My name is James Alexandre, and I’m from Haiti. I created this account because my people are in dangerous situations.

The night came without warning, and with it, the sound of screams that tore through the quiet hills of our Haitian village. We had no weapons, only prayers. The sky above was starless, as if even the heavens had turned their faces away.

They came with fire, with rage, with no mercy. Homes were burned to ash. Mothers cradled lifeless children. Fathers died with nothing left to protect. We buried our dead in silence because even mourning had become dangerous, And Lartibonite .

Our village was left in ruins — not just the land, but the hearts of those who survived. We were once a people who sang in the evening and danced barefoot on the soil our ancestors had blessed. Now we are scattered, searching for safety, our voices trembling with memories we cannot erase.

They burned the hospital — the only one for miles — while patients still lay inside. Flames swallowed the walls where our mothers once brought life into the world. And so, under a sky choked with smoke, one mother gave birth in the middle of the street, her screams rising above the silence of the dead.

A neighbor held her hand. A stranger brought cloth. There was no doctor, no clean water, no protection. But the baby was born anyway — breathing, crying, living — as if to defy the nightmare around us. That child became our symbol: even when the world turns its back, life still chooses us.