Christmas Eve in Port-au-Prince was supposed to be a fragile moment of hope. Haiti’s largest public hospital, once gutted by paramilitary gangs, was reopening. Journalists gathered to cover it — a rare symbol of renewal. But instead, the gangs ambushed them. It was a calculated act of terror, meant not just to destabilize, but to silence. In Haiti today, the press badge doesn’t protect you. It paints a target on your chest.

Velondie Miracle, a 31-year-old Haitian reporter, was among those shot while covering the story. Her attacker, she says, was a child soldier — just 10 years old.

"They knew that it was journalists who were in front of the hospital," Miracle told Scripps News international correspondent Jason Bellini over a shaky video call. "I saw it with my own eyes."

Miracle said she was wearing a press vest and a badge — clearly identified — when she was shot, but it didn't matter.

Two of her colleagues died that day. One of them — Marckendy Natoux — was like a father to her.

"He always gave me advice," she said.

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Miracle survived seven bullets: One to the head, another to the mouth and five in the left leg. She was airlifted to Cuba for surgery.

While she was recovering, someone with a gang demanded money to spare her home. She couldn’t pay. Six days later, her house in Port-au-Prince was set ablaze, with her 20-year-old brother inside. He didn’t make it out.

In Haiti, this is what it means to be a journalist. According to a 2024 Committee to Protect Journalists report, Haiti now ranks No. 1 in the world for letting journalist murders go unpunished.

At least a dozen journalists have been killed in the last three years, newsrooms have been burned and reporters have been hunted. In March, gangs attacked at least three TV and radio stations. In April, the Canaan gang seized Radio Panic FM in Mirebalais, renamed it “Radio Taliban FM,” and began broadcasting gang propaganda.

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Even Haiti's oldest newspaper, Le Nouvelliste, was forced to suspend its print edition after its newsroom was ransacked. Its prized cultural magazine, Ticket, continues — barely. Its editor-in-chief, Gael Alexis, files her stories from home.

"Do you hear the gunshots?" Bellini asked her.

"Yes," she said. "Sometimes I don’t. But when they’re really near — like two blocks away — I really, really hear them."

Gangs aren’t just fighting over streets. They’re fighting to control the story. And journalists stand in the way.

"They’re trying to stop everyone that’s been informing," Gael said. "They’re trying to stop every journalist."

She could walk away. Instead, she writes about music, literature and art. Culture, she says, still holds the country together.

"We’re going to keep working. I think that’s one of the things that still grounds us," she said.

Velondie Miracle knows the cost. The bullets. The threats. The isolation.

"I always get unknown calls threatening me," she said. "My life is not good."

"So why do it?" Bellini asked.

"Because I love it," she said.

In Haiti, where press badges are targets and the truth is dangerous, love for the work is all that remains. And even now, it’s enough to keep the story alive.