Finding Redemption Through Forgiveness

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As Donald Trump secures another presidential victory, I find myself reflecting on the nature of democracy and leadership from a unique vantage point. As a Haitian-American, I watch my adopted country grapple with its political future while my homeland spirals deeper into chaos. This moment of parallel political transitions has left me feeling untethered, searching for solid ground between two nations wrestling with their democratic ideals.

The Weight of Two Worlds

Haiti, my homeland and traditional anchor, feels increasingly unrecognizable. In Port-au-Prince, armed gangs now control over 80% of the capital, their influence spreading like tentacles into previously safe regions. Meanwhile, our political elite wage their own battles, seemingly detached from the suffering of ordinary citizens.

As the?Conseil Présidentiel de Transition?(Transitional Presidential Council, or CPT) and Prime Minister Conille lock horns, another cast of characters waits in the wings for a potential transition led by a Supreme Court judge. They are eager to seize power and its riches. While this power struggle unfolds, many Haitians remain focused on the belief that the West covets Haiti's natural resources, convinced foreign powers are plotting to exploit what little remains of our wealth.

Yet this narrative contains a paradox: those who argue that U.S. interests lie in exploiting Haiti’s resources also claim that Haiti’s political and economic elite already follow the edicts of the U.S. government. If that were true, what is stopping the U.S. from simply taking Haiti’s resources? Wouldn’t Haitian leaders have already handed over what America supposedly wants? A similar contradiction lies among those who claim the U.S. created the chaos to push our brightest minds into the Biden administration's immigration program. Now, they fear Trump’s threats of mass deportation of this very intellectual elite. While it's infinitely easier to blame others for our problems, Haiti’s illness lies within.

A Tale of Two Legacies

For some time now, I have been reflecting on the question of leadership—or the lack thereof—in Haiti. Why can’t we ever find leaders who truly reflect our aspirations? Part of the answer came to me unexpectedly during my volunteer campaign work in Pennsylvania. During one canvassing trip, I found myself walking Philadelphia’s historic district’s cobblestone streets. At Independence National Park, tourists from around the world gathered reverently around the Liberty Bell, tracing its famous crack and photographing Independence Hall.

Inside, tour guides recounted Benjamin Franklin's journey: his rise from humble printer to founding father, his role in the Continental Congress, his hand in drafting the Declaration of Independence, and his crucial work on the Constitution. Despite Franklin’s documented xenophobia toward Germans, Americans have found ways to honor his contributions, largely overlooking his flaws. I began to think about how Haitians regard their heroes.

It was an epiphany for me—a stark contrast between how America and Haiti treat their founders. This disregard for our own heroes and symbols has cut deep into our national psyche. Toussaint Louverture died imprisoned in France's Chateau de Joux, where he remains today, far from the soil he fought to liberate. Jean-Jacques Dessalines, Haiti's liberator, met an even more tragic fate: assassinated by his compatriots in 1806, his body dismembered, his memory dishonored. Today, Dessalines' tomb lies in ruins, a testament to our collective failure to honor our history.

The Price of Forgetting

Years ago, I visited Bwa Kayiman, the sacred site where our revolution began, and found it in a dilapidated condition. This is Haiti's equivalent of the Yorktown Battlefield, where the British surrendered to the Colonial Army, or Independence Hall, where both the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution were debated and signed. This neglect of Bwa Kayiman perfectly symbolizes our relationship with our past—a willful forgetting an disregard that costs us our ability to dream of a collective future.

if we could betray Dessalines, our founding father, why would any Haitian today risk anything for Haiti?

This erasure of heritage creates a devastating psychological cycle: if we could betray Dessalines, our founding father, why would any Haitian today risk anything for Haiti? The message echoes through generations: sacrifice yourself for Haiti, and history will remember you not as a patriot, but as a fool.

Ignoring a Threat That Grows Bigger and Closer

There is a Haitian proverb that translates loosely to, "The goat’s business is not the sheep’s business" (Zafè kabrit pa zafè mouton). Today, as gangs expand their control beyond Port-au-Prince, a dangerous form of selective blindness pervades our communities. From Les Cayes to Cap-Ha?tien, people watch Port-au-Prince's destruction from a distance, clinging to the illusion that their region's relative safety will somehow endure. This self-defeating mindset—the belief that another’s tragedy won’t become our own—reveals how deeply we’ve internalized the habits of division that weaken our nation.

Port-au-Prince Pa Ayiti!

This willful blindness recalls Pastor Martin Niem?ller’s famous warning, which I’ve adapted for our context:

First, they came for Cité Soleil, and I did not speak out— Because I was not from Cité Soleil. Then they came for Grand Ravine, and I did not speak out— Because I was not from Grand Ravine. Then they came for Village de Dieu, and I did not speak out— Because I was not from Village de Dieu. Then they came for Croix-des-Bouquets, and I did not speak out— Because I was not from Croix-des-Bouquets. Then they came for me— And there was no one left to speak out.

The Redemptive Power of Forgiveness

As I learn more about social evolution and the power of beliefs, symbols, and rituals, I have come to believe that we Haitians need a day of reckoning with our past—a day when the entire country stops to ask our ancestors for forgiveness. A day of reflection and action.

This transformation must begin at our sacred sites. Through community?konbits, we would restore Dessalines’ tomb to its rightful glory. Bwa Kayiman would be transformed from an abandoned pavilion into a living museum of the Haitian Revolution, complete with educational centers that tell our story in our own words. These revolutionary sites would become bridges between past and present, helping new generations understand the price of freedom.

These physical restorations must be matched by spiritual renewal. In churches and vodou temples alike, Haitians would gather to reflect on our shared journey. Radio and television would carry historical discussions and documentaries, helping us understand not just what happened, but why it matters today.

In the long term, we can draw inspiration from successful homecoming programs like Israel’s Birthright and Ghana’s Year of Return to create a formal program for Haiti’s scattered children. This would be about more than tourism; it would be about reconnection and reconstruction. Young Haitians from the diaspora would spend meaningful time in Haiti, not just visiting tourist sites but engaging in community projects, learning our history firsthand, and building lasting connections with their homeland.

This program would differ from existing initiatives by focusing on sustained engagement rather than brief visits. Participants would spend time in both urban and rural Haiti, working alongside local communities on restoration projects, learning Kreyol, and understanding Haiti’s challenges and opportunities firsthand. Like Birthright, it would create a permanent bridge between Haiti and its diaspora; like Ghana’s program, it would emphasize the power of returning to ancestral soil.

Looking Forward

As America enters another contentious chapter in its democratic journey, Haiti stands at its own crossroads. Our path to renewal starts with healing our relationship with the past. Only by honoring every square kilometer of our land, every citizen of our nation, and every sacrifice of our ancestors can we build the foundation for real change.

Haiti’s redemption begins with a profound act of self-awareness and love: looking in the mirror and embracing our true identity—proud descendants of Africa, children of the greatest revolution in history, and heirs to a legacy that transformed the world. The question is not whether we can change, but whether we will finally accept the responsibility that comes with our revolutionary heritage.

The world watches as both Haiti and America navigate their democratic challenges. While America debates its future within established institutions, Haiti must first rebuild its foundations. This task begins not with international aid or political transitions, but with a simple, powerful act: remembering who we are and honoring those who made us free.