In Memoriam : Marie Josée Mont-Reynaud was an exceptional photographer and a Stanford graduate. Born on October 1, 1985, in Palo Alto, California, she tragically passed away unexpectedly on Friday, June 9, 2017, at the age of 31. Her artistic talent allowed her to bring out the best in her models during every photo shoot. Marie Josée was not only skilled behind the lens but also had an incredible capacity for love and compassion. She knew how to infuse joy into every situation, leaving a lasting impact on those around her. She is survived by many friends, her wife, a loving partner, and family members who cherished her deeply. Marie Josée Mont-Reynaud’s legacy continues to inspire, especially through her social justice work and artistic contributions.

"Dèyè mòn gen mòn"

Marie-Josée Mont-Reynaud
Senior at Menlo H.S., Atherton, CA

November 2002

 

"Dèyè mòn gen mòn", a Haitian proverb, says that "behind mountains there are more mountains." My photo, like those Creole words, has several layers of meaning. At first glance, two children gaze peacefully upon the vastness of the Haitian countryside, an infinite space of possibilities. But I look at this photo through a darker lens, because I spent three months in Haiti documenting peasants' lives through photography. Because I lived with these children, Destin and Jezilen, I know that they face an unforgiving landscape of insurmountable hills and future obstacles. In this photo, Destin and Jezilen are not just standing on the edge of the mountain; they are living on the edge. It is that condition I am compelled to change.

Living with Destin and Jezilen's family gave me a deeper understanding of life in Haiti. Every evening, the entire family would shell beans together and share stories by candlelight. Mr. Jean, the family's patriarch, often told anecdotes revealing his knowledge of Haiti's political problems. When we gathered on the last night, I told my family that I would like to visit them again in the future. "Bon," Mr. Jean responded in Creole, "it was great to have you. But maybe after you visit next year, you can help us see your country. We'll need money for a plane ticket and help getting a passport and visa." Caught off guard, I struggled to explain that as a sixteen-year-old, I could not provide visas for his family. But he persisted, despite my comments: "Please… maybe you could ask your parents or friends who work in the government if they could help us?" The desperation in his voice made me uncomfortable, so I ended the conversation quickly. I lay down in my bed, disillusioned and confused. What could reduce such a proud man to begging in front of his family? Later, I related this experience to an aid worker in the area. He did not provide the comfort I sought but gave me a taste of reality I needed. "Sometimes in Haiti," he explained, "your pride is the only thing you have to eat."

I finally began to really see Haiti and the effect of poverty on its people. The children in my Haitian family did not go to school; instead, they spent their days working in the fields. Their future had been decided for them already. I spent time face painting, playing games, and teaching French to Haitian children, but in such conditions no amount of smiling and laughter would have a lasting impact on their lives. The joy I felt painting flowers onto a girl's gaunt face vanished with the realization that any effect I had on her life would likely not endure after the colors had washed off.

My outlook has been shaped by my mother's experiences as a graduate student researching orphans in Vietnam. In an orphanage one day, my mother betrayed her professional obligation to remain objective, and fell in love. A month-old baby stared up at her from his bed. My mother picked him up and did not put him down, knowing what his future would be if she walked away. Overcome with the desire to change his life, she adopted him as her own. To this day, my mother speaks of that baby, now my older brother, without regret: "I couldn't save them all, but I saved one."

In the light of my mother's story, I look at my photo and see two Haitian children facing the bleakness of their future, lit only by the last shimmer of the fading sun. I see Haiti's harshness and feel despair, but I also see its beauty and have hope that the sun will rise above the mountains again. I don't know exactly what I will do for the children of Haiti, but following my mother's example, I know one thing I will not do: nothing.