Reflections of a Haitian Teenager: Why I had to leave Haiti and came to Jamaica (a fictionalised account based on true stories)

Sometimes, it seems hard to put yourself in someone else’s shoes – a stranger’s. You cannot imagine, or don’t want to imagine, what it must feel like to be desperate, hungry, afraid for your life and that of your family, not knowing what’s going to happen next. What would you do?

Residents flee from violence in Haiti. (Photo: Reuters)

The United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR) estimates that as of the middle of 2023, 110 million people globally had been forced to leave their homes; over 36.4 million became refugees. Over six million are asylum seekers – including 38 Haitians who have been in limbo in Jamaica since August 2023, waiting for a ruling from the Jamaican Government. Asylum was denied them on February 27, 2024.

So, as you read this story of one young person, one family, please remember: Haitians are human beings, too; they feel love and fear like we do. They also have hopes and dreams. They are our Caribbean brothers and sisters (including young children, senior citizens, men and women).

A Haitian family fleeing violence in Port-au-Prince, March 9, 2024. (Photo: Reuters)

Note: This is a fictionalised account based on stories gathered over several years during visits to Haiti. But this is the kind of ordeal of Haitians faced and continue to face, then and now, as they struggle to survive.

Reflections of a Haitian Teenager:  Why I had to leave Haiti and came to Jamaica

My father rushed into our one-room home, with its dirt floor and small windows with black cloths over them so that the soldiers could not know we were there.

“You have to pack up and run now, before the gangs come”, he said firmly, but not too loud.

This was the 3^rd time in one month that we had to “pack up and run”. My mother, my two younger sisters and my older brother had stayed (not really lived) in small one-room homes for almost a year now. Always on edge, not knowing when we would need to “run now”.

Our father was not at home the last time we ran.  He had gone to get water and bread.  We could buy little else for the little money we had.  We could not take most of our clothes or shoes.  We hid our valuable documents on our bodies.  Everything fitted into a small bag tied tightly with string.  We left a message for our father under the stones in a deep earthenware water jug at the back of the house. He would know where to find us.

We knew what happened before to my friend’s family.  They were not able to run fast enough. A gangster pushed my friend’s mother, Giselle, on the ground with a big gun, and told her 19 year old son to lie down and “do it” to her.  Another gangster shouted “do it or I will blow your head to pieces”, shaking the gun at him.  

Her son dared to object.  He could not “do that” to his mother. Giselle lay on the ground and said to the gangster, with a firm voice and steely eyes “you do it to me instead.  I die now for my one son”. The gangster “did it” to her.  Her son survived, but was deeply affected by what he saw happen to his mother, unable to protect her. He rarely spoke after this, and did not smile.

We had to run fast. My father was at home with us. He pressed some money into my mother’s hand and said: “Run now, stay together, look out for the tracks on the road where the sycamore trees are blooming.  Hide under the branches until day break, then run again.  Watch where the sun is rising, you will know where the beach is.  The boat is there.  Pray to our ancestors to clear the way for you to reach a place where you will be safe. Have faith in them. I pray to them also, until we meet again.”

We ran to the sycamore tree. As we rested, protected by its huge leaves, my father’s words came to me: “Pray to our ancestors to open the way to a place called Jamaica.  They too have ancestors who were brought from Africa. They too are black. They will help you to be safe.”

We had to leave – or die in the most vicious and cruel ways.  Nowhere was safe.  The “killing gangs” had taken over our precious homeland. The misery, poverty and brutality is beyond us – we had to leave Haiti.

The journey was treacherous. So many of us were crammed into that rickety boat. It was terrifying. I was vomiting.  There was not enough food or water and we became weak. It made me think of my ancestors in the middle passage.

After 10 days we finally saw land. People came to help us drag the boat ashore and gave us food and drink. They were so kind. They were Jamaicans!

But soon the police took us away to a guarded camp. We requested asylum but we were fined for illegal entry. We are like prisoners. The children cannot attend school. The adults are prohibited from offering their skills to the community – as carpenters, masons, mechanics. 

Now, after over 7 months in the camp, the Jamaican Government has refused us asylum. We feel defeated. And we are very fearful. Haiti is on fire, there is no safety, no life for us there. 

But we are thankful for the kindness of some Jamaicans. We are thankful that for 7 months we had food, shelter – and safety!  We will pray to our ancestors to clear the path so that we can stay in Jamaica.

Judith Wedderburn and Hilary Nicholson, March 7, 2024

Schoolchildren run for cover in Haiti, 2023. (Photo: Reuters)