I escaped from Haiti in the throes of gang violence. The people there need our help.

This is not an adventure story. It may sound like one, with eight Americans, one Frenchman and one Canadian racing in the dark to a thrumming helicopter, as a U.S congressman yells “Go! Go! Go!’’ and the blades lift the bird into the Haitian sky, amid prayers that violent gangs don’t fire bullets in its direction.

But there is nothing adventurous about it. An island nation is now gripped by murderous, lawless criminals, as the world refuses to get its hands dirty. Foreigners and volunteers are forced to find their own way out, with no help from their embassies. And trapped in the middle are innocent civilians, millions of them, including 60 precious children at the orphanage I have operated for the last 14 years.

It was from that orphanage that 10 of us had to rush away last week and wait for hours, at a secret location, for a helicopter to come in the wee hours of the morning. It was a stealth operation, replete with mishaps, equipment changes and communication issues. It took off in the dead of night, with the passengers piled in like a rugby scrum. Thirty minutes later, when U.S. Rep. Cory Mills, a combat veteran, said we could take a deep breath because “we just left Haitian airspace," a cheer went up.

But my wife and I felt a gut punch.

How could we be relieved to be out of Haiti when our kids were still there? How could we be happy and heartbroken at the same time?

This not an adventure story. It’s a tragedy.

And for the sake of innocent children, something has to change.

Why we were at the Have Faith Haiti Mission

Let me rewind. As some of you already know, I have been going to our orphanage, the Have Faith Haiti Mission, since January 2010, after the terrible earthquake that killed 3% of Haiti’s population and left more than 10% homeless.

Our place is an oasis for children who have been orphaned, abandoned, lost or given over by relatives due to sickness, homelessness or extreme poverty. We have clean dormitories, a three-story school, a playing field, medical care, and a large, working kitchen. I visit every month to oversee the operations. And periodically, we take guests and volunteers with us.

On this month’s trip, my wife and I were joined by several others, including an artist from Seattle, a psychologist from California, a van designer from France and the mother of one of our staff members from Michigan. Most of these people had never been to Haiti. One had never been out of the country. We also had a master builder from Florida, a retired Canadian plant manager and several child specialists already on-site.

Not long after we arrived, the gangs that have ruled Port-au-Prince for the past few years revved their violence to a screaming level. With Haiti’s prime minister, Ariel Henry, out of the country seeking international help, the gangs took dramatic steps to prevent his return. They engineered a massive prison break from Haiti’s most notorious jail, freeing thousands of convicted murderers and kidnappers. They took control of the airports and the water ports. They already ruled the roads. And the border to the Dominican Republic remained firmly shut.

Which meant absolutely nobody – including the prime minister – was coming in.

And nobody was getting out.

'We should pray for a helicopter'

“What are we going to do?” I heard that constantly from our guests, who were brave and patient but rightfully worried that a planned six-day trip was rapidly turning into something dire. My wife and I had been at the orphanage in the summer of 2021 when then-President Jovenel Moise was assassinated. The country shut down and there was violence everywhere.

But even then, flights in and out of Haiti resumed within a matter of days. This time, with gangs surrounding the airport, clashing with police and promising "civil war," the skies were empty.

Meanwhile, every night there were reports of police stations burning, ministry buildings destroyed, banks raided, bodies left dead in the streets. Our children do their nightly devotions in a small gazebo; this month, they sang their prayers with gunfire in the background.

Seeking counsel, we called the U.S. Embassy in Port-au-Prince. We were told to fill out numerous forms (we did), to stay put (what choice did we have?), that there was “nothing we can share” and that “discussions are being held at the highest level.” We heard this almost daily – until the morning we woke up to learn that all nonessential U.S. Embassy personnel had been evacuated in the middle of the night.

It was pretty clear: We were on our own.

One night at dinner we were saying a traditional prayer of thanks and protection. One of our guests said, “Let’s be more direct. We should pray for a helicopter.”

More than just a painting

Now, the project that brought down some of our guests, including the artist (Lesley) and the French van designer (Kim), was a giant mural to be painted on two orphanage walls. It was Lesley’s beautiful design of children, families, landmarks and nature, interspersed with the messages we are trying to teach our kids: faith, sharing, love, culture. It was meant to be a weeklong project for our children to create.

But as days passed, and the outside news worsened, that mural became more than art. It became a therapy wall. Our visitors picked up paintbrushes and joined the children in spreading the yellows, oranges and turquoise blues, sweating under the hot sun for hours while silently wondering how they could get out, and when they would see their families again. What else could we do?

Finally, one morning, through a connection I have in Haiti, we tried a hastily organized escape with a relief helicopter. Driving away in the predawn light, we were told to arrive at a designated spot, carrying one bag a piece, and wait on a hillside for the chopper to arrive.

We waited. The sun rose higher. We waited. It never came. An hour later, we threw our bags back in the cars and hastily returned to the orphanage.

Which is when we experienced a remarkable thing. Our kids, aware that we were trying a quick evacuation, embraced us and said, “We’re so sorry” and “We wish you had made it out.”

Here were children, some as young as 11 or 12, feeling sorry for us because we couldn’t exit the violence. Yet they can never exit the violence. They can’t get anywhere. Our children have not set foot outside the orphanage walls in nearly three years. Not a single trip to a park, or to the beach, or for an ice cream. Total lockdown.

Yet here they were, feeling sorry for us?

'We will get you out'

The story took a major turn when some friends named James and Theresa contacted their congressional representative, Lisa McClain, of Michigan’s 9th District. They told McClain of our situation, and implored her to help. Shortly thereafter, she phoned me. I’d never met McClain. But she said, “I know the right person. We are going to get you out.”

That led to a call to Mills, a congressman from Florida who served with the Army's 82nd Airborne Division and spent years fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan. We spoke. He said the same thing: “We will get you out.” It wasn’t an official effort. In fact, both lawmakers told me not to expect any help from the government.

When I asked Mills why he would do this then as a private individual, and not seek any money for the effort, he said, “Because I believe that’s my job. To protect U.S. citizens.”

Within half an hour, a plan was hatched.

The original idea was to fly in very early in the morning, with a 12-person helicopter. Our group was packed and eager to go. But mechanical problems, a bad generator and equipment changes delayed the expected arrival from 4 a.m. to closer to 6 or 6:30 a.m. As I watched the clock tick away, I held my head in my hands. I realized this was too risky. By that hour, the sun was rising, as were the chances the helicopter would be seen, possibly shot at, or at the very least filmed by curious onlookers who would then post it to the internet where rumors would swirl and could put our orphanage in danger.

“I’m sorry,” I finally told them. “You can’t come.”

Mills’ crew was taken back. They had been heading our way for 24 hours and were about to take off from a nearby island. They insisted that our safety was at stake. But our group agreed: If it endangered the children, we weren’t doing it.

Reluctantly, Mills and his crew stood down. They would wait a day and try again.

No one knew the craziness that would happen in the next 24 hours.

A gut-wrenching goodbye

On Monday March 11, during the day, our group busied itself with putting final touches on the mural. The hours seemed to creep along. We painted. We held the kids. We looked at our watches.

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Working with Mills, I had identified a secret, hopefully secure location, and before the sun set and curfew kicked in, we gathered the children and said goodbye. There were long hugs and a lot of tears, because the truth was, we didn’t know how soon we could get back. I would liken this to saying goodbye to your kids for summer camp, except with summer camp you don’t worry they are going to be attacked or have to flee.

The tragic truth is, even if we had a helicopter that could fit 60 children, no one would let our kids out. Haiti would declare it illegal. The United States wouldn’t sanction it. The Dominican Republic would send them back.

There is a word for when you can’t remove children from danger, no matter how much every fiber of your being wants to. It’s called hopelessness.

'We have to go now!'

Finally, night arrived. Mills’ team was to pick us up at 3 a.m. Tuesday March 12. Our group was exhausted from the near miss the night before and the sheer weight of the stress-filled days. By 10 p.m., sitting at the safe location, we were all falling asleep.

We decided not to fight it, but to rest for a few hours, set our alarms for 2 a.m., wake up, get in position and be ready to go.

For me, it was the first sleep in two days. I dropped into a stupor, only to be nudged by my wife a few hours later. “Your phone is pinging,” she said. I grabbed it. It was just before 2 a.m. and there was a message from Mills: “Are you getting these communications?”

I flipped back and saw four missed messages, saying they were coming early. “Be there in 30 minutes” then “Be there in 20 minutes” then “10 min out.” I leaped up and stumbled through the dark, trying to find a light switch and yelling to the others, “We have to go now!”

Then Mills pinged me and said, “No bags. Just passports.” The group, wiping eyes and grabbing shoes, had to find their papers, leave everything else and run outside.

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Moments later, we heard the thwap-thwap-thwap of the rotors and someone inside the building flicked the lights to guide the helicopter in. We saw its silhouetted form land on the ground and two men jump out, screaming, “Go! Go! Go!” We raced under the blades, piled into the open door, and found space wherever we could, falling on top of each other.

“All 10 here?” “Everybody in?” “Everyone OK?” “Everyone got passports?” “GO!”

It took 67 seconds from touchdown to liftoff, and next thing we knew, we saw the lights from Port-au-Prince beneath us. Everyone held their breath in fear of gunshots. Soon we were in near total darkness, and nobody spoke.

What, and who, we left behind

I could share with you the crazy rest. How, while we were in the air, Henry, the prime minster, resigned, pushing the nation into further turmoil. Or how the helicopter began to leak hydraulic fluid and by the time we made a landing in a near-deserted airstrip, it could no longer fly. I could share the four-hour van ride in the darkened countryside to try to reach a major airport.

But all that makes this sound too movie-like, and please know this is not the movies. This is not a happy ending simply because eventually, in the wee hours of Wednesday morning, we landed home in Michigan, grimy, exhausted and spent.

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The more important truth is that thousands of other foreigners like us are still trapped in Haiti, and when a U.S. State Department spokesperson said there would be no evacuation attempts because, “for four years we’ve been telling people not to go to Haiti,” it made it sound as if those people were ignoring warnings and scheduling their honeymoon at a Club Med.

I promise you the overwhelming majority of outsiders in Haiti are there to feed children, provide water, offer medical help or administer aid. These are brave people who went to Haiti despite the danger because to never travel anywhere risky means leaving all the risk to the people who live there, and certain people can’t accept that. It doesn’t mean they should be ignored.

This tale is far from over

Look. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. Haiti is not just some little country half a world away. It’s less than two hours from Miami. It’s in the heart of the Caribbean, a region where destabilization would be a major catastrophe for America.

And don’t forget, we have history there. We occupied Haiti from 1915-34. We put its money in our banks. We basically wrote its constitution. We are vested in the area, and our recent hands-off policy is partly to blame for the elevation of a handful of street gangs into a mini-mafia that now runs the country.

Relying on Kenyan soldiers to fix things seems as much of a moonshot as asking seven disparate Haitian groups to come up with a suggested prime minister (something, despite a 24-hour deadline last week, they still haven’t done). Yet that, and sending some money, is pretty much America’s plan for now.

It won’t be enough. The rampant murders, burnings, displacements of entire neighborhoods and civilians hiding in terror will continue.

I learned a valuable lesson while trapped last week. There is no feeling to match the stealing of your freedom. The denial of your right to leave. It is a hollow in your soul. It changes how you breathe. You go through the five stages of grief – denial (This can’t be!) anger (How can they do this?), bargaining, depression and, finally, glum acceptance.

For the 10 of us, there was an uplifting conclusion, a brave and fortunate escape. For the children and staff at our orphanage – and for the millions of innocent Haitians throughout the country – there is no happy finish. They are without safe shelter, starving, without water, without fuel, without medicine, praying for someone to save them.

So, no, this is not an adventure story. It is a catastrophe. A massive cry for help. And it cannot continue to be ignored.

Mitch Albom is a columnist at the Detroit Free Press, where this column first published. Reach him at malbom@freepress.com, or on X, formerly Twitter, @mitchalbom. Those wishing to help the Have Faith Haiti Orphanage can go to havefaithhaiti.org.

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This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Haiti is two hours from Miami. US can't ignore this violent crisis