class, and often race, subject and audience are united in the shared effort of creating and consuming these images. I hope my audience will both learn more about the lives of the very poor and find themselves moved to help.

The goals of “Life in Fondwa” are twofold: to raise awareness about the struggle for survival in Haiti, and to raise funds to support the University of Fondwa, Haiti’s first and only rural university. Founded in 2004, UNIF trains the sons and daughters of Haitian peasants in agronomy, veterinary medicine, and management. When finished with their studies, students pledge to return to work in their home communities for at least six years, creating a network of sustainable development professionals for Haiti’s rural communes. Proceeds from sales of my photographs will contribute to the long-term development of rural Haiti.