When Leaving Becomes the Dream America has become the destination for generations of Haitians seeking safety, opportunity, and a better life. But what happens when an entire people begin to believe t

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 sold to Haitians, and to much of the world, as the land of opportunity. A place where hard work can turn dreams into reality. And when people return to Haiti wearing nice clothes, carrying American dollars, and talking about their lives abroad, it becomes easy for a young person sitting on a street corner of Port au Prince to believe that the only way to become somebody is to leave.

I grew up in Haiti, and I have watched that belief take root. I have seen talented young people enter politics not because they wanted to transform their country, but because they hoped politics might eventually provide a visa or a connection to leave for America, Canada, or France.

I have seen young men standing outside of government offices in suits, résumés in hand, waiting for an official to give them an opportunity. I have heard stories of young women being pressured to exchange sex for jobs or opportunities to leave.

When a country cannot provide security, opportunity, or hope, leaving becomes the dream.

That is why the current struggles facing Haitians in the United States are so painful to watch. It is difficult enough to see fellow Haitians facing detention, deportation, and uncertainty. What is even more painful is seeing other Haitians celebrate their suffering.

The social-media trend known as “Men Diab La”—“Here’s the devil,” in which people display an American passport to distinguish themselves from Haitians facing immigration problems, is a particularly troubling example.

An American passport is a privilege. It should never become a weapon against your own people.

Citizenship does not erase our history. A green card does not make someone more Haitian. And being undocumented does not make another Haitian less deserving of dignity.

History should teach us humility. The experience of Japanese Americans during World War II reminds us that legal status and citizenship have not always protected people from discrimination or government overreach. We should never become so comfortable with our own security that we stop caring about someone else’s. But this is not only about immigration, it’s about Haiti.

Those of us who have been fortunate enough to build lives abroad should not be ashamed of our success. We should use it. We can invest, create jobs, support education, mentor young people, strengthen institutions, and help build opportunities for those who remain.

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I am not suggesting that every Haitian living abroad must return home. People have built families, careers, and communities elsewhere, and they have every right to pursue their lives.

But America should be an opportunity, not an escape.

Come. Work. Learn. Build. Succeed.

Then ask yourself: What can I do with that success for the country I left behind?

Haiti does not lack intelligent people. It does not lack hardworking people. It does not lack ambition.

It lacks the conditions that allow those people to thrive.

And perhaps that is the challenge before the Haitian diaspora: not to make sure every Haitian gets an American passport, but to help build a Haiti where having one is no longer the ultimate dream.

The tragedy is not that Haitians dream of America.

The tragedy is that too many Haitians have stopped dreaming about Haiti.

Guerrier Aluc, MCJ

Culture509