How manifold are the tongues that proclaim the delights of the humble, golden crust? In Haiti, it is revered as Graten; in Cuba, Cocolón; in Spain, Socarrat; in Puerto Rico, pega’o; in China, guo ba; in Colombia, Cucayo; in Ghana, kanzo or emo asi; in the Philippines, Tutong; in Senegal, Xoon; and in Persia, the illustrious Tahdig.
Yet, for all their varied names and distant origins, I find no greater pleasure than when mine is softened by the generous touch of my mother’s fish sauce, a fusion of memory and savor that exalts this modest fare to a banquet of the soul.
The Haitian soul does not bend easily to the thin, brittle gospel of individualism. Its pulse beats elsewhere—deep in the communal embrace, where the self is always tethered to something greater. There is a proverb: Apre Bondye se latè—after God, the earth sustains us. But one might press further: Apre latè se Lakou. For the Lakou is not just shelter, not just home—it is memory, it is covenant, it is the undying rhythm of a people who have never truly been alone.
The Lakou is no accident of architecture. It is a philosophy, an inheritance, a quiet refusal of exile.
There is the Primordial Lakou, the root, the first gathering, where families stretch across generations and live, not simply as individuals, but as the keepers of one another’s stories.
There is the Lakou-Andèyo, where the land still hums with old rhythms, where hands till the earth and pull from it not only sustenance, but also the sacred wisdom of those who came before.
There is the Lakou Ginen, where the spirit is most alive, where the living and the dead converse, where Vodou stands not as superstition but as the bridge between past and present, the whisper of ancestors carried on the wind.
There is the Lakou Lavil, born of necessity, a city’s answer to a rural past that will not be erased. In the dense corridors of Bel Air, in the makeshift communes on the edges of Port-au-Prince, the Lakou survives—not in open fields but in clustered courtyards and unspoken vows of solidarity.
There is the Lakou-Bitasyon, where homes are built not in isolation but in clusters, because life is safer, richer, when lived in proximity to those who will hold you up when you falter.
And then there is the Lakou Dyaspora—not bound by land, not confined to any single place, but carried in the blood and bones of a people who, though scattered, remain one. The Lakou Dyaspora is not a memory of Haiti but its extension, a living, breathing space where the homeland reassembles itself in Brooklyn, in Miami, in Montréal. It is the maroon’s triumph, the exile’s redemption—a reminder that no border, no ocean, no decree of history can sever the ties that bind the Haitian spirit.
The Lakou is more than geography; it is an ethic, a way of being, a defiant stand against the doctrine of the solitary self. Where the world preaches the gospel of individual ascent, Haiti finds its salvation in something older, something truer: the shared life, the communal fate, the enduring promise of the Lakou.
Ati François Max Gesner Beauvoir
“Haiti has a Western veneer, with an educational system, courts and a government, but this has very little to do with the way things really work. We should stop being ashamed and recognize what we are: a country with an African social structure that revolves around the Vodou community. Vodou governs everything, our moral codes, the way we rationalize, eat, cure, and work the land. Wehave to find a Haitian answer in harmony with what we are.”
Nolan’s Selina Kyle: “There’s a storm coming, Mr. Wayne. You and your friends better batten down the hatches, ‘cause when it hits, you’re all gonna wonder how you ever thought you could live so large and leave so little for the rest of us.”
And:
James Baldwin: “God gave Noah the rainbow sign, No more water, the fire next time!” And: Amazon workers strike at multiple facilities as Teamsters seek labor contract: https://lnkd.in/eN5j6Wsg
The proverbs of Haiti, like whispered hymns of the ancestors, find their way into moments when truth must be spoken plainly, when the weight of history demands reckoning. They do not come in grand declarations or lofty rhetoric but in sharp, compact wisdom—words tempered by generations who have known struggle and survival in equal measure.
“Ou konn prepare yon bon tè pou’w al plante djondjon, epi, djondjon wan al leve dèyè latrinn.” “You prepared good soil to plant the mushrooms, but the mushrooms grew behind the latrine.”
It is the kind of lesson that arrives not with a shout but with the quiet, cutting precision of irony. It speaks of misplaced efforts, of grand designs built on crumbling foundations, of how good intentions so often wander astray.
Consider America in the throes of COVID. A pandemic unlike any other, a crisis demanding urgency—and with it came a flood of money, a river of resources meant to uplift, meant to close the gap. Billions rained down, and the school districts—forgotten for decades—were suddenly crowned with the trappings of modernity. Laptops by the millions, gleaming and new, symbols of progress in the digital age.
Yet, beneath this gilded promise, another truth emerged: the broadband deserts, the failing infrastructure, the rusting school buildings where technology became an afterthought to the more pressing reality of neglect. The tools of modernity arrived, but the foundation to support them was never laid. And so, the students—those most in need—were left staring at screens they could not use, trapped in a digital divide deepened by the very efforts meant to bridge it.
But perhaps nowhere is this truth more painfully evident than in Haiti itself, in the story of an earthquake that was more than just an act of God.
The temblor of 2010 did not merely shake the ground—it exposed the fractures of an entire system. In the cities, where foreign architects and planners imposed their logic, concrete buildings stood as testaments to development, to progress. They were meant to be sturdy, meant to be strong. Yet when the earth convulsed, they shattered, brittle and unyielding, collapsing into dust.
And then there were the shotgun houses, those humble dwellings of wood and wisdom, built not by foreign hands but by the people who knew the land. They were not grand. They did not tower. But they swayed when the earth moved, they flexed where rigid structures fell. They endured.
What crumbled in that quake was not just infrastructure but the illusion of imposed neoliberal expertise. It was a reckoning—a reminder that progress, when detached from history, from the voices of those who have lived and built through hardship, becomes its own kind of failure.
So, the proverb holds. The good soil was tilled. The seeds were sown. But the harvest? It sprouted where no one intended, in the blind spots of greed, ambition, in the corners where the wisdom of the Haitian people had been ignored.
This is the lesson, written not just in the dust of Port-au-Prince but in the classrooms of rural America, in the hollow promises of disaster capitalism, in the ever-repeating cycle where those who claim to uplift refuse to listen.
Reflections of the late Professor Scott upon the vast and far-reaching reverberations of the Haitian Revolution, whose shockwaves extended beyond the narrow bounds of an island to shake the very foundations of the Atlantic world:
Prior to, during, and following the Haitian Revolution, regional networks of communication carried news of special interest to Afro-Americans all over the Caribbean and beyond. While General La Salle understood in 1792 the potential impact of the revolutionary currents in the Atlantic world on the minds and aspirations of Caribbean slaves, neither he nor his charges could have anticipated the extent to which the winds of revolution would blow in the other direction. Sweeping across linguistic, geographic, and imperial boundaries, the tempest created by the black revolutionaries of Saint-Domingue and communicated by mobile people in other slave societies would prove a major turning point in the history of the Americas.
“Haiti has a Western veneer, with an educational system, courts and a government, but this has very little to do with the way things really work. We should stop being ashamed and recognize what we are: a country with an African social structure that revolves around the Vodou community. Vodou governs everything, our moral codes, the way we rationalize, eat, cure, and work the land. We have to find a Haitian answer in harmony with what we are.”
–Ati François Max Gesner Beauvoir
Using Ati Beauvoir’s suggestion above as a blueprint, “Breaking Haitian” represents the transformative energy of a people who must adapt, innovate, and challenge norms while staying rooted in our identity. The following examples highlight how a radical shift in governance, culture, economy, and identity can redefine what it means to be Haitian in a rapidly changing world.
A Government Inspired by Konbit and Rooted in the Wisdom of Vodou
In a land where the drums of Vodou and the practice of konbit rise in harmony, Haiti’s governance should reflect the soul of its people—a spirit interwoven with the sacred, the communal, and the ancestral. To fashion a government from the essence of konbit while embracing the wisdom of Vodou is to create a structure guided not by earthly powers alone, but by divine inspiration and the enduring bond between the living and the spiritual.
1. Neighborhood Konbit Councils (NKCs): Sacred Circles of Community
At the base of governance would be the Neighborhood Konbit Councils, conceived as sanctuaries of collective action and spiritual guidance. These councils would be more than administrative bodies; they would be spaces where the people gather to work, to deliberate, and to honor the spirits.
Role of the Lwas: Each council would have a designated houngan or manbo (Vodou priests or priestesses) who would serve as spiritual advisors, calling upon lwas such as Legba, the gatekeeper, to open paths for progress, or Kouzin Zaka, the patron of agriculture and industriousness, to bless the fields and labor.
Function: In the spirit of konbit, these councils organize communal labor for agriculture, sanitation, and local infrastructure, beginning each endeavor with ceremonies to honor the spirits and ancestors.
Through the counsel of the lwas, the NKCs remain grounded in spiritual integrity, ensuring that decisions align with divine will and communal good.
2. Regional Collaboration Assemblies (RCAs): Federations of Earth and Spirit
As the NKCs unite, they form Regional Collaboration Assemblies, which blend pragmatic governance with ceremonial reverence. These assemblies oversee larger regional projects, ensuring the equitable distribution of resources and labor while maintaining spiritual balance.
Role of the Lwas: Each assembly would honor Ezili Dantor, protector of families and communities, to safeguard their deliberations. Simultaneously, Agwé, ruler of the seas, might be invoked in coastal regions to guide fisheries and maritime projects.
Cultural Integration: Assemblies would sponsor annual festivals where communities celebrate their achievements through drumming, dance, and storytelling, invoking the lwas to share in their joy.
The RCAs transform governance into an act of reverence, uniting spiritual blessings with the practical necessities of life.
3. Departmental Development Councils (DDCs): Pillars of Divine and Material Strength
At the departmental level, the Development Councils oversee transformative projects that transcend local concerns, such as building schools, hospitals, and roads. These councils embody the Vodou principle of balance, ensuring that development respects both human needs and the natural world.
Role of the Lwas: Damballa, the serpent spirit of wisdom and creation, would be invoked for guidance in strategic decisions, while Ayida Wedo, his counterpart, ensures harmony in execution. Ceremonies honoring them would precede major initiatives.
Function: The councils draw on regional wisdom and ancestral guidance to implement sustainable solutions, integrating Vodou principles of reciprocity and respect for nature into policy-making.
These councils elevate governance by merging the spiritual and the material, ensuring that progress is guided by both wisdom and reverence.
4. National Konbit Assembly (NKA): The Sacred Center of Unity
At the pinnacle of this structure is the National Konbit Assembly, where representatives from every department convene to chart the nation’s course. This assembly, a grand manifestation of konbit and Vodou, becomes the heartbeat of Haiti’s governance.
Role of the Lwas: The assembly would begin each session with ceremonies to honor Ayizan, guardian of initiation and knowledge, and Ogou, the warrior spirit, to ensure courage and integrity in governance.
Function: Policies crafted here reflect the wisdom gathered from the grassroots, ensuring that the needs of the most humble are given the same weight as those of the powerful.
The NKA stands not as a sterile bureaucracy but as a living testament to Haiti’s spiritual and cultural heritage.
5. The Chief Steward: A Bridge Between Worlds
The leader of this system is not a president in the conventional sense but a Chief Steward, chosen for their humility, wisdom, and ability to navigate the worlds of the living and the spiritual.
Role of the Lwas: The Chief Steward, guided by Bondye (the supreme creator) and the lwas, would act as a mediator rather than a ruler. They consult with spiritual leaders to ensure alignment between national policies and divine will.
Function: Their role is not to command but to serve, embodying the principle of leadership as stewardship.
The Chief Steward becomes a symbol of unity, humility, and faith.
6. Ministry of Ancestral Wisdom and Cultural Preservation
Central to this structure is a ministry dedicated to safeguarding Haiti’s spiritual and cultural heritage. The Ministry of Ancestral Wisdom would integrate the teachings of Vodou and konbit into every aspect of governance.
Role of the Lwas: The ministry honors Gede spirits, who connect the living and the dead, ensuring that the wisdom of ancestors informs policy.
Function: This ministry organizes national ceremonies, maintains sacred sites, and educates the youth in Vodou traditions and konbit practices.
Through this ministry, the heart of Haitian culture beats strong, reminding the nation of its roots.
Reflections on a Vodou-Konbit Republic
Such a government would be a marvel to behold—a fusion of the temporal and the eternal, the practical and the spiritual. Each level of governance, from the humble council to the august assembly, would draw upon the boundless energy of the lwas and the unyielding solidarity of the people.
In such a republic, Haiti would rise not as a nation merely of laws and institutions, but as a sacred community, where every decision is an offering, every act of labor a prayer, and every citizen a guardian of the divine order. For in the wisdom of konbit and Vodou, Haiti may yet find the keys to its enduring sovereignty and greatness.
During my morning run, I saw this utility marker—a symbol of the intricate machinery of public works. If every Haitian cultivated an equal fascination with the sinews of civil order, our beleaguered mother Haiti, so long in need, might yet be redeemed by the industry of her children.
This marker contains a wealth of compressed information. The letter ‘A,’ accompanied by an arrow, may signify the direction of a gas line, the flow of some vital essence, or perhaps a reference point for specific labors—a node within a larger, unseen, operational design.
But you may ask, with reason, what bearing this small detail has to do with Haiti’s infrastructure? The answer is simple: everything. The act of marking the street—a gesture so fleeting to most—stands as the terminus of an expansive and intricate process.
Behind that single stroke of paint lies a vast architecture of governance: departments charged with oversight, codes devised to regulate each task, computerized systems to track and enforce compliance, public hearings to legitimize action. Layer upon layer of coordination and operational discipline converge in the realization of a single mark upon the earth.
Such is the inescapable truth of nation-building: no lasting Haiti can rise, none of its enduring structures will stand, without the foundational hardware that gives form to its citizen’s ambitions. Without such scaffolding of order, the grandest collective aspirations of the Haitian people will remain but whispers upon the wind.
The Roads Not Taken: Haiti’s Infrastructure and the Legacy of Freedom Deferred
In the grand theater of Haitian history, where definitions of liberty (liberté) were both the chorus and the refrain, ideological contests between the elites shaped the nation’s transport infrastructure from its birth in 1804 to the American occupation of 1915–1934. The notion of liberté, exalted in proclamations yet contested in practice, became the cornerstone upon which the ruling elite structured their dominion over the moun endeyo.
The axis of power rested not merely on proclamations of sovereignty but upon the cultural delineation of the population—urban citizens cast as the agents of civilization and rural laborers consigned as the pastoral custodians of toil.
Rural vs Urban
The colonial plantation system, that engine of wealth and despair, neglected the arteries of transport, ensuring that cities became modest outposts while plantations remained vast prisons of coerced industry.
In the aftermath of independence, while the shackles of foreign servitude were cast aside, the infrastructure of movement was left in disrepair, binding the newly freed laborers to the very fields they had once tilled in bondage. As a result, a paradox emerged: the liberators who proclaimed emancipation left intact the immobility that had once enforced subjugation.
By the mid-19th century, the plantation system’s collapse reconfigured the landscape of power. Rapacious landowners abandoned their rural estates, sought fortunes in the port cities, where the tides of commerce and politics conspired to create new hierarchies. Yet the rural peasantry, forging smallholdings from the remnants of plantation lands, remained largely isolated—a people free in name, yet fettered by the absence of roads and pathways to opportunity.
Not until the closing years of the 19th century did Haitian elites undertake the long-neglected task of forging the sinews of transportation. It was the American occupation, for all its imperial pretensions, that injected a grim vigor into this enterprise, expanding the reach of urban centers and rendering cities into true crucibles of national growth. In this transformation, the road became more than a mere conduit—it was a symbol of contested liberté, a battlefield where the meaning of freedom was fought anew.
From the isolation of plantation fields to the bustling streets of emergent cities, movement itself stood as a cipher of ideological struggle—a constant reminder that liberty without passage is a hollow proclamation, and the road remains both a threshold and a testament to Haiti’s unfolding destiny.
Lessons from Singapore
If Haiti’s enduring struggle is to rise from whispers upon the wind to a song of tangible progress, then let us take counsel from the deliberate, almost surgical precision with which Singapore constructed its modern infrastructure—a city-state born of discipline, vision, and unrelenting coordination.
The Haitian road to renewal, no less ambitious, demands similar tenets of governance, engineering, and collective will.
Solutions for Haiti’s Infrastructure Inspired by Singapore’s Model
1. Centralized Planning and Governance
Singapore’s ascent was orchestrated by a central authority—an entity that wielded its mandate with purpose. Haiti must also replace its current Ministry of Public Works, Transport and Communications (MTPTC), establish a single, empowered National Infrastructure Authority (NIA), tasked exclusively with planning, executing, and maintaining public works. This new authority would:
• Integrate National and Local Governance: The NIA would do a better job of coordinating efforts between urban centers and rural communes to ensure that no region is left in isolation.
• Adopt Master Plans: Following Singapore’s Urban Redevelopment Authority, Haiti must devise long-term infrastructure blueprints covering transport, utilities, and housing, reviewed every decade.
Key Action: Pass legislation to consolidate fragmented infrastructure oversight into a unified body.
2. Efficient Land Use and Urban Design
Singapore overcame its spatial limitations by imposing strict land-use controls and zoning laws. Haiti, though not landlocked, suffers from uncoordinated development. It must:
• Redefine Urban Centers: Transform key cities like Port-au-Prince, Cap-Haïtien, and Les Cayes into integrated hubs of commerce, governance, and education.
• Support Rural Infrastructure: Introduce a Rural Development Initiative to connect peasant communities to urban markets via well-maintained roads and logistical systems.
Key Action: Introduce national zoning laws to optimize land for agriculture, housing, and transport.
3. Build Roads as Arteries of Freedom
As Singapore paved its way to prosperity with meticulously maintained roads and public transport systems, Haiti must prioritize mobility. Roads are not mere pathways—they are lifelines connecting liberty to opportunity.
• Expand Rural Access: Construct a network of rural highways to link isolated communities to urban trade and resources.
• Upgrade Existing Roads: Reinforce current infrastructure with durable materials, emulating Singapore’s focus on longevity.
• Enforce Maintenance Schedules: Adopt Singapore’s rigor in road maintenance to prevent decay and ensure reliability.
Key Action: Partner with international donors and engineers to fund and execute a National Road Connectivity Program.
4. Leverage Technology and Data
Singapore’s embrace of technology as the backbone of infrastructure management provides a template for Haiti to leapfrog traditional barriers.
• Implement Smart Systems: Digitize infrastructure mapping and maintenance schedules using geographic information systems (GIS).
• Monitor Progress Transparently: Develop platforms where citizens can track ongoing projects, ensuring accountability and trust.
Key Action: Train Haitian engineers and urban planners in advanced technologies through international exchange programs.
5. Foster a Culture of Discipline and Ownership
Singapore’s transformation succeeded not merely through laws and blueprints but by instilling a collective discipline in its people. Haiti’s citizenry must embrace infrastructure as a shared responsibility.
• Public Education Campaigns: Teach Haitians, from children to elders, the importance of maintaining public assets.
• Engage Local Communities: Involve local leaders and citizens in decision-making, ensuring that projects reflect communal needs.
Key Action: Launch a National Infrastructure Awareness Campaign to instill pride and responsibility.
6. Attract Global Expertise and Investment
Singapore thrived by courting international expertise while retaining national sovereignty. Haiti can do the same by creating favorable conditions for investment.
• Establish Public-Private Partnerships (PPPs): Allow foreign firms to invest in infrastructure while sharing profits with the Haitian state.
• Guarantee Stability: Implement transparent regulatory frameworks to reassure investors of political and economic stability.
Key Action: Set up an Infrastructure Development Fund with global partners to finance large-scale projects.
7. Institutionalize Long-Term Vision
Finally, as Singapore’s leaders looked decades ahead, Haiti must think beyond the present crisis. Liberty is a promise made not just to this generation but to the unborn.
• Create a Legacy Plan: Draft a Haiti 2050 Infrastructure Vision, detailing milestones for national progress.
• Empower Successors: Build institutions that outlast individuals, ensuring continuity in governance and planning.
Key Action: Pass constitutional amendments safeguarding infrastructure investments from political interference.
A New Chapter for Haiti
The lesson of Singapore’s rise is not merely one of technical efficiency but of unrelenting purpose, where even the smallest marker on the ground is a declaration of national intent. Let Haiti adopt this ethos, and the sinews of civil order may yet transform whispers upon the wind into the anthem of a people redeemed by their own labor. The roads, the ports, the bridges—they are not just utilities; they are the arteries of liberty itself, binding the body of freedom to the reality of motion and progress.
Can the Haitian spirit subsist on mere words alone? Cast your minds back to the austere dominion of WordPerfect 5.1—a technological age when the labor of thought fell squarely upon the individual whose intellect, solitary and unadorned, confronted the void of a blank screen. There, the vertical cursor blinked like a sentinel of expectation, while the keyboard, void of artifice or ornament, stood as your sole instrument of expression. No mouse to guide the hand, no images to distract the eye—only the purity of language itself.
Such is the offering before you now—words unembellished, punctuated only by the rare appearance of graphs, a few pics, and tables.
The Lindy Test for Haitian Nonprofits: How to Cut Through the Fog and Find the Truth
There is a certain immortality to the things that last. The Lindy Effect tells us that the longer something has been around, the more likely it is to persist. It applies to books, traditions, even entire civilizations. Often, what is young burns bright in the moment but fades before it can be tested. Nowhere is this lesson more needed than in the crowded, cacophonous marketplace of Haitian nonprofits, especially those born from the diaspora’s impulse to “help.”
Haiti is a land of endurance, of things that have lasted despite the weight of centuries pressing down. But Haiti is also a land where the ephemeral masquerades as eternal. If you are Haitian, you have seen this cycle: the grand online launches, the impassioned speeches, those endless Gouyad-infested galas, where well-dressed speakers assure you that “change is coming” if only you would part with your hard-earned dollars. And then, a few years later, the website goes dark, the office in Port-au-Prince is shuttered (if there ever was one), and the leaders—if you can still find them—speak only of “lessons learned” before moving on to their next venture.
When attached to just ideas without substance, the word donation is problematic. Run like hell. Fe marronage!
The Problem: A Parade of Ghost Organizations
The Haitian diaspora has no shortage of ambition, nor of compassion. But it also has a terrible memory. Every year, new nonprofits emerge with grand visions of saving Haiti, led by people whose grasp on the realities of the country is as fragile as the foreign-funded projects they erect. They come with press releases but no proof of concept. They come with slogans but no roots in the communities they claim to serve. And when the money dries up, they vanish, leaving little behind but broken promises and another layer of cynicism among the people on the ground.
As Haitians, we must be harder. We must be skeptical. We must test these organizations against time itself. Before you give, before you support, before you attach your name, time, and money to yet another fleeting venture, ask these hard questions:
The Lindy Test: Separating the Real from the Fake
How long has this organization existed? If it is new, what are its founders’ track records? Are they part of a cycle of failed nonprofits, always relaunching under new names? True impact is slow, built over decades, not at a networking event.
Who truly owns and controls this initiative? A Haitian proverb reminds us: Si ou wè dlo nan pye bwa, konnen rasin li pa fon. (If you see water pooling around a tree, know that its roots are not deep–as in not deeply rooted in the Haitian soil.) Who holds the power? If the board is dominated by diaspora Haitians with no substantial Haitian leadership on the ground, be wary. Power should reside with those who live and work in Haiti, not just those who visit twice a year. (I use the 90/10 rule. 90% of the solutions and ownership must come from Haitians on the ground, 10% is the fiduciary responsibility of the diaspora leadership.)
Where is the money going? Request financial transparency. How much of the budget goes toward actual on-the-ground work, and how much is spent on administrative costs, salaries, or travel expenses for foreign staff? A real nonprofit should have clear answers.
Can this project function without foreign donations? Sustainability is key. If an organization cannot sustain itself beyond foreign grants, it is not built for longevity. It is built for dependency. Chen gen kat pye, men li pa ka mache sou tout chemen. (A dog has four legs but can’t walk all roads.) Not every idea is meant to survive.
Who benefits? Does this project uplift Haitian communities, or is it designed to give its founders social capital? Are the faces of the beneficiaries used only for pity-driven fundraising, or do they have a stake in the organization itself?
What are they actually doing? Grand vision statements are meaningless. Ask for specifics. Are they funding education? Building infrastructure? Supporting local businesses? Bouch granmoun pa di tintin. (An elder’s mouth does not speak nonsense.) Wisdom comes from experience, not from rehearsed speeches.
Concrete Steps to Avoid the Scammers
Attend at least three meetings before considering donating. Pay attention to how they respond to hard questions. Do they get defensive, or do they embrace scrutiny?
Talk to people in Haiti who actually work with the organization. A nonprofit’s reputation on the ground is worth more than its website. Call locals, visit their projects, and ask real beneficiaries what impact they’ve seen.
Follow the money. Ask for their financial reports; or better yet, is it posted on their websites, year over year? If they cannot provide clear, detailed numbers, that is a red flag. Fe marronage!
Look for local leadership. Organizations that do not meaningfully involve Haitians in Haiti will not survive. Avoid nonprofits where the diaspora controls everything but does little more than visit.
See if they have a plan beyond donor funds. The best initiatives should aim to function with minimal outside intervention. Pito nou lèd, nou la. (Better ugly and present, than beautiful and gone.) Avoid the belle fleurs sans odeur!
The Real Ones: Who Is Truly Making an Impact?
They exist, but they are few. They are the schools quietly educating children for decades. They are the small businesses supporting local economies. They are the initiatives that never make headlines, because they are too busy doing the work to be online constantly asking for donations.
If you must support an organization, choose one that has stood the test of time. Choose one that does not need to sell you a dream but instead shows you the reality of their impact. Men anpil, chay pa lou. (Many hands make the load lighter.) But only if the hands are truly there to lift, and not just to take.
Haiti has been here before. Haiti will be here long after. The question is, will we finally learn? Will we demand more? The Lindy Effect tells us that the things that endure have something real at their core. Let’s start looking for that, and stop falling for the rest.
