In Search of Healing
The temporary nature of the facility is intentional. Run by Doctors Without Borders, the hospital was never meant to be permanent. The hope was always that one day, Haiti wouldn’t need it.
That day, however, seems far off. The country’s healthcare system has virtually collapsed. Tabarre is now one of the last remaining trauma hospitals operating in the capital.
Port-au-Prince has become a war zone. Armed factions have seized control of large parts of the country, with the UN reporting over 5,600 people killed last year alone.
The sound of automatic gunfire has become a regular backdrop to life in the capital.
These armed groups are battling government forces — and they're prevailing. Controlling nearly 90 percent of the city, they have formed an alliance called Viv Ansanm, meaning "Live Together."
Meanwhile, law enforcement and civilian defense groups are confined to small areas. The interim government faces accusations of corruption and infighting. No federal elections have taken place since 2016.
Caught in the chaos are civilians — frightened, wounded, and displaced. Armed gangs are accused of using rape as a tactic of war, inflicting brutal violence, and driving residents from their homes.
More than a million Haitians are now displaced, and nearly half the population is suffering from hunger.
Hospitals across the country have shut down one by one. Supply chains are choked off — gangs control all roads in and out of Port-au-Prince. Medical staff struggle to reach work, often risking their lives. Many have fled the country entirely.
Even hospitals themselves are under attack. Gunmen opened fire at the State University Hospital of Haiti during a press conference in December, killing two journalists and a police officer. One of its buildings was later torched, and the hospital never reopened.
While my Al Jazeera team and I were filming a documentary in April, yet another hospital closed after gangs overran the surrounding area.
Doctors Without Borders had to halt operations in Port-au-Prince for three weeks late last year. During our visit, the ambulance service was down — a convoy had come under fire in March.
Still, the Tabarre Hospital staff remain steadfast.
“We consider ourselves the final line of defense when it comes to trauma,” said surgeon Xavier Kernizan. “If we shut down, the consequences for the population would be devastating.”
Our team spent a week at Tabarre. The flow of gunshot victims into the emergency room was constant.
During brief breaks, we’d step out for a cup of strong black coffee near the guard hut. Each time we returned, more patients had arrived — many critically injured.
The ER would only quiet down at night. At first, it seemed odd — wasn’t that when most of the violence occurred?
Eventually, we understood: it was too dangerous to move victims through the city after dark. Wounded people had to wait until daylight before they could be safely transported.
That’s what happened to Chrismene Desilhomme and her cousin Jean Claude Saget. Both featured in our documentary The Last Lifeline.
Chrismene, a housemaid, and Jean Claude, a security guard, arrived at 8 a.m. after enduring a night of suffering. Jean Claude had been shot during a break-in and broke his leg fleeing. Chrismene was shot at close range; her foot was so badly damaged it had to be amputated.
“I don’t understand why they shoot everyone,” she said, clearly in shock.
There seemed to be no obvious reason for the attack — they owned little of value.
One patient with a gunshot wound to the hand offered a chilling explanation: gangs often shoot civilians to force them from their homes, which are then taken over to expand territory. He returned to find walls in his neighborhood knocked down, creating hidden passageways for fighters.
Over the week, the hospital became familiar. Despite the gunfire beyond its walls, it offered a strange sense of calm.
Guards played Lucky Dube's reggae as they smoked. Women sang in the wards. In quieter ER moments, staff shared laughter, jokes, and camaraderie.
At the hospital’s heart was a tranquil patio, shaded by a wooden pagoda. Patients rested on benches, and a nearby obstacle course helped survivors regain strength post-surgery.
There, we met four-year-old Alexandro and his mother, Youseline Philisma.
Alexandro was just a month old when their displacement camp was torched by armed men. He survived but suffered severe burns. Since then, Youseline has brought him to Tabarre’s burn unit — the only one left in Haiti.
“Coming here feels like entering another world,” she said. “Everyone understands my child and showers us with love.”
Alexandro will require lifelong care. One of his doctors is surgeon Donald Jacques Severe.
Severe’s wife and children fled to the U.S. four years ago after their home was overrun. Though he holds a Canadian visa, Severe has chosen to stay.
His colleague Xavier Kernizan explained why.
“We know people would suffer without us,” he said. “We’re often close to burnout — sometimes depression. But there’s fulfillment in offering hope, even in someone’s darkest hour.”
Still, the hospital’s future remains uncertain as violence escalates.
On April 11, we left Tabarre for the first time in a week, heading to Petion-Ville — one of the last areas under government control.
From there, we crossed a football field near the Karibe Hotel, where a UN World Food Programme helicopter awaited — currently the only way out of the capital.
As we lifted off, Port-au-Prince shrank below us, engulfed in turmoil. I felt a surge of relief.
The hospital staff remained behind. They have no plans to leave.
