This is an immigrant story. It is not about a threat. It is not about an illegal crossing or an arrest. It’s about hope. Most immigrant stories are.
Jhonas Nelus was born in Haiti 23 years ago. When he was 9, a massive earthquake hit his country and left his family homeless. Like tens of thousands in the capital city of Port-au-Prince, his relatives sought refuge in a filthy, overcrowded, tent city.
That was where I met him.
Jhonas’ sisters were in an orphanage I operate in Haiti. I had come to the tent city to meet the rest of their family, all of whom were squeezed inside four pieces of tin, with a blue tarp tied over top. Their floor was dirt. There was no sink. No running water. One mattress for everyone. When it rained, they slept atop old wooden chairs, so they wouldn’t be lying in mud.
The toilets were several hundred yards away, holes in the ground surrounded by a small mountain of plastic bags. When I asked what the bags were for, I was told, “Toilet paper.”
An 11-year-old Jhonas Nelus greets visitors in the tent camp he shared with more than 2,000 people in 2014.
Over 2,000 people shared this camp.
Jhonas, at the time, was a thin, angular boy with piercing eyes and a huge smile. He was drawing when I met him. A cartoon. It was excellent. He also spoke fairly good English, which was remarkable given his young age.
“Where did you learn to speak so well?” I asked him.
“In school,” he said.
“You like school?”
“Yes. I love school.”
Jhonas on move-in day at Madonna University in 2021
Promise brings hope
This is an education story. The next month, when I came down to Haiti, I visited Jhonas’ family again. This time, I brought a few comic books. To say Jhonas liked them would be like saying teenage girls like Taylor Swift. Every subsequent visit, I brought him more. I noticed his artwork improving. He also wrote me a thank-you note.
In my heart, I wanted to take Jhonas into our orphanage, but he was already older than the age we accept most children, and since we already had his siblings, it went against our policy. But I realized he would soon be of the age when Haiti’s oppressive poverty and general desperation might tempt him to quit school in search of quick opportunity, money or gangs.
His eyes bulged. Never mind that his “home” had no electrical power, no lights, no fans, and the idea of him even doing homework seemed far-fetched.
The promise inspired him. It gave him hope.
And hope is the most powerful weapon of all.
Jhonas and his sister Esterline with their mother, at a gathering in 2021 to say goodbye to the high school graduates who were headed to college in the U.S.
Hope brings perseverance
This is a graduation story. Jhonas took me up on my offer, and year after year, gave me his report card from his Haitian school. His English became impeccable. His voice changed. His body sprouted from a kid I used to pat on the head to a teenager who towered over me.
But his love of learning never wavered. Still forced to live in those tents, he studied by candlelight, and when his mother didn’t have the pennies to buy candles, he left the encampment to find a streetlight to sit under, where he could read and do his assignments.
Can you imagine, in the crushing heat and humidity of Haiti, being in the street at night, with nothing more than a pencil, a piece of paper, and your lap as your desk? And our kids complain about homework?
Jhonas completed his schooling with excellent grades. By that time, I had established connections with several colleges in Michigan, encouraging them to give our orphanage kids a shot.
One of them was Madonna University. They read Jhonas’ application. In it, he spoke about wanting to study medicine, because when he was younger, his little brother, Jameson, was taken to the hospital because of an ugly skin issue. No one took care of him. They wanted money first. When the family had none, they were sent away.
Months later, Jameson died in the same tent where the whole family slept. Jhonas came in from playing soccer and saw his younger brother gone. He decided, he says, to become a doctor that day.
Madonna wisely accepted him. He was granted a U.S. student visa and arrived here in the summer of 2021. On the way to our home from the airport, we stopped at Buffalo Wild Wings. When Jhonas saw how much food they brought to the table, he nearly wept.
Perseverance brings gratitude
This is a surprise story. Two weeks ago, Jhonas was set to graduate with his bachelor’s degree. We always make a big deal over our kids graduating, so all of his orphanage brothers and sisters who are also here studying, and many of the people he has impressed or touched, wanted to be there as well. This meant quite a caravan of people.
We did our best, but as folks who tend to be late for most things, we arrived after the ceremony began. I wasn’t worried. I had been to college graduations before. I knew there was a good deal of pomp and circumstance, and they called out every name for a diploma. Since Jhonas’ last name began with “N” we had plenty of time.
We arrived, sliding into our seats just in time to hear one of the administrators say the student commencement speaker this year had been specially chosen for his accomplishments, his willingness to help others, and his sterling academic record, including a 3.94 GPA as a chemistry major.
His name, she said, “is Jhonas Nelus.”
And sitting in that crowd, my wife and I stared in disbelief as this beaming, confident, young man — who never told us about this honor because he wanted it to be a surprise — walked to the microphone and delivered a pitch-perfect commencement address, beginning with, “When I first came to Madonna University, I was filled with excitement, curiosity, and, if I’m being honest, a little bit of fear. …”
He congratulated his fellow students. He spoke about the future. He mentioned the challenge of leadership and his desire to go to medical school, to one day make life better for children in his home country.
He never mentioned his own story, or all the horrors he’d overcome with his tireless hope. He never congratulated himself.
So, I’m doing it here.
This is a story about dreams, belief and opportunity. In other words, an immigrant story. And one worth remembering, in light of the others we’re hearing so loudly these days.
This column was originally published in the Detroit Free Press, and I wanted to be sure you heard about the vital work HERO Client Rescue is doing. They have made it possible for us to get our most critically ill children out of the dangers of Port-au-Prince — the first step in an arduous journey to the U.S. for necessary medical care. It has happened many times. For the safety of our children and staff, we don’t tell you when it happens, but it does. And it will continue to. HERO needs help for their work to continue, as will we in the oncoming months as Haiti’s situation remains dire.
I hope to share important news with you soon. In the meantime, I hope that you will take some time to learn more about these HEROes in the Haitian sky.
Your friend, with gratitude as always,
Mitch
@hero_rescue
This is a story about saving lives, six seats at a time. That’s the passenger capacity of each Bell 407 helicopter that an organization called HERO Client Rescue flies nearly every day from the terrorized city of Port-au-Prince, Haiti, to distant hospitals and safer villages.
Week after week, month after month, these helicopters — three of them — are now the only way small numbers of people, many serious medical cases, are able to evacuate the capital city, which is overrun by gang violence. In Port-au-Prince, murders, fires, kidnappings — even being hit by stray bullets — are part of everyday life.
“Outside people don’t realize how serious the situation is,” says Stacy Librandi, 44, who created HERO 11 years ago as a ground ambulance and emergency flight company, but has seen it morph into something even more critical. “The city is a war zone. And innocent people living in Haiti, just trying to survive, are left to defend themselves in a country where mostly it’s only the bad guys that have firearms.”
More than 700,000 Haitians have now been displaced by the endless gang violence, as of last October. That’s 700,000 homeless people searching for places to live. Commercial airlines have stopped flying into Port-au-Prince, after gangs shot at airplanes. The roads out of the city are controlled by those gangs as well, as are the ports, so there is no driving or sailing away.
Children being rescued for security reasons in Port-au-Prince are helped by HERO Rescue, which flies people to safety throughout Haiti. Photo: HERO Rescue Client
Right now, the only safe movement is via helicopter, and pretty much the only helicopters operating are the ones that HERO bravely puts into the sky up to four times a day. They land on soccer fields, hillsides, hospital lawns. They sell seats to those who can afford them to help pay for passengers who cannot — particularly those in need of medical care. Many of the hospitals in Port-au-Prince are either shuttered, destroyed, or unable to fully operate because doctors and nurses can’t get there.
“The Haitian people are in an utter state of survival,” says Clay Lang, one of HERO’s helicopter pilots. “And it’s hour-to-hour survival.”
Moving experience
I just returned from another trip to Haiti. I have written about the orphanage I operate there in Port-au-Prince, and the now 70-plus amazing children who have thrived under its care.
A number of those kids require serious medical attention for issues such as cerebral palsy, seizures, malnutrition and brain damage. We used to fly them on commercial airlines out of Port-au-Prince. Now we must use helicopters for a journey to the northern city of Cap-Haïtien, site of the country’s only functioning international airport.
Our children have been strapped into HERO’s seats. So have many others. A 2-year-old baby who needed immediate open-heart surgery. A teenager with head trauma from a motorcycle crash. Cancer patients. Newborns. Adoptees.
“I remember landing in a soccer field and a group of kids approached,” Lang recalls. “One older boy said, ‘Why are you here?’ I told him there was a child with a broken neck we were supposed to transport. He said ‘Oh, yes, I’ll get him.’ The whole village came back carrying the kid. It was so moving.”
Lang is a good example of the kind of people who do HERO’s work. Trained to fly in the Navy, he has a full-time job fighting fires in the western U.S. with a company called Sky Dance helicopters. But his boss, Jason Legge, “gave me paid time off to come to Haiti.” He flew for one excellent service, Haiti Air Ambulance, but when they were forced to pause operations, he shifted over to HERO.
Librandi says there are about 70 employees like Lang working with HERO, many of them medical people. But with the current chaos, it is often not enough.
“In recent months, there have been days where I take hundreds of calls, from 6 a.m. until after midnight,” says Hunter Picken, a HERO executive who has been with the company since 2017. “When I started, I was using my personal cellphone. It didn’t stop.
“People would hear gunshots in their neighborhood and call me late at night saying, ‘I need to get out tomorrow morning.’”
Because of the enormous expense of flying and maintaining helicopters (not to mention getting insurance) HERO has to make tough decisions about who can fly when, and at what price, and how they can fund the countless charitable cases they operate for free when lives or health are at stake.
A child suffering from head trauma is laid on a gurney by workers from HERO Rescue, which transports people out of harm’s way in Haiti. The child fell off a roof in a remote northern village and was being transported for medical care. Photo: HERO Rescue Client
Picken, 31, even recalls organizing numerous flights on Christmas Day, including an 87-year-old woman who could not walk, and several Haitian kids who were being adopted, but whose adoptive parents could not get to them.
“We often end up picking up children at orphanages, transporting them somewhere, arranging places for them to stay, getting them doctors,” he says. “It’s become much more than just flights.”
More than helicopter rescues
Librandi, who oversees this whole operation, splits her time between Haiti and Traverse City, where she lives with her husband, Aaron Dankers, 49, a retired law enforcement officer and now HERO’s head of security. Like many who embrace Haiti’s children (myself included) Librandi got involved after the tragic 2010 earthquake. She went there ostensibly as a photographer, but spent time working alongside the American military and learning the ropes of disaster relief. She and a few friends eventually rented a truck and began distributing food and water that wasn’t getting to the people.
“I discovered that when you are willing to try different approaches to things, you can be very effective in helping people. That was super interesting to me.”
She found her calling.
In little over a decade, HERO has grown to include trauma centers, ambulances, armored car operations, and even plans to bring and operate a CT machine into a country that desperately needs one.
But currently, the helicopter rescue is dominant, because demand is so great.
“The thing is, we operate out of Pétionville (a section of Port-au-Prince),” Picken explains. “It’s one of the last safe areas. But the gangs are closing in on so many neighborhoods, that we’re left with a very small circle of safety. Some of staff who live outside that circle can’t get to us sometimes because of the gangs in their streets.”
Librandi agrees. If Pétionville should fall, there will be no place for the helicopters to operate. And likely no safe way in and out of a metropolitan area that holds 3 million people.
‘A privilege to fly them’
Pilots and workers with HERO Rescue Client come to the aide of Haitians recently. HERO transports people in Haiti out of harm’s way to medical facilities nearby. Photo: HERO Rescue Client
While HERO is run as a company, it also has a 501(c)(3) charitable foundation (that can be accessed at www.heroclientrescue.com). Donations would help them provide more rescue flights, but they are so busy dealing with the current crisis, Picken says, they don’t have much time to devote to fundraising.
Even so, they deserve support. Without their daily flights, there is next to no movement in or out of Port-au-Prince for old people in distress or children with medical emergencies.
“I remember flying three handicapped children once,” Lang, the pilot, recalls, “and they needed special chairs just to support themselves. And in order to get them to the helicopter, the people in their area created, like, a makeshift wheelbarrow. They cared so much about these children. It’s a privilege to fly them.”
It is a privilege — to be able to help, to be able to make a difference. Can you imagine living in a city where the planes, cars and boats were all locked in by violent gangs, with no way to escape but cramming into a helicopter?
This is everyday life for people in Haiti. HERO tries to give them a lift, literally and figuratively. And as someone who once needed to be airlifted out of Haiti in a chopper, I can attest, when you have no other option, you look at those whirling blades as more than just aviation. You see them as salvation.
And salvation should not be denied to anyone, even if it’s only six seats at a time.
As the year draws to an end, it may seem hard to find many happy moments in Haiti. We’ve detailed in recent dispatches the horrors of gang violence, the apathy of a corrupt government, and the enormous challenges we face every day just trying to feed, clothe and keep healthy our precious children in a city where over 700,000 people have already been forced out of their homes.
But from the moment I arrived in Haiti in the choking aftermath of the 2010 earthquake, what struck me most about the people here is their resiliency. Their boundless belief in the next day. There were smiles and happy memories even amidst the rubble of that tragedy nearly 15 years ago.
And we had a wonderful moment even amidst the chaos of 2024.
We had a wedding.
That’s right. Our beloved Haitian director, Yonel Ismael, who grew up at this very orphanage, announced in late spring that he and his steady Haitian girlfriend, Sabrina, had decided to tie the knot. Yonel was turning 40, and those of us who love him knew how long he had dreamed of a good marriage and eventually a family. So we were happy with the news.
And then, when we asked, “Where do you think you’ll have the ceremony?’ he scrunched his face as if it were obvious.
“Here,” he said. “Of course.”
And we were even happier.
Dearly beloved gathered
So it was, friends, that the social event of the year — at least on our calendar — was scheduled for mid-September on the green artificial grass of what we call Chika Park, smack dab in the center of Have Faith Haiti’s grounds, just in front of the dormitory and the laundry lines.
What could be more elegant?
We pulled out all the stops. A giant tent. Days of cooking. Donated dresses and sports coats for the kids. And a ceremony that included roles for our children, the youngest and the oldest, from dancing and playing music to throwing flower petals from tiny baskets.
Of course, in Haiti, mid-September might as well be mid-August, and mid-August might as well be a blast furnace. So when my white tuxedo arrived — Yonel had kindly asked me to be his best man — and I felt the thick, synthetic fabric, I knew it wouldn’t just be the groom who‘d be sweating it out.
And I was right. Things rarely start on time in Haiti, and Yonel’s wedding was, shall we say, very Haitian. Forty minutes after the scheduled start, we were all still baking in the hot sun, fanning ourselves and waiting for the bride.
But it didn’t dampen the enthusiasm. Most of our kids had never been to a wedding, and none had ever hosted one. They were so charged up, and so charmingly sophisticated in their little bow ties and chiffon skirts, that no delay could bring them down.
And when Sabrina finally arrived, she was as beautiful as a bride could be. Her extended family and friends attended. So did Yonel’s. So did our entire staff, and their families, and of course our 60-plus kids. So all told, we had over 200 people at this little wedding, spilling out of the white tent or cramming beneath the giant decorative balls that hung from its ceiling supports. A red carpet led the way for Sabrina to meet her future husband and join hands, after which several pastors spoke.
Now a lot of what they said was in Creole, but at one point, just as with American weddings, the lead pastor announced, “If there is anyone here who does not want this marriage to go forward, please speak up.”
Silence. That was good. Yonel looked relieved.
“Again, if there is anyone who has an objection, now is the time” the pastor said.
Yonel shot him a glance. Then he looked at me. I shrugged.
“Once more, if anyone does not want this marriage to go forward, we will give you a last chance,” the pastor offered.
Yonel’s eyes bugged wide. “Come onnn,” he murmured beneath his breath. I’m not sure if the pastor was joking, or if he had a side bet, or if this was some Haitian custom I never heard of. I do know it was the longest thirty seconds of Yonel’s year.
Finally, things proceeded, and Yonel and Sabrina exchanged vows. And then, when it came time for the groom to kiss the bride, Yonel, ever the mindful director, turned to the audience and yelled, “Kids, close your eyes!”
And then the happy couple smooched. A good long one. Worthy of a wedding held against the most unlikely of backdrops.
It was lovely.
Where peace held up
And afterwards, the party truly got started. What a reception! We used the patio of our main house, and the dining room, and the rooms off the dining room, and the upstairs rooms, and the walkway outside the upstairs rooms, and pretty much every other square inch that was available. And music played. And food was devoured. And a cake was cut. And there was dancing — so much dancing — especially when our kids heard a song they recognized. I had no idea that pretty much every one of our children from age four up knew how to do the “Cha Cha Slide.”
But they do.
And they did.
It was loud. It was joyous. There was laughter and back slapping and picture taking and so much eating and drinking. But, of course, it wouldn’t be Haiti if there wasn’t a sobering moment. Around 8:45 p.m., someone took the microphone and announced that for safety’s sake, given the gangs outside and the police and the curfews, everybody who needed to get home should leave now. And quickly, the affair shriveled, like air let out of a balloon, as people hurried to the gates.
But if the night ended abruptly, the memories did not. Yonel and Sabrina were able to get away for a couple days of a honeymoon, and they currently enjoy their marital bliss in the same small apartment that Yonel has been living in for years, on the middle floor of the kids’ dormitory, with a few dozen boys on the floor below and a few dozen girls on the floor above.
And as I look through the photos, I am reminded of how adaptable and irrepressible our children are, our staff is, Yonel and Sabrina are, and the people of Haiti are. And how those qualities should be celebrated, even as we holler for international help.
And so, if you please, a smile to end this year. It may have been our most challenging yet, and the clouds on the horizon aren’t getting any lighter. But we don’t give up. We remain grateful – to God, and to you all. And we search every day for happiness, family and blessings. And we keep finding them. Even when the other side gets three chances to object!
They say springtime is the season of renewal, but here at the orphanage, it’s autumn that blends the new into the old. School is about to reopen. Kids rustle with anticipation. And fresh little ones who have joined us over the summer begin to find their footing.
Welcome, then, officially, to two-year-old Janaïca, and her three male companions from the coastal city of Aux (Les) Cayes: Rayanson (2), Djoulens (2) and Leandro (3). Their families were victims of the uprooting and violence caused by Haitian gangs. As a result, these four precious children recently traveled to our mission on a small airplane, as the roads remain too dangerous to drive.
Janaïca & RayansonDjoulens & Leandro
Accompanying them on that 40-minute flight, and taking turns holding them on my lap, I tried to imagine what might be going through their little minds. I remembered that Cat Stevens song, “Oh, Very Young,” and the lyrics, “You’re only dancing on their earth for a short while.” It’s true, they have been here so briefly. And they are unlikely to recall the details of their arrival. Who remembers anything from when they were two?
So if one day they get to read this, they should know that they were brave and strong on their life-changing journey. They boarded the plane holding our hands. They didn’t bristle when the engine started. And while it’s true, once Djoulens started crying, then Rayanson started crying, then Janaïca and Leandro quickly got into the act, and for a few minutes, it was a bad opera inside that fuselage — still, within minutes, they had cried themselves into a nodding sleep.
Janaïca crying on her first airplane trip. Rayanson takes it all in.
And when we landed, they awoke to smiling staff and waiting vehicles, which brought them to a new home, a place of open space, green lawns, clean beds, drinkable water, three healthy meals a day, a sprawling school, and, most important of all, crowds of other excited Haitian children, ready to welcome them in.
“Let’s say their names together,” we exhorted the kids their first night while sitting together in the gazebo. “Ja-na-ica.”
“JA-NA-ICA!”
“Ju-lens.”
“JU-LENS!”
“Ra-yan-son.”
“RA-YAN-SON!”
“Liandaro.”
“LI-AN-DRO.”
It may not be a chorus of trumpets, but it was a pretty royal welcome.
Nurse Miss LaRose provides medical attention to two of our new little ones, Janaïca (left) and Rayanson
As a new group arrives for childhood, another leaves for adulthood
Meanwhile, as this quartet of new faces began blending in, a quintet of teenagers was on a different journey. For the first time, our college bound seniors did not go directly to universities in America, but instead, deferred their admission for 12 months, so they could do a year of service elsewhere in their own country.
Thanks to partnerships we have forged with other amazing non-profits and NGO’s, our five recent graduates, Bianka (18), Bidengy (19), Louvennson (19), Appoloste (20) and J.U. (19), are currently spending their days helping those less fortunate.
From left to right: Louvennson, Appoloste, Bidengy, J.U., and Bianka
In other words, before they go to America to improve their own opportunities, they must improve life for their fellow Haitians. We recently implemented this as policy. I think it is a good one. Only one percent of Haitians ever go to college. It’s critical for our kids to know the needs of the 99 percent who do not.
So Appoloste and J.U. are now volunteering at Haiti Health Foundation in Jérémie, about a 10 hour car ride from our orphanage. So far they’ve done everything from help repair generators to run day camps to deliver medicine to remote villages. They cook their own food, wash their own clothes, learn to live life on their own, and, most importantly, see firsthand the daily struggles of Haitians who don’t have an organization supporting them.
“The other day I saw a man in the street where water was coming out of a sewer,” J.U. told me. “He was gathering the water in a plastic bottle to have something to drink.
“It made me so appreciate just the simple things I have.”
Bianka, Bidengy and Louvennson are working with Haiti Ocean Project, a marine life preservation and education charity located in Nip (Nippes) in southern Haiti. They’ve done everything from tag sea turtles to teach English to local children. They, too, must fend for themselves, even carrying water to their apartment from a nearby well. And they, too, are getting firsthand empathy for the lives of their countrymen.
“Every day I come to work, I see a woman who is wearing the same clothes, every day, the same thing,” Bianka said. “I never thought I had a lot of clothes. But it made me realize how much I do have.”
A group of words that I should never have to write
These are good reports. They show growth. Development. I hope such positive news helps counter some of the shameful negativity currently being heaped upon Haitians in America.
This blatant disrespect for the humanity of others has no place amongst decent people. It also casts a shadow on our nation for those living in Haiti.
Leandro already pitching in with chores!
Understand that America is a magical place in the minds of many people here. A place that sends angels to distribute medicine, dig wells, build houses, teach children. Yes, some in Haiti resent the presence of outsiders, but for the most part, U.S citizens are appreciated, and our country hailed as a place that is blessedly devoid of many problems that plague everyday Haitians.
We should not — and cannot — destroy that by jumping on a bandwagon of false accusations against immigrants. I trust those of you who read these dispatches know the truth about the Haitians who come to our country, whether for study, for safety, or for the chance at a better life.
They are not coming to eat pets.
How sad that I even have to write that.
Visiting with some of newest little ones in our new childhood development wing.
The truth is, “a better life” is all that motivates us here at the orphanage. I watch the fresh faces of our newest arrivals, how their airplane tears have been replaced with wild laughter, how their early fears have melted into joyous days and restful nights.
And I listen to the new maturity of our teenage graduates, who speak now of the good they are doing. It warms my heart.
Autumn is here. The school bell rings. We start anew in so many ways, but with an old philosophy — that children are the future and the future deserves our loving attention. Thank you for all you’ve done to make better lives possible for so many.
As we head into a challenging summer in Haiti, I want to share some positive news about our orphanage and our amazing, resilient children and staff.
Under typical conditions, everything in Haiti is a wait. You wait hours at the bank. You wait on long lines for gasoline. You wait days in a hot emergency room to see a single doctor at a hospital.
That’s when life is normal. Lately, the word “wait” has taken on a whole different meaning. With gangs controlling nearly all aspects of Port-au-Prince — where nearly half the population of the country lives — the people of Haiti are all waiting for one desperate thing: help.
An international force of police and soldiers has supposedly been coming since last fall. It is yet to arrive. The force is widely seen in Haiti as the only hope for breaking the chokehold the gangs have on the streets.
In many ways, the population is like hostages being held in a dark room. Their lives are not their own. They can only pray someone will come to their rescue.
In the shadow of this, life has shut down in many corners of the capital city. Ransacked hospitals cannot open. Banks have been boarded. Police stations have been destroyed. Markets run out of goods, their shelves empty.
But in our small little pocket, life — and learning — somehow go on.
Teaching a lesson
Our school remains open. This is a miracle. Near as we can tell, we are the only school in Port-au-Prince that is still operating in person every day. Most have gone to remote learning. Others have closed altogether. Yet our teaching staff braves the streets each day, arriving dutifully at 7:30 a.m. via motorcycle or van or Tap-Tap rides.
I cannot tell you how much courage that takes. It would be easy for them to say “it’s too dangerous. You can’t expect us to come to work.” Instead, we never have to ask. They see it as their obligation to keep the children’s education going.
So we have Joseph Yevgueny, who is in his first year on our teaching staff. He specializes in geography, history, math and Haitian culture. Every day, he makes his way in from his home in Delmas 33, a place that has destabilized into regular shootings and chaotic violence. The streets there are extremely dangerous. Yet Joseph makes it a personal mission to never miss a day.
Mr. Gregory (left); Mr. Joseph (right)
Or Mr. Gregory Saint Jean, who has been with us for three years. He was chased from his red zone home in Fermath 54 due to gang invasion and was forced to move in with his mother. Yet despite needing two Tap-Taps per day, he dutifully arrives to teach French and math to our kids.
Or Miss Nathalienne, a four-year veteran of our school and a beloved instructor. Her journey includes two busses and a motorcycle, which often has to steer around roadblocks and danger zones just to reach our place. Yet there she is, every day, teaching algebra, physics, French and sign language.
Miss Nathalienne
As a result of their efforts, and others on our terrific staff, our kids continue to thrive. Next month we will graduate five more seniors from our high school. Their names are Bianka, Louvenson, Jonathan, Bidengy and Appoloste. Thanks to their incredible teachers, and the brilliant curriculum designed by our academic director Cara Nesser, all five have received college scholarships in the U.S. to attend Calvin University, Hillsdale College, and Lawrence Technological University.
Imagine that. In a nation strangled by violence and choked off from supplies, teachers brave the danger and students keep learning and graduates earn prized scholarships.
Their futures shouldn’t have to wait.
They don’t.
Mr. Widley goes to Washington
Which brings me to one other group of success stories. Our kids already here in college. Normally, during the summers, they return home to Haiti, to enjoy their brothers and sisters and help out at the orphanage.
But with Haiti’s airports closed due to gang violence and no way to get in or out, they didn’t wait. They found jobs at school. Some of our kids at Hope College have joined the cleaning crew, others work at the bookstore or in offices. Our Madonna student is taking summer classes en route to medical school application. Our Hillsdale students will be working at a summer camp in Wisconsin.
And for the last 10 days, Widley, who has earned Dean’s List grades as a freshman at Hillsdale, has been job shadowing Rep. Lisa McClain in Washington, D.C. This was a monumentally generous offer from Rep. McClain and it has opened Widley’s eyes to a whole new world of government and fueled his passion to make a change.
Over the weekend, Widley took it on his own to learn D.C.’s Metro and nearly wore a hole in his shoes walking to every monument, museum and historic site in the city.
He didn’t wait for someone to hold his hand. He faced the challenge and ran towards it.
Sometimes, all we hear about Haiti is terrible news, and it can seem like the people there are cowered and resigned to suffering. They are not. And our kids and teachers are not. Their spirit is the reason we work so hard there, and the reason those of blessed with not having to worry about being killed on the way to work can — and must — help them.
Waiting is normal in Haiti. But it doesn’t have to paralyze. With your help, our orphanage family keeps going, with their bodies in motion and their minds soaring to wondrous places.
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.
