Haiti buzzed with presidential election fever, yet our world seemed stuck in a strange stasis. We called it "hibernation," a forced downtime due to security concerns.
This wasn't my first Haitian hibernation. Diwali, the festival of lights, was once overshadowed by the arrival of Tropical Storm Tomas, confining us indoors for three days.
The dictionary definition of hibernation – "a period of inactivity" – felt incomplete. When I queried our security expert, he chuckled, conjuring the image of a bear hibernating: slumbering, secluded, and well-fed through the harsh winter.
Another colleague offered a less-than-wildlife-documentary response: "Cooking and drinking!" Perhaps not how National Geographic would portray it, but a valid perspective nonetheless.
My experience, however, was one of restricted mobility. Work ceased, the streets emptied, a stillness punctuated only by the constant stream of security alerts flooding our phones.
Yet, within these confines, a sense of community bloomed. Our three guesthouses on the same street became a social hub. Evenings were filled with shared meals and laughter, a welcome respite from the recent cholera emergency.
Having just returned from a grueling field mission in Artibonite, where living conditions and food were far from ideal, I craved a break. Port-au-Prince beckoned during this "hibernation," offering a chance to unwind in the comfort of my favorite room.
This wasn't my only experience with lockdown. In Afghanistan, movement was similarly restricted. Confined to the office and guesthouse, a situation I dubbed "Jail 1 & 2." Though, on a positive note, the barrage of security alerts was thankfully absent in Afghanistan.
This experience highlighted the diverse ways "hibernation" can manifest. While the reasons and restrictions differ, the core element remains: a period of enforced downtime, an opportunity to find pockets of connection and perhaps even a bit of comfort, even amidst the most unexpected circumstances.
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