While Jasmithe played in the yard with her friends, the other girl constantly worked. Jasmithe had chores too, but not like this. She often saw the girl carrying buckets of water, multiple times a day — her small frame struggling to hold them up on her head. She washed dishes, cooked, and bought food from the market. Her feet were often dirty and bare, and her hair was matted and frizzy, not like Jasmithe’s, which was neatly braided for school.
Now, looking back, Jasmithe recounts the signs of abuse she overlooked as a child — the bite marks left on her body, her sullen expression, the old clothes that hung on her body. It was the quiet suffering no one spoke about.
“I was too young to understand fully,” she recalls. “The only thing I could do was pray.”
But that childhood memory had a profound impact on her life, and drew her to a career and life of justice, advocating for those who could not advocate for themselves.
Today, Jasmithe leads Restavek Freedom’s office in Les Cayes, serving as also as a Child Advocate, a role she has held since 2017. In many ways, she explains, the work she does now is an answer to the prayers she once whispered as a child.
“When I learned about Restavek Freedom, it gave me the opportunity to do what I could not do when I was young.”
For generations, the restavek system, where children are sent to live and work in other households as domestic servants, has existed in silence, culturally accepted by even those in the church. Historically, it has rarely been questioned or challenged.
“Before, no one spoke about it,” Jasmithe explains. “No one said, ‘Stand up and protect a child.’”
After nearly two decades of working with children living in restavek, Restavek Freedom’s work has expanded beyond just the children themselves. It actively engages the adults who are both directly and indirectly caring for these children, many of whom have never been taught what it means to care for a child who is not their own.
“Some people mistreat children simply because they don’t know any better,” she says. “We help them understand what a child deserves.”
But by partnering with the local community, providing them with the tools, resources, and education on the fair and ethical treatment of children, awareness is beginning to grow. Our team of Child Advocates, like Jasmithe, are the ones propelling this work forward, building relationships with both the children and their host families, the neighbors who have visibility to the kind of abuse children in restavek endure, and the church congregants and leaders who can step in and offer a space of refuge and safety. Now, conversations are happening in places they never did before: amongst students and faculty at schools, in the congregations of churches, and amongst neighbors and friends.
“People’s eyes are opening,” she says. “They are beginning to say, ‘Yes, this exists—but it is time to change it.’”
Over the years, Jasmithe has worked with many children, but she recounts the story of one particular girl who has continued to remind her why she does what she does.
When Jasmithe first met the Darline*, the situation was severe. The young girl had tragically lost both of her parents and was living with her godmother. But in Haiti, it is all too common that any child who is not biological to the family is treated as less than. Her godmother was no exception, and often denied her food and treated her aggressively. When Jasmithe approached Darline’s godmother about enrolling her in Restavek Freedom’s program, she resisted every attempt.
“They said if Darline went to school, she would become rebellious,” Jasmithe remembers.
Still, Jasmithe kept showing up. Week after week, she returned to Darline’s home, encouraging her, advocating for her needs, and explaining to her godmother the opportunities she could have if she was simply allowed to go to school. After each visit when Jasmithe would prepare to leave, Darline would cry. And each time she did, Jasmithe became more certain: she could not walk away from this child. She could not give up on her. Eventually, after much persistence, Darline’s godmother reluctantly agreed.
Jasmithe recalls the moment that followed this interaction. It is one she will not forget. The first time she brought Darline a school uniform, the girl leapt into Jasmithe’s arms with such force it nearly knocked her over. It was the first time she had ever worn a school uniform.
Then the girl made a promise.
“She called me ‘Tati’ (Auntie), and said, ‘I will never disappoint you. I will study, I will work hard, and one day you will be proud of me.’”
Today, Darline is in her final year of high school. “She kept her word,” Jasmithe says. “And I am so proud of her.”
The realities Jasmithe witnesses are difficult to put into words. She has met children covered in scars. Children who go hungry. Children who are told they are worthless, excluded from play, denied even the dignity of sitting beside others, and forced into a life of isolation. As a mother herself, these realities devastate her.
But she also celebrates the transformation happening in her city. She, and her team, continue to show up, day after day, to remind these children they are worth showing up for, they are known, seen, and remembered.
When asked about her greatest hope, Jasmithe doesn’t hesitate. “I want to see all children free,” she says. “Free to play, to go to school, to live like children.” Because at the heart of everything she does is a simple, unwavering belief: “A child is a child. They are not meant to carry the responsibilities of an adult. It is we who must protect them.”
And so she continues, often with great patience, advocating, and standing in the gap, doing now what she once could not.