More than a festival: Why our institutions matter more than ever

Every summer, thousands of Haitians gather in a park on Long Island to do something that has become almost instinctive to us. We come together.

Children run across open fields. Elders settle into lawn chairs while young people dance with a confidence that reminds us culture is never inherited automatically. It is passed from one generation to the next, like a cherished family recipe, one celebration at a time.

To an outsider, it may look like another summer festival.

It is much more than that.

As the Haitian American United for Progress, or HAUP, prepares to host its 13th Annual Creole American Family Festival at Eisenhower Park, it is worth reflecting on what this gathering has come to represent. Alongside its longtime partner, “Kompa” Guide, HAUP has built one of the largest Haitian community events on Long Island, welcoming more than 5,000 people each year. The music may draw the crowds, but it is not the heart of the day.

The heart is community.

For thirteen years, the festival has quietly become a place where culture and service meet. Families enjoy performances by some of our most celebrated musicians. Neighbors reconnect. Newcomers find a place to belong.

The festival celebrates our identity, but it also demonstrates something deeper. It reminds us that the strongest communities are built not only through shared culture but through shared responsibility. Like the roots of a banyan tree, those connections spread quietly beneath the surface, holding everything together even when storms arrive.

That message feels especially important this year.

The recent decision affecting Temporary Protected Status (TPS) has left many Haitian families anxious about their future. Thousands are asking difficult questions about their legal status, their jobs, their children’s education and whether the lives they have built remain secure. Fear has a way of isolating people. It convinces families they must navigate uncertainty alone.

That is precisely why institutions matter.

Long before TPS became a national headline, organizations like HAUP were already doing the work. They were helping immigrants complete paperwork, connect with attorneys, enroll children in school, access healthcare, learn English, find housing and understand a country that often feels bewildering to newcomers.

For more than fifty years, HAUP has been one of the quiet pillars holding up our community.

Its work rarely makes national headlines. There are no viral videos celebrating a successful immigration consultation or a family connected with health services. Yet these moments accumulate over decades. Together, they become the invisible architecture of a thriving community, the steel beams hidden behind the walls that allow everything else to stand.

Institutions do not exist for moments of celebration alone.

They exist for moments of crisis.

If there is one lesson Haitian Americans have learned over generations, it is that our survival has depended on organizations willing to stand beside us when others looked away.

Every wave of Haitian immigration has faced its own challenges. Families fleeing dictatorship encountered suspicion instead of welcome. Refugees arriving by boat were often treated as criminals rather than asylum seekers. Haitian professionals struggled to have foreign credentials recognized. Students navigated classrooms where few understood their history or language. More recently, humanitarian crises in Haiti have sent new arrivals seeking stability while established families continue supporting relatives across borders.

Through each chapter, community organizations stepped forward.

They translated documents before translation apps existed. They connected families with lawyers before legal clinics became common. They advocated for fair immigration policies, organized food distributions, created youth programs and helped people understand systems that too often seemed designed to exclude them.

These institutions became bridges, not simply between Haiti and America, but between vulnerability and opportunity.

We often celebrate individual success stories, and rightly so. We admire entrepreneurs, physicians, educators, artists and public officials whose achievements inspire the next generation.

But behind almost every success story is an institution. And behind every institution is someone who chose to believe before everyone else did.

I know this because I have lived it.

When I set out to launch The Haitian Times in 1999, there was no business model proving that a newspaper dedicated to Haitians could survive. There were no venture capitalists lining up to invest in an immigrant publication. There was only a conviction that our community deserved a newspaper that would tell our stories with nuance, dignity and ambition.

Three people believed in that vision enough to put their own money behind it: Herold Dasque, Elsie Saint Louis and Marie Charles. They were HAUP’s leaders then and remain among its guiding lights today.

They did not invest because they expected extraordinary financial returns. They invested because they believed our community needed an institution that belonged to us. They understood that if we wanted our stories told properly, we had to build the platform ourselves.

More than a quarter century later, the Haitian Times still exists because they saw beyond the uncertainty of that moment. Their investment was more than financial. It was a vote of confidence in a community that was still writing its American story.

The same is true of HAUP.

Fifty years ago, people invested in the idea that Haitian immigrants deserved an organization that would stand beside them through every season of life. They built something that could outlast elections, immigration policies, economic downturns and even its founders.

Communities rise because institutions create ladders that individuals can climb.

When I set out to launch The Haitian Times in 1999, there was no business model proving that a newspaper dedicated to Haitians could survive. There were no venture capitalists lining up to invest in an immigrant publication. There was only a conviction that our community deserved a newspaper that would tell our stories with nuance, dignity and ambition.

Three people believed in that vision enough to put their own money behind it: Herold Dasque, Elsie Saint Louis and Marie Charles. They were HAUP’s leaders then and remain among its guiding lights today.

They did not invest because they expected extraordinary financial returns. They invested because they believed our community needed an institution that belonged to us. They understood that if we wanted our stories told properly, we had to build the platform ourselves.

More than a quarter century later, the Haitian Times still exists because they saw beyond the uncertainty of that moment. Their investment was more than financial. It was a vote of confidence in a community that was still writing its American story.

The same is true of HAUP.

Fifty years ago, people invested in the idea that Haitian immigrants deserved an organization that would stand beside them through every season of life. They built something that could outlast elections, immigration policies, economic downturns and even its founders.

Communities rise because institutions create ladders that individuals can climb.

For generations, Haitians have demonstrated extraordinary generosity toward family. Every year, billions of dollars flow back to Haiti in remittances, paying school tuition, medical bills, rent and groceries. That generosity is one of our community’s greatest strengths.

But imagine if we matched that same commitment by investing in the institutions that serve all of us in the United States.

Organizations like HAUP, the Haitian Times, churches, scholarship funds and youth programs are the scaffolding of our community. They preserve our voice, defend our rights and prepare the next generation. Families help us survive. Strong institutions ensure that, together, we can truly thrive.

This week, as thousands gather once again at Eisenhower Park, there will be music, laughter and celebration. There should be.

If there is a lesson in both stories, it is this: our future will not be secured by waiting for others to build what we need. It will be secured when we continue to invest in one another and in the institutions that carry our hopes, protect our history and light the path for generations long after any one of us is gone.

The measure of a community is not simply the celebrations it hosts, but the institutions it leaves behind.

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