Sitting in what would otherwise be immaculate countryside splendour, Dora Soodeen’s tears glisten and dry repeatedly in the cool Brasso Venado air.
But while her sobs are quiet as if restrained by shame, inside the dilapidated home behind her, a baby’s cries mirror and declare his grandmother’s sorrow.
The wooden structure’s supporting beams lean perilously showing signs of surrender after 60 years of strain. Its ceiling lifts partially in the strong breeze like a metal kite yearning to take flight. The gallery’s wooden balusters possess a child-sized hole. Inside, the home’s floorboards groan under pressure while gaps that appear to have been haphazardly patched, serve as an ominous foreshadowing of what can happen if not meaningfully repaired. Meanwhile, a dust-covered and derelict breaker box in the living room is kindred to a ticking time bomb.
An outhouse with a red curtain for a door stands to the side. Several dogs sleep in the yard, blissfully unaware of the abjection around them. Near these animals, too much in number to ascertain if they belonged to the home or the community, 46-year-old Soodeen is shaded from the midday sun by her main source of income.
“I does sell the little chataigne and thing,” Dora said gesturing to the massive tree overhead, “and I does get a little day work in the garden sometimes.”
When asked how much income this yields, Soodeen began to cry again.
“About two or three hundred for the week,” she said barely audible in between her sobs.
Soodeen looked away as if saying it aloud led to a moment of self-reflection and horror.
After a while, she continued, “sometimes I does get a little hamper and handouts.”
Soodeen lamented that this meagre wage is certainly inadequate to support and provide a secure life for herself, her 13-year-old son who is in secondary school, her 23-year-old daughter and her two-year-old grandson.
“Sometimes I don’t even have flour self,” she choked, fresh tears on her face again.
But food isn’t the only issue here.
Looking back dejectedly at the home that her father built in 1976, the grandmother took a deep breath and finally stated what pride and resilience had restricted.
“We need a house,” she whispered, almost apologetically.
With the baby’s cries in the background and his mother attempting to pacify him, Soodeen continued, “The roof leaking, and the flooring in the kitchen have holes, and the wiring want doing over, some of the switch not working, and all the lights in the bedroom, none not working.”
The baby’s mother, Shyann Soodeen explained that she lost her job during the pandemic and has struggled to find work since. While she said her child’s father, who does not live with them, helps in supporting the two-year-old, Shyann expressed fear that their home is not a friend to a curious toddler.
“The house is not in a good state for the child, certain parts of it are dangerous. In the kitchen, there was a big hole and she (Dora) cut up some board to cover it. The gallery isn’t safe, and he does be running out and stuff to play,” Shyann said.
The young mother added, “I went to the Land Settlement Agency, I filled out forms, one person came to look at the house and they never came back, that was in 2022.”
Taking her turn with the crying baby, Dora said all she wants is a helping hand, “for him to have a better life,” she said looking at the child attempting to put him to bed even though a sudden power outage took with it, the one fan in the home that was soothing the toddler.
With the subsiding cries of the child now tucked away in a bed, Dora sat once again under that chataigne tree and spoke of her husband who died seven years ago. She spent 22 years with him. Asked if she missed him, Dora, who was petting one of the dogs in the yard looked up painfully, “things were better,” was all she could muster.
If anyone wishes to assist this family of four in central Trinidad, Shyann can be reached at 380-2037.