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Christmas Eve in Fanioville was unusually calm. Near the entrance of the 1804 Shopping Plaza, two young Fanioville police officers sat in their patrol cars, parked side by side. With no calls demanding their attention, they spent the quiet moments discussing the previous shift, swapping department gossip and enjoying one of those rare stretches of police work when nothing seemed to be happening. “It’s so quiet today,” Officer Louvens said. His partner immediately looked at hi

There was a time when my friend carried his passport everywhere he went. Not because he was traveling, but because he was afraid of losing the one thing he believed could change his life. He dreamed of New York. He once told me that if his house caught fire, he would make sure to save his passport. To him, it was more than a document. It was an escape plan. That story has stayed with me because it captures something much bigger about Haiti. For generations, America has been s

On a quiet Sunday morning, during the early hours before sunrise, two young police officers stopped at a small café in downtown Belleville to grab breakfast before beginning their shift. They had barely settled into their seats when a long tone came through the police radio, followed by an unsettling silence. The officers looked at each other. They knew what that tone could mean. Without saying a word, they stood up, left their breakfast behind, and headed for their squad car

It has been nearly half a century since I left Haiti. But Haiti has never left me. She lives in my language, in my memory, in silences that never learn how to lie. I built a life elsewhere. My identity did not move an inch. That fidelity is precisely what makes the pain so deep and it is not mine alone. Haiti was born of a revolution the world had not thought possible: enslaved men and women who broke their chains through the sheer force of their dignity. In 1804, while Europ

Twenty-five years later, the towers are gone, but the dust still remembers. The streets emptied. The trains stopped. A city walked north through fear and silence. Cars turned white with ashes. A Burger King became a triage center for those who never came. And firefighters climbed upward while everyone else ran down. Nearly three thousand names where two towers once touched the sky. At Ground Zero, time did not stop. It was buried. Now those who can say “I was there” are disap

“It takes a village to raise a child.” It is a proverb we hear often, but for those of us who grew up in Mònatif, in the heart of Haiti’s capital, Port-au-Prince, it wasn’t just a saying. It was a way of life. Mònatif wasn’t simply a neighborhood. It was an extended family. Everyone knew everyone, not by first names but by family names. If someone didn’t know your name, they knew exactly whose child you were. More often than not, you were identified by your parents’ professio

On the night of August 23 into August 24, gang gunmen swept through Kenscoff, a mountain town overlooking Pétion-Ville, killing at least 47 people and wounding more than 22, according to United Nations figures. Among the dead were displaced residents sheltering inside a church a detail that has come to define the horror of this attack: even sanctuary offered no protection. This was not an isolated event. Kenscoff had already suffered more than 260 deaths and the destruction o

Franklin Belizaire is a Haitian-born painter whose artistic journey is deeply rooted in the culture, traditions, spirituality, and natural beauty of his homeland. Born in the late 1960s in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, he grew up during the Duvalier regime, a difficult and transformative period in Haitian history. Yet, within the challenges of that era, Belizaire’s childhood was surrounded by the richness of Haitian life, its music, dance, religious traditions, folklore, customs, an

Haiti now has approximately 326 registered political parties, one of the highest numbers in the world for a country of roughly 11 million people. On paper, that should signal democratic vitality: more parties ought to mean more ideas, more competition, and more choices for voters. In practice, however, the system has often been so fragmented that major elections feature dozens of candidates and little programmatic clarity; in the 2015 presidential race, for example, 54 candid

From the outside, the Lifètte family appeared to have everything. Living in Petit Trou De Nippes, a close-knit community in the South of Haiti, they were admired for their generosity, faith, and success. Samantha’s father, Jocius Lifètte, was known as a respected entrepreneur and pastor. Her mother, Marie Anne Lifètte, worked tirelessly to support the family, while their children seemed to represent the picture of a loving household. Neighbors sought their advice. Friends ad

The Organization of American States unveiled yet another salvation blueprint on August 20th—a $2.6 billion roadmap spanning 2025–2028. This grandiose plan arrives like a cruel joke in a nation where armed gangs control close to 90% of Port-au-Prince. The current nine-member Transitional Presidential Council, that fragile construction meant to shepherd Haiti toward stability, cannot even secure its own capital. Now whispers emerge of expanding this failed body to remain beyond

By every measure, Miryam Libon and Belange Jocius seemed destined to build a life together. Born in Carrefour Peille, in Haiti’s Artibonite Department, Miryam dreamed of a brighter future through education. After graduating from high school, she moved to Port-au-Prince to study economics at the State University of Haiti. It was there that she met Belange, an ambitious engineering student. Their friendship quickly blossomed into romance, and before long, they became inseparabl

I’ve spent the better part of my life chasing cultures. There’s something intoxicating about discovering how people live, eat, celebrate, create art, and tell their stories. While I appreciate North American, European, and Asian cultures, my heart has always gravitated toward the Caribbean and Afro-Latin America. That’s where I feel the rhythm is a little deeper and history speaks a little louder. So, when I recently found myself wandering through the colorful streets of Cart

The fall of the Duvalier dictatorship in 1986 promised Haiti a democratic dawn, but it delivered a power vacuum instead. As state institutions crumbled, a lethal political playbook emerged: arming the poor to protect the powerful. Forty years later, Haiti is learning a tragic, universal lesson, weapons distributed for temporary political advantage rarely remain under political control. This long-running game of political chess eventually backfired, transforming street-level p

The community of Mònatif in Port-au-Prince was known for its close-knit families. Children played soccer in the streets until sunset. Neighbors shared meals, celebrated weddings together, and looked after one another’s children. Parents taught their sons and daughters to respect their elders. What they forgot to teach was that respect should never come at the expense of safety. Often we are being judged by people who did worse than us in private. This is the story of Emmanuel

Retirement was supposed to bring peace. After twenty-five years as a deputy sheriff, including one year as a sergeant, I thought stepping away from the badge would quiet my mind. Instead, it did the opposite. A few weeks after retiring, I boarded a seven-day Western Caribbean cruise, hoping to celebrate a new chapter of life. But on the third night, sleep would not come. My mind kept returning to the scenes I had carried for decades: bodies lost to age, illness, homicide, and

Haiti doesn't need an election. It needs a state. While families sleep under tarps in Kenscoff, while armed groups draw the real map of power, while children trade notebooks for survival bags the official line never changes: vote, and things will improve. As if a ballot could stop a bullet. As if an urn were a shield. They say the country is "ready" to welcome those expelled from the U.S. and the Dominican Republic. Ready where? In what homes, what schools, what hospitals th

When I think about Haiti, I do not first remember the headlines. I remember my childhood. I remember growing up in Port-au-Prince during the 1980s, when the city felt alive with music, laughter, and possibility. As a child, I knew nothing about politics. My parents protected me from the realities of the Duvalier era, allowing me to experience a Haiti that felt safe, welcoming, and full of life. Some of my happiest memories were made in places that today have become symbols of

Sown in Every Heart On July’s hush at Dover’s gate, a C‑17 opened—America held its breath. No speeches could outshine the weight of four flags speaking the language of death. 1st Lt. Tyler James Feehan. Pvt. Isabella Gonzales. Sgt. Angel S. Rampersad. Sgt. Michael Emmanuel Swinton. Say them slow—like vows, like prayer— and let their names stay. They stood where duty asked them to stand: Jordan’s hard heat, Iraq’s long night not for glory, not for a headline, but for the promi

“Go home. We don’t want you here.” These words have echoed through Haitian communities for generations. In the Dominican Republic, the Bahamas, Canada, the United States, and beyond, Haitians have faced discrimination and exclusion even as they have strengthened economies, enriched communities, advanced education, and shared their culture with the world. Yet many of us are still treated as outsiders. This experience is not new. For decades, Haitians across the globe have stru