When writer Edwidge Danticat started soliciting submissions for Haiti Noir, many writers, both inside and outside of Haiti commented on the appropriateness of the title. As the anthology’s editor, Danticat didn’t pick the title. Haiti Noir is part of a larger, Noir-branded fiction series published by indie house Akashic Books that tackles the crime, intrigue, and underbelly of places across the globe from Brooklyn to Istanbul.

As Danticat points out in the collection’s introduction, Haiti has a complex relationship with noir. There were those dark tales from the early 1900s penned by outsiders that were dehumanizing, pegging Haitians as zombies and cannibals. The word noir has been used in Haiti to refer to any Haitian citizen regardless of race. And metaphorically speaking, Haiti is the first black republic. Then, last January, the earthquake disaster and its lasting, devastating impact ushered in its own noir.

“For a lot of people, Haiti is the heart of darkness,” says Danticat. But the writers in this collection, the majority of whom are Haitian, either living there or in the Diaspora seek to redefine that noir.

TheGrio.com spoke with Danticat about her role as writer-activist, Haiti’s reality one year later, and the importance of depicting humanity.

Over the years, you’ve emerged as a very strong voice for Haiti and Haitian art. How is this anthology an extension of that?

Edwidge Danticat: I thought it would help to bring attention to these wonderful writers, many of whom had not been translated [into English] before. It’s also an unforced way of showing the different kinds of writing that Haitian writers can do. Very few of the writers originally wrote this kind of fiction. They went at it with such great force.

I hope it encourages readers, especially those who haven’t come across a piece of Haitian writing, to want and seek more by Haitian writers. And I hope that it appeals to editors who might want to translate the work of Haitian authors. I’m also hoping that people will enjoy the collection and these writers’ talents and ingenuity. I always look for opportunities to share Haitian writers I love with other people.

It’s a form of activism, which you do a lot of in different capacities as part of your writing career. Did you set out to be an activist?

I think it is something that just came about as a result of circumstance, because of the path my life has followed and all the things that have happened to Haiti. I couldn’t be a writer or a person for that matter who didn’t engage this. Any kind of art blends your own personal experience with your environment and all the things that affect you. It would be hard for me to go off and write and ignore all of this. It’s always been inevitable. It’s great that [writing], something that’s healing and necessary to me, could serve some larger purpose.

In the introduction to the collection, you write that Haiti’s more nuanced and complex face often comes across in its arts. What nuances do you hope the anthology illuminates?

People always talk about the resilience of Haitian people. That’s been the other face that’s countered real, fabricated dark tales about Haitian people. The arts are the light of that; it’s what shows Haitian complexity and ingenuity. It’s been wonderful to collect that kind of beauty. I’m not saying this anthology is going to bring a cheerful side of Haiti out. It’s still noir. And the people who pick up these series expect those kinds of stories. The nuance is that we have these writers, who through their craft, reflect reality and also create new realities.

You started working on the anthology a year before the earthquake. Did you find that the anthology or its mission changed as a result?

We had selected all the stories [before the earthquake], then I thought, ‘my goodness, are these going to hold up to this new reality?’ And they did. That was my fear, that when you have such a change, you lose some relevance. I went to Haiti after [the earthquake], and these stories could still happen in Haiti. There’s probably more noir in the new reality of Haiti. But I still wanted to have stories that reflect the earthquake reality. So we decided to add a few more stories with that in mind. The collection’s publication date coincides with the first anniversary of the earthquake. What significance do you think the anthology will hold in light of that?

There’s a forgetfulness that happens in these types of situations. But in Haiti as time goes by, the situation is getting worse for some people. I’m glad that there will be some kind of awareness through the first anniversary — a kind of cry and response that’s important to history. But we weren’t planning to be an anniversary anthology. That was our publication date from the beginning.

Speaking of forgetfulness, Haiti received a lot of attention in the earthquake’s aftermath, but much of that attention has died down. How do we keep the country’s needs in the forefront?

I think people get so attached through television. But after the initial garish images, it’s hard to tell a more complex, longer-term story. I think a lot of writers and artists try to do their part with what we can, and try to tell the stories of the people we know and what they’re going through. You can’t force people to pay attention. But perhaps if you keep talking, writing, painting, or singing, someone will listen.

Your story for the collection is about a single father who’s considering giving up his daughter. How did this theme come to you?

My story is part of a longer book that I’m doing. I always wanted to address restavèk, which is a situation when people give their children away. There are these stories in the news all the time, that if you have you ten dollars, you can buy a kid in Haiti. That’s usually how this story is treated. I wanted to write a story that was different.

I was struck by the humanity that you brought to this father and daughter.

You have to get in everyone’s shoes. You have to see everything from all these different sides. That’s what I tried to do. I know people who had to make that choice. And it’s a heartbreaking choice, and sometimes they regret it, but sometimes they think keeping their kids is their worst choice. They think that they’re giving them a better life. Of course, none of the stories in the collection have a happy ending. That’s why it’s noir.

Because you write so much about humanity, there’s also a lot of pain in your work. Does it ever become too much? Too painful?

It never gets too much, because the reality is so much. It always pales in comparison. Whatever the character feels pales in comparison to the actual pain to people. I know that it gets too much for a lot of readers. But I’m always thinking that within an hour spent in Port-au-Prince, you can see so much more pain than reading this book.

Felicia Pride is the founder of BackList and the author of The Message. Follow her on Twitter.