“You work in international education? Why don’t you work in education in America?” When in the States, I get asked that question a lot when I tell people what I do. Mentally, I respond, “why don’t you work in education in America?” Out loud, I give various reasons: I am interested in comparative approaches to research and practice; I haven’t ruled out working domestically; international and multicultural perspectives are important in education no matter where you work; I want to see the world while I’m young and have minimal familial obligations—all of which are true. I try not to sound too defensive. Of course, I wouldn’t feel defensive if I didn’t agree with, at least partially, the question’s implication: what right do you have to go to other countries and purport to advise on anything? How can you think you can improve education in foreign lands when education in your homeland faces so many obstacles? People in glass houses ought not to throw stones.

I currently live in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, and am pursuing a Fulbright-Clinton fellowship. Unlike traditional, research-focused Fulbright grants, this is a public policy fellowship; although I am conducting research as part of my grant, my main assignment is working in the Haitian Ministry of Education. At the Ministry, I work in the Secondary Education Division, strengthening English programs in high schools. Given my prior experience as an ESL teacher, and, since I am probably the only native English speaker at the Ministry, I feel comfortable with this particular project, fairly confident that I am “in my place,” filling a need and not taking away anyone else’s job.

Still, given the controversial history of the United States’ involvement in Haiti, I often struggle with feelings of guilt over my right to be here at all. In the 20th century alone, the U.S. occupied Haiti for nearly 20 years, quietly supported the Duvalier dictatorships, and clandestinely contributed to the ousting of a democratically elected president; a few years later the U.S. led efforts to forcibly reinstate him. Furthermore, the life I live here occupies a very small and privileged section of the society and economy in Haiti. Income inequality is a problem around the world, and Haiti is an extreme case. Wealthy Haitians and foreigners live in a bubble of security: we reside in properties enclosed by metal gates and barbed wire, drive or are driven to work in SUVs, and shop for groceries at stores guarded by men with machine guns. There is little social overlap with the vast majority of the Haitian people, many of whom live in extreme poverty.

It is this latter group—average citizens—that drives nearly all of the political and economic activism seen recently. In the past six months, there have been countless demonstrations in the streets of Port-au-Prince protesting government inaction regarding elections that should have been held three years ago. There have been transit strikes protesting the price of gas. These demonstrations have had real impact: the prime minister resigned in December; elections have been scheduled for later this year; the government agreed to subsidies on petroleum products. Of course, these changes do not conclusively solve problems. The new prime minister is not much more popular than the former one, elections could be postponed or canceled, and gas subsidies might not be all that beneficial. But the protests are still effecting change.

Or so I’m told. I almost never see them. As a participant in a U.S. Government program, I abide by the security restrictions set for U.S. Embassy employees. I’m not allowed to take public transportation, and there are certain parts of Port-au-Prince that I’m not allowed to visit. I have a 1 AM curfew. I get text message alerts about where demonstrations are, and I am told to avoid the area. These restrictions are not without reason; protests can turn violent very quickly.

And yet, sometimes I think about bursting the bubble, to bear witness to what’s happening on the ground. But I won’t. I’ll live here the only way I know how and do my job to the best of my ability. Perhaps that’s all I can do, all I should do.

Sarah is an international education professional currently living in Haiti. Her work interests include language and literacy development, teacher training, and education as a means to heal from trauma. Her time at Smith, most notably her experience with the Junior Year Abroad program in Paris, inspired her to work globally.

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