Deportation, Haitian prison, and how the Book of Mormon literally saved a life
I had experienced dark nights before; growing up in rural Arizona, seeing the Milky Way was a regular occurrence. But nothing could have prepared me for those nights in Santo Domingo.
Despite being the Dominican Republic’s capital city (and despite it being the year 2010), electricity was a scarcity — often leaving young missionaries like myself to navigate the streets in utter darkness until returning to our candle-lit apartments at 9:30 pm.
“What the hell are you guys doin’ out here?” a voice called out from the dark.
The voice my missionary companion and I heard was unique.
It was an American voice. Speaking English. Obviously we were intrigued, so we turned around to see a muscular African American man walking toward us.
“What the hell, man. It’s Christmas Eve! What are a couple of white kids like you doing out here? And at night? Don’t you know it’s f***ing dangerous? Why aren’t you home with your families?”
Intimidated, and with only four months under my belt I replied something along the lines of, “We’re missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. People call us Mormons. We’re out every day until around 9:30 pm teaching people the Gospel of Jesus Christ.”
“Jesus huh? I could probably use a little more Jesus in my life…”
After talking for a few minutes on the street, we set an appointment with him to meet at his place a couple days later. (For the purposes of this story, I’ll call him Mike.) We ended up having several great conversations with him during the following weeks, and we got to know each other well.
Mike’s Past
To say that Mike had lived a hard life would be a major understatement.
His family moved to the United States from Haiti when he was only two. For all intents and purposes, he grew up like a normal American kid. He went to school, played sports and watched mind-numbing American television.
In his twenties he started doing drugs, got into some trouble and got sent to jail for seven years.
After finally getting out he was committed to living an honorable life. Things were going well for a while, but then he got caught up in selling drugs. This got him in bigger trouble than before.
It turns out that Mike wasn’t actually a legal U.S. citizen, so the judge deported him back to Haiti — a nation in shambles from a devastating earthquake just one year prior.
He didn’t know anyone in Haiti.
And he didn’t speak Creole.
And, worst of all, he didn’t have proof of Haitian citizenship.
Because of this, Mike got arrested immediately after arriving in Haiti and was sent to prison. In his own words:
“If you think Santo Domingo is hell, you should visit Haiti. And if you think Haiti is hell, you should visit a Haitian prison.”
Mike was stuck. He was serving a life sentence in arguably the worst place in the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. Conditions were unbelievable horrific.
He made a strange friend in that prison: Another man who spoke English but with a Jamaican accent and Rastafarian hat. The man kept saying to Mike, “You betta stick wid me. Imma get us outta heeah.” “Right,” Mike thought. “Sure you are.” But, Mike didn’t have anyone else to talk to, so he made friends with him.
That was the first unexpected miracle.
While the Haitian prison was bad, it at least allowed inmates make calls to other people within Haiti. The Jamaican had a connection with a French business owner in the country who owned a soccer stadium. One day, after several months, this Frenchman bailed both the Jamaican and Mike out of prison (likely at no small cost to himself). On top of this, he set Mike up with falsified Haitian documents and a job as a security guard at his soccer stadium.
After working at the stadium for about a year, Mike decided to hop the border in search of a better life in the Dominican Republic.
There, he met up with other Haitian-American deportees in his same situation. He got a job at a telemarketing call center and as taxi driver. (He also sold drugs on the side. He later told us he had just finished a deal when he first met us.)
Life was finally pretty good.
He loved our meetings together, and he loved reading the Book of Mormon. I gave him my own miniature English copy because the only normal sized ones we had to give out were in Spanish, French or Haitian Creole.
His favorite verse was Alma 36:27.
“And I have been supported under trials and troubles of every kind, yea, and in all manner of afflictions; yea, God has delivered me from prison, and from bonds, and from death; yea, and I do put my trust in him, and he will still deliver me.”
Mike even helped us teach our free English classes on Saturdays. My companion and I would teach the Dominicans while Mike taught the local Haitian immigrants (because he had learned basic Creole while in Haiti).
Mike’s class became popular very quickly. Throughout the rest of my two years in the D.R., I would never see such a large English class.
The day that everything changed
We were on our way to Mike’s house for another meeting. We were almost there when some people outside told us he was gone. He had been arrested for driving his taxi route without a Dominican license and deported for not having Dominican citizenship.
I felt like my heart dropped to the center of the earth.
I was devastated. How could God let this happen to someone who was working so hard to turn his life around?
Sadly, I knew all too well how deportations worked in the D.R. Although I had only been in the country for a few months, I had already witnessed my fair share of “round-em-up” style deportations. It usually involved a truck with a few heavily armored military police officers who would jump out and force at gun-point anyone who looked “too black” into the back.
In fact, one time, a bus that some missionaries and I were on was stopped by the police who then boarded it looking for Haitians. There was a sister missionary with us who was from Haiti, legally. The police ordered her to come with them. Me and all the other missionaries stood between her and the police — who eventually backed down and left the bus.
Round up first, ask questions later. Right?
Mike probably wasn’t involved in a round-up arrest, but he was definitely racially profiled.
Those next two months passed in sadness and disbelief. Our friend was simply gone. We had no way of helping him. No way of even contacting him. All we could do was pray and continue to teach others.
***
One late, hot afternoon, a couple months later we were walking down a street and saw a skinny Haitian man walking swiftly toward us. Since he wasn’t holding a machete or hatchet (that’s a story for another day), we stood our ground.
As he came closer, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Mike! But my stomach sank. He was not the same. The once muscular man was now a shell of his former self. Disheveled, emaciated, but at least alive and in the Dominican Republic again.
He then told us his story.
After being arrested, Mike was crammed into a crowded, filthy holding cell for ten days before being shoved into a bus headed for Haiti in the middle of the night — packed with other undocumented people.
Once over the border, the bus stopped in a small village where passengers could get off, try to find some food and water and relieve themselves before moving on to Port-au-Prince. Mike got out, but when he came back the bus was gone.
The Dominicans clearly didn’t care if they lost some Haitians along the way. At least they were deported; that’s what mattered.
Mike was stranded. Homeless. He had no job, no nearby connections, and no supplies except for a small duffel bag of clothes the Dominican police graciously allowed him to pack at his home before taking him to the holding cell.
Without a plan and feeling rejected by the world, he bounced around from slum to slum — village to village — begging from those who barely had more than he did and nearly starving to death in the process.
Eventually he reached the end of the line. There was nothing else for him. There was no purpose for him to keep living like this.
These thoughts spun around endlessly. He couldn’t make them stop.
He found an overpass over a busy street and thought, “This is it… I have to end this.”
But then a voice came.
“Look in your bag.”
Mike was stunned. “Look in my bag? I’ve looked in there a bunch of times.”
“Look. In. Your. Bag.,” the voice persisted.
Shocked by this overwhelming feeling that he had to look in his bag, he gave in and looked.
Underneath his sweaty, dirty clothes was a small book. The miniature Book of Mormon I had given him. He was surprised because he didn’t remember packing it.
He opened to a random page and read a verse.
When Mike recounted his experience to us, he said that he didn’t remember where he read or even what it said exactly. But he remembered the feeling. He said it was like a palpable flood of love, comfort and happiness with an encouraging message:
“You are my son, and I love you. Your life has purpose. Keep moving forward.”
… So he did. Renewed by the knowledge that God knew him and loved him, he kept moving forward despite all obstacles. Miraculously, he made his way back to the Dominican Republic.
A Phoenix
My companion and I weren’t the only ones surprised by Mike’s return. His neighbors were, too.
In fact, they were probably more surprised than we were because they had sold and/or commandeered all of his stuff — including his house and his car.
Going to the “authorities” about it was obviously out of the question, so Mike confronted his neighbors directly. The main confrontation was with the guy who had stolen his car and given it a new paint job (for a different taxi route). This guy was so convinced that the car rightfully belonged to him that he called up his uncle who was a lawyer (and also happened to be the landlord where Mike was renting before his deportation).
The uncle/lawyer/landlord saw the back-and-forth conversation between Mike and his nephew. He observed Mike’s new-found cool and calm demeanor and contrasted it with his nephew’s insatiable temper. He concluded that Mike was obviously in the right and forced his nephew to give him back his car.
Not only that, he let Mike have his old apartment back rent-free until he got his feet under him again. And, best of all, he sponsored Mike so that he could get a Dominican “cedula” (citizen I.D.), which he obtained in just a couple weeks.
Miracle after miracle, Mike’s life was becoming better than it had ever been. He was like a phoenix rising from the ashes of his past.
***
After some more meetings with us and other Church leaders, Mike was baptized on a Saturday afternoon with members of the local congregation and his English class in attendance.
I’ve never seen a happier face than Mike’s as he came out of the water that day. He was beaming. He was a new man — made new through Christ. His favorite verse was truer than ever before.
“And I have been supported under trials and troubles of every kind, yea, and in all manner of afflictions; yea, God has delivered me from prison, and from bonds, and from death; yea, and I do put my trust in him, and he will still deliver me.”
Five years later…
Mike’s life isn’t perfect, and neither is mine. Baptism is just the beginning of a new life filled with its own unique challenges — just as being a returned LDS missionary has never made anyone immune to temptations and failure.
However, we can both look back in awe at the time when God saved Mike’s life… and that counts for something.
***
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