[Photos of the day:] Of course the world loves America ...
Image from: Haitian citizens ask for asylum in front of the US Embassy in Tabarre, Haiti, following the assassination of President Jovenel Moise. Credit... Valerie Baeriswyl/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images
Image from, with caption: Haitian citizens outside the U.S. Embassy in Haiti on Saturday. Credit...Valerie Baeriswyl/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images
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About 700,000 people born in Haiti now live in the United States, according to census records, the equivalent of about 16 percent of Haiti’s entire population. (NYT)
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In rarefied Pétionville, a journalist recalls, the veneer of security was shattered by gunfire (NYT)
Since I moved back to Haiti from Montreal in 2015 at the age of 33, it has been the place where I feel most at home. Here, I could buy cherries at my favorite market or order my daily caramel frappé at Marie Beliard, a famous pâtisserie on rue Faubert, without needing to worry that armed gangs could attack me or that I could be kidnapped. Those threats have become woefully commonplace in other neighborhoods of Port-au-Prince.
The location of the president’s residence in Pétionville also helped create a sense of security, however precarious, because there were often 100 officers from the presidential guard stationed around the president’s home.
At the same time, his house was also a mystery to many Haitians, including me. The National Palace that served as the residence of Haitian presidents for nearly half a century was severely damaged in the 2010 earthquake that claimed about 250,000 Haitian lives, and subsequent Haitian presidents have since lived in their own private homes, often away from prying eyes.
Mr. Moïse, whose contested presidency had spawned massive protests against corruption and lawlessness, was discreet about his home’s location, making the organized choreography of the assassination in Pétionville hard for me and other residents to fathom. Such was the mystery of his house that, in the past, many protesters couldn’t find his residence and were turned away by police as they searched.
Since the president was killed, our sense of security in “PV,” as my friends and I refer to it, has felt more ephemeral than ever. For the first few days after the killing, many residents stayed home, afraid to go out for fear of violence.
On Saturday afternoon, however, things had returned to normal, or so it seemed. Shops were open and streets were clogged with weekend traffic and vendors selling clothes, electronic appliances and vegetables. People were out shopping in the 90-degree heat.
While somewhat jittery, I am gearing up to go back to my favorite fruit market on rue Pinchinat for cherries, though I’ll remain ensconced in my car. As in other areas of Haiti, it can be too dangerous to walk the streets, and middle class residents often use their cars as protective cocoons.
Since the events of the past week, my beloved Pétionville doesn’t quite feel the same. It is a suburb still in shock. But we Haitians always bounce back because death here is unfortunately part of life. And Pétionville will bounce back, too.
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See also: Who Paid for That Mansion? A Senator or the Haitian People? Valued at $3.4 million, a Haitian senator’s Montreal villa has become a potent emblem of the growing gap between Haiti’s impoverished citizens and its wealthy political elite. (NYT)
Bald Head Haitian party.
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