By Garry Moïse

I was raised in Fermathe, a calm, mountainside community just outside Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Back then, Fermathe and the surrounding villages were largely agricultural. People cultivated their land, grew their food, and lived in harmony with the mountain air and a shared sense of community. It was quiet, peaceful, and deeply rooted in tradition.

But that’s no longer the case. A new generation of community members has sold and continues to sell much of the fertile farmland to outsiders—people from other parts of the country looking to escape the chaos of the city for cooler temperatures and quieter surroundings. The rhythm of the place has changed. And in the past two years, something even more heartbreaking has happened: criminal gangs from nearby urban areas have invaded the region, terrorizing residents and unraveling the peace of a community that once felt like an extension of home. It’s beyond sad to witness this from a distance. Even a short visit with our children has become a risky idea nowadays—something we never imagined would happen.

Our parents raised us there—four of my siblings and I—in a house filled with strong values, hard work, and faith. Our father, who passed away abruptly three years ago in the U.S., began his career in healthcare before becoming an entrepreneur. He instilled in us the importance of diligence, of being useful, of contributing to the Church, and to the well-being of others. Our mother, who worked in healthcare for 27 years before relocating to the U.S., modeled a life of compassion. She taught us what it meant to go the extra distance to serve others, especially those most in need.

In our home, we lived by the wisdom of Haitian proverbs. “Men anpil, chay pa lou”—Many hands make the load light—was more than a saying; it was how we functioned. Everyone had a role, and no one carried the burden alone. We helped one another with chores, with school, and with life.

Some of my fondest memories are of Saturday nights. After the Sabbath, we often cooked fritay (fried food) together—bannann peze, akra, marinad, pate, patat fri, taso, etc.—and filled the house with laughter and the warm scent of home. Sometimes, our father would take us to Pétion-Ville for ice cream. He continued the Saturday night ice cream traditions to a certain extent in New York. These weren’t grand gestures, but they grounded us. They gave us rhythm, joy, and unity.

Now, life is different. My siblings and I have lived in four different countries. We’ve started families of our own, blending what we grew up with, what our spouses brought into our lives, and what we’ve learned from the new communities in which we now live. Though we still make fritay together on rare occasions when we reunite, many of the traditions we grew up with are harder to maintain. The traditions we knew as children have morphed—not out of neglect, but out of necessity. We’ve each been building new nests, slowly, faithfully. “Piti piti, zwazo fè nich li.” Little by little, the bird builds its nest.

We still uphold the values our parents passed down—our Christian Seventh-day Adventist beliefs, our love for Haitian food and culture, and our commitment to serving others. But the regular rhythms—the weekly fritay, the Saturday night outings, the familiarity of our childhood community—are harder to keep. The challenges of distance, safety, and changing times make it so.

Yet we remember what our parents taught us: “Chita pa bay”—Sitting around does not produce [good] results. They lived lives of action and purpose, and we strive to do the same wherever we are. Above all, we all believe in this enduring truth: “Sa ou plante, se sa ou rekòlte”—What you plant is what you will harvest. Our parents planted seeds of love, faith, and resilience. It is now our turn to tend to those roots, to ensure our children harvest something meaningful—if not the same traditions, then at least the same values.

Sometimes, honoring tradition is not about copying every step of the past. It’s about preserving the heart behind it—and passing that heartbeat forward.

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