Soccer: Social Laboratory on a Field; In Haiti, an Activist Offers Hope and a Soccer Ball
February 13, 2000
The New York Times
December 28, 1999
Soccer: Social Laboratory on a Field; In Haiti, an Activist Offers Hope and a Soccer Ball by David Gonzalez In sports and in life, Robert Duval has always fancied the left wing. As a soccer player, he thrived at the position, helping to lead Loyola University in Montreal to a college championship. But when he returned to his native Haiti after graduating in 1976, his opposition to the dictatorship of Jean-Claude Duvalier earned him a brutal 17-month prison term in solitary confinement. In 1996, after 20 years of political activism during which he encountered dictators, military governments and coups, Duval wondered what he had accomplished. Despite presidential elections and talk of democracy, he was beginning to see his nation slip into a political stalemate that would cripple it for the next few years. While his nation was undergoing this political crisis, he too was experiencing a crisis, a more personal, midlife kind. "Every person in this country has to find a way to express himself and make sense of his life," Duval said. "Many quit and say there is no hope. That is the response of the middle class and the upper class. That is not my way. Where do we go from here?" Back to the soccer field. On a 15-acre lot where the only things that glistened were thousands of shards of broken glass, Duval, who is 46, founded Athletics of Haiti, a sports organization that takes youngsters from the slums of Cite Soleil and gives them training, food and tutoring. Relying on a Candide-like optimism and contacts among the elite with whom he grew up, Duval has turned a patch of dirt on the outskirts of an industrial area into a rare sight here in Haiti's capital: a wide-open green space with lockers, showers and equipment usually unavailable even to the nation's biggest athletic clubs. Just as rare is that Duval is running a social laboratory, fielding teams composed of rough-and-tumble ghetto children, who grew up kicking around plastic bottles, and middle-class youths, whose parents see soccer as the ticket to a college scholarship. Duval sees soccer as more than a diversion. In a nation where class and color have long separated people, he wants to use sport as a way to bring people together and move them forward. Traditional politics, however earnest or well meaning, had its limits, he decided. But soccer, a Haitian passion if not a world-class pursuit, gives him a chance to see results among the 215 youngsters who come to the center each day. "It's not really about sports," he said. "There are some kids you find here with a lot of talent, whether it be intellectual, poetry, music or sports. Sports will expose them to a higher level of life. I wanted to prove that you can do something positive with Haitian kids. I am sick and tired of hearing people dump on Haiti and say it has no hope." As a former member of the Violette team, one of Haiti's most popular soccer teams, Duval had already learned a life lesson or two from his playing days. During the most turbulent periods of political unrest in Haiti in the mid- to late 1980's, acquaintances who remembered him from the sport would sometimes warn him about impending attacks by supporters of the dictatorship. "If I had not had that kind of past, I would be dead because of my politics," Duval said. "Sometimes I was protected by gunmen who were supposed to shoot me. He would know me from the team and say, 'Don't go there because I'm supposed to kill you there.' That showed me how much soccer means to the Haitian people." Duval, the son of an auto-parts industrialist, spent years at the forefront of a political struggle as an outspoken advocate for human rights. But he grew introspective in the mid-1990's, slowly pulling away from politics and beginning to look for ways to spend more time with his teenage son, Guy Robert. "I wanted my son to have a different experience," said Duval, who is divorced. "I didn't want him to be raised behind walls, not like the bourgeoisie." One day, while searching for a place where his son could play soccer, Duval stumbled across a dirty field filled with dozens of children from the nearby slums of Cite Soleil. The land had been unused since angry mobs sacked the few houses that stood there in the vengeful months after the Duvalier regime collapsed in 1986. "This was what I was looking for," he said. "I came here and took a group of kids and told them I wanted to do a team with them. I had tryouts and a thousand kids came out. I had to choose 100. Can you imagine? I didn't know what I was getting into. I was just trying to do something for my son." Soon, Duval was doting on a huge extended family, imparting lessons about the importance of school and sports. He reached an agreement with the owners of the land, who allowed him to use it for free. He began to call up old friends -- some of the very elites he had scorned in previous years -- asking them for donations to help provide food, equipment and money for books and school tuition. Today, the three soccer fields are clean, thanks to a grounds crew that spent weeks hunched over the dirt plucking out shards of glass. A wall protecting the children from running onto an adjacent road encloses part of the field. A clubhouse with lockers and showers has gone up. A running track made from packed sand has begun to emerge in one corner, which Duval plans to cover with rubber scraps from his father's tire retreading factory. Several basketball courts have been built, using backboards made from pallets and castoff steel. "It's like a recycling operation down here," he said. But given the social lines that have long divided Haiti, the task is sometimes frustrating. People in the ghetto sometimes suspect that Duval, with his privileged background, has an ulterior motive, using sport to help build his own political base. He often has to remind the parents from Cite Soleil that they must encourage their children to study, using school and discipline as the passport to sports. He is not there simply to provide free shoes and meals and let the children run free. "He is not a man who treats people differently because of their color," said Jeanel Dolvilas, who is 21 and has been playing at the field for several years. "He really wants to help people." Duval has encountered resistance from the middle class, which sometimes cringes when he suggests that they send their children to play with youngsters from Cite Soleil. "I tell them they should come and give it a try," he said. "If you're serious about your kid playing soccer in the future and getting a scholarship, this is the place to do it. This is where the talent is." Not to mention where the controversy is. Duval said he had encountered resistance from the managers of other teams, who he said resent his efforts. In some tournaments, he said, his teams have been disqualified on technicalities, while other teams go unpunished for more serious violations. For the second year in a row, one of his teams was eliminated, unfairly, he said, from moving up into a division that is better equipped and organized. "We take the money and do things with it," he said. "A lot of guys who run teams take the money and live off it. I'm opposed to that sector." Duval knows he may sound naive. He takes no money for running the club, even though he works at it full time. He also knows he could lose it all tomorrow if the landowners demand their property or if he fails to come up with enough financing and donations. He knows, too, that some people are willing to look out for him. Mario Elie, the San Antonio Spurs player who is of Haitian descent, visited a few months ago to lend support. Others also have, but in more streetwise ways. One evening, a gold-toothed man from the slums came by to warn Duval about rumors that someone was going to disrupt a meeting with parents. "If there are any problems, this is what I have to help you," the man said, lifting his shirt to reveal a revolver tucked into his waistband. Duval shrugged it off. Nothing unusual happened at the meeting, where he spoke to 200 parents and children about the work he was doing at the center. "There are people who say Haiti has nothing," he said. "I believe we have some serious Haitians who can do their own development themselves. We can help ourselves." The parents stayed long after it had grown dark. Duval lingered for a while, chatting with them. "What keeps me going?" he said. "Every day I come here and see the wall is still here, the house is not broken into and the guys are still working. Every day that goes by is a victory for me."