In Haiti, as gangs turn life into survival, every day feels like the last | Opinion

By Marie Alexandra Michel

Haiti was never an easy place to live. But for me, everything changed in 2018 and escalated at light speed.

Protests erupted, fuel became scarse and violence intensified. People slept at gas stations just to secure a few gallons. Lockdowns followed, including the longest one in 2019 — peyi lòk — which lasted nearly 10 weeks. By the time I returned to Port-au-Prince in 2020 after a medical internship in Les Cayes, the main city of the South Department, the city I loved no longer existed.

Kidnappings had become routine. Fear dictated our schedules. Church services, once held at 6 a.m., were pushed later. Funerals, viewings and marriages were not spared either. Afternoons ended early. By 7 p.m., everyone rushed home. Being outside after dark meant panic — for you and for your family, waiting anxiously for your call.

This was our new normal: measuring safety by the hour.

As a newly graduated doctor waiting to begin mandatory social service — delayed by political instability, COVID-19 and administrative paralysis — I took temporary work just to stay afloat. I worked as an administrative assistant for the Association of Volunteers for Democracy (AVD) on a project aligned with the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs). Every evening came with guilt. Whenever I was still outside after 7 p.m., I felt I had made a reckless choice. We told ourselves that if something happened, it would be our fault for staying out “too late.”

Later, when I was assigned to Belladère in Haiti’s Central Plateau Department, I felt something I had forgotten: the ability to breathe.  I had the time of my life. People went out at night. Restaurants filled after 9 p.m. Music played. There was laughter. There were grottoes, rivers and waterfalls to enjoy freely on weekends during picnics. I lived again.

But even that refuge was temporary. As gangs expanded their control, roads closed. Travel became dangerous or impossible. Armed groups stopped vehicles, kidnapped passengers and demanded ransoms. Haiti became unrecognizable.

Movement — something most people take for granted — turned into a life-or-death decision

Today, major routes connecting Port-au-Prince to the South and the Artibonite are controlled by gangs. People take perilous mountain roads, overcrowded boats or pay armed groups to pass. Travel that once took a few hours now takes an entire day — or more — at triple the cost. Some never arrive.

For instance, as Mirebalais in the Centre Department is taken over by gangs, traveling from Port-au-Prince to Hinche, the department’s capital city, is a nightmare. Under normal conditions, the distance between Port-au-Prince and Hinche is less than 75 miles and used to take less than three hours. The highest fare people usually paid was about $7–8. However, because gangs have cut off National Road 3, people are now forced to pass through two other departments to reach Hinche. 

This means traveling a distance about three times longer than the normal route. They now spend about 10 hours on auxiliary roads and pay a $45–$ 46 fare.

To escape the gangs, travelers are forced to go through Gonaïves, Ennery and Saint-Michel in the Artibonite, then Saint-Raphaël and Pignon in the Northeast— a very dangerous dirt track— before reaching Hinche. 

Even on those roads, sometimes they get blocked. As a result, people spend more time trying to find a safe way to their destination. 

Jude Augustin, a local emergency physician, recounted his difficulties during his journey from Hinche to Haiti’s capital. “Last month, I spent more than 24 hours traveling from Hinche to Port-au-Prince,” he told me in December.

Another important junction is National Road 2, which connects Port-au-Prince to Les Cayes in the South—normally a three-hour drive. It’s now controlled by gangs up to Gressier, about 35 miles from downtown Port-au-Prince, limiting goods and people’s movement to and from the Great South.

Until recently, residents were forced to take perilous alternatives, such as the dirt road that crosses mountains and cliffs from Kenscoff to Marigot, Cayes-Jacmel, and Jacmel in the Southeast before reaching Les Cayes in the South. From Les Cayes, access to the Grande-Anse Department is a 2-hour direct trip via National Road 7.

Traveling through the Kenscoff cliffs — roughly 4,900 feet above Port-au-Prince — is not only costly in time, money and energy; it often carries a deadly human toll. On March 2, 2025, a doctor from my cohort was involved in a devastating public transportation accident along this route. He had fled the capital after armed gangs invaded his neighborhood the night before and avoided traveling by boat after hearing about a recent sinking. Traveling the road for the first time, the vehicle plunged off a cliff. During the journey, the narrow road and sheer cliffs terrified passengers. 

He was severely injured and became the sole survivor among 15 passengers, including pregnant women, children and elderly people. He lost consciousness from a head injury and later woke up in the hospital to learn he was the only one who survived.

Like those victims, many escaped neighborhoods under attack only to be severely injured or die on these dangerous roads. And similar to my former classmate, others survived horrific crashes on unpaved mountain paths. Patients are dying not because their illnesses are untreatable, but because they cannot reach a hospital.

Today, even this perilous route offers little relief. Gangs have moved into Kenscoff, leaving people with fewer alternatives.

This is what daily life looks like now.

And still, the world calls us “resilient”

People wear life jackets not because they fear drowning, but because they fear bullets at sea. Families avoid traveling together so kidnappers won’t destroy everyone at once.  Living a normal life — the beach, festivals, nightlife and socio-cultural events — has become a luxury.

Resilience has become a convenient shield — a word that allows leaders, institutions and the international community to look away. As if our ability to endure excuses the conditions forcing us to do so. Haitians are not resilient by choice. We are resilient because we have been abandoned.

We have survived dictatorship, natural disasters and political collapse. But survival should not be the highest expectation for a nation.

What Haitians need is not pity or praise, but action: accountability from our leaders, concrete security measures, protection for health workers and civilians, and international engagement that prioritizes people over politics.

We deserve a future where living does not feel like a final act of courage.

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