Death in Haiti comes easily. It comes to many. Young and old. Poor and Poorer. It comes without explanation. Those who mourn do so, often loudly, sometimes wildly and always beautifully adorned. They walk roads, rubble and countryside, climbing down steep slopes, they cry, play music and walk beside one another. Bearing witness to their process is a privilege and an honor; of which I am grateful for each time I am invited. The images I make of death in Haiti are the images I relate to the most.They speak to me, in ways others cannot. They are alive in ways that others are not. They scream out in ways that others can not. They are the images I most want the world to see; for Haiti overflows with pain, most of which is hidden, beneath their tents and torn tarps, in the darkness of the night, in everything they lack. But when death comes, we see it, in all it’s starkness. Loud and wild, bursting at the seams and we can’t help but listen.
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