When a Neighborhood Raised Us: Memories of Mònatif

“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’ profession.

“That’s Maître Adan’s son or Madame Odilon’s daughter”

“There goes the doctor’s daughter.”

“The Colonel’s wife?” She wasn’t called by her own name anymore. She became Madame Colo.

Your family’s reputation was your identity. As children, we carried that responsibility everywhere we went. The fear wasn’t just getting caught doing something wrong. Instead, it was bringing shame to the family name.

And then there was Madame Djo.

To this day, I don’t know whether there was ever a Mr. Djo. I certainly never met him. But every child in Mònatif knew Madame Djo, and every child feared her.

She wasn’t a police officer. She wasn’t a teacher. Yet she possessed a kind of authority that no one questioned. Parents trusted her judgment completely. If she caught you misbehaving, she had every right to discipline you. The worst part was going home and telling your parents only earned you a second punishment.

One afternoon, I decided to skip school. Like many adventurous boys, I headed to Champs de Mars to ride my bicycle, convinced I had planned the perfect escape. Then fate intervened. Out of everyone in Port-au-Prince, I rode straight into Madame Djo.

I don’t need to describe what happened next.

Let’s just say the bicycle wasn’t the only thing that took a beating that day.

Back then, education, titles, and character mattered. Respect wasn’t optional. It was expected.

If one member of a family stole something, the stain spread to everyone. Fair or not, the family’s reputation suffered. That collective accountability kept many of us on the right path.

Today, I sometimes struggle to understand how people involved in gangs and crimes are celebrated by parts of society. It feels like we have traveled a very long way from the values that once held neighborhoods together.

Ironically, because we were so careful not to embarrass our families, many of us were shy. We avoided drawing attention to ourselves. Participating in school activities often took a back seat to simply staying out of trouble.

And if you hoped to impress a young lady, speaking French fluently and writing poetry certainly improved your chances.

As teenagers, our entertainment was remarkably simple. We played sports, like basketball, soccer, and volleyball or participated in neighborhoods’ role plays and school’s tournaments.

• 

• 

• 

Many afternoons were spent at the Librarie Auguste, Lapléiade, Intitut Français, or stopping by the Pharmacie de Champs de Mars to buy the latest issue of Nous Deux. Others found themselves sitting quietly in libraries, pretending to study while secretly writing poems for the girl who had captured their heart.

Friday nights belonged to television. We would gather to watch Dynasty, then tune in to Woy Les Voilà. Come Monday morning, those shows gave us plenty to discuss with classmates, and perhaps an excuse to start a conversation with our latest crush.

Those moments seem almost magical now.

Three decades have transformed Mònatif.

The libraries that once inspired curiosity have disappeared. In their place are activities like Car Wash. A kind of event where a DJ is blasting explicit music while young men and women dance beneath water hoses, often half naked. Street basketball gatherings like Ti Sourit attract crowds where the soundtrack is Rabòday, a small bottle of 3 stars Barbancourt Rum or Bakarat, loud music, and spectacle rather than community.

Even the physical neighborhood and the spirit that defined it no longer exist.

Sometimes I ask myself how we arrived here. More importantly, how do we find our way back?

I don’t pretend to have all the answers.

But I know this much: rebuilding a community begins where it always has. It is with education, responsible parenting, accountability, and teaching the next generation that a good name is worth protecting.

Perhaps villages don’t disappear overnight.

Perhaps they fade, one forgotten value at a time.

And perhaps, if we remember what made places like Mònatif special, we can begin building them again.

By Guerrier Aluc, MCJ

Culture509