Territoires abandonnés

I recently went on a work trip to what are often referred to as territoires perdus — lost territories. We tend to imagine these zones of non-rights as deserts, lifeless places where no rule or structure remains.

I had been looking forward to this trip since it was first announced. Not only because your boy had been stuck in the capital for way too long, but also out of curiosity — I wanted to see what it felt like to cross these so-called abandoned zones.

Once everything was confirmed, I fell into my usual spiral of what ifs — probably the reason why no one in my family knew I was leaving town. So on a Saturday morning, a friend of mine who was traveling to France and I left for Ouanaminthe, a city near the Dominican border. The journey was at least six hours long, and we had no idea what to expect.

As the bus pulled out of Port-au-Prince, a man stood up and introduced himself as some kind of public relations rep for the bus company. He didn’t waste time. He made it clear: we were entering a lawless area where phones and other traceable electronics were not allowed. His exact words were chilling:

“If spotted, the bus could be stopped, and the person would be invited to continue their activities with the technicians.”

I gasped. What had I gotten myself into?

My friend and I held hands briefly, then laughed nervously at some corny joke he cracked. Eventually, he admitted he was a merchant — something very common on public transport in Haiti. Still, his presence made it hard to keep an eye on the road or see if any so-called “technicians” were pointing anything suspicious at the bus. At a certain point, I stopped listening.

As I write this, my heart is racing. A neighborhood not too far from mine has surrendered. People are fleeing in every direction without any clear destination. I’m torn — do I stay and fight for what’s mine, or do I leave behind everything like so many others? I know I must sound materialistic to people who don’t know me, but this house — it’s my most prized possession. My mom built it from the ground up. After she passed, I inherited it and slowly turned it into my nest.

I had to stop writing for a few hours between starting and finishing this post. Armed gangs invaded a nearby area, and I watched people — families, elders, children — running with whatever they could carry in small bags. I grew up between Delmas 19/29 and Delmas 33. I never thought I’d witness this level of chaos, fear, and displacement.

If you’re familiar with Transbòde, you can probably imagine the intensity of my trip from Port-au-Prince to Elías Piña, and then onward to Santo Domingo.

Today, the future feels like a flickering candle for those still living in Port-au-Prince and for Haitian migrants around the globe. Every decision feels like a gamble — stay or go, speak or stay silent, hope or brace for loss. For many, survival no longer looks like living, but simply holding on. And for those who’ve fled, displacement comes with its own scars — the guilt of leaving, the ache of memory, the fear that home, as they knew it, might never exist again. We move forward, unsure of the road ahead, but hoping that somehow, somewhere, safety and dignity will meet us halfway.

P.S. I’ve just learned that Mirebalais, a city I passed through twice, was attacked by armed groups in early April 2025. The assault caused panic, with the University Hospital being targeted and several people injured. Tragically, two nuns were killed in the violence. The road I once traveled is now impassable, highlighting the growing insecurity in the region.