“Where there is life, there is hope,” wrote J.R.R. Tolkien in The Lord of the Rings. Haiti, an epicenter of both natural and man-made disasters, is a real test of this assertion. With hurricanes, earthquakes, and heavily armed gangs that now control about 90 percent of the capital, Port-au-Prince, Haiti seems to have painted a target on this otherwise paradise-like land.
Some 1.4 million people are on the brink of starvation, according to the latest estimates, more than half a million have been displaced, cholera is back on the rise, more than 30 hospitals and other health facilities in the capital, Port-au-Prince, have been destroyed or looted, and residents are taking refuge in schools and churches. Hope comes in the form of a flock of planes carrying medical supplies, food, drinking water and, most long-awaited of all, a Kenyan-led police force to eradicate gangs.
Still, every now and then, a sliver of light shines through the darkness. One of them was captured in a photograph sent to me by a friend on June 16. It was a dazzling portrait of a dozen Haitian boys and girls, ages 5 and 6, graduating from kindergarten in Lanquid, a safe rural village about four hours north of Port-au-Prince. The girls were smiling and wearing identical pink dresses, white ankle socks, and black shoes. The boys were smiling, too, wearing matching pink shirts, black pants, and shoes.
These children are just some of the beneficiaries of one man's imagination and the split-second decision he made in 2010 that changed his life and that of countless others.
Jonathan Glynn (the subject of my previous two columns) was flying a single-engine Cessna from Sag Harbor, New York, to Miami to visit his brother. His usual passenger in the passenger seat was his canine co-pilot, a short-haired, silver-spotted dachshund named Lily. At some point, for some reason, Glynn decided not to continue to Miami and instead fly to Haiti, where a magnitude 7.0 earthquake had nearly destroyed the island and killed an estimated 100,000 to 300,000 people. He left Lily with his brother, took a slight detour to get supplies, and then, armed only with a handheld GPS, pointed the plane toward the worst disaster on Earth.
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Glynn reached Port-au-Prince in seven hours, stopping every two and a half hours to refuel, but the country's infrastructure was so badly damaged that there was nowhere to land. He circled the area and finally found a primitive airfield in nearby Jacmel.
I first heard this story in early 2011 when Glynn and I were in the same bar at the American Hotel in Sag Harbor (it's easier to talk to strangers when you walk in and the bartender immediately serves a plate of crispy bacon to a blind poodle). I was captivated by Glynn's words: “I knew I couldn't save everyone, but I thought maybe I could save some kids.” He was referring to the homeless children staggering through the rubble in Port-au-Prince.
Looking back, Glynn could hardly believe his experience: “It was a strange kind of providence, because once I let go, things came to me. I'd never really believed in God before. It's still a mystery to me.”
He met with people from Calvary Chapels in New England. They had money and trucks and wanted to distribute medical supplies. Because large planes couldn't land in Haiti, Glynn became a one-man air force for weeks, delivering medical supplies and transporting doctors. He recalled, “I saw the kind of physical scars on people that I could never have imagined, even coming from a family of doctors.”
“In a short space of time, I became accustomed to the countless amputations and the desperation that had gripped me for 17 days,” he said. “I felt emotionally numb, like I was in the eye of a hurricane. I couldn't sleep. I slept on the plane.”
Lawlessness began in Port-au-Prince.
“There was chaos at the airport,” Glynn texted me recently. “There was violence outside, a lot of cars with bullets on them.”
After witnessing this insanity, he decided to put his artistic career on hold and focus on building schools, one school at a time. Glynn is not a builder, contractor, or educator; he's primarily an abstract artist, though he's also worked in real estate. Eventually, “somehow” became Wings Over Haiti, a nonprofit organization staffed by volunteers and run by donations and fundraising. So far, Glynn's team has built two schools.
The first HEART School opened near Port-au-Prince in 2011 and currently serves about 250 K-12 students. The children receive two meals a day and free health care. The second school, in Lanquit, opened in 2019 and has four classrooms and 104 students in kindergarten and first grade. These students receive a hot meal every day, and a school nurse provides antibiotics and other important medicines that they previously didn't have access to. Plans are to add a second floor to accommodate 100 more students, eventually educating all of the village's approximately 400 children.
Other projects the group has in the works for Rankit include installing a solar-powered water pump on a well recently pumped by volunteers, as well as a water filtration system and reservoir, with the goal of providing clean water to the entire village.
Next month in Bridgehampton, New York, Glynn will host the annual Hamptons Artists for Haiti charity event, featuring a silent auction of artwork donated by 50 artists, with the goal of raising $100,000 for the Rankit Project.
Glynn kept his promise to himself. In the 13 years since we spoke at the American Hotel, hundreds of Haitian children and families have become better educated, better nourished, healthier and happier. Lily has sadly gone over the rainbow, and she has been succeeded (but not replaced) by Rolo, a chocolate short-haired mini dachshund. Now approaching 73, Glynn has retired from his Cessna and now flies commercially.
In other words, life goes on. And thanks to one man's dedication, heart and imagination, so does hope.
