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It has been a history suffused with mutual resentments, suspicions and hostilities, though it could be argued that, despite marked cultural and linguistic differences, what the peoples of both sides of la frontera have in common far outweighs the traits that differentiate them. Long periods of military or quasi-military rule interrupted by various, often highly authoritarian and corrupt, civilian leaders, a deeply entrenched economic elite and a highly disenfranchised poor majority, a relatively weak judiciary and repeated interventions by foreign powers.
Since those pivotal moments, fate has not smiled on Haiti. The joy of the election, which saw the elevation to the office of the presidency of the former priest Jean-Bertrand Aristide, was lost in the bloodshed of the coup that followed in and the military junta that ruled the country from until Returned to office by a U. A unelected interim government oversaw what can only be described as a low level civil-war between police, former rebel forces, street gangs loyal to Mr.
Aristide and United Nations troops, finally culminating in the election and inauguration of Rene Preval, the only Haitian president ever to serve out his constitutionally-mandated term to elected office. The Dominican Republic, with a population of nearly 10 million, has an average life expectancy of around 73 years. Many of these statistics would be considered fairly dreadful by most standards, but venture across the border to Haiti and observe the situation there. But these are, in many ways, simply dry figures, devoid of humanity.
For me, the face of Haiti, its suffering, and its resilience, came in a thousand faces across this battered, bleeding land. I saw the history of Haiti in another nearby slum, where a group of gentle souls had attempted to build a community out of the hollowed-around ruins of an expansive former torture chamber, so poor that they subsisted on cakes made out of clay and seasoned with inexpensive cubes of chicken or beef bouillon. And I saw the history of Haiti in the weathered visages of peasant farmers and market women in the village of Fonds-Verettes, below mist-shrouded mountains largely bare of trees, amidst a clutch of tarp-covered market stands and beside an immense field of boulder-sized rocks, where the rains of May killed over people, their ferocity made doubly so by the lack of any trees to hold the topsoil fast when the tropical rains burst forth.
