The Ghost of Christmas Past

My daughter’s boyfriend invited us to a Christmas street fair in Brooklyn a few days ago. There would be all kinds of food stands, arts & crafts, and plenty of Santas for the babies to enjoy, so we looked forward to the fun. We hurriedly got dressed and hit the road for the hour’s drive ahead of us from Queens. The sun had just set when we arrived at Stone Park Café on the corner of 3^rd Street and 5^th Avenue. To our disappointment, most activities were already winding down, and the merchants were almost done packing their goods. The only things left were a few unsold Christmas ornaments and dozens of Christmas trees leaning against the fence surrounding an unlit playground, where parents were still pushing their small children on the swings throughout the park. As we proceeded to join them, the intoxicating smell of the Christmas trees filled the air, and I was suddenly nostalgic for old times in Haiti when Christmas used to mean something.

As a child growing up in Port-au-Prince in the 60s and 70s, part of our Christmas activities was going to Marché Salomon, a popular market in the downtown area, to fetch the tallest and thickest tree among the hundreds on display. Baskets of Spanish moss, on which tiny Nativity scenes would be placed at the bottom of the trees, were sold alongside the pines and conifers. As soon as you entered the downtown area at night, the soft breeze blowing from the harbor a couple of miles away carried the fragrance of the trees uptown so that the entire area smelled of Christmas.

Stores on Grand Rue (the Main Street downtown) were adorned with lights, and the sidewalks were filled with small retailers selling Christmas ornaments and strings of Christmas lights late into the night. Streets everywhere came alive with the works of local artisans. On either side of the road were kites in vibrant greens and reds and traditional white Christmas trees, which were not trees at all but made to look like bare branches painted in white from which garlands, Christmas balls, and twinkling lights could be hung. Perhaps one of the most beloved crafts was the Christmas lantern, the “fanal”, made with colorful, thin paper and shaped like houses or churches that delighted young and old with their ethereal glow. Light posts along both sides of the boulevards and highways connecting downtown with the communes of Delmas and Pétion-Ville were decorated with seasonal ornaments. Christmas music, Konpa-style, poured out of the local stores, while street musicians, troubadour-style, serenaded the passersby. Our hearts could not help but be filled with joy at such a majestic display of colors and sounds.

My family, like many others, would drive up to the green hills of Kenscoff or Furcy to spend part of the Christmas holidays. Some families owned vacation homes in these hills, and others rented homes for the occasion. There, especially at night, the temperatures would drop low enough to feel like early Fall in the United States and Canada. And sometimes even cooler. The locals wore layers of heavy sweaters and would stuff newspapers down their socks to keep warm. And when in Rome, we did as Romans do. Those cool nights called for grilled corn, hot chocolate, and a shot of Johnny Walker. During the day, some local children would join us as we picked wild berries from the bushes alongside the roads. We would make a whole morning of it, carrying small straw baskets to fill them with scrumptious fruits. Men would bring around horses to the vacationers for their children to ride in exchange for a few gourdes or offer some handmade crafts for sale, while the women came around with freshly picked fruits and vegetables and live chickens. We were always glad to take these off their hands. It was part of the real “Vivre ensemble”. Those were the best of times.

Today, all of it is gone; the Christmas spirit has packed up and left long ago, and I don’t know if the country will ever know those times again. Tales of Christmas of yesteryear sound like made-up stories to the youth, nothing like today’s harsh reality. Downtown Port-au-Prince, once alive with activities, has turned into a ghost town with gunfire replacing holiday bustle. Violence is everywhere. Precious family and community traditions have been broken by government incompetence and corruption. And, where there is an absence of governance and leadership, chaos settles in. Traditions cannot thrive in chaos.

An entire generation of children today may never know the wonder of Christmas. Nor might they ever experience again the simple pleasures that living in peace procures. Instead, their innocence is robbed every single day, either by the trauma of witnessing or suffering through atrocities that they should never have been exposed to or because, in many cases, big guns are shoved into their hands. Instead of going to school, playing with marbles, or delighting in just being kids, they carry military-grade weapons of destruction and do the bidding of hardened criminals.

Haiti’s people, once known for their hospitality and contagious smiles, now stare wearily at TikTokers chasing fame or journalists from major television networks on their way to interview gang leaders, accusing them of making a living off of their daily misery. Misery for sale. But very few are buying. The world and the so-called “friends of Haiti” have grown tired of Haiti. They are stepping away from the mess that they have helped to create. It is survival of the fittest, and the weak are adopting the ways of the strong to survive, becoming the oppressors in the process.

One of my friends recently quoted the words of Thucydides in his comment to my last blog, Haiti, Change is not for Tomorrow: “The strong do what they will, and the weak suffer what they must.” I’ve also heard it said, “The people have the leader they deserve.” I have a hard time accepting this. Nobody deserves the daily abuse they’ve been subjected to by both the state and the gangs, especially the children. What my people have lost is hope and the magic it brings. And part of that magic is the will to fight. To demand to be respected and to be served by the state.

A circa 2007 survey by the OnTheFrontiers (OTF) Group, an American consulting firm hired by the Haitian private sector, confirmed what many of us already knew: There is a deficit of hope in the people of Haiti, and without it, there can be no meaningful stride toward development. And, by all accounts, things have only gotten worse. According to this firm, it was essential to undo this fatalistic mentality if Haiti is to see better days, and only an aggressive, long-term awareness campaign could change the Haitian paradigm. I agree, and to do this, we, Haitians, must give ourselves a compelling future and share it as much as possible, from the backcountry to the cities. We must give back hope to the people. Those of us who still have the ability to dream must lead the way. We must remind ourselves of what Haiti stood and still stands for in the battle against slavery and oppression and show the people what Haiti could be again. But it all starts with the willingness of this transitional government to hold decent and safe elections. And that requires a minimum of security.

But how do we achieve this security? Is it by declaring war on the enemy when the enemy occupies both sides of the field? Or do we accept the unacceptable, and perhaps the inevitable—inclusive dialogue? Meaning, sitting at the table with the guns. If that should happen, what will we, as a society, offer to get our peace back? How much are we willing to compromise? We, who have lost so much.

My people, our politicians, have always fallen short of the “after”. What happens after we get rid of corrupt leaders? What kind of new leaders are we looking for? My Haitian brothers and sisters are always quick to overthrow, to sound the alarm of revolution, but all we ever end up with is more of the same. Our planning capacity seems to stop at overthrowing. There has never been a true vision of what the “after” should look like, something we can all buy into. That compelling future, one that unites and does not divide. One for the common good.

If I were to offer advice today, it would be this. Bois Caïman, the birthplace of the revolution that changed the world, is more than a place. It is a phenomenon, a mindset, and, in my humble opinion, it can be recreated anywhere like-minded men and women meet to discuss and agree on a common objective. The mastermind that results from this has all the answers as long as the right questions are asked.

Merry Christmas to all. I hope that 2025 is the year when all Haitians, in and outside of the country, band together to create the Haiti we all deserve.

This picture is respectfully borrowed from the Haiti Wonderland website. It represents the Bois-Caïman ceremony, the origin of the Haitian revolution, and a symbol of resistance.

For more information on Bois-Caïman, visit the Haiti Wonderland website at: https://haitiwonderland.com/haiti/en/history/bois-caiman-ceremony-origin-of-the-haitian-revolution-and-symbol-of-resistance/186