Here is Haiti

They sit on crates, the three of them, in the middle of the ghetto. The heat is giving out, on top
of which one has to constantly ward off flies. One of the boys is wearing a flowery shirt, he’s lost
in thought. The other has slanted eyes and features of a Polynesian. This one is quick to joke
around, making faces at girls passing by, while they roll their eyes. The third one is quiet,
focused, emotionless. He studies the area, listens. If any of those three boys had left the ghetto
and ended up in the hands of the Bwa Kale, they would have been burned alive. The execution
would take place in daylight, in front of the police station, because that's how the gang members
are dealt with in Port au Prince.

He has an olive shirt, sparse hair, shifty eyes, and clammy hands. "I have been working in Port
au Prince for sixteen years. I've seen everything. Everything. At the memory of the earthquake I
get shivers. My family returned to Ireland, to Galway. They left after a man on a motorcycle
followed us for several hours one day. They left because they were afraid of kidnapping.
Everyone here is afraid of kidnapping."

The people who were here with me, journalists, saw a lot. But one of them saw hell. We were on
the edge of the neighborhood, focused, concentrated on getting out, when the street was
blocked by about twenty motorcycles. On each of them sat a man with a gun. A black car slowly
drove into the ghetto area. A well-dressed man stepped out of the car without a word. The man
had a barrel held to his temple. We saw something that one should not see. Something one
really should never see. We saw something you don't go beyond the ghetto border with. You
see, I had a car at the time whose horn didn't work. I don't usually get upset, you see I've lived
in Port au Prince since I was a kid. But then yes, then I was upset. At that time I was thinking
only one "how?". Only that one "how?" was going round and round in my head. "How do I get
out of here? And do you know what I did? I pressed that horn. And that horn worked that one
and only time and the motorcycles slowly parted and I slowly left. And then it never worked
again, not once more. And then, driving on, I could see in the mirror people driving behind me,
street after street, turn after turn. But they stopped, disappeared somewhere in the distance. I
don't know why. I don't know how it happened.

A black car pulls up in front of the house, the house is falling apart, like everything around it.
But despite this decay something is happening here, there is some movement, some life. And
before anyone gets out of that car three children run ahead chasing plastic wheels with sticks.
And even before the door opens a white Caribbean bird flies by. And it gets quieter, and the
guys are no longer joking around. And the girl who walked down the street stands in the
shadows, in front of the facade of a half-scattered house and casts glances then at us then at
the car.

"Ey Blanc!" That's what they call out when you walk by and look either in surprise or curiosity,
and then they disappear, lost in the crowd, sinking into the distance, into the thicket of stalls,
tables, because the whole city is a big fair, everyone sells what they have, carrots, onions,
tomatoes, plantains, collards, pigeon peas pwa kongo, sultan’s turban, cherimoya fruit or sugar
apple, pomegranate, lima beans, hibiscus, cashews, live goats or turkeys. There is no public or
private space, everything is part of a huge exchange point and there are even paintings by
naïve painters, a bargain for tourists – but here there are no tourists, the hotels are weathering
empty, water has been drained from the pools and wild mangrove trees are growing in the
courtyards.

I haven't heard gunshots for three days. Yes, I haven't heard gunshots for four days, now it's the
holiday season, it's calm. It's quiet because the gangs are barricading themselves, they're afraid
of the people, they're afraid of the police, they're afraid of the United States which wants to bring
in soldiers here. But the soldiers were already here in 1915 and then again in 1994 and now
they want to come again. Let them come, people say, and maybe they will help, because there
is no other solution here, no prescription for this city. But the States want money for order, first x.
But x is not enough, for that we can clean up the airport and the presidential palace. Let it be 2x.
But rumor has it that maybe 4x can be found. So the deadline must be postponed, we must
wait. And the city lives on, constantly suspended, as if pondering on the sense of its own
existence.

To enter the ghetto one has to pay at the gate. Sean, when he wants to move around the ghetto,
buys a pack of cigarettes. And first he will toss a cigarette here, soon he will shove a cigarette
there, until finally they themselves walk up, greet each other, suspicion peels away, jokes begin,
laughter can be heard. But in their hands they still firmly hold heavy, gleaming in the sun,
polished rifles. For although it is now possible to enter, after all, it may not be easy to leave.
Because you may have to wait until they finish shooting. Because there is a war going on here
now, us against them.

Does he pray? He doesn't. But they call him, asking him to make an appointment for them with
Oungan. They usually ask for two things. The first is simpler, happiness. One can say a prayer
for that intention. The second is more complicated. The second thing is revenge. This is no
longer talked about so openly, these things are more hidden here, kept in silence.

He was in the Foreign Legion. He was in Guyana, in Mali, in the Congo. He is from Lower
Silesia. Now he is working here. He wants to come back. He has fallen into a routine. Every day
- drive from here so far, check if the engine is off, if they're accelerating. No, they are still
standing in the parking lot. And this is an important personality, from overseas. It should be fine.
He says he prefers this situation. He prefers it because if there is more tension he has a free
hand. He can act as he sees fit. He doesn't have to wait for an order, for permission. He was in
the Legion, there he had discipline. There is no life there without discipline. Before you get a
gun in your hand you have imprints from using a broom. He knows what it means to follow
orders. But here it's different. If there is to be a kidnapping, he prefers to act according to his
own judgment, according to his own reason. Because he knows one thing. Either they will
escape, they will find an escape route, or there will be a fight - and here one fights to the death.
Yes, my colleague who is now in the States. He paid 40 thousand for his freedom. 40 thousand
dollars. This is a lot of money. Here you don't earn much. It's expensive, it's true, very
expensive. But no one here earns anything. The rate of gourdes, do you know the rate of
gourdes? 500 gourdes is $3. It used to be different, I remember Baby Doc. Everyone was
scared of Tonton Macoute, yes, but you could leave home. Back then there were 15 gourdes for
$3. And how do I pay 40 thousand for my freedom? Because these kidnappings, they are not
always planned. Sometimes it can just so happen that you get kidnapped. Because they need
money on short notice. And then the family has to come together, has to find this money for you,
or you will have a problem, a big problem.

A man gets out of the car, he's stocky but well-dressed, well-shorn. Not very tall. A studied look,
nothing apodictic about him at first glance, rather something arousing sympathy. Someone
opens the door, someone walks up, shakes his hand. The gaze does not fall on us, although we
are the strangers here, but this is known, it is not necessary to pay attention to this, first greeting
one's own. And before he approaches us a young girl comes up to him and slowly, gently,
lubricates his hands with cream. And his eyes stick to the ground as if embarrassed, and his
step is not at all stiff, not at all soldierly. But there is an aura around him, as if the reaction of his
surroundings described him better. And when he approaches us we can smell a good perfume,
we shake hands, and go to talk.

A pile of trash is burning in front of the old presidential palace. The palace is ruined by the
earthquake. This area now belongs to the police, so we can go boldly. You mustn't stop
anywhere for too long, but you can keep going, maybe you'll hit an inspection, maybe a
checkpoint of some kind, you never know. Here lies a pile of tires. With these tires the Bwa Kale
were blocking the street. Here was a checkpoint, now there is none, it has calmed down. And
here is the police station, yes it was in front of this police station.

In the good times we used to go to the beach. In good times on Independence Day one would
go out on the street. In good times, celebrities from abroad came, musicians, actors, writers
came.

Houses no longer seem to fit in the streets, they crawl onto marshy slopes that are unsuitable
for construction. And on these slopes they stand, built one on top of the other, without order,
without a plan. And if this is called a village, and a Provençal village is also called by the same
word then there is something wrong, there is some lack in the language. And these people did
not come here for no reason, they are exiles. Banished from their own homes by the
earthquake, by gang warfare. This word gang also doesn't convey the point. Because a gang
sounds like something underground, operating from behind the curtains. Here there are no
curtains. Here there is a neighborhood, for example Delmas 6, and if you are born in the
Delmas 6 area then you are a member of the G9 family.

At the entrance gate, a dark blue sign proclaims the name of the zone. You have to reduce
speed, make sure they know you are coming. You don't see them beforehand, only after
entering, with a gun in hand, but not before. Before that there are silhouettes in the shadows,
traders, children crouched against the wall. When one knows, knows the faces then it is easier.
But you have to be careful. They need to know that we are coming, they need to look at us,
confirm, verify.

And how many beautiful things there are in this country. How it all tries to break through this
disorder, through this misunderstanding, through these bad associations. Where such lush
vegetation, where such beaches, where such a singing language, where such religiosity without
any manifestations, alive, eloquent, as if holding the whole nation in hypnotic suggestion. And in
the midst of this misery and apparent madness what organization. After all, all you have to do is
call here, drive this way. Then it will be fine. This one knows, this one can deliver this, this one
can arrange a meeting with that. How does it work, where is it written? Laughter, ey Blanc.

We are talking. Many people changed his words, he is fed up. Here is a pool, because he
wanted to show his own that these private pools in rich mansions mean nothing. Because look
here, we too can build a pool. And indeed, in the middle of the ghetto, where dust rises above
the barren roads, plaster falls off the buildings, and gang members clench their weapons
nervously in their hands, there is a pool, and not just any pool, an ornate one, with mosaics on
the edges, encased in tiles, and enclosed by a wall all around, so that in the early afternoon the
space is quite well shaded. Cherizier looks at it distrustfully, saying we can't show it because
they have an algae problem now. You can't present yourself to the world with such a picture.
And yet it is this pool, full of algae in the middle of the ghetto, and this leader, looking on with his
lone regret of a lost uprising.

In 2022, the president died. Why did the president die? What did he not want to do? With whom
did he cooperate. The answers are varied. Minerals, oil, foreign intervention, internal conflicts,
the constitution come up. The answers are many, too many. The ground is uncertain, sinuous,
one can easily get stuck in it. The sun bakes the streets. A chicken tied to the trunk of a
motorcycle. A pool, a sumptuous pool, green from algae, almost emerald, in the middle of the
ghetto. And the man disposing of it all, with a slight smile, as if too modest, stroppy. The first
thing that strikes the eye in the city is smoke. Wherever you look there is always something
burning. Garbage? Tires? Shacks? It's hard to determine. Ey, Blanc. Come over here. Look at
my mangoes, harvested by me. This is how Haiti's face emerges from the fog and vagueness. It
emerges slowly, uncertainly, tentatively. And then there's the girl carrying a basket of fruit on her
head. Even in Haiti not everyone can do this, only some. And the girl who casts a stealthy
glance, and the morning dew, the dew on the leaves of the pomegranate trees.

Even before I decided to go to the country I heard a name, here and there. My first "connection"
asked me first, do I want to actually go into the middle, get to the bottom of it? There is a man,
his name is Jimmy Cherizier, a former police officer. It's hard to get to him, because he sits there
now locked up, barricaded, with his own people. But I know someone, I'll try. I'm waiting. None
of this. It's not a good time, it used to be possible, now it's not. There the States are about to
enter, they are exasperated. There it is better not to show up now. "If you come to fight us, we
will fight, to the last drop of blood," cries Cherizier from a broken recording. This is their country,
their land, their problems.
A calf's head lies in the market, bitten off by flies. Pieces of tenderloin lie, but no one wants to
buy them, there is no one to pay, the vendors are roasting in the sun, hunched over, immobile in
nerves, in apathy. Against the wall of the market, three elderly blacks play mancala. The pawns
crackle, bouncing. If something bad were happening in the neighborhood the men would
disappear. This is a good sign, the men playing mancala.

He wanted to make revolutions here like in 1791, except that here there are no people for
revolution. The first time, a conspiracy was formed and the Bois Caïman ceremony took place,
the priests hidden in the dense forest bathed in the blood of a pig, this stirred the blood of the
people to revolt, the blood boiled in them, they moved in masses against their masters, tore
them to pieces. And then came the yoke that cooled the whiff of freedom, the yoke of gold, the
French debt of 150 million francs, being repaid until the beginning of the twentieth century. And
then came Duvalier and his Tonton Macoute, and people were afraid to speak out, but it was at
least possible to go out on Saturday to dance, to the beach, to the neighbor.

He plays the lack of interest perfectly, but something stirs in him when he starts talking about
children. He says he grew up in poverty himself. Two days in a row without food were not
uncommon. Now there's a plan to build orphanages here, because there are a lot of lost
children without parents. Sometimes these children are healthy, and sometimes they get sick.
Sometimes they manage to scrounge up gourdes, and sometimes they are left with nothing.
Here in the ghetto you can feel the organizations, feel the hand of the patron. But the city is big,
big and not forgiving. He has on his face several days of stubble, for the talk he came straight
from the front. Photos are not allowed of his soldiers. A soldier's face is an untouchable thing.
Are we done yet? We can go back near his house, there he will tell us something else. Jacques,
he calls out, take them back. A boy on a motorcycle pulls up, we get on, drive through the
bottlenecks of the streets.

When the tropical rain falls it's a problem, because water flows down the ravine and it's
impossible to go down into town. On a daily basis it is possible to walk, but there is a lot of
garbage around. This garbage rots in the sun, or burns. If there is too much mud then the
houses can collapse. They built a staircase here, that is to say, they crossed people, people got
together and put up step by step together. They paid some, but there was no money for
everyone. But people are happy to build because these stairs are for them, so that they can get
in and sell eggs or fruit, not slipping. This is some part of the stability, these stairs, steep but
sure, solid.

We have been trying for two days, but it is not possible. Cherizier is on the front lines, fighting.
There is a man who is an ambassador between the gangs. And this man says it can't be done
now, some other time, now there is friction, constant turmoil. And I find this out in the car, in the
heat, in the morning. And I only say "too bad." Sean looks at me for another moment. "Too bad,"
he replies. He looks out the window, at the street, maybe at the pendant stall, maybe at the
decrepit car flashing past the gate. And he reaches into his pocket, turns on his phone and
looks for a name. And I see the name, the name that has been heard everywhere, for a long
time. I can see by his face that the attempt is pointless. Phone to his ear, lowered gaze, silence.
And suddenly a flash, a stir, the silhouette straightens up, an indistinct voice is heard from the
phone. "Babakyou, koute.”

Sean grew up in an orphanage. Calm, assured, full of humility, when needed serious, when
needed he can rebuke. We want something to eat, but everywhere they only have Pica Pollo.
And Pica Pollo is not Haitian food, it's Dominican food. Why can't we get Haitian food here? He
has slightly bloodshot eyes, dark Caribbean dreadlocks and a serene expression on his face.
He watches closely, knows when to slow down, when to speed up, which way to go, who to talk
to. You can't hear judgment in his words, he takes in information to himself, analyzes. His
girlfriend is from Nigeria, has lush curls, a dreamy look, and speaks weak Creole. They live
together here in Port au Prince, she cooks every day, and he busies himself building stairs in the
slum. We stand in one parking lot, you have to exchange dollars for gourdes. With this there is
no problem, you only lose when you reverse the transaction. Here you can pay with anything
you have. But the gourdes are more and more and more unwieldy, you pay in thousands for
dinner and tens of thousands for lodging.

A seller of magic brews brings a skull, a human white skull, and next to it lights up the candle .
Nearby the puppeteer sits on an old curly chair with springs sticking out, watching. The infusion
can be used for love, it can be used for enrichment. The infusion can be used to bring people
back from the grave. But then there is only silence, this path is not walked further. On the sheet
of a stall serving as a wall hangs a prayer book, a rosary, various old engravings. According to
the Haitians themselves, they are the only people who spit on their urine. It came from
Dahomey, from Ashanti, from the old kingdoms. The only country that has such contact with its
roots. But Africa surrendered, and they fought back.

But they are asking, after all. They have been asking for intervention for a long time. Just what
of it? Haiti is postponed. Somewhere someone drilled, somewhere someone bought something,
but it's not for now. From somewhere the weapons are coming, a continuous uninterrupted
stream of weapons. And there is death and anxiety and fear and sunshine and flies and music
and constant movement, the city is constantly busy, it's not deserted, it's definitely not. Tires
smolder, old skeletons of cars rust, rivers of bottles, cans, some kind of tropical plants,
sometimes a lost goat gets caught between motorcycles. Are there many accidents here? No.
The apparent chaos, for a foreigner unbridled, for a Haitian is daily bread, he knows it, he knows
how to handle it, it doesn't cause him a problem.

When we are with them it will be better. They are living their daily life there in the middle. You
are safe because you are with them, and the front is far away now, nothing should happen. It's
worse on the street, because you don't know who's around. Besides, Delmas is different. It's not
Cité Soleil. In Cité Solei you walk down streets full of garbage. In Delmas there are efforts, there
is some energy that puts it all together. Nothing should happen. It can be much worse with a
policeman, with a soldier. If one of them takes the passport, who knows if that passport will be
seen again. And it's hard to talk to a soldier on duty. He might say, then we will take him into
custody, and you bring his passport from the hotel. And if they see the passport, then maybe
they'll let him go. But it's not a sure thing, because is it known who this man really is?

Delmas 6, G9 an fanmi, Jimmy Barbecue Cherizier. Cité Soleil, G-Pep, Ti Gabriel.

Croix-de-boquetes, 400 Mawoze, Wilson Joseph. Martissant, Grand Ravine, Ti Lapi.
Cabaret, Titanyen, Johnson Andre. Torcelle, Kraze Barye, Vitel'homme Innocent. Village de
Dieu, 5 Segond, Manno. Carrefour, Baz Chen mechan, Chen Mechan. Degand, Nan Ti Bwa,
Krisla. Bolosse, Baz ri Porcelaine, Ti Chéf. Bez belè, Bel Air, Kenpès.

"And even on Independence Day there was no one on the streets?" he said. "Of course, no one.
Although, let me think, there were some. I saw, there were, maybe fifty people. But the rest
stayed at home, with relatives, friends. They are afraid to go out. They are afraid to go across
the street. Sometimes, if your house is in an area of gang activity, you have to think of
something. Usually then five or six people establish there a security corridor. If you want to get
to work, or to the store, or somewhere else then you have to go out the back way, sneak out of
your house, and then go through the yards and houses of these six other people to get to the
street which is now safe. From there you can walk down an alley to the market, and it's always
better where there are a lot of people.”

You look around, there are so many things to fix, to put in order. But first you have to get rid of
fear. Fear rules here, it takes precedence over everything. The cab driver remembers well how
every day on the radio they said that a policeman died.

Conducting an interview with Oudun, I run out of disk space. I have to go back to the parking lot
to my car to get a spare disk. I return by walking down the slope. In the parking lot, children are
playing ball. They call out something to me, in Creole, put the ball in front of my foot, I shoot, the
shot misses, bounces off the post.

Cherizier corrects his black scarf. " If any slave sets foot on Haitian soil he will be a free man.
That's what Jean Jacques Dessalines said. In 1802 the French came, led by Napoleon,
because they didn't like it. We took up arms and chased them out of here. And now if they come
to meddle in our affairs again, we will not hesitate." He rubs his eyes, tired. "These children, it's
most unfortunate for these children."

They lead us away. We leave, and they stay. Our questions multiply, and their patience, their
deep thoughtfulness remains. They look behind us with tired eyes. The gate slowly opens, to
the wide stuffy street, to the sizzle and bustle of the city.

This much is certain. The pearl of antilia is on the verge of exhaustion. And something inside
you crumbles, something inside you shatters at this sight. But the Haitians feel that their time will
come, they all feel it, without exception. They feel that what is happening on the surface will
pass, and what is deep inside them, uninterrupted, will remain. It takes time, it takes attention, it
takes understanding. Haitians are a reflective nation. They are constantly analyzing their
situation, looking for causes. They know that if help does not come from outside they will have
to fight for themselves. And when they've dealt with the garbage, with the chaos, with their own
rage, there will still be a girl with a basket full of mangoes on her head walking down the street,
full of character, confident and dignified. Or maybe there will be a boy walking on the other side
of the street, thoughtful, wearing a floral shirt, with dark dreadlocks, a Caribbean countenance,
maybe he will be walking aimlessly, and when someone asks him he will answer that today is a
good day, and with a sleepy, casual step he will march on.