The sounds of Cap-Haïtien, Haiti—historically called “the Paris of the Antilles”—are unique and cannot be replicated.
One evening, I swore I heard a man turn into a werewolf. My doubt kept me from fully believing it, but when I heard a man scream as if being exorcised—mixed with dogs barking over his agony—I understood the folklore of Haiti’s countryside. It didn’t just sound supernatural; it felt that way. I had a nightmare that night.
If you’re from Haiti, you know roosters don’t only crow in the morning like they do in cartoons. They remind you of their presence all day long. I find being around this kind of animal life refreshing and calming. I also hear gunshots and goats bleating. I hear church music echoing across neighborhoods and young boys being scolded by their mothers. A congregation’s singing drifts over me even when I’m miles away. Drums, ocean waves, men arguing about who would take me to Île-à-Rat. The sounds of Haiti, as I experience them all at once, are one of a kind.
In Haiti, the sounds of the purportedly supernatural mix with the scents of gasoline—diesel still poured into jugs for transport. The smell of burnt charcoal used for cooking. The lingering stench of burning garbage, one of the only ways to rid neighborhoods of trash. Heavy rains add to Haiti’s aroma. But they also cause floods that cars must drive through, and if you don’t have a car, you have to walk through them.
Haiti is both beautiful and dangerous—and unfortunately, it’s unsafe for many.
But Haiti didn’t become this way by chance. It has been, and continues to be, shaped by systemic and strategic forces—most notably the United States.
America’s harmful relationship with Haiti is flaring up again this week. President Donald Trump has tried to revoke Haitians’ access to Temporary Protected Status (TPS), one of the few chances for relief for Haitians who sought safety in the U.S. When Secretary of Homeland Security Kristi Noem announced the end of Haiti’s TPS designation, she claimed it’s now safe to return to Haiti. But that’s not the case.
The Trump Administration posted a termination notice at the end of November 2025, giving Haitians in the U.S. with TPS about two months to return to a new country. On Feb. 3, 2026, TPS for Haitians was set to expire, putting more than people at risk of deportation. Then, at the final hour, a federal judge Trump’s plans for now.
The Trump Administration’s attempt to end the 15-year-old program was set to not only harm local economies that rely on Haitian workers but also devastate families. The move would be both economically irrational and morally wrong. It’s also part of a long pattern of injustice toward Haiti.
In the 222 years since declaring independence, the Caribbean nation and its people have consistently been targets of American scorn—from refusing to recognize Haiti’s independence to misportraying Haitians. Haiti’s location in the Caribbean Sea made it ripe for slavery in Jefferson’s era and exploitation in Trump’s era.
To be clear, it would be simplistic to blame only the Trump Administration—or any single administration—for Haiti’s centuries-long issues.
Haiti freed itself from France in 1804. Afterward, France imposed an indemnity for the loss of “property” (read: formerly enslaved people). In, Haiti finally paid it off. Money that could have gone to basic infrastructure was sent to the very people who caused the destruction in the first place.
The United States only made things worse. First, the U.S. imposed a trade embargo on the newly freed Haiti, barring it from international trade.
Then, in 1856, the U.S. Congress passed the Guano Islands Act. The following year, a U.S. ship landed on Haitian territory and claimed the Guano Islands Act gave the U.S. the “right” to control Navassa. In response to resistance, the U.S. Navy parked a warship in Port-au-Prince’s harbor. Navassa became U.S. territory. It still is.
From 1915 to 1934, the U.S. occupied Haiti. During this 19-year rule, the U.S. revised Haiti’s Constitution, seized control of ports and commercial districts, and created powerful political positions filled by its own people. The U.S. took control of Haiti’s,, and.
But even after America’s formal occupation ended, its interference continued. In 1990, Jean-Bertrand Aristide won a democratic election. One of his reform efforts was to raise the wage from 25 cents to 37 cents. USAID.
And after the 2010 earthquake in Haiti, the United States withheld, with relatively few funds actually reaching Haitians.
These are just a few examples of how poverty in Haiti has been sustained. Unfortunately, this isn’t an exhaustive list of the underdevelopment forced on the island nation. But as I walk through my Brooklyn neighborhood—where my parents immigrated to—I think of the home my family built in America.
I think of the clotheslines in Au Cap, with freshly washed clothes drying in the sun. They reminded me of my childhood basement—a place where my mother refused to use any machine that would increase the bills. We had to duck and move carefully down there. It was a reflection of her first home. It reminded me of how immigrants like my parents made do. It also reminded me of the Haitians living in the U.S. through TPS who have embraced America’s promise of justice, fairness, and opportunity.
Haitians are longing for this promise and for a home. They can’t go back due to gun trafficking and street violence. Haitians need somewhere safe.
The United States has an obligation to provide that. Haiti’s underdevelopment is a direct result of U.S. actions. TPS is the least we can do.
