Ricardo Celestin

In Port-au-Prince, Haiti, the streets buzz with life in a way that often makes it hard to hear your own thoughts. It’s why I started visiting the houngan in the first place, years ago. The noise outside felt like chaos, but within his shrine, everything had its place. Candles flickered like whispers, and the air hummed with ancient power. At first, his guidance was what I needed. I felt stronger, as if he was opening doors inside me that I hadn’t known existed. There was a comfort in the rituals, a sense of belonging to something far older than myself.

But then came a session that left me cold. It wasn’t anything obvious—a gesture, a word, or even a spirit that revealed something dark. No, it was the way he spoke of certainty, as if the universe was a locked box and only he held the key. That didn’t sit right with me. I remember leaving his shrine that evening with an unease that grew heavier the more I thought about it.

I am 72 now, but it was years ago that I stopped going to him. That last session didn’t break me—it broke the illusion. Ironically, that disillusionment became the greatest gift I’ve ever received. Walking away from his practices, from all that ritual and certainty, was when I truly began to find my own strength. There’s a saying that faith without doubt is like a body without a shadow—empty, incomplete. Questioning him, questioning everything, gave me the power to stand on my own two feet.

I think about those who still visit him, who cling to their beliefs as tightly as I once did. I don’t judge them. Everyone walks their own path, but I wonder if they ever stop to question the road they’re on. All religions—whether it’s the voodoo I grew up with, Christianity, or any other—are just ideologies. Ideologies can be comforting, but they can also blind us if we’re not careful. We should do what we need to do, but never without asking, *Why am I doing this?* That’s where the real strength comes from.