We are blessed to be home after a harrowing last trip to our beloved orphanage. There has been a great deal of media attention to the evacuation of 10 of our staff and visitors, including my wife and myself. Understandably so. The situation in Haiti is beyond dire, people are trapped in the violence there, the airports, ports, road and borders are shut, and the world is becoming acutely aware of the constant inhumanity inflicted by the gangs.
So when a small group manages to exit in the dead of night in a helicopter rescue, it’s going to make some noise. It’s likely you’ve read or watched the story by now. If not, I’ve detailed it here.
But I can tell you, even as we huddled on the floor of that helicopter, when Janine and I heard the words, “We’re out of Haitian airspace,” our hearts were heavy, because our thoughts were with the children and staff still at our facility. And I know, from your correspondence, that many of you feel the same.
So let me address the questions that may be running through your head; they are likely the ones we grapple with every day.
What happens to the children?
This is all we focus on. Their safety. Their health. Their mental well-being. Right now they are safe, healthy, watched over and loved.
Understand that there is no legal way to evacuate them from Haiti. Even if we could have created a helicopter big enough for 60 kids, the sad truth is, had they landed in the Dominican Republic, they would have been immediately sent back. They would not be permitted into the U.S. Other nearby island nations would not accept them.
All doors are closed.
The world does not welcome Haitians. It’s a terrible injustice to our kids, our staff, their loved ones, and all the innocent citizens of this current situation. Until that changes, we have to deal with the situation within the nation’s borders.
Is Have Faith Haiti closing?
Absolutely not. We are needed more than ever now. We are not going anywhere.
How are supplies getting in? Do you have food?
Yes. For better or worse, we are used to situations like this. My wife and I were at the orphanage when former President Jovenel Moïse was assassinated in 2021. The country shut down then as well, and we quickly learned how to adjust under such circumstances.
As soon as the gang violence surged during our last trip, we began stocking up on food, water and fuel. This remains our focus. The costs shoot up quickly, as demand soars and vendors gouge buyers. Your donations continue to allow us to feed and comfort our children.
Fuel, in particular, is a dire necessity. Over the last 10 days, we have had virtually no electricity from the city. We usually only get 4-5 hours a day, but we are not even getting that. This means the only way to light the dark or power the refrigerators is to run a generator, requiring constant gas to do so. Again, your donations in this area are precious.
What is happening with the kids?
We do everything possible to permit the children to live normal, daily lives — even in such an abnormal environment. Meals continue as usual. Nightly prayers. Church. Play time. Music. Art. Soccer.
When we had to close our school for two weeks, our oldest kids got together and asked if they could serve as teachers. I cannot describe the feeling in my heart watching our 17 and 18-year-olds step up and become instructors to their younger brothers and sisters, standing by the whiteboards and reviewing lessons in English and math. It was a symbol of resilience that gives me goose bumps even as I write it.
All during our 10-day visit, we worked on a huge mural project. A third of a football field long, the two blank walls provided a canvas for shared activity and a respite from worry. Every day our volunteers joined alongside the kids in painting the colorful symbols of our values: family, faith, love, sharing, culture, education. The finished result is a testament to beauty in the face of grim reality. It is inspiring, and our kids love it.
This past week, we have actually been able to re-open our school, something very few schools in Port-au-Prince have done. This is a credit to our amazing dedicated teachers, who brave the journey each day. We are immensely proud of them, and again, your donations allow us to pay them, which provides their families with food and shelter.
Remember that in addition to our children, we have around 80 full and part-time employees, from teachers to nannies to maintenance to security workers, all of whom rely on their paychecks to feed and shelter their loved ones. Thus, the ripple effect of our orphanage extends far beyond the precious children inside it.
Can we adopt a child from Have Faith Haiti in order to provide them a safe life in America?
While this is such a kind sentiment, it simply isn’t feasible. Our orphanage is not licensed to make adoptions, and even if it were, the process is extremely lengthy — usually four or more years — and families wishing to adopt in Haiti cannot identify a particular child.
My family member is stuck in Haiti. Can Mitch get them out?
We did not initiate or organize our recent evacuation. It was done by others, in particular Rep. Cory Mills from Florida. It may be possible to contact his office, as well as a group called Project Dynamo, which has also conducted some extractions. In addition, as of this writing, there seems to be a little movement by the U.S. State department to possibly organize some charter flights out of Haiti (they already did one from Cap Haitien.) Those inside Haiti should be in constant contact with the embassy websites.
What happens next?
We wish we knew what the future holds for the country. For now, for us, we must shelter in place, and try to keep daily life for our children as worry free as possible. We do have armed security forces, which cost a great deal, but are, in our opinion, an absolute necessity. Again, your donations in this area make a huge difference.
Because faith is an underpinning of all we do at Have Faith Haiti, prayer — constant prayer — is encouraged. We believe in tomorrow, and in hope. We search constantly for the crack of light under the door. We are confident in God’s love and encourage our children to embrace that feeling every day.
Despite the horror you see on television, there are smiles and laughter and hand-holding and comfort at our home and school. As for Janine and me, our bodies may currently be in the U.S., but our hearts remain there in Haiti, and we look forward to our soonest return. Thank you for all you do to support our kids, and to provide the healing patina of hope for them every day.
It may seem late to be talking about the new year, but it’s pretty normal when it comes to January at Have Faith Haiti. The change in the calendar settles like a long, soft rain on our little piece of this island, and much happens and there is much to tell.
Each December/January turnover brings with it not only New Year’s Eve (a favorite at our place) and New Year’s Day (with all its resolutions) but also the anniversary of the earthquake that brought me here (January 12) and the annual marking of Chika’s birthday (January 9). She would have been 14, and I wouldn’t have a prayer of lifting her into my arms the way I always did. The thought of that makes me wistful.
But let me catch you up. Let’s begin with New Year’s Eve, which has become an anticipated event at the orphanage exceeded only by Christmas.
Our celebration begins with tables set outside, and chairs and paper plates and, of course, pizza. We need so much, we have to order it the day before from one of several places we have tried over the years. I remember the days when 12 pizzas covered it. Now, with 60-plus kids, and another 12 back from college, and the dozens of nannies, staff, maintenance and security personnel, we are closer to 40 pies. It’s the one night of the year that we not only offer seconds, but thirds. Maybe that’s why the kids get so excited.
There is juice and cake and ice cream as well. But the big moment comes when we trek to a large pile of dirt and give each child a sparkler. Our tradition is to light the sparkler and place it in the earth while making a wish for the next year. Of course, some of our youngest kids are too small (or too afraid) to handle sparklers and so we do it for them. But everyone is fascinated by the tiny star-like flames that sizzle off the stick. They stare as if watching their wishes join the wind and fly up to heaven.
When the last of the sparklers goes out, we all scream “Happy New Year!”, jump up and down, hug one another, and sing “Auld Lang Syne”, which mostly comes out in “la-da-da-da’s” since who really knows the words to the whole thing?
Not long after, we put the kids to bed, having rung in the New Year in our small but cherished style.
It is not yet 9 p.m.
Two reasons to celebrate
New Year’s Day has its own identity. In Haiti, it is a special holiday, the anniversary of the nation’s independence from France. If the world were a fairer place, people in other countries would know about this holiday, because it commemorates the only time slaves successfully overthrew their masters and took their nation back. When it happened, the outside world was shocked, and most of it subsequently avoided trade with Haiti, not wanting their own slaves to get any ideas.
Meanwhile the French demanded reparations for the blow to their economy, and stunningly — fearing the French would return — Haiti complied, a move that crippled their own finances for decades to come. All this happened in 1804. Haiti has never stopped paying the price for freedom.
To commemorate the day, Haitians enjoy Soup Joumou, a pumpkin-based delicacy that the French colonizers savored but never permitted Haitians to eat. We make a massive pot and everyone partakes. Then our kids draw up New Year’s resolutions, at least two per child, which they draw with fancy designs and crayon art, then put into an envelope to save for the following year.
Later in the day, I get out the previous year’s envelope and, gathered in the shade of the gazebo, we read last year’s resolutions child by child. The other kids get to decide whether the resolution was kept or broken by yelling “Yes!” or “No!” There are huge laughs, especially when the resolution was “Help clean up the room” or “Never complain to the nannies.” But it gets the kids to think about their previous year, and how they can be better. We have been doing this a long time, and I smile when the same kid who once scribbled “I promise to eat my rice” is now writing “My resolution is to learn Portuguese before I leave for college.”
Reading last year’s resolutions at our most precious gathering place: the gazebo
Honoring what was lost, and found
I mentioned the earthquake. Not a January passes without remembering the chain of events that led to my arrival in Haiti, and how I knew nothing about the country and only came down to help a pastor who said his orphanage had been destroyed. I think on how my life has been so changed by a single event, and how our children’s lives were changed even more dramatically. Many of our kids who are now teenagers and making college applications came to us as a direct result of that earthquake, which destroyed so many homes, killed so many fathers and mothers, crippled the economy, and left nearly a tenth of the population without a place to live.
There were countless refugee tent villages where thousands of people lived, and every time we went to visit one we could have returned with two or three children whose guardians said they had no food for them to eat, and no chance at getting them educated. Although those tent villages are gone now, the impact of that time continues to reverberate, through the country and through the fabric of our little orphanage.
Finally, I mentioned Chika. She loved her January birthday. She anticipated it months in advance.
She only had seven of birthdays on this earth. Her fifth was at the mission, where she wore the birthday crown and had the kids sing to her around a sheet cake.
Her sixth was in America with us, at the Rain Forest Café, with more than 50 people whom she had charmed in her brief time in America.
Her seventh was in our house, and she was in a wheelchair, and we had two “princesses” come and sing songs from Frozen, which she watched with a dazed expression, wearing the yellow Belle dress that she so adored.
She never got an eighth birthday. Not here anyhow. But every year on that day we remember everything and we tell stories and play videos and celebrate her incredible spirit.
And in some way, I’m not sure I can explain it, I believe that spirit has infused the latest ball of fire to bless our home in Michigan, little Nadie, who has Chika’s independence, her fighting spirit, and her love of singing Christmas songs.
Not long before I sat down to write this, Nadie, who just turned two, was belting out her version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”, which, for her goes “You better watch out, you better watch out, you better watch out…” And I thought of Chika, and I watched Nadie, and I was so flushed with grief and joy it’s as if they were swirled in a bowl until you couldn’t tell one from the other.
NadieWalking with Nadie as I did with Chika
Ah, well. The new year is truly here, off and running, with the kids back in our school and scurrying through their daily routines. And despite the violence, the gangs, the demonstrations and the endless poverty that sits over this country like a blanket, our blessed children, thanks in large part to your generosity, are thriving, learning, growing and surprising us every day with their wisdom, perseverance and talents.
You better watch out. That could be our slogan. Because every day is some kind of surprise that moves you and inspires you and touches your heart. Happy new year, indeed.
One of the happiest moments for me at Have Faith Haiti is my arrival each month. That’s because the kids spill out of classrooms or the dorm or come running from the field just to give me hello hugs.
But over this past weekend, I had a different sensation. A different set of hugs. It was Thanksgiving, a break from college, and here came the “little kids” I remembered, exiting cars and making their way up the porch in the November cold.
Here came Djouna and Junie-Anna, who used to hug my knees, now in their first year at college, dressed in sweatpants, their hair braided beautifully.
Here came J.J. and Kiki and Edney, who used to chase each other all over our concrete yard with a half-inflated soccer ball, now muscular and sporting whiskers, bounding up the steps.
Here came Manno, who used to study under the light of a single bulb, swatting mosquitos with a dull pencil, now wiping his feet and carrying his computer, which contained his work as a medical school student.
All told, eight young men and four young women — all of whom I used to refer to as “kids” at the orphanage — were walking through the doors of my home in Michigan, ready for a Thanksgiving meal.
Haiti North.
Coming home for the holidays
For our four newest students, the weekend was an overwhelming experience. Their first Thanksgiving. We do it pretty large in our family, hosting all my relatives and my wife Janine’s relatives, plus friends from all over the country. This year, counting our Haitian guests, the count reached 81.
So, amidst the noise of that many people, we had to do some explaining about what stuffing was, why the sweet potatoes were mashed up, and why we called a certain dessert of chocolate chip cookies and whipped cream “Motown Mash.”
We had to introduce them to this uncle, this cousin, that longtime friend. We had to explain to Nahoum and Widley, two freshmen, that helping themselves to seconds — or thirds — was perfectly fine.
The first year we had any of our kids up for Thanksgiving, I worried about the abundance of it all. From a nation where hunger is a daily issue, where clean water is luxury, and where the violence and gang warfare make every day about survival, a feast like Thanksgiving, for the average Haitian, might seem incongruous.
But the idea behind the day is gratitude, and that is something our kids understand very well. So when Janine and I stood before our guests and talked about the countless things we have to be grateful for, and how much we miss the loved ones who no longer fill seats at the table, I saw the kids nodding slightly in recognition.
And when, on Friday, we took everybody bowling, and I watched the kids shriek as they knocked down the pins, I knew they were having fun.
And when we sat around watching a movie Saturday night, the kids flopped over the couch, the pillows, or the floor, I knew they felt at home.
Djouna and Esterline make work on breakfast
And when we gathered for breakfast Sunday morning, and they helped me make two dozen eggs, and they asked if they could have them “Haitian style,” which is code for very dry and overcooked, I knew they brought Haiti with them, as they do wherever they go.
And when we sat around the table afterwards, all 12 of them, and they spoke about their challenges at college, the good, the difficult, the people who have embraced them and those few who have made them feel uncomfortable, it was honest and real. And in its way, was no different than the countless talks we had at the orphanage after nightly devotions, or on Saturday afternoons, or just sitting on a balcony in the humid Haitian evenings.
At one point we took an old photo from nearly 10 years ago and recreated it, subbing in our friends Jim and Jane McElya with Janine and myself. When I looked at how much the kids had changed, I felt a lump in my throat.
Before and after by 10 years (with Janine and I subbing in for Jim and Jane McElya)
Going back home for good, to do good
My father used to sing a song called “Sunrise, Sunset.” I’ve mentioned this before. He sang this song at family events (he had a great voice, operatic, really, and was always being asked to perform) and I used to watch my older relatives cry at the lyrics, which I have mentioned in this space:
Is this the little boy I carriedIs this the little child at play? I don’t remember growing olderWhen did they?
I’m beginning to know why it made them tear up. I had that same sensation watching our kids make the eggs at Thanksgiving, or cracking jokes in Creole while eating around the table, or playfully shoving each other the way brothers and sisters do when they are happy.
All of these young men and women are heading back to Haiti when college is over. All of them will work at the orphanage for two years, as a way of giving back to the place that gave them wings.
And all of them look forward to it. Which may be the truest sign that they are growing up.
Nahoum and Widley at the skating rink
It is a privilege to watch. A joy to behold. I remember telling Nahoum, when he was six years old, that one day he could come with me to America, but only after he finished high school.
That night, I found him under the covers with a flashlight, reading the Bible. I asked what he was doing and he said “I want to finish high school by Wednesday, so I can go home with you.”
Well, it took longer than Wednesday. But he finished. He’s here. More importantly, he has a future.
He has a future, because, thanks to all of you, he is getting educated. He is part of the one percent of Haitians who ever go to college, and even less than half of one percent who get to do it in America, and come home for Thanksgiving break.
When we said finally goodbye Sunday afternoon, it was snowing outside. We were about as far from Haiti as you can get. But it many ways, we were all still there, exchanging hugs, grateful for the day, and filled with hope.
It is the best day of our year, and you can feel it the moment the sun breaks through the early summer sky. There’s a buzz amongst the kids. Showers are taken with particular energy. Clothes are chosen that are rarely worn the rest of the year. The teenagers dress with flair: the older boys tuck in button-down shirts; the older girls put on a little makeup.
It’s Graduation Day, a day of passage. And in a country where you are forced to stand still so much of your life, moving forward is a blessed relief.
This year we graduated four students from our bilingual academy – Djouna, Junie-Anna, Widley and Nahoum. All four are excellent students. The truth is, they were ready to go to college a year ago, but had to wait their turn.
So they spent an extra year of study, and by this point they are chomping at the bit to see what comes next.
But first what comes is the pomp and circumstance. Literally. We play that march composed by Sir Edward Algar over a single speaker that sits in the grass, powered by a long extension cord. The kids line up with their teachers. They walk across our yard, enter under a rented tent, and move down the aisle, past their brothers and sisters and towards their future.
And we sigh.
Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers
For many years after taking over the orphanage, we never spoke of completion. Every day was a new challenge that led directly into another one. Once you took care of the water situation, you had the food situation. Once you took care of the food situation, you had the gas situation.
This kid came down with an illness, you addressed it. Another kid had a behavioral issue, you addressed that.
Life at the orphanage was a loop. Nothing finished. It just got bigger and more complicated.
But as we read in Peter Pan — or sing about in “Puff the Magic Dragon” — a moment comes when kids grow up.
And you are forced to consider how you got here.
The first graduation from our school, three years ago, was a single student, Edney, who made a speech holding his cap on his head against a hot summer wind. Edney attended Madonna College in Livonia, Michigan.
The next year we graduated four students, who all received scholarships to Hope College in Holland, MI. They all came through freshman year well, with several on the Dean’s List.
This year, four more donned the cap and gown, two with scholarships to Hope, two more with scholarships to Hillsdale College.
And as each one stepped to podium to address the group, I saw in my mind the childish version of the young adult I was looking at:
I saw the wide and silly grin of a little boy named Nahoum, who was already in the orphanage when I arrived in 2010. Now here he was, 18 years old, with a deep voice, saying, “It is a great pleasure to stand here as a graduate, a brother, and a leader. I have been looking forward to this day – and here it is.”
I saw the big eyes and braided hair of a skinny little girl named Junie-Anna, who now was a fully grown woman of 18, with long flowing locks, who spoke without the hint of an accent in her English: “As I stand before you clad in cap and gown, I look back on my years in school. Some days, I was on top of my game. I got good grades. But other days I slacked off and I struggled. But if I am here today, I must tell you. I did not make it on my own…”
DjounaDjouna and Nahoum, 2023Nahoum
Blossoming even as we gaze
I saw a shy little boy named Widley, who was covered in scabs from bug bites and needed special cream applied to his legs and arms for years, and now here he was, one of the most brilliant students I’ve ever met, elocuting as if he’d grown up in Cambridge:
“First and foremost, I want to honor the presence of our esteemed directors, our wonderful teachers, and our ever-growing family…I feel immense gratitude to all of you for helping me overcome the trials and troubles that I faced in the past…”
And, finally, I see the goofy smile of a little girl named Djouna, who came to us at five years old and has blossomed into an intelligent, sensitive 17 year-old who writes incredibly well and is brave enough to say this in front of a crowd:
“As I stand here before you today…I am thinking about my father. Yes, I have one. ‘Well where’s your father, Djouna?’ I don’t know. ‘Where is he?’ In Haiti somewhere. Alive, I believe. I haven’t seen him in 13 years.
“But if you ask me what if feels like to have 60 plus people replace this one single person called my father, I would tell you why even ask? It feels really good. It feels like my life has meaning. Because without his new family, I wouldn’t be standing here today…”
WidleyWidley and Junie-Anna, 2023Junie-Anna
One season following another
My own father used to sing a song at family events like weddings. It’s called “Sunrise, Sunset” from the musical “Fiddler on the Roof.” I used to think it was the hokiest song ever. I cringed when he sang it.
But as I age, I recall the words, sung in my Dad’s powerful baritone voice, and they hit me like a smack to my face:
“Is this the little girl I carried?
“Is this the little boy at play?
“I don’t remember getting older,
“When did they?”
That’s what Graduation Day is for me, for our staff, for our kids. The little ones from the endless loop have grown up. In a few weeks, they will be leaving our orphanage, heading north with me to start college and a new chapter in their lives.
They will be nervous. They will be anxious. They will be excited.
But the best part — and the reason Graduation Day is such a special day for us — is that these kids will feel hope.
Hope. Without it, we are parched. We wander aimlessly. So much of Haiti lives without hope, and is desperately thirsty for it.
We are so grateful to those of you who allow us to spread this hope, to experience the sunshine of the graduation morning, the cheers of the other kids when we announce “You are graduated!”, or the pop song that the teenagers sing, arm in arm, as they let go and wave goodbye to the ones who will be leaving.
“As we go on
“We’ll remember
“All the times, we had together.”
Moving forward — in a country where backward is the common sensation. Best day of the year. Thank you for helping to make it possible.
At the end of every day I spend in Haiti, I make a mental tally of what went right and wrong.
Some days are better than others.
We’ve spoken a great deal about the bad parts of Haiti lately, the danger, the insecurity, the violence that had our kids scared and hiding. But almost by the very nature of the nation’s endless challenges, every day that Haitians survive is a day to be celebrated.
And to be thankful.
Photo: Theresa Finck
Our orphanage is no different. Let me share a few moments that show how our little corner of this hot country is surviving and thriving, thanks to your help:
We needed to raise a good amount of money for security in the past two months. We did. The effects were immediate.
Suddenly, we have security guards not only at each entrance, but at the bridge near our ravine, and up the ravine, on both sides, and behind the structure we call “the white house” and near our border walls with neighbors.
Just seeing so many people devoted to keeping our us safe makes us feel a bit relieved and makes our kids much more relaxed.
Photo: Theresa Finck
Speaking of the kids, they have adjusted to circumstances, as they always do. They run daily drills at the sound of an alarm. They know where to go and how fast to get there.
We’ve also beefed up our actual perimeters, thanks to the funds we received. There are yards and yards of new fencing, and the old barriers have been raised, reinforced, and lined with barbed wire.
We also now have plans being drawn not only for a fortification of a “safe floor” with protective doors and windows, but also for an actual “safe room,” beneath the floor of an upcoming new structure. This safe room would be big enough for all our kids and staff to handle any worse-case scenario.
Photo: Theresa Finck
Meanwhile, we go on. Final exams are coming up in early June, and we are preparing once again for one of most cherished days — graduation. This year, four more of our high schoolers will wear the cap and gown, make shorts speeches, and be cheered wildly by the other kids and our staff.
All four have earned college scholarships to the U.S. That makes 13 to date, with one heading to medical school in July. If that doesn’t make you proud, I don’t know what will.
Photo: Theresa Finck
Music classes continue, with teachers coming to us, despite the dangers they face in traveling. Our kids are learning foreign languages from Spanish to Korean. And, miracle of miracles, two of our kids, Moïse and Bradley, who have been battling serious health issues, have been granted permission to see doctors in America, and will be doing so very soon.
The sun rises, the sun sets. The streets remain hot with anger, but our yard and gazebo remain shaded and cool, an oasis of rest and love and peace. For all you have done to keep these precious qualities going at our orphanage, we thank you. At the end of the day, it’s always a good day here.
A Year of Thanks & Giving
November: Kitchen — Goal Achieved
December: Safety Car — Goal Achieved
January: Nursery — Construction Goal Achieved
Construction funded; Ongoing costs to support the hiring of a director for early childhood development and nursery supplies can be supported here.
Make your check payable to “Have Faith Haiti Mission” and send to
Have Faith Haiti Mission
c/o A Hole in the Roof Foundation
29836 Telegraph Road
Southfield, MI 48034
Have Faith Haiti is operated by the A Hole in the Roof Foundation, a 501(c)(3) org (TAX ID# 27-0609504). Donations are tax deductible.
About the Mission
The Have Faith Haiti Mission is a special place of love and caring, dedicated to the safety, education, health and spiritual development of Haiti’s impoverished children and orphans. You can learn more here.
It’s time to answer some questions.
There has been a great deal of media attention to the evacuation of our staff, volunteers, and founder. It’s likely you’ve read or watched the story by now.
Our founder, Mitch Albom, addresses the questions that may be running through your head; they are likely the ones we grapple with every day.
