Young Americans go out into the world with a powerful idealism -- and are often brought up short by a reality sadder and more complex than they anticipated. Finding one's balance in such a situation can be difficult. PNS commentator Sara Lechtenberg is a Fulbright Scholar who has been in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti, working on human rights and justice issues for the past year.

The area Frank Holley calls the "killing fields" is less than an hour from downtown Port-au-Prince. Holley, better known as "Chaps," is a U.S. Army Chaplain who spends a lot of his spare time volunteering in orphanages.

I pass the field every time I head to the countryside to interview prisoners about conditions in rural jails. But I never stopped before. I didn't want to see.

A memorial on the spot bears the name of Jean Marie Vincent. Vincent was a Catholic priest who dreamed of a country where equality and freedom would rule. Like many other Haitians who spoke out against the military, he paid with his life. He was shot and killed in August 1994.

The field has been used as a dumping ground for more than 30 years. During the Duvalier era, the state-sanctioned killers were called Tontons Macoutes. Later, during periods of relative peace, the field was used as a burial ground for indigents. When the military overthrew the democratically-elected government in 1991, this barren stretch once again became the spot where victims were dropped.

There are bones everywhere. I'm wearing sandals, and scan the ground carefully, afraid I might step on something. Near my feet are two skulls with teeth still embedded and a long, thin bone whitened by the sun. I pick up the bone, turn it over. The other side is shattered. I hold the bone in my hand, but I don't want it near me. I gently place it on the ground just as it was.

Human-rights workers speculate that this stretch was used to dump bodies because it is the uninhabited area closest to Port au Prince. A shell casing that sits next to another scattering of bones suggests some of the victims were killed here. My guess it that those who pulled the trigger brought them to this field so they would not have to clean up the blood. It was not a question of covering up -- military and quasimilitary organizations acted without fear of being held responsible.

The sky is an intense blue and there's a bird singing in the distance. Behind me I hear a voice, and turn to see Chaps. "This is what Haiti was, this is what Haiti could return to."

Nearly three years have passed since U.N. troops returned the democratically elected president, but no one has served time for the death of Father Vincent. More than 3,000 people lost their lives during the military rule, but only a handful of those responsible have been taken before a court of law, and even fewer have been convicted.

Walking back to the truck, Chaps begins to talk about God. I take in everything he says but it's hard for me to believe.

I ask, "Is it possible that God forgot about Haiti? I mean, where exactly was this loving God when all the killing was going on?"

The Chaplain taps me on the shoulder. "Listen, kiddo. God is right here. Right inside of you. He's giving you a chance to change this." I try hard to believe what he says.

The ride back to the city is quick. At home, I strip off my dusty, sweaty clothes and step into the shower. I desperately want to wash it all away. The heat, the grit, the sweat, the bones. I want the cold water to pour on my head and wash it down the drain.

I turn the lower lever and then flip the top lever to the right. The shower makes a choking sound but not a drop of water falls. I try again, but still no water. It has been three days since we've had electricity and without current there's no way to get running water. There's a small bucket of water in the corner, and I pour it over my shoulders and rinse the dirt off my feet and legs.

It is dark now. I climb up to the roof with little Estelle. The music from the lottery booth below floats up and she is dancing and singing. When her mom hears her little voice mimicking the suggestive carnival songs, Estelle is immediately silenced. "That song is not for girls. "

But up here on the roof, she belts the songs at the top of her lungs and puts on quite a show. She tries to get me to dance.

For just a minute, I can forget the scene from earlier in the day. I laugh, and when the song ends, Estelle leans against me and rests her head on my hip. This tenderness helps chase away the evil images in my mind.

I look up at the stars and hear the Chaplain's voice. "This is what Haiti was, this is what Haiti could return to."

I send a silent plea into the night. "Let this be the last of the violence."