Habemus Papam — Et s’il était des nôtres ?
I will have seen it all.
Embargo.
9/11
A devastating earthquake.
A presidential assassination.
The funeral of the Queen.
Eleven Haitian presidents — Or wait? Twenty is it?!
And soon, not one, but two papal conclaves.
Yet, somehow, I’m still young. My generation has lived through history with its eyes wide open and its heart weathered but unyielding.
Just yesterday, I wrote an Easter message from Haiti, titled simply: Un message de Pâques depuis Haïti. A quiet note of hope, shared without pretense.
To my surprise, it resonated more than I expected. People called and wrote to me — many of them strangers — just to say thank you. That meant more than I can explain.
And this morning, I woke to the news: Pope Francis has passed.
Or perhaps more truthfully — something had passed.
A moment. A stillness. The beginning of a shift we didn’t yet have words for.
Was it coincidence? Perhaps. But maybe it was also a small reminder that even the quietest words have their place.
That hope — when shared — travels further than we know.
And now, Haiti — and the world — is preparing to watch and wait for the white smoke. But this time, there’s a whisper on the wind:
Et si c’était lui ? What if it is was him? What if it was us? Et si c’était nous ?
There is talk — soft at first, then louder — that one of the cardinals considered in the next papal election is Haitian. A son of this soil. A child of our resilience.
It almost sounds like a miracle. But maybe it’s not a miracle. Maybe it’s the fruit of generations of prayer, education, sacrifice — and above all, faith. A faith we never lost, even when everything else trembled beneath our feet.
Imagine it.
A Pope who knows what it means to kneel on cracked earth and still find hope. A Pope who prays in Kreyòl, who has smelled the incense and sweat of a chapel in Les Cayes, Jacmel, or Gonaïves. A Pope whose mother taught him the rosary by lantern light during blackouts. A Pope who carries in his soul the weight of a country often misunderstood, too often misrepresented, yet deeply rooted in grace.
For decades, we’ve been spoken of in headlines that begin with disaster and end in pity.
But what if this time, the world paused to look at Haiti through a different lens? Not for what we lack, but for what we give? What if the next chapter of our story didn’t begin with tragedy, but with transcendence?
Hope that we will dare to dream bigger.
Hope that we will not immediately tear down what we should be lifting up.
Hope, too, that for once, we will not be hypocritical of ourselves. Because we Haitians have a way of turning on each other before the world even gets the chance. We judge, we mock, we doubt — and in doing so, we open the door for others to do the same. But what if we chose unity this time? What if we became each other’s first line of defense instead of our own worst critics?
This isn’t about power.
This isn’t about global politics or ecclesiastical prestige.
This is about possibility.
About showing the children of our nation that even from a small island, one can rise to become a shepherd for the world. This is about dignity reclaimed and dreams reawakened.
My generation knows struggle. We’ve marched in protests and waited in line for fuel. We’ve buried loved ones after tremors, after bullets, and watched our country be shaken again and again. But we also know how to sing through the storm. We know how to rebuild with bare hands and unwavering hearts.
If one of ours were to sit in white robes on the balcony of St. Peter’s, while Blue and Red flags fly high in the crowd, it would not just be his moment — it would be ours.
So I dare to hope. And truthfully — even writing these words scares me. As if by naming the hope, I might jinx it. As if daring to believe in this wild, beautiful theory — that Haiti might rise not just spiritually, but symbolically, before the world’s eyes — might somehow invite disappointment.
But I write it anyway. I reveal these thoughts like someone whispering a prayer and bracing for a storm.
Because what if it isn’t a jinx? What if it’s the spark?
What if this moment — this unlikely, extraordinary moment — becomes the quiet slap that wakes the world up? The way I remember the symbolic slap at my own confirmation: not meant to hurt, but to awaken. A sign that you’re ready. That you are claimed. That from here forward, you stand for something greater.
Maybe that’s what this is. Not just about Haiti being chosen — but about Haiti choosing itself.
And let me be clear: I am not questioning, nor pronouncing faith in the Church here. This is not a declaration of dogma. This is a quiet manifesto for peace.
A hope — however fragile, however bold — that for once, all faiths and walks of life in Haiti might pause to see the same light. That believers and non-believers, Catholics and Protestants, Vodouists and skeptics, might for one breath recognize a rare moment when a nation could come together. Not behind a man. Not behind a robe. But behind a sense of dignity — long denied, yet never lost.
In a country far too long divided — beloved yet also scorned, beautiful yet often marred — united yet frequently torn apart, what if this was a pause in the noise? A chance to realign, to stand still long enough to remember who we are beneath the rubble?
Habemus Papam.
And perhaps this time, the world will see in us what we have always known to be true: That faith, rooted in the storm, can still light the world.
A faith that does not require grandeur to be grand. That does not fear the margins — because it was born from them. The kind of faith Pope Francis spent decades defending: one that lifts the last, listens to the forgotten, and walks with the broken — not above them, but beside them.
If the last decade reminded the world that true leadership listens more than it speaks, that compassion matters more than ceremony, and that dignity can be found in the dust, then maybe the next chapter will remind us of something just as vital:
That greatness can emerge from the overlooked.
That wisdom can come from those who’ve had to survive.
That someone shaped by struggle can still be a beacon — not despite it, but because of it.
And if that beacon carries the voice of Haiti, let it shine for all of us who have weathered storms. Because faith — in one another, in a better one — is truly what might light Haiti.
And if it lights Haiti, it just might light the world.
From Haiti With Love.
Sylvie