Last week, hundreds of Protestants took to the streets in Haiti to protest a new penal code published by the Jovenel Moise government last month. The protest came soon after a petition that was published by Shekinah, an extremely popular Haitian American church in Florida, standing against a number of the articles in the new penal code. 

Nan Epizòd # 4, mwen pale avèk Pastè Pauris Jean Baptiste, prezidan Akademi Kreyòl Ayisyen an. Li ban nou yon rezime de jan wòl lang Kreyòl la chanje nan diferan  konstitisyon ayisyen yo nan istwa peyi a. E Pastè Pauris rakonte nou istwa jan alfabè Kreyòl la te kòmanse e devlope, pou rive nan alfabè ofisyèl ke Akademi Kreyòl Ayisyen an fèk pwopoze peyi a an 2017.

No other season makes me feel more like an in-betweener than election season. “In-betweener” that’s what I call people like me; us immigrants or children of immigrants living in a developed country that has come to shape us just as much as the country our families left behind did. I’ll admit, I didn’t coin this term. I stole it from an Afropolitan blog I used to enjoy back in college. It refers to the limbo we diaspora members feel belonging to two cultures, two forces pulling at you, a marriage or a dichotomy--depending on how you look at it. It’s a term perfectly summarized in Ijeoma Umebinyuo’s Diaspora Blues:

It turns out the Kreyòl orthography is quite special because it is completely “phonemic” or “transparent”, as the linguists put it. This means words are spelled just like they sound. There are no silent or superfluous or surprise letters like in English or French. If the spelling of words like, “knife," "gnaw," or "pneumonia” ever pissed you off, you’ll love the Kreyòl spelling system. The Kreyòl alphabet is a “morpho-phonemic” alphabet. Every letter or combination of letters represent exactly one sound. This makes it easier for people to learn to read and write, even those with disorders like dyslexia.  

Since the 2010 earthquake, I’ve been invited to sing at a fairly large number of Haiti fundraisers. They all go something like this: banquets full of Haitian food, projected slide shows of Haitian children playing in dusty clothes, and many concerned white faces. After all of the tragic news they’ve heard about Haiti, the humanitarian in them tugs at their heart strings and leads them to this gala ready to write a check. I perform my songs, and sit quietly enjoying a glass of wine (or two) until it is time to leave. The person who runs the organization hosting the fundraiser goes up and gives a heartfelt speech about what inspired them to start this initiative. This person is usually a Haitian American trying to do their part in rebuilding Haiti, searching to strengthen their connection to a country they either left a long time ago or never had the chance to live in. A Q&A session usually ensues, and almost every time one American asks, "what can I do to be more involved in Haiti? How can I help Haiti?"

After 15 years of good music, good shows and good memories, CaRiMi has called it quits. A few days have passed now since the announcement, and nobody has jumped out to say the news was just a bad joke or lapse in judgment. It seems like this time it’s official.  For many, the news of the split-up is heartbreaking because CaRiMi’s music has been the soundtrack to countless intimate moments, wild nights with friends, and private trying times.  We asked fans to share their most cherished CaRiMi related memories with us. Let’s reminisce on the 15 years of “Konpa en 3 dimensions” Ca...Ri...Mi:

Today is Haitian Flag Day! Happy Flag Day to all of my Haitian brothers and sisters, and to those who have adopted Haiti in their hearts. This post is for my diaspora people; my Haitians living outside of Haiti who did not get today off to sleep until noon in honor of our flag. These are my guidelines on keeping the celebration alive, even though you are not in a Haitian context.

Ayiti cheri, Ayiti manman’m, Ayiti Manman libète, Haïti perle des antilles. Haiti lover, Haiti our mother, Haiti mother of freedom, Haiti pearl. Despite its many conflicting characteristics we seem to have come to one silent agreement: Haiti is a woman. She caresses, she nurtures, she radiates the beauty of a precious stone, we even refer to her with the female pronoun. I like to think of this as a testament to Haitian women, who exemplify every day all of these characteristic we now attribute to our country.

After the 2010 earthquake, along with the many changes Haitians would have to get used to, it became clear that we were to now wrap our minds around a new kind of conversation about Haiti. The one-liner used to describe our home that had become a sort of cynical nursery rhyme, or the repetitive hook of an annoying pop song that gets stuck in your head despite yourself “Haiti, the poorest country of the Western Hemisphere” made new friends. Words like “earthquake, ravaged, devastating, rubble, ruins” joined the one line we had grown so accustomed to.

This project has been on all of our hearts for years now. Over the past few years, through the power of social media and blogs, young Haitians and diaspora Haitians have carried out discourse about Haiti from our own perspective. Our voices are powerful. Our voices are beautiful. Our voices deserve to be heard above the muddled, skewed narrative of Haiti that has been traditionally led by international media, media that is not of us. This is our offering to our home that we love so much, so that our tweets do not remain just tweets, so that the meaningful, fruitful discussion started by our Facebook statuses can have a platform. This is a gift from Doris Lapommeray, Nathalie Nozile, Daphne Bourgoin and me to all of you.