Written by Erica Joseph, KRM Cuban/Haitian Caseworker
Edited by Alexandra Miniard, KRM Communications & Outreach Manager
November 10, 2025: The First Snow
It was the morning of the first winter snow. From the office, we could feel the cold creeping into every corner, and at noon we watched the flakes fall outside the window, as if time itself wanted to stop. Suddenly, a message from Bruno popped up:
Hello, map vini wi… (“I’m still coming…”).
For a moment, I thought: With this weather, should I tell him to leave it for another day? But I didn’t. In the end, he arrived later than we agreed and amid that hostile weather; his presence was a relief. He walked into the office, tall and dressed entirely in black. He glanced sideways before sitting down and simply said: “Bonswa…” A simple, cordial phrase that, at the same time, invited me to start the questions without further preamble.
Bruno settled in front of me, relaxed, his gaze drifting toward the window behind as the snow kept falling. From time to time, he tucked his hands into his jacket, as if the cold were stitching his fingers together. For a moment, the conversation began sober, almost solemn.
We continue just like two people sharing roots: recalling old customs, comparing cultural differences within the island. We spoke of childhood stories, of proverbs that still echo in memory, and lingered on food – the Creole flavors we all miss when we’re so far from home – in a climate that feels hostile in every sense. Bruno paused, smiled, and exclaimed the words with pride, “I’m a perfect cook.” As he boasted about his culinary skills, he explained how those abilities have helped him here, where independence is key to surviving as a migrant in difficult times.
The Measure of a Man
Bruno was born at dawn on a spring morning at Justinien Hospital, in the northern capital of Haiti. The silence of the night mingled with the distant sounds of the sea and the murmur of a city awakening. From that moment, his roots sank deep into the Cap-Haïtien’s soil, where his story and resilience intertwined.
He grew up in a working-class neighborhood, surrounded by children’s laughter, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the bustle of women in the market. His mother was a madan sara one of those tireless merchants who are the backbone of Haiti’s popular economy, a symbol of strength and endurance. His father, a construction worker, taught through his hands that dignity is built day by day.
Between sighs, he mentions a phrase that shaped his worldview: “Se kolonn ki bat.” (“The pillar is the one that rules.”) For him, true strength is not at the top, but at the base of the community. From an early age, he dreamed of building movements for change, not following leaders, but reinforcing the pillars.
His academic path reflects that conviction. He studied at École Nationale St. Philomène, then at Lycée National Philippe Guerrier. He later enrolled at Université Publique du Nord au Cap-Haïtien (UPNCH), where he earned a bachelor’s degree in education sciences. Afterward, he pursued an associate’s degree in political science at the Henry Christophe Campus of the State University of Haiti in Limonade.
Bruno describes himself as a student, activist, and passionate leader. In Haiti, he envisioned himself as a future public servant, eager to put his knowledge at the service of the community. He aspired to become a CASEC – the level closest to the people within the local governance system. His dream was always clear: to contribute to development from the roots.
Journey to Memory Lands: Childhood in Haiti
From his childhood, Bruno holds in memory scenes that now feel like hidden treasures of time – those endless afternoons playing foutbòl in the street with balls made of rags; houses adorned with palm leaves announcing the summer; the deep heartbeat of drums during patronal festivities intertwined with songs that spoke of hope; and those magical nights illuminated by lanterns at year’s end, when the family gathered to share stories and prayers under a sky that seemed to embrace their dreams.
With a proud smile, he recalls: “I enjoyed the sea, fè lago nan lakou anba lalin, tire lobe nan rivyè…” (“I enjoyed the sea, had fun in the yard under the moon, shooting pebbles into the river…”). His words mingle with sighs, as if each image came back to life.
He pauses, then calmly says: “Nan peyi a te gen yon espri de viv ansanm.” (“There was a strong sense of community in the country.”) Then, with a nervous smile, murmurs, “Pa ekri sa non…” (“Don’t write that down…”). We both know the origin of his fear –
in Haiti’s new reality, viv ansanm (“living in community”), no longer means the same. Once a symbol of unity and coexistence, even saying it now sparks fear. A phrase that is used to connect hearts now feels distant.
He remembers family times – sharing everything, collaboration, his Christian upbringing. He speaks of his days as a scout, squad leader, and community leader. Suddenly, our scene shifts, and we are in KRM’s lobby. Relaxed in a chair, he laughs while reminiscing about summers in Haiti, the camps, the simple joy. With a touch of melancholy, he evokes the orange factory – how they extracted peels for consumption and export. “Something so simple, that sometimes seems like trash, can hold so much value,” he murmurs. Then he adds, almost to himself: “In a way, everything is connected.”
Haiti: The Descent into Hell
In the 21st century, the stories of many in the Haitian diaspora across the Americas began with the devastating earthquake of 2010,. But since then, a chain of natural disasters and socio-political crises have continued to strike millions trapped between hunger and instability in an endless exodus. In 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic added another cycle of suffering. And though catastrophic impact was feared due to precarious sanitary conditions, Haitian resilience and faith in natural remedies surprised many – or perhaps the statistics were never accurate.
Then came a heavier blow: the assassination of President Jovenel Moïse on July 7, 2021. Neither an earthquake nor a conventional coup, but the spark for gang violence that spread like a deadly virus. Since then, thousands have been uprooted; homes turned into furnaces by bullets and fire; dreams reduced to ashes. The capital bears scars that will echo for generations.
Between 2023 and March 2024, more than 8,000 lives were claimed by armed gangs, according to the UN, though the real number is higher. Internally displaced people crowd into makeshift shelters like the Vincent Gym, with a single shower and miserable conditions evoking a war camp. Kidnappings, murders, rape, hunger, collapsed hospitals, shuttered schools – the streets of Port-au-Prince belong to gangs. In October 2023, the UN authorized a security mission led by Kenya, but, to this day, its presence has brought no significant change, further feeding the sense of abandonment.
Violence and misery push thousands to flee by sea. According to the IOM, at least 470 people perished in the Caribbean in 2023. Since February 2024, the northern coasts have become the stage for a growing exodus. Over 86,000 migrants have been forcibly returned. In March alone,13,000 were returned to Haiti – many of them children and pregnant women in extreme vulnerability. In July 2024, a boat carrying 80 migrants caught fire off Cap-Haïtien: 40 dead, 41 survivors. Among the perished, the rapper, Wens Jonathan Désir (known as MechansT), vanished after paying $8,000 to reach the U.S. – a symbol of a tragedy silenced.
Today, Haiti is a country turned into a pyre of violence, hunger, and collapsed institutions. Every day is a fight to survive, a race toward a mirage called lavi miyò (“a better life”), far from a land that feels like an open grave. Streets, once vibrant, are now ashes and soot, where hope seems like an unattainable luxury.
Bruno: Between Threats and the Road to Exile
After the magnicide, amid his protests and public statements, he began receiving death threats for his activism. During the CHNV humanitarian program, his family in the United States seized the opportunity to apply for him. When the confirmation email arrived, he felt a whirlwind of emotions – of sadness and joy intertwined. His phone was dead from Haiti’s endless blackouts. When he finally found electricity and turned it on, he saw dozens of missed calls from moun anm mwen isi (“my people in the U.S.”), with that northern accent so typical of Cap-Haïtien.
That same day, he completed the application for CBP-1, but he had no money for the plane ticket. He waited for the signal from his relatives when they finally bought it. The news was good, but bitter: He had to travel through Port-au-Prince, a place turned into a death trap. There was no other choice. It was the day to face danger…
It was his first time heading to the capital. The road was infested with armed gangs, makeshift checkpoints, half-naked men with rifles slung across their backs, extorting passengers. Fear became real after Morne Kabrit and entering Canaan. While he tried to admire the landscape, the HAITI TRANS bus stopped: every company must pay the ransoms to pass. He saw a man, bare-chested, holding a Galil rifle. He felt indescribable terror…
Bruno reached Nazon, in the middle of a gang war with Solino. Gunfire rained down every night. He spent eleven days locked inside a house, never stepping out. When he finally moved toward the airport crossing, he saw neighborhoods turned into ghettos, war zones, and destruction.
At last, he flew out on Spirit Airlines, at a time when the country was on the brink of collapse. With his heart pounding and courage in hand, he boarded a plane for the first time. Between nervous laughter, He recalls:
“I didn’t feel fear, just dizziness… I was listening to music. That song was a hit back then. I listened because my heart was breaking. I didn’t want to leave, but I felt defeated. I left with the suitcase of hope on my shoulder.”
But as Maya Angelou said once, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
As he reflects on the dedication and time towards his higher education, he says, “My studies were left behind, turned into failure. When I look at my diplomas, I feel a chill. I was pushed away.” In a somber tone, he murmurs as his fingers twist nervously:
“I never dreamed of leaving the country. Maybe I once thought of getting a scholarship to study abroad and return but never of going into exile without knowing when I’d come back.”
Between a barely audible sob, he says, “I’m still nostalgic for Haiti, seeing how everything is now. I left to fight elsewhere, but my heart remains there among streets turned into trenches and memories that still burn.”
We cannot walk alone: The Suitcase of Hope
Like many young people, he was forced to gather his dreams, pack them into a suitcase, and leave with trembling bones and goosebumps heading to an unknown country. A different culture, a foreign language, trying to start over with the fragments left of his soul and heart.
Like others, he says that he doesn’t see the United States as paradise or as hell. But that here, there are the crucial things that Haiti lost – economically, physically, and social security. “I learned that paradise isn’t a place – it’s a vision… and a helping hand.”, Bruno says.
HEP, an organization where he volunteered in Haiti, helped him find housing in Florida. He arrived in Kentucky after six months in Florida, searching for better opportunities. But challenges remain – “I have gained weight; now stress consumes me. Haiti lives in my heart and that’s what hurts, even from afar. However, we cannot turn back.”
Bruno says that he came to KRM when he needed help. “My English was limited. At work, there were many Latinos; a Cuban woman brought me to KRM to seek assistance. First, I spoke with Love, then with Erica. Bruna also helped me apply for a job.”
He has started to find a sense of belonging through his faith community. “I go to Beargrass Christian Church. Bryan, a brother I met there, extended his hand. I always dress well; they call me ‘fashion man’”, he says with a small laugh. “I wanted to join a community, and I feel welcomed there. I don’t even have a car to get to church – they come to pick me up. God is opening the way for me. After God, there’s KRM, Beargrass Christian Church, and its members who have helped me.”
He says that language remains his biggest barrier to integration. When he has the money, Bruno is already working on a plan: “I’ll hire Duffy as my lawyer; he’s on the list KRM gave me, led by Duffy B. Trager.”
He expresses that he feels privileged despite the hardships. After this, he says that it’s his turn to open the way for others.
We know, as Martin Luther King, Jr. Once said, “Only through an inner spiritual transformation do we gain the strength to fight vigorously the evils of the world in a humble and loving spirit.”
Adding to this, Bruno says,
“I don’t want anyone to think I stopped fighting… I’m just trying to keep going in a new land.”
Erica Joseph, just a kid from Haiti