Humanitarian day: Despatches from Haiti and the Democratic Republic of the Congo
Haiti: ‘I wish more people could see what I see’
By Pedro Rodrigues, WFP Communications Officer
It’s 5:16 a.m. and still dark as my colleagues and I pile into a white SUV. I can’t remember the last time I was on the road at dawn in Haiti. Due to the persistent insecurity, that’s only possible outside of the capital. So today we’re setting off from Caracol, a region in northern Haiti that’s remained relatively untouched by the violence affecting much of the country.
The SUV makes its way to the airport along the dark road connecting Cap-Haitien to the Dominican Republic border. In Port-au-Prince, where I’m based, we are in constant alert mode due to the high level of insecurity. But here, it feels unusual to let my guard down as I watch vehicles driving past us: tap-taps (pickups converted into mini-buses) full of Madan Saras, the merchant women heading to the tightly controlled binational market across the border at Dajabón in the Dominican Republic, where informal trade happens, bringing food into remote areas.
As we enter Cap-Haitien, the vehicle swerves to avoid something burning in the road. Many times in Port-au-Prince, we’ve passed corpses in the streets: suspected members of armed groups, burned to death by community ‘self-defence’ brigades who often employ gruesome tactics in an attempt to resist takeover of their neighbourhoods. But this time, my dread is unfounded – it was just a pile of rubbish.
We go on to visit farmers’ associations and schools supported by WFP in the north, returning (via the WFP-managed UNHAS helicopter) energised and encouraged to see what Haitians can achieve when granted just a little peace.
In contrast to the north, every day in Port-au-Prince, is a matter of weighing the risks when it comes to distributing food. Is it safe enough to enter areas controlled by armed groups to provide food to elderly people, mothers, children and people with disabilities – those caught in a situation not of their making?
Sometimes, the situation is too volatile for our teams to leave the office. But most days, my colleagues – Haitians and international staff – head out, accompanying trucks loaded with lifesaving food assistance.
They are driven by a sense of duty to respond to enormous need.
Less than two hours’ flight from Miami, Haiti faces one of the most critical hunger crises in the world. The latest Integrated Food Security Phase Classification (IPC) report shows yet another deterioration. More than half of Haiti’s population of nearly 12 million people don’t have enough to eat.
Yet, with limited resources, WFP and its partners have helped prevent an even worse outcome by taking every opportunity to reach those most in need.
I only wish more people could see what I see. Yes, I see violence, starvation, and suffering. But I also see farmers tending fields, employing others. I see merchants in displaced camps, determined to restart businesses. I see mothers finding ways to send their children to school.
Despite every kind of shock, amid tears, frustration and loss, I see resilience and the will to rebuild. If it depended only on ordinary Haitians, change would already be underway.
DRC: ‘Gunshots and explosions at all hours’
By Ben Anguandia, WFP Communications Officer
At the start of the year, fighters from the M23 armed group – part of the Congo River Alliance – launched a sweeping offensive across North Kivu in eastern Democratic Republic of the Congo.
By 23 January, they had encircled Goma, the provincial capital. Days later, the city fell. Nearly a thousand people were killed, with many more wounded. Bodies lay in the streets as chaos gripped the city.
With violence escalating and tens of thousands of civilians fleeing, UN agencies, including the World Food Programme (WFP) began evacuating non-essential staff. The fighting always felt far away from Goma, where I was based – but in just two days, everything changed. One Wednesday morning in January 2025, we woke up to find the rebels were in town – and the soldiers and authorities had gone.
Not all the soldiers left. Some felt abandoned by their own command. They turned their guns on the rebels, and the city was suddenly filled with shooting. Looting began. In my own neighbourhood, I found five abandoned guns outside my gate – AK-47s, a heavy machine gun, uniforms, even armour.
Soldiers had changed into civilian clothes and run. People begged them not to leave weapons behind, fearing they’d be accused of sheltering them.
We were told to stay indoors. For six days, there were gunshots and explosions at all hours. (The first two days were the most intense – that’s when the rebels arrived and the fighting erupted.) Food stocks ran low. I was lucky – I keep rabbits, guinea fowl and chickens, so I could feed myself and my dogs.
By Friday, things were calmer, though the streets still held bodies that hadn’t been collected. I left that day, crossing into Rwanda along with crowds desperate to get out. Inside Rwanda, the roads were controlled, but the cost of transport had shot up. It was clear that even in flight, our suffering was someone else’s profit.
When I reached Kinshasa, I knew our work in Goma would be on hold. The displacement camps had been dismantled, WFP warehouses looted – 9,500 metric tons of food gone. The people we served were scattered, and before we could resume, they had to be located and assessed.
Without food assistance, women and girls face even greater risks of gender-based violence, especially in overcrowded, unsafe conditions with no sanitation.
I have lived through conflict before – in 1997, in 2002, in 2004 – but it never gets easier. It is frustrating and humiliating to see my country trapped in the same cycle. Now we wait, plan and do what we can: small assessments, preparing to resume nutrition support through hospitals. But normal operations feel far away.
The hardest part is knowing how quickly everything can collapse – and how long it takes to rebuild.