Contributors

Carter Charles

Content Processing Manager

I have a little idea of what it is like to leave one's country in search of a better life in a foreign country. I was barely 3 years old in 1980 when my father fled from Haiti's Duvalier regime and emigrated to the United States: he didn't speak a word of English but was rescued in American waters by US Coast Guards who, instead of returning him to Haiti, took him to his final destination in Florida. I reunited - and in fact got acquainted - with him 36 years later, just before his death. My mother emigrated to French Guyana, via Suriname, when I was about 10. For several years, she lived in hiding and in constant fear of deportation. I followed the same path when I was about 15, traveling under a false identity through Curaçao, Suriname, and crossing the Maroni River on one of those unregistered canoes that connect the two countries. I recovered my real identity, studied in French Guyana, in mainland France and in the United States. I have a PhD in American Studies and specialize in sociology and history of religions. I am paying back whatever France has invested in the illegal immigrant that I was, teaching hundreds of students English as a second language, business English, translation and American Studies. I am happy to contribute the little that I can in giving a voice to these refugees: their stories are in many was my story.

Carter Charles
What would you do if you had to leave everything behind?

By the end of 2025, more than 117.8 million people worldwide had been forcibly displaced by war, persecution, or human rights abuses — and 45 million of them are children.

They arrive in refugee camps and countries seeking safety and carrying little: legal papers, if they're lucky. A backpack. A child's hand in theirs.

What they carry that we can't see is heavier: fractured families, homes they'll never return to, professions they loved, friends and relatives they may never see again.

In a climate where immigrant stories are often ignored or twisted, we believe stories are a form of justice. When someone shares what they survived, they reclaim their voice. When we amplify it through film, photography, and advocacy, the world listens. Hearts soften. Policy begins to shift.

Because when a lawmaker sees a person instead of a statistic, and a neighbor understands instead of fears, rebuilding becomes possible.

Your support helps us share these stories where they matter most.

— Kristen Smith Dayley, Executive Director, Their Story is Our Story

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