get these nets
Veteran
(CONTINUED)
The Artibonite Valley is one of many parts of the country that were seized by heavily armed criminal gangs during Moïse’s tenure. There are close to a hundred gangs active in Haiti. According to Pierre Espérance, the executive director of the Haitian National Human Rights Defense Network, they control more than half of the country. Turf wars, murders, rapes, and kidnappings have recently led to the displacement of more than eighteen thousand people. Seeking refuge, some sleep in public parks and squares while others crowd into churches and gymnasiums, even as coronavirus cases have remained on the rise. During Moïse’s time in office, gangs carried out thirteen massacres in poor opposition neighborhoods. The International Human Rights Clinic at Harvard Law School and the Haitian Observatory for Crimes Against Humanity studied three and defined them as crimes against humanity.
Several of the massacres took place in Bel Air, the oldest district in Port-au-Prince, where my family landed in the nineteen-forties, after migrating from the mountains of Léogâne. I lived in Bel Air with my aunt and uncle for eight years, beginning at the age of four, and I continued to visit them there after I moved to the United States. My uncle, a minister, had a church, a school, and, briefly, a medical clinic in Bel Air. But he was forced to flee the neighborhood in 2004, at the age of eighty-one, after soldiers with the United Nations Stabilization Mission in Haiti and Haitian riot police climbed onto the roof of his church and killed some of his neighbors during one of their deadly raids against young men, some of whom had joined gangs and some of whom had not.
A year ago, nine of the most powerful gangs in Port-au-Prince formed a federation called G9 Family and Allies. Led by a former police officer named Jimmy (Barbecue) Chérizier, G9 recently rebranded as a revolutionary force. Having watched these groups’ evolution over the years, I hope that whatever version of Haiti emerges in Moïse’s wake offers much more appealing opportunities to poor and socially marginalized young men than to work as bodies and guns for hire for gang leaders, politicians, business people, oligarchs, and nefarious international forces, all of whom consider them ultimately disposable—a condition that they and the late President apparently shared.
A week before Moïse’s assassination, another massacre took place in Port-au-Prince. At least fifteen people were killed, including Diego Charles, a radio journalist, and Antoinette Duclaire, a vocal government critic. Just thirty-three years old, Duclaire was among a younger generation of activists, known as Petrochallengers, who are fiercely advocating for Haitian-led solutions to the country’s problems. Earlier this week, I spoke, via WhatsApp, with Vélina Elysée Charlier, Duclaire’s fellow-Petrochallenger and a member of the anti-corruption group Nou Pap Dòmi. She told me that she sees Moïse’s assassination as a denial of government accountability. “We, Haitians, have been robbed of the right to find justice and closure,” she said. “Jovenel was silenced. We will never have answers from him on Petrocaribe and the many massacres. That is a big blow to our fight against corruption and impunity.”
At the head of Haiti’s government for the moment is Claude Joseph, who was serving as Haiti’s interim Prime Minister at the time of Moïse’s death. But others are vying for power. Just two days before the assassination, Moïse had chosen a replacement for Joseph, a neurosurgeon and former Interior Minister named Ariel Henry, who has claimed that he should be in charge. The leader of Haiti’s Senate, Joseph Lambert—one of the few remaining elected officials in the country—got his colleagues to back a plan for him to become President. (Last week, a spokesman for the Biden Administration called Claude Joseph the “incumbent” leader. The U.S. has since sent delegates to work with all parties on brokering a deal.)
Joseph, meanwhile, has vowed to get justice for Moïse and his family. When it comes to criminal inquiries, Haitians are accustomed to hearing the same mantra from officials: L’enquête se poursuit—the investigation continues. (“As they always do, judicial authorities will announce investigations that lead nowhere. We are used to that,” Jacques Desrosiers, the head of the Haitian Journalists Association, said, after the massacre that killed Duclaire and Charles, who was his colleague.) In Moïse’s case, Joseph and Haiti’s national-police chief, Léon Charles, have acted with unprecedented swiftness. Joseph declared a fifteen-day “state of siege” in the country, similar to a period of martial law. Authorities launched an international manhunt in their own back yard, and in less than twenty-four hours killed or apprehended highly trained professional killers, parading them before cameras for all the world to see. They also arrested the supposed mastermind behind the entire operation, a sixty-three-year-old pastor who once filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy but who now apparently flies in private planes with a small army of mercenaries for his personal protection—commandos whom he then, according to the police, ordered to go kill the President so that he, Christian Emmanuel Sanon, sent by God, could save Haiti. (On Thursday morning, the Times reported that Sanon and other subjects of interest in the investigation had met during the past year to discuss Haiti's future.)
“Who’s writing this script?” my filmmaker friend in New York asked as we, like so many of our Haitian and diaspora friends and family, pored over each new twist and development, and debated every detail. “The only part I believe is that the President is dead,” a pregnant friend in Port-au-Prince said. She is very worried about the country she’s bringing her child into. Others, like the Petrochallenger Charlier, simply feel numb. “The population is emotionless, indifferent,” she told me. “We’re so used to people dying.” Of course, Moïse’s family, like all Haitian families, deserves justice for the appalling crime that took his life and left Martine Moïse wounded. I hope that they will get justice. As so many I’ve recently spoken to in Haiti have put it, if the President was not safe in his own home, then no one is safe. L’enquête se poursuit.
The Artibonite Valley is one of many parts of the country that were seized by heavily armed criminal gangs during Moïse’s tenure. There are close to a hundred gangs active in Haiti. According to Pierre Espérance, the executive director of the Haitian National Human Rights Defense Network, they control more than half of the country. Turf wars, murders, rapes, and kidnappings have recently led to the displacement of more than eighteen thousand people. Seeking refuge, some sleep in public parks and squares while others crowd into churches and gymnasiums, even as coronavirus cases have remained on the rise. During Moïse’s time in office, gangs carried out thirteen massacres in poor opposition neighborhoods. The International Human Rights Clinic at Harvard Law School and the Haitian Observatory for Crimes Against Humanity studied three and defined them as crimes against humanity.
Several of the massacres took place in Bel Air, the oldest district in Port-au-Prince, where my family landed in the nineteen-forties, after migrating from the mountains of Léogâne. I lived in Bel Air with my aunt and uncle for eight years, beginning at the age of four, and I continued to visit them there after I moved to the United States. My uncle, a minister, had a church, a school, and, briefly, a medical clinic in Bel Air. But he was forced to flee the neighborhood in 2004, at the age of eighty-one, after soldiers with the United Nations Stabilization Mission in Haiti and Haitian riot police climbed onto the roof of his church and killed some of his neighbors during one of their deadly raids against young men, some of whom had joined gangs and some of whom had not.
A year ago, nine of the most powerful gangs in Port-au-Prince formed a federation called G9 Family and Allies. Led by a former police officer named Jimmy (Barbecue) Chérizier, G9 recently rebranded as a revolutionary force. Having watched these groups’ evolution over the years, I hope that whatever version of Haiti emerges in Moïse’s wake offers much more appealing opportunities to poor and socially marginalized young men than to work as bodies and guns for hire for gang leaders, politicians, business people, oligarchs, and nefarious international forces, all of whom consider them ultimately disposable—a condition that they and the late President apparently shared.
A week before Moïse’s assassination, another massacre took place in Port-au-Prince. At least fifteen people were killed, including Diego Charles, a radio journalist, and Antoinette Duclaire, a vocal government critic. Just thirty-three years old, Duclaire was among a younger generation of activists, known as Petrochallengers, who are fiercely advocating for Haitian-led solutions to the country’s problems. Earlier this week, I spoke, via WhatsApp, with Vélina Elysée Charlier, Duclaire’s fellow-Petrochallenger and a member of the anti-corruption group Nou Pap Dòmi. She told me that she sees Moïse’s assassination as a denial of government accountability. “We, Haitians, have been robbed of the right to find justice and closure,” she said. “Jovenel was silenced. We will never have answers from him on Petrocaribe and the many massacres. That is a big blow to our fight against corruption and impunity.”
At the head of Haiti’s government for the moment is Claude Joseph, who was serving as Haiti’s interim Prime Minister at the time of Moïse’s death. But others are vying for power. Just two days before the assassination, Moïse had chosen a replacement for Joseph, a neurosurgeon and former Interior Minister named Ariel Henry, who has claimed that he should be in charge. The leader of Haiti’s Senate, Joseph Lambert—one of the few remaining elected officials in the country—got his colleagues to back a plan for him to become President. (Last week, a spokesman for the Biden Administration called Claude Joseph the “incumbent” leader. The U.S. has since sent delegates to work with all parties on brokering a deal.)
Joseph, meanwhile, has vowed to get justice for Moïse and his family. When it comes to criminal inquiries, Haitians are accustomed to hearing the same mantra from officials: L’enquête se poursuit—the investigation continues. (“As they always do, judicial authorities will announce investigations that lead nowhere. We are used to that,” Jacques Desrosiers, the head of the Haitian Journalists Association, said, after the massacre that killed Duclaire and Charles, who was his colleague.) In Moïse’s case, Joseph and Haiti’s national-police chief, Léon Charles, have acted with unprecedented swiftness. Joseph declared a fifteen-day “state of siege” in the country, similar to a period of martial law. Authorities launched an international manhunt in their own back yard, and in less than twenty-four hours killed or apprehended highly trained professional killers, parading them before cameras for all the world to see. They also arrested the supposed mastermind behind the entire operation, a sixty-three-year-old pastor who once filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy but who now apparently flies in private planes with a small army of mercenaries for his personal protection—commandos whom he then, according to the police, ordered to go kill the President so that he, Christian Emmanuel Sanon, sent by God, could save Haiti. (On Thursday morning, the Times reported that Sanon and other subjects of interest in the investigation had met during the past year to discuss Haiti's future.)
“Who’s writing this script?” my filmmaker friend in New York asked as we, like so many of our Haitian and diaspora friends and family, pored over each new twist and development, and debated every detail. “The only part I believe is that the President is dead,” a pregnant friend in Port-au-Prince said. She is very worried about the country she’s bringing her child into. Others, like the Petrochallenger Charlier, simply feel numb. “The population is emotionless, indifferent,” she told me. “We’re so used to people dying.” Of course, Moïse’s family, like all Haitian families, deserves justice for the appalling crime that took his life and left Martine Moïse wounded. I hope that they will get justice. As so many I’ve recently spoken to in Haiti have put it, if the President was not safe in his own home, then no one is safe. L’enquête se poursuit.