If We Say We Have Nothing
by Yemi Hanson
Question: Why are you applying for asylum?
Question: Who paid for your trip (voyage)?
Question: What route did you take to get here?
If we say we have nothing, does that mean we had nothing (ever) at all? No. That would be a lie, ma'am. Pardon us, please. It is just the way we often say these things in Kreyòl, or what you Americans call Creole. Because when we say we have nothing, it just means we have nothing but hope. Hope, that sliver of sunlight in a world of darkness, that voice reaching out of silence to remind you of your name, of who you really are. Hope is the thing that stayed when everything else was taken. Hope is the only thing we have not had to bury.
You may think hope cannot bloom in a place like this. This place with white fluorescent lighting and the soft hum of vents overhead; its unyielding linoleum floors and steel tables bolted to the ground; its windows that never open; your badge clipped to your chest, your eyes scanning the files, your voice shaped like policy. But we have seen hope bloom in darker places than this. Hope: that rises like a weed from between the cracks of a bullet-riddled street; that dances on a child’s lips even after the smoke has taken away her parents; that lives inside a prayer muttered by candlelight in a tent made of rags. So (you) don’t look at this room and think it will swallow us: it will not. We have learned how to survive inside the womb of worse things.
You asked us, “Why did you leave your country?” And we will answer; but first, you must listen. You must sit back in your chair and let us tell you how it really is. Let us show you why, when we say we have nothing, we mean it in the most sacred way—because what we have is not of this world, and yet it is the reason we are still alive.
We are Abél, Dominique, Michéle, Demme, Phillipe, Paven, Lukens, Fanfan, Junior, Rosy, Jimmy, Jean-Pierre, Gilbert, Carlens, Tamara, Wyclef, Mylove, Jacques, Adassa, and Kristela. We are many, and we are one in all. We speak in one voice, though our stories are different: Some of us know our family lines, back to those who were chained in the belly of ships and brought to work, the sugarcane fields of Saint-Domingue. Some of us, only know our mother’s names. Some were left on the steps of orphanages, with paper bracelets around our ankles. Some grew up calling strangers “uncle” or “manman,” because that was what survival required.
We knew fear before we could speak. As children, we played in the streets and learned to tell the difference between fireworks and gunfire. We knew how to duck, run, and listen to the silence that came before a riot. We were born into danger; But our country was still beautiful: Mountains that brushed the clouds; Waters that glimmered like jewels; Mangoes that fell heavy from the trees; And a language that sings even when it curses.
Our grandmothers taught us, the names of spirits. Papa Legba, the gatekeeper. Baron Samedi, lord of the cemetery. Danbala, who moved like a serpent through the world. Ogou, the warrior. Mét Kalfou, who ruled the crossroads. Lwa. You Americans call them voodoo gods. We call them ancestors, guardians, mysteries. We learned not to mock what we did not understand!
Do you believe in the Devil? No? Kalme ou. Calm down. We’re just asking. We do. But not the devil with horns and a tail. Our devil wore a black suit, glasses, and slept with a pistol beneath his pillow. He was called François Duvalier; Papa Doc. Our devil had a son who became the devil too. His name was Baby Doc. That is what we called him. Like a joke. But there was nothing funny about it.
Papa Doc had a militia called the Tonton Macoute. They did not wear uniforms. They wore denim shirts, sunglasses, and carried machetes. They could take your brother from his bed at night, and you would never see him again. They said, he was a magician. That he could curse a man to rot from the inside. We don’t know about that. But we do know he made people disappear.
There was another man. Luckner Cambronne. They called him the Vampire of the Caribbean. Do you know why? He took the blood of our people—real blood, drawn from “real” veins—and sold it to American hospitals. He sold plasma like it was sugar. Like it was indeed nothing.
Do you know any of this? No!!!
Do you know:
that we fought for our freedom with our bare hands? That we were the first Black republic? That we beat the French, the same French who built their empire off our backs? That we became free only after agreeing to pay them reparations for their “loss”? Over $150 million. That for every $3 Haiti made, $2.65 went back to France. We were born into debt. We have lived inside it ever since—
that the United States occupied Haiti from 1915 to 1934? That they came and built their banks and took our land and killed those who resisted? That they said it was to keep order? That they left behind chaos?
that Baby Doc fled with a billion dollars and left us with nothing? That people danced in the streets the day he left, even though the hunger did not leave with him?
Do you know what it means to work sixteen hours a day for $2.50, making baseball jerseys and dolls for children you will never meet?
Do you know about Jean-Bertrand Aristide? Our first elected president. A former priest. A man of the people. Do you know how it felt to stand in line and vote for the first time in your life? And then, to hear on the radio that the army had overthrown him, that he was gone, that your vote was dust?
Do you know what it means to love your country and fear it at the same time?
We don’t blame you if you don’t know these things: It’s not in your schoolbooks. Maybe all you know about Haiti is Wyclef Jean and his music. 911 & Diallo. Maybe you saw the earthquake in 2010 on your TV and sent a little donation and went back to your life, saying that at least you did something. Maybe you remember seeing pictures of crumbled buildings and bodies in the street. But do you know what came after?
Do you know that over $13 billion was pledged in aid, and yet we saw none of it? That the Red Cross raised half a billion dollars and built only six homes? Six! That NGOs arrived in white SUVs, stayed in hotels, drew six-figure salaries, and told the world they were helping us? Laugh with us, ma'am. This, really, is the funniest thing ever. Money for Haitians from the US simply went back to Washington.
What about the United Nations’ peacekeeping mission? Do you know that peacekeepers brought cholera? That their sewage poisoned our rivers? That a disease we never knew before killed over 12,000 of us? Do you know that these uniformed peacekeepers would offer food in exchange for sex? That they left behind pregnant girls and fatherless children?
Do you know that when Jovenel Moïse was assassinated, the gangs didn’t wait for the smoke to clear? That they stormed prisons and freed criminals, took over the streets, and now control the whole neighborhoods? That there is no President, no Parliament, no police worth speaking of? That you can be kidnapped in the street and be sold back to your mother in pieces?
Do you know what it is to look your daughter in the eyes and tell her there is no more water, no more rice, no more tomorrow? Do you know what it is like to live in a place not even fit for pigs? We know.
That's why some of us have walked through the Darien Gap to get here— You know about it, right? We have:
crossed that jungle where snakes coil around the ankles of the living and the dead alike; seen people buried in the mud, fallen from exhaustion or disease or evils too dark to contemplate. Still: we pushed on, and if we needed to— we carried others on our backs.
We have slept under trees and crossed rivers that flowed furiously beneath our knees. We came through Colombia, Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, Mexico… crossed 10 countries to stand before you in this room. Those with enough money amongst us could afford dangerous plane trips or boat rides. But those of us with nothing but hope, could only rely on our legs… walked and walked until we reached the camps at Guantanamo Bay. And then, we waited in line. We have been fingerprinted, photographed, questioned, inspected, labeled, shoved rudely and caged like animals. And yet, we held onto whatever dignity we had left, because when you have looked into the eyes of the devil and lived, there are few things that can shake your body again. And now, we are here before you.
Because we had enough hope!!!
When we say “Na wè pita,” we say it not with certainty, but with “faith”: That tomorrow will come; That the one we love will still be alive; and That we will not have our pictures placed atop coffins.
So before you ask us anything else— before you tick any box or stamp any paper— understand this: we have not come here to steal anything. We have come to live; To breathe; To work; To be safe. We do not want pity. We just want peace.
###
Question: What is the current situation (violence) in your home country?
Question: Who was/is this person (group of people or government) causing you harm?
Question: What types of harm did you experience: physical or other forms that can include threats, mental, emotional, economic, or discrimination?
Question: Do you have proof you are being targeted?
Question: Do you have memories of the event?
Our people used to say, Lè w manje lajan Chango, fò w peye Chango, sort to say, when you use Chango’s money, you must pay Chango back. And in Haiti, we have paid, and paid, and paid: with hunger, with silence, and with blood. The earth beneath our feet is soaked with it; the streets remember it; and the air in Port-au-Prince still tastes of it.
This land of ours was built on our ancestors’ backs, sold with their bones! The earth in Haiti is soaked with too much blood and tears. Why didn't we ever see that it could break underneath our feet? Our grandmothers used to say, “Fé atansyon!” Be careful. The elders warned us: Sòt pa touye w, men li fè w swè. Stupidity won’t kill you, but it’ll make you sweat. But did they listen, our Big Men? Our Big People? The Elite? The ones with homes in Pétionville, with their Italian shoes and German cars, their marble countertops and imported dogs?
No, ma’am… They did not: They remained tèt nèg, hard-headed, proud and blind. They piled problems upon problems, panzou sou panzou, one rot atop another, sort of. Coup after coup, chaos after chaos, feeding gangs with guns, feeding themselves with foreign funds. They bled the country like a fruit without seed. Then, they wondered, why the pulp turned bitter…
And then came the “quake”.
January 12th, 2010— The earth turned in its sleep and crushed us: It was a violent shudder that lasted 20 seconds, but time lost all meaning to us in that moment. The ground danced like a drunk man, and the sky trembled with the weight of our screams. Buildings cracked open like eggs. Schools crumbled with children inside. Mothers cried out names that would never again answer. Our homes became tombs. Our places of worship collapsed mid-prayer.
They said 200,000 died, but how do you count grief and tally trauma?!! Do you count:
the man who lost four daughters?
the woman who gave birth beside her dead husband?
the baby found nursing at the breast of a corpse?
Ma’am, the world wept for us. And then it moved on. But we stayed. Buried under the weight of memory.
Did it change anything? No!!! The vultures circled. $10 billion raised. Aid that walked in wearing suits and left wearing gold. The UN peacekeepers marched in. But they did not come to save us. No, ma’am. They came with death. They brought cholera—a disease our soil had never known—and poured their waste into our rivers. One crack in a sewage pipe, and suddenly, we were dying again.
Cholera, ma'am, is not a graceful death:
It empties you. Your insides liquefy. You vomit and defecate– until even your tears are dry. Dehydration sets in. Your skin, grey. You convulse. Your pulse disappears.
In the slums of Cité Soleil, it took our children the fastest. They died with their eyes open, asking for water. We had no answers. Over 12,000 gone. A million infected. And not one apology that meant anything.
And when we gathered to protest, the peacekeepers opened fire on schoolyards. Twenty-two thousand bullets. Twenty-two thousand, ma’am. Fired not at soldiers, not at rebels. At civilians. At students.
But still, we hoped:
Even after the hurricane came,
even after the drought cracked the soil,
even after the hunger tightened its grip and whispered in our bones…
Even when our children inhaled glue to trick their stomachs into thinking it was food.
Even when the poorest among us were forced to make meals out of the inedible.
Then came the second earthquake in 2021. Only 2,000 dead this time. Ti bagay, we said: A small thing. Isn’t that funny, ma’am? That we call 2,000 dead a small thing now? You live with enough pain, and even your own tears stop surprising you.
And then Moïse was killed by Colombian mercenaries. They didn’t even try to hide it. They shot him in his bedroom.
The President, our President. Gone, just like that. The country shattered like a mirror flung against a wall. Ariel Henry, the so-called Prime Minister, tried to pick up the pieces. But the mirror was already dust.
The gangs were already gods.
G-9, G Pèp, Ti Lapli, Fantom 509, Delmas 6, 400 Mawozo, Baz Pilate, 5 Segond, Nan Ti Bwa, Grand Ravine. Ma'am, they:
multiplied like sickness. Must be over 150 by now. fed on our fear; thrived in the absence of authority; kidnapped schoolgirls, raped mothers, and torched homes. Turned the capital into a battleground; broke into prisons, freed the worst of us. ven seized the airport, the Toussaint Louverture International.
Do you hear us, ma’am? They seized the sky. We couldn’t even flee by air: Poor Ariel.
He ran— resigned in a foreign country, and never came back. No one could blame him too much…
Now, we have no president. No parliament. No public schools. No working hospitals. No electricity in entire departments. No police in certain zones: Just never-ending fire and guns and noise.
The smell of charred tires never leaves our noses. We bury bodies, and we don’t even ask whose they are. We are past that now!
***
And you ask us for proof!!
We understand. It is your job. You need paperwork for records and evidence. But we left our homes, ma’am. We left them behind in ash and bullet holes. We carried only our names and our breath. And yet, if you need scars, we will show them… the bullet wound that never healed; the knife slash beneath the ribs; and the ears that now house constant tinnitus.
***
But what of the scars you cannot see? What of the memories that don’t bleed but still ache? What of the mothers who can’t sleep unless they’ve checked that their children are still breathing? What of the boys who twitch at loud sounds, who flinch when you raise a hand too fast? What of the girls who haven’t spoken in months? What of the old man who talks to ghosts, because that’s the only company he has left? What of the night terrors? The smell of burning flesh that never leaves us, even in the safety of other countries?
Do you have a form for those, ma’am?
Do you have a checklist for grief? For nightmares? For shame? We don’t all have photos. Our phones were stolen, or we sold them to see another day. But we are here. Living, breathing, hurting. Isn't that enough?
You ask us, “Why should you be allowed into the United States?” We say, “Because we believe in tomorrow. Because we don't want our children to think that it is normal to walk home from school as gunfire rings out in the streets. Because we want our mothers to grow old without fear of being raped. Because we want to be human again, and we believe we deserve a better life here.”
Haven't we suffered enough?
No, ma'am. Don't look away now. Tell us. Tell us if what we plead for is just too much of a request. But before you decide, look us in the eye. Do not file us away without hearing our names again! We are Abél, Dominique, Michéle, Demme, Phillipe, Paven, Lukens, Fanfan, Junior, Rosy, Jimmy, Jean-Pierre, Gilbert, Carlens, Tamara, Wyclef, Mylove, Jacques, Adassa, Kristela.
And by Bonié, we are tired of dying quietly—
Hope is all we have now, and we carried it with us across deserts, through jungles, across borders, rivers, checkpoints, refugee camps, and into this cold, air-conditioned room where you sit behind your glass and stare like we are only files in a cabinet.
C’est la vie.
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Question: Do you have anything else you would like to add?
Haiti isn’t all that bad, you know.
Not always, not entirely. You just have to know where to look to really see its beauty:
There are moments, still, like when the sun leans gently against the mountains, a lover who has nowhere else to be… There are pockets of peace, places that feel like answered prayers. Cafés with wooden stools and painted doors where one can sit with a chilled bottle of Prestige beer sweating on the table, and stare out into an unbroken spread of breathtaking splendour: green rolling hills, swaying trees, blue ocean, and bluer skies overhead.
Even the houses with corrugated iron roofs shine gold in the late-afternoon light, as though touched by grace…
You see those rusted rooftops? We have always said that if Da Vinci had ever set foot in Haiti, he would have traded all his oils and all his muses for a single Haitian sky. He would have knelt in the dust and begged to paint our chaos, our resilience, our beauty.
Before the madness swallowed us whole, we used to go to the Marché en Fer in Port-au-Prince. A market bursting with colour, rhythm and life. We would weave through crowds, past vendors hawking goods and gossip, until we found what we were looking for—poulet aux noix—chicken stewed with cashews. We lived for cups of hot brown chocolate brewed thick with cinnamon. And of course, we had Rhum Barbancourt, that old Haitian friend who always knew how to kiss away sorrow, at least for a night.
We still dream of griyo—seasoned fried pork, and thick cassava bread slathered in peanut butter so rich it makes you pause mid-bite to say “Merci, Bonié.” Because food like that reminds you that there is such a thing as the divine.
Before the madness, we could walk through Cité Soleil and experience normalcy. The lotto shops. The wheelbarrows overflowing with onions, tomatoes, plantains, and hope. Women selling fish, rice, bleach, oranges, and rat poison. Men in sun-faded shirts offering used shoes, screwdrivers, pineapples, cabbages, and cracked cell phones. You could hear brass and drums rise from a corner—young schoolgirls rehearsing in the street, their melodies lifting like prayers.
And then, when the day had grown tired, you could wave down a commercial motorbike or a tuk-tuk, and ride back home under a sunset bleeding colours into the sky.
We used to live, ma'am. Not just survive.
We used to live as beautifully as we could, with what little we had. We braided joy into every single day, come rain, come shine. We danced at weddings, held wakes like theatre, and celebrated births with drums. We tried. And even now, even after everything, we still try.
We know, already, that your country is not a paradise for people like us. We have seen the headlines and heard the stories. We know of the rednecks who look at our skin with suspicion. We know of the man who spat at a Haitian nurse in Florida and told her to go home. We know of the rumours that we eat pets and steal jobs.
And isn't that funny, ma'am? That people who come from everywhere claim there is no room for us?
But still, we carry ourselves with dignity. We carry ourselves with pride. We do not ask for pity. We are here because hope led us, dragging us across borders and rivers.
If you shut this door, we will try again:
Because we do not rest; do not stop dreaming; and do not stop hoping.
We have lived in ruins and still planted gardens.
We are Haitians. And one day, whether in this land or another, or maybe our own again, we will return. We will come home. And when we do, we will gather the scattered stones and rebuild our beloved country.
We will make Haiti whole again!!!