Tango Negro

A lovely tango that celebrates African cultural influences in tango. He even names specific African 'ethnic groups' that influenced the comparsas, Carnival celebrations, and rhythms of candombe, milonga, and tango.

Defining the Caribbean

A friend sent this article in French to me about defining or categorizing the Caribbean. As one would expect, some of the islanders interviewed on defining the Caribbean had differing views. From a cursory look at the differing maps representing Trinidadian, Cuban, Jamaican and Guadeloupean perspectives on the confines of the Caribbean, the Hispanophone and Francophone speakers were more likley to include coastal Central America and northern South America. Trinidadians did include coastal Venezuela, but not Colombia. Jamaicans only included Guyana and Suriname with small portions of Central America (Panama, etc.) as part of the Caribbean. Guadeloupeans, on the other hand, included a much broader definition of the Caribbean that resembled academic definitions of the "Greater Caribbean" region, including coastal South America, all of Central America, and southern Florida. Besides the Guadeloupeean pan-Caribbean view, Cuban definitions of the Caribbean were second place in terms of broadly defining the region. Cubans included southern Florida, Central America, the 'traditional' Caribbean, and northern South America's coast. Interestingly, southern Florida was not considered part of the Caribbean by Trinidadians, perhaps reflecting immigration patterns (Jamaican and Cuban immigrants have established communities in Florida). Also of note is the broad Caribbean region described by Guadeloupe considers the Gulf Coast of the US, primarily Louisiana and New Orleans, as Caribbean. This may reflect a shared francophone heritage or perhaps a broad definition of Caribbean or Antillean identity rooted in the creolite movement of Guadeloupe and Martinique. Regardless, it's fascinating how different Caribbean students, representing English-speaking "West Indians," Spanish-speaking Cubans, and francophone speakers define their region of the world. For clarification, I shall post those images of the Caribbean below:

This map depicts the 'traditional' Caribbean, consisting of only the islands (Greater and Lesser Antilles) and the French, Dutch, and British possessions in Central and South America (Belize, Suriname, Guyana, French Guiana).

What I have translated as the "Greater Caribbean" includes Mexico, all of Central America, and all of northern South America. This corresponds more with the actual history of exchange, migration, and cultural/racial miscegenation that has taken place throughout this region, from the Gulf Coast, Florida, and the Antilles to Central and South America. Another commonality of the region is the shared history of the Atlantic Slave Trade, European conquest and colonialism, American imperialism, and the use of mostly Romance languages. Although most of Mexico and Central America boast no substantial phenotypically 'black' populations outside of Panama and certain provinces of states like Costa Rica, the African presence can be seen in the colonial period and some of the music, especially the use of marimbas among indigenous peoples in the area. Colombia and Venezuela must be included because of the important demographic and cultural impact of the slave trade and Afro-descendants, too.

Cuban perceptions of the Caribbean here. It includes the Antilles as the core region and peripherally Central America and the northern coast of South America.

Students from Guadeloupe have the broadest definition of Caribbean, corresponding well with the aforementioned "Greater Caribbean" map. One could arguably push for inclusion of coastal Ecuador, the coastal lowlands of Peru, and perhaps northeastern Brazil as extensions of the Caribbean due to similarly influential Afro-descendants, although that goes beyond the Caribbean Sea.

Jamaicans view the Caribbean as essentially the "West Indies" with Belize, Guyana, Suriname, French Guiana, and, marginally, southern Florida and Panama. Venezuela and northern Colombia are also present.

Trinidadians interestingly exclude Colombia but consider the entirety of Venezuela as "Caribbean," perhaps due to the close proximity of the nations and a history of migration and influences. However, they exclude Florida while every other group of Caribbean students included Florida. Without additional research, my only explanation for that trend is a reflection of the lack of large Trinidadian diasporic communities in Florida.

Again, the main pattern for defining "Caribbean" for many of these students is based on a large West Indian/Caribbean diasporic presence (in the case of Central American nations like Panama or Florida) and a high proportion of African-descended peoples. It would be fascinating to get the racial demographics of the Cuban students, and to include Haitians, Dominicans, and Puerto Ricans, to get a fuller picture of how Antilleans define themselves in relation to each other.

The following is my initial response to the article in an email to a friend. Defining the Caribbean, like any other region or form of categorization, relies on oppositional binary thinking that does not reflect the reality or porous borders. Models of understanding the world are only models, not necessarily accurate depictions of the world as we live it. The following email to a friend is a brief reflection on that and the limitations of defining a "Caribbean" and distinguishing it from "Latin America" or the Americas.

Interesting. I never thought of Mexico as part of the Greater Caribbean. I guess in some senses it makes sense for the coastal regions of Mexico and Central America to be considered "Caribbean," even if the population of African descent is small. I know Veracruz in Mexico was one a very important port of entry for slave trading in Mexico, although the current population is not phenotypically "African" like Haiti or Jamaica. I know son jarocho music has African as well as indigenous influences, probably because it arose in the Veracruz region.

For Central America, Belize and the West Indian descendants of laborers who came to places like Guatemala, Panama, and Costa Rica (province of Limon is very 'black') are definitely "Caribbean." Belize in British colonial days was known as "British Honduras" and consisted of a heterogeneous population, including various peoples of African descent. I think there is a Garifuna presence as well in terms, the Garifuna being descendants of African runaway slaves and indigenous peoples of the Caribbean who were gradually resettled in Central America by the British. I think some descendants of Saint Dominguan slaves were also settled in Central America when the region was still under Spanish colonial rule (look up the black auxiliaries of Spanish royalism in the early years of the Haitian Revolution. Unlike Toussaint Louverture, they remained loyal to fighting under the Spanish name against France and Britain. Perceived as a threat to the social order in Santo Domingo and Cuba, some were resettled in Florida and Central America.

Of course, northern South American countries like Suriname, French Guiana, and Guyana are always considered "Caribbean" and excluded from "Latin America." And from the little research I've conducted in Colombian, Venezuelan, and Brazilian history and race relations, the coastal regions of those aforementioned nations are "Caribbean," too. The largely African-descended populations, presence of obvious African-derived cultures (music, religion (Candomble, samba, cumbia, champeta, palenquero Spanish in Colombia, Cartagena and Barranquilla as slave ports for colonial Nueva Granada, etc.)) and the racialized geography makes it quite clear. The Chocho, or Pacific coast of Colombia, is also majority Afro-descended, ignored, and part of the racialized regionalism of Colombia. Southwestern Colombia and the Esmeraldas coast of Ecuador is also mostly Afro-descended. If one wanted to expand the definition of "Caribbean" even further, the coastal lowlands of Peru with its African-descended populations or southeastern Brazil and Minas Gerais for its African-descended populations. 

I guess at that point you might as well just call it all "Afro-Latin America," which shows how problematic these labels are since they're projections by scholars and outsiders on the peoples of this hemisphere. I guess I would realistically define Caribbean as the islands and coastal regions of states that border the Caribbean Sea and its environs. I would include coastal Colombia, Venezuela, Panama, parts of Costa Rica and Guatemala, and Belize as well as northeastern Brazil (Bahia, maybe Pernambuco?) because of the presence of significant or majority Afro-descended populations that are thoroughly 'mixed' culturally and/or 'racially.' I guess Patrick Chamoiseau and other Martinican writers as well as some negritude poets and theorists have tried to define Caribbean as rooted in 'blackness' or "Creolite," the latter referencing the mixed/creole heritage of the Caribbean as African, European, indigenous, and Asian. I suppose someone like Aime Cesaire would define "Caribbean" in a manner that emphasizes the African component whereas Patrick Chamoiseau and other Francophone writers would emphasize Caribbean as a fusion of the various peoples who inhabit/ed the region. Clearly, the latter definition of "Caribbean" sounds like the "raza cosmica" or mestizaje nationalism of many Latin American nations, which emphasize racial mixture as national identity. 

I guess it's difficult to really 'define' the Caribbean then. People have unsurprisingly criticized the excesses of negritude and the weaknesses of mestizaje and Creolite in masking racial oppression or maintaining the marginalization of certain identities, such as the African component in Colombia, Mexico, Peru, and other countries. In the end, the strict separation of Latin America and the "Caribbean" based on linguistic differenes does not hold, and it's often applied randomly. Haiti or francophone islands like Martinique, for instance, are often excluded from "Latin America" but they speak Romance languages like Spanish and Portuguese. As for anglophone islands like Jamaica or Trinidad, many of those peoples have migrated and worked in the Spanish Caribbean or Panama. Furthermore, peoples often spoke various languages so many older Trinidadians spoke French or a Creole because of shifting European colonial authorities. Regardless, these ideological divides between Latin America and the Caribbean clearly don't reflect reality. And I neglected to mention New Orleans and Miami. New Orleans was essentially a Caribbean society well into the 19th century, with a racial structure that mirrored Saint Domingue or colonial Haiti, not to mention it was also briefly a Spanish colonial city. Miami and parts of Florida have also been longstanding "Caribbean" regions, since African-descended slaves and free people of color have always been part of Spanish Florida's somewhat freer racial relations. Indeed, from what I can recall, African-American slaves from the US often fled to Spanish Florida before the US annexation and many African-Americans joined Seminole and other indigenous communities. 

I'm not sure why I wrote this very long, rambling email, but thanks for sharing that article. It's always interesting to see how folks from the Caribbean define themselves. I remember my mother, who never identified as Latina or Latin America, telling me as a young child that Haiti is "in South America." I remember white Americans trying to tell me that I should "identify as Latino" because Haiti is in Latin America, but I don't think they're really aware of the social and racial dynamics of Haitians in Cuba, Dominican Republic, or elsewhere.

Cat's Cradle

"Pay no attention to Caesar. Caesar doesn't have the slightest idea of what's really going on."

Kurt Vonnegut's Cat Cradle is one of his satirical novels partly influenced by Haiti. Set in the fictional Caribbean republic of San Lorenzo, the island's dictator is "Papa" Monzano (named after Papa Doc Duvalier). "Papa" Monzano lives in castle built by an ex-slave emperor, Tum-bumwa, and the castle has never been attacked, much like Haiti's illustrious Citadel. In addition, the impoverished island where natives speak an English dialect has been the target of various Western powers. Vonnegut even satirizes the US businessmen Crosby whose reason for visiting San Lorenzo is to start a bike manufacturing factory, similar to foreign corporations who go to Haiti as a source of cheap labor. "Papa" Monzano is staunchly anti-Communist, and San Lorenzo even declared war against the Axis powers during WWII, again, like Haiti. Of course, San Lorenzo is perhaps better understood as a conglomeration of the entire Caribbean, but the Haitian influence is perhaps strongest.

"Papa" Monzano, the sickly dictator who, despite publicly criminalizing Bokononism, practices it, has adopted the daughter of a Finnish architect, Mona, the beautiful mulatto. Mona, revered by the people of the island and renowned for her alluring looks, can be seen as an Erzulie symbol of feminine spirituality's highest form who, as she tells the narrator, John, loves everyone in the Bokononist sense of boka-maru. Though Bokonon's religion is, according to himself, lies, one sees in how Mona relates to nearly everyone a genuine sense of love, perhaps inculcated during her youth when Bokonon tutored her and Castle's son.

This Caribbean island's propagator of myth, Bokonon, an old Negro from Tobago, who lives in the jungle, gave meaning to the people of San Lorenzo through religious lies while his friend, McCabe, ruled as a despot organizing the people against Bokonon. Oddly, everyone in the island is a Bokononist, driving the conflict in the novel and the absurdity of religion and science. Instead of finding a way to preach the 'truth' and uplift the impoverished people of San Lorenzo, preaching lies (fomas) through Bokononism has given an epic meaning to the lives of the people. Similarly, science also plays a similar role as "magic" that can also mislead and destroy, as one can see in Felix Hoenikker and his children's use of ice-nine (or the atomic bomb, which Felix helped develop). Human nature, faith, and science are all at fault here in this apolcalyptic world created during the height of the Cold War.

To a certain extent, the religion founded by Bokonon is loosely based on Vodou in Haiti (a stigmatized religion that, at times, was illegal). Of course, Haiti under Duvalier did not penalize practicing Vodou nor did it adopt the anti-Vodou rhetoric employed by "Papa" Monzano. This is about where comparisons between Vodou and Bokononism should end, unless one wishes to comment on religion generally. The Christian priest, Humana, also offers an interesting creolized take on Christianity that is reminiscent of Haitian Vodou, but rejected during the death rites of "Papa" Monzano.

Besides appearing as an important influence in Vonnegut's idea of the apocalypse and end of humanity (which makes sense, for what other region of the world has witnessed so much tragedy and terror as the Caribbean, the first site of genocide in the Americas?), Haiti and the Caribbean as a whole are forerunners in the creation of modernity, where the excesses of capitalism, religion, and science have fueled human suffering on a grand scale.

Count Zero

Well, Count Zero is certainly a very different novel and not what I expected to be a follow-up to the famous Neuromancer. Unlike his famous first novel, Count Zero's prose is less Burroughs and more conventional while switching back and forth between three characters in each chapter until their stories intersect. While this makes the novel easier reading material, some of the magic and zany-ness of the first novel, set almost a decade before the events that transpire in Count Zero, is lost. Nonetheless, Gibson tackles in an interesting and postmodern way the consequences of AI becoming sentient and interacting with us in ways more aligned with Vodou and non-Western religions. Indeed, that is precisely the most interesting thing about this global dystopic future of zaibatsu domination and wealthy elites, becoming less human with each passing day, it seems, fighting for control of biochip innovations and power while changes in the Cyberspace resemble more and more Haitian Vodou possession and the intercession of powerful lwa.

In this regard, it is also interesting to note the much larger role played by black characters in this novel, African-Americans from the Projects of a New Jersey suburb, as their understanding of sentient fractures of the fusion of Wintermute and Neuromancer makes perfect sense within a Vodou worldview. Although sometimes reduced to stereotypical lines, specifically Jackie and Beauvoir, I found Beauvoir (perhaps a name inspired by the illustrious Haitian of that same name?) intelligent and his definition of Vodou as getting stuff done useful (paging Prothero?). And despite the skepticism and condescending remarks from various cowboys, observers, and dealers, the conceptual field of perception of the Vodouizan and their Haitian Creole speech and memory of mapou trees and possession, makes just as much sense as Marly's confrontation with the boxmaker (Gran Met). Indeed, perhaps that is the one of the powerful lessons of Count Zero regarding technological progress and innovation: the differences between the past traditions and advances in cybernetics are not so much linear but an entwined series of roots and routes. 

After discussing this novel via email with a relative, I think they are correct about this largely acting as a pot-boiler work in the so-called Sprawl Trilogy, with Gibson's use of Vodou, Rastafarians in Neuromancer and Japanese themes throughout the series as instrumental, conceptually and metaphorically, while also being post-modern and traditional simultaneously, as the Joseph Cornell-like boxes indicate. It would be an intriguing project to look at Gibson's Sprawl Trilogy in comparison with the neo-hoodoo novels of Ishmael Reed (and Japanese By Spring), Dany Laferriere's Japan-inspired novels that also feature Haitian and Japanese themes in conjunction, and some of the interesting research on mathematics and the sciences in African, Haitian, Rastafarian, or Santeria religions. Perhaps bones, charms, and computers have more in common than we realize? 

Fire Down There

Randy Weston performs a jazz trio interpretation of the same calypso number that inspired "St. Thomas" by Sonny Rollins. I have the good fortune of witnessing a solo performance of Randy Weston a few years ago, and he remains a master of Pan-African styles and rhythms. While this recording lacks the propulsive rhythms of Max Roach, it's still a pleasant tune with a more relaxed approach. Weston's piano solo is playful but utilizes space well. 

St. Thomas

Jazz legend Sonny Rollins recorded a very creative interpretation of a calypso song for the Saxophone Colossus. While the melody is undeniably "Fire Down There," this version features a very melodious drum solo from Max Roach. Both Roach and Rollins had personal ties to the Caribbean, the former visiting Haiti (and meeting Haitian drummer Ti-Roro) and the latter as a New Yorker of West Indian roots (Virgin Islands and Haiti). Tracking information on the Haitian grandfather of Sonny Rollins would be an entertaining project, but probably reveals little about Rollins as a musician or artist.

Moses Ascending

Sam Selvon's Moses Ascending is not what one expects from a sequel of sorts to Lonely Londoners. Like Pressure, a film Selvon co-wrote, the novel addresses Black Power and race and gender in a 1970s London setting. Unlike the film, however, this novel, save Brenda, a young woman born in London and devoted to the Party, Selvon's novel does not try to understand the appeal of Black Power to Black Britons born in the Mother Country. To his credit, Selvon's carnivalesque commentary on race and gender includes Indian and Pakistani immigrants (including trafficking in illegal immigrants) along with some Selvonian wit for great laughs, but it was much more difficult to relate to the characters here, not to mention Moses's unsuccessful attempts at finding some peace, whether as a writer, friend, or lover, or community. 

Interestingly, the rather temporal nature of the setting (Moses's building is slated to be demolished at some point in the future) may foreshadow Moses's return to Trinidad in the final part of the trilogy. Indeed, at multiple occasions throughout the novel, Moses longs for sweet memories of Trinidad, for the trees of his home, and will have to make some changes at some point once the Shepherd's Bush home is destroyed and he can no longer profit as a landlord (in this world, a black man in London cannot live like a 'lord' for too long). The black nationalism, subverted Caliban-Friday relationship with Bob (also a 'migrant'), and challenging times of white racism, growing xenophobia, as well as some of the rather problematic assumptions and biases of Selvon regarding black nationalism or the role of literature in social struggle provide interesting themes, but not in the engaging or direct sense of Moses's first adventure.

Moses Migrating

Sam Selvon's hilarious Moses Migrating, the last of the trilogy that began with Lonely Londoners, takes us back to Moses's roots in Trinidad. The comparison here is to Naipaul's The Mimic Men, in which a man from an island modeled on Trinidad, is similarly trapped between "homes" and mimicry. Here, however, Selvon playfully uses Carnival and mas as an extension of the critique of mimicry among West Indians. Moses, so obsessed with defending Brit'n, even in the face of racist immigration laws and Enoch Powell, plays Britannia for Carnival. Along the way, we learn more about the origins of Moses and Bob, his former white Friday from Moses Ascending, who may have more in common with Moses than he ever knew. Through the metaphor of playing mas, Lovelace's The Dragon Can't Dance is also an important Trinidadian reference, albeit one in which the Indo-Caribbean population of the island is more than just background to the plot, as we see in Moses Migrating. 

As one may expect in a novel based on dislocation and Carnival, up is down, white is black, and a changing Trinidad, appearing different to locals and tourists, reveal the problematic space in which people like Moses can inhabit, trapped as he is between colonial deference to the Mother Country and a world in constant movement, particularly the rise of Black Power, his own aging, and rootlessness. He barely recognizes Trinidad, had rarely left Port of Spain, thinks he is in love with a younger woman living with the same Tanty who raised him, but never finds the room for authenticity or honesty. Even his relationship with Galahad, a friend from the Lonely Londoner days, is not an authentic friendship as each lies or distrusts the other. Yet, with his characteristic wit, Selvon's balanced use of humor and satire allow for entertaining reading, despite the disappointing and pathetic end. In that sense, Moses could perhaps accompany the Indo-Caribbean narrator of The Mimic Men, Ralph Singh, in that London hotel with fellow transients. As Doris reminds him, his entire life is playing mas.

The Chip-Chip Gatherers

"The sugarcane alone flourished in that intractable environment: a bright, burning green offensive to the eye seeking escape from its limiting and limitless horizons."

Shiva Naipaul's The Chip-Chip Gatherers, set in Trinidad, is a difficult read to assess. While retaining aspects of the comic sensibilities and stronger female characters of Fireflies, in this novel, the existential crisis of the "chip-chip gatherers," the Trinidadian people, particularly women condemned to an early death by the strictures of sex and class in the Settlement, makes for a much darker tone with appropriately dark humor. Telling the story of two families, Shiva Naipaul's scathing social commentary is more condescending here, especially to the countryside of Trinidad and its aspirants to power or wealth, such as Egbert Ramsaran or Mrs. Bholai. There is even sexual angst, a disturbing experience on the part of Egbert's son with a prostitute in Port of Spain, and a general meaninglessness of life on the island that one can find in the works of Shiva's older brother. Indeed, the rise and fall of Egbert, from illiterate poverty in the countryside to his last days in decay despite his material wealth reveals some of the innate absurdity of class relations in Trinidadian society of this era. 

In short, The Chip-Chip Gatherers struck me as cruel and a more emotionally taxing read without much of the humor in the masterpiece in tragicomedy, Fireflies. Both novels share dysfunctional families, marriages, horrible conditions for women, and the problem of class and race (including douglas in this second novel), but "The Chip-Chip Gatherers is more aligned with, in my opinion, V.S. Naipaul's post-Biswas writings in its detachment and often excessive cruelty. However, as in the case of Mrs. Lutchman, for Sita, the young illegitimate child of Sushila, a young rebel also torn apart by the ravages of time and strict gender roles, one can see Shiva Naipaul's appreciation of and respect for the plight of women in Trinidadian society. Sita, Rani, Mrs. Bholai, Basdai, Phula, Sushila, and other women in this novel have, despite their shortcomings and personal defects, ranging from pride or vanity to shame and passive resignation, a far more sympathetic and nuanced portrayal in the pen of Shiva than most of the women in V.S. Naipaul's fiction. Indeed, perhaps this sympathy can be seen quite well in the overall less pessimistic Trinidad novels of Shiva versus those of Vidia, where there is, in some Sisyphean sense, purpose in these seemingly insignificant lives, if the novel's final paragraph on the rotting tree and the village chip-chip gatherers is read between the lines.  

Caravan Live

Hear Mozayik's live rendition of jazz standard "Caravan" from a show in Haiti. Azor on drums is mesmerizing, while the guitarist and keyboardist propel the song rhythmically, too. 

Lady of Havana

Although perhaps not the strongest example of early 'Latin' jazz, Thelma Terry's "Lady of Havana" does feature some attempt to incorporate "rhumba" influences in a jazz piece. 

Fireflies

"Having from early on, confused religion with magic, they had come to hold the majority of religions in a superstitious dread, genuinely afraid of the vengeance rival gods might let fall on the clan should they be offended."

Shiva Naipaul, younger brother of V.S. Naipaul, wrote an epic comedy which possibly surpasses A House for Mr. Biswas. An alternative title could have been A House for Mrs. Lutchman given the shared style, themes, and content, but Shiva Naipaul's Mrs. Lutchman is a far more compelling female character than anyone in his brother's work. The hilarious Hindu clan, the Khojas, the gradual dissolution of the patriarchal nucleus binding the family together, the various marriages and dispossessions Mrs. Lutchman experiences, and last, but certainly not least, the hilarity which ensues in what is truly a tragic set of circumstances for the protagonist manage to make for a successful novel. Shiva Naipaul's Khoja family not only entertains, but imports many lessons on family, social change, religion, culture, and the shifts in Trinidadian life. Like fireflies caught in a jar by the brother Khoja, the sisters and Vimla gradually escape, but Mrs. Lutchman loses the most with the loss of her independence, husband, and son.  

When it comes to compelling female characters, Shiva Naipaul's Mrs. Lutchman is a more likable, nuanced character than most of V.S. Naipaul's fictional women. Both share similar comic sensibilities, but one wonders if Shiva's more sympathetic female protagonist is the result of his father dying when Shiva was rather young, whereas their father lived long enough to see Vidia reach adulthood and shape his work? We know Mr. Biswas is based on their father, but maybe Shiva looked more to their mother as a model for Fireflies, which could explain a more nuanced, female protagonist for what Christopher Hitchens described as a masterpiece in tragicomedy. Regardless of his inspiration, Fireflies is one of those rare reads which transport one to another time, place, and culture during a period of rapid change. Timeless, humorous, informative, and, in its own way, potentially feminist, if one looks to the Khoja sisters and the next generation. 

Jouke

Foula's "Jouke" is one of the interesting examples of a fusion of Haitian roots music and jazz aesthetics. As a piece of fusion, there are elements of jazz, rock, and rasin for a musical stew demonstrating a fascinating example of jazz's influence on Haitian music. The skronk from a saxophonist, overwhelming polyrhythms, and electric guitar soar. Sadly, besides this and Ayizan, other attempts at a fusion of Haitian roots and jazz are fewer and less successful. Here's a video of a life performance by Foula. 

The Enigma of Arrival

"I had given myself a past, and a romance of the past. One of the loose ends in my mind had vanished; a little chasm filled. And though something like Haitian anarchy seemed to threaten my little island, and though physically I no longer belonged to the place, yet the romance by which I had attached it to the rest of the world continued to be possessed by me as much as the imaginative worlds of my other, fictional books."

Naipaul's The Enigma of Arrival is an autobiographical tome on the cycle of life, migration, and change. Set in the English countryside, while the narrator, representing Naipaul, is renting a cottage, walking, and writing, the text comments on the seasons, the gradual changes or decline of the manor, life and social relations in England, and explorations of the narrator's journey, a process of returns or flights, both literal and metaphorical. 

The novel reminds one of The Enigma of the Return  by Dany Laferrière in that both feature a shared fixation on movement to and from the Caribbean. While Trinidad is only of many areas in which Naipaul returns to in his fiction, here his childhood and "second childhood" in his Wiltshire cottage leave room for thought on Naipaul's shifting identity, self-perception as an international or "metropolitan" writer, and the Trinidad which has become more imaginary than real for him. Just as his time in the countryside, appreciating the history and natural splendor of the area, eventually comes to an end, Naipaul's journey continues in interesting ways as we are introduced to the infirm landlord, the Phillipses, who manage, the gardener, and other characters in the book progress, age, die. 

There is no such thing as an immutable world, and the decay of the landlord's estate in England is mirrored by the shocking changes in Naipaul's Trinidad, where the old Indian villages of the countryside have disappeared while Caribbean immigrants, shantytowns, an oil boom, independence, and racial politics transform Naipaul. The enigma of arrival, indeed! Whether traveling to New York and England for the first time, ruminating on his experiences in other Caribbean locales, or describing his image of Africa and India, the mysteries of the world evolve, and the greatest of mysteries, humanity, changes with generations. Naipaul's return to Trinidad for his younger sister's cremation rituals, provides an excellent conclusion to this theme. 

One of the more intriguing aspects of this novel is the image of Trinidad and the Caribbean, a region in which Naipaul begins to understand its greater role in world history just as he loses it due to no longer being part of the changed Trinidad. When first leaving it in 1950 for Oxford, he describes in great detail seeing the island from the sky for the first time, seeing it as much more than a small colonial outpost where his half-education through abstraction was something to escape. He even feels some connection with an Afro-Trinidadian man on the plane, and an African-American en route to Europe on the ship from New York. His colonial roots, his uprooting from India and the Caribbean, connects him with the African-American on the ship who refuses to be placed in Naipaul's quarters to avoid being ghettoized or segregated based on race. One sees from incidents like these, a shared desire on Naipaul's part to escape being pigeonholed or segregated because of his race, in his desire to become a metropolitan writer. 

Yet, one also detects some regional kinship with the Trinidadian, with the travels in Belize, his stops in Puerto Rico, Jamaica, Barbados, and Anguilla. By connecting the history of Trinidad to the early European conquest of the region, the French fleeing the Haitian and French Revolutions to Trinidad in the 19th century. Here, one finds a troubling view of the Haitian Revolution as an example of black revolt or revolution rooted in anger and turning away from the world, not trying to improve it. He compares this complex, 19th century event with Black Power in Trinidad, two distinct historical events, yet sees it all as part of the general 'plantation colony' heritage of the Caribbean. Its an interesting perspective, but not exactly historically accurate, though one sees where Naipaul is going with that assertion. The Trinidad of his youth, the one he returns to by the novel's end, is no longer for him. Much like Ralph Singh in The Mimic Men or other characters in Naipaul's fiction, the narrator is uprooted from his Asiatic or Hindu origins as well as the Caribbean, while England is also a site of change or rootlessness in its own ways, as exemplified by the gradual decay of the manor.

There is much more to be said about this work, which I shall return to in future posts about the author. A stronger comparative work on its commonalities with "The Enigma of the Return" for instance, would be fascinating reading for how both authors approach their respective origins, or the Caribbean. Impressively, it manages to, while delving into great detail about the estates, the colors, shapes, seasonal variety, and inhabitants of the English countryside, connect history, colonialism, identity, travel, and blur the lines between fact and fiction. The description of the Hindu rituals, pundit cousin, and death of Sati are quite moving, too. 

Favorite Quotes

"That final trip to the pub served no cause except that of life; yet he made it appear an act of heroism; poetical." (48)

"These ideas of a world in decay, a world subject to constant change, and of the shortness of human life, made many things bearable." (23)

"I had thought that because of my insecure past--peasant India, colonial Trinidad, my own family circumstances, the colonial smallness that didn't consort with the grandeur of my ambition, my uprooting of myself for a writing career, my coming to England with so little, and the very little I still had to fall back on--I had thought that because of this I had been given an especially tender or raw sense of an unaccommodating world" (92).

"Yet I was also ashamed that, with all my aspirations, and all that I had put into this adventure, this was all that people saw in me---so far from the way I thought of myself, so far from what I wanted for myself. And it was shame, too, that made me keep my eyes closed while they were in the cabin" (126).

"Two hundred years on, another Haiti was preparing, I thought: a wish to destroy a world judged corrupt and too full of pain, to turn one's back on it, rather than to improve it" (161).

"The story had become more personal: my journey, the writer's journey, the writer defined by his writing discoveries, his ways of seeing, rather than by his personal adventures, writer and man separate at the beginning of the journey and coming together again in a second life just before the end" (344).

"Men need history; it helps them to have an idea of who they are. But history, like sanctity, can reside in the heart; it is enough that there is something there" (353).

A Glimpse of Saint Domingue

Médéric Louis Élie Moreau de Saint-Méry, lawyer and product of colonial Martinique and Saint-Domingue whose Description of the French and Spanish parts of Hispaniola, of epic length, is of great importance to scholars. His writing so far strikes me as essentializing different racial groups in Saint-Domingue as well as thought-provoking for his commentary on social relations, dance, Vaudoux, and the cities and towns of the French colony. Apparently he is a relative of Josephine, wife of Napoleon. I recently read The Civilization That Perished, which is an abridged and translated copy of his aforementioned work. Anyway, the following are some enlightening things about Saint-Domingue, future Haiti.

1. Although lacking universities like the Spanish colonies, cities such as Le Cap (Cap Francais) featured a Royal Society of the Sciences and Arts and other learned organizations, including an active theater scene, where seating was racially segregated, of course. Slaves were around 2/3 of the population of Le Cap, about 10,000! Port-au-Prince, though made the capital of the colony, was described as a "camp of Tartars" by Moreau de Saint-Méry and seen as lacking the splendor, design, and feel of a more capable and beautiful city, such as Le Cap. In addition to theaters and schools of reading, writing, and arithmetic, colonial cities were tied to the Atlantic world's commerce, via trade with British colonies, Curacao (particularly Jacmel), and other parts of the world. The global economy was becoming more and more connected, and one can see such a phenomenon in Saint-Domingue, where free women of color and slave women wore Madras cloth and (the more fortunate, that is) finer materials from Persia and India. The prospect of learning in Saint-Domingue seemed to have been worsened by the expulsion of the Jesuits in the mid-18th century. With men such as Father Boutin, they were responsible for studying African languages as well as proselytizing among the slaves.

2. Slave culture among African and Creole slaves in Saint-Domingue reveals the deep divisions and gaps in understanding between slaves of different origins. According to Moreau de Saint-Méry, Creole slaves referred to African-born slaves as "horses" or beasts of burden as an insult, and looked down upon them. He also claims that Negroes born in the colony gradually gained less "Negroid" features over time and seems to favor slavery for showing "domestication's" beneficial impact on blacks. Needless to say, such sentiments are highly disturbing and racist, and even though the author abhorred the treatment of pregnant slaves or the blind prejudice against free people of color, his own slaveholding personal interests are never mentioned.

3. He does describe "Vaudoux" as a dance and snake cult from what is now Benin, as well as the chica and calenda dances of slaves. Their skills as musicians also deserve mention, particularly in drums, violins, the banza, as well as their interest in European dances such as the minuet. Overwhelmingly, the portrait of blacks, particularly those from Africa, is one of superstitious, lazy, stupefied by European manufactured products (such as mirrors), poor with arithmetic and unable to give their precise age, ignorant, feeble-minded, polygamous, careless, and thieving. He also claims that 1/4 of all blacks sold into slavery from Africa were accused of witchcraft, the blacks worship fetishes (crude wooden statues, which sound like nkissi figures from Central Africa), the Creole slaves were smarter and preferred for domestic and skilled labour, mulatto slaves were almost exclusively domestic and considered themselves above blacks, and the Africans who spoke about their homeland loved it. He goes on to say that Negroes were capable of full emotions and some showed complete loyalty to their masters, as well as defending the Creole/Kreyol language as better-suited than French for expressing certain things. Interestingly, slaves of Amerindian origin were also illegally present in Saint Domingue, from Natchez, Lousiana, Canada, Guianas, the Caribs, and elsewhere. As mentioned previously,  woman’s headdresses were important; slave women loved undergarments and muslins from India/Persia and slave women shared clothes. I am surprised no one has researched clothing and dress among slave women and free women in Saint-Domingue, it sounds like an understudied but fascinating field for elucidating constructs of gender, class, status, and style in a colony where opulence and excess are always referenced.

4. Some of the problems of today's Haiti clearly arose in the colonial period. Soil erosion, for instance, was already severe by 1791. Epidemics of smallpox and other diseases, as well as earthquakes struck Saint-Domingue, too, including one that destroyed Port-au-Prince in 1770. Droughts, soil exhaustion, epidemics, and earthquakes made the profitable colony of Saint-Domingue a dangerous place and suggests a precarious future. Perhaps this is why Fumagalli asserts that Moreau de Saint-Méry and other French Saint-Dominguans envisioned taking over Spanish Santo Domingo to expand the plantation complex into the eastern half of the island. With increasing soil exhaustion and a sense of impending ecological doom from the plantation system within the small French colony on the island, expansion into Spanish Santo Domingo would be a rational decision. These issues also illustrate how the independent nation of Haiti inherited problems from European colonial destruction of the environment, which has worsened conditions for the independent states of the region. In my opinion, too often has this fact been conveniently 'forgotten' as a contributor to soil erosion, deforestation, and other signs of environmental change.

Naturally, one should be skeptical of many of de Saint-Méry's claims, particularly on the slaves, given his biases and prejudice as a slaveholder himself. However, his text is excessively detailed and informative on the economic, urban, rural, social, environmental, racial, and cultural factors at play. One should read his text with an open mind and analyze some of the postcolonial legacies inherited by Haiti, particularly how the color/caste system created the conditions under which Saint-Domingue would perish as well as those through which it would linger in Haiti. 

Crossing the Mangrove

Conde's novel is interesting, but I cannot help but feel disappointed. I was expecting something akin to a detective novel, but what Conde provides us here is a series of character portraits of the various inhabitants of a small town in Guadeloupe. The Rashomon effect is present in how each character (who gets their own chapter) explains and recalls their experiences with the deceased stranger, a Colombian of uncertain racial origin who comes to live in their small town, impregnates two different local women, and is discovered dead with no apparent explanation for his death other than a curse dating back to his European ancestors. Indeed, this man is supposedly a descendant of a cruel sugar planter who lived in Guadeloupe known for torturing his slaves. Since the man shows up, everyone recalls their own life stories and how it relates to the dead man. Each story reveals a lot about Guadeloupe, a French Caribbean island known for its ethnic diversity since Indians, blacks, mulattoes, 'whites', Desinor the Haitian, and others congregate in this small island. 

The novel also has an interesting passage where one character recalls reading Jacques Roumain's Masters of the Dew, a Haitian whose flowery language is quoted and appears to be a definite influence on the beautiful prose used by Conde and her translator in Crossing the Mangrove. So this short novel about the mysterious cases of the death of a stranger is actually about Guadeloupe itself, and the French Caribbean more broadly. The internal battles of color, class, political autonomy versus French colonialism, and exile. Conde is also very humorous in her satirical look at the contradictions of Guadeloupean social relations, the legacy of slavery, leftists versus right-wing parties, and Negritude. Indeed, one of the characters, the mother of the mentally handicapped child, marries a man who publicly defended autonomy and used Creole, but when with French whites listened to opera, spoke eloquent French and went out of his way to serve them. 

Many of the most vocal of nationalists demanding autonomy from France were also those who lived on the state budget, derived from French France. Unfortunately, the indefinite conclusion regarding what really killed the stranger made the novel a little disappointing. Still, its an interesting read that reveals much of 20th century Guadeloupe, an island losing its people to exile in France, receiving Haitian immigrants who provide cheap labor and a scapegoat for self-loathing blacks, the dying sugar industry, shrinking forests, and the incredible ethnic diversity of Guadeloupe.

Monsieur Toussaint

Edouard Glissant's Monsieur Toussaint, translated by the author himself and J. Michael Dash, is an interesting theatrical take on the Haitian Revolution. While at times a little hard to follow, the play juxtaposes the dead spirits of numerous historical actors in Saint Domingue conversing with Toussaint Louveture as he awaits death in Fort de Joux with Toussaint's memories of important moments in the Haitian Revolution. While clearly literature and not an accurate retelling of the actual history of the Haitian Revolution, the work captures many of the complexities of the postcolonial state, such as relations between the state and the masses. 

Toussaint Louverture, in Glissant's play, is modeled on the perspectives of Cesaire and CLR James, as a tragic hero who distanced himself from the masses but, following the lead of the former, sacrifices himself willingly so a united, free Haiti will emerge. This perspective on Toussaint, something new to me, also leads to a favorable depiction of Dessalines as the necessary leader who will consolidate and complete the mission of Toussaint, while Christophe only has a few lines. Like other plays treating the subject of the Haitian Revolution, the attempts to maintain the plantation system and the belief in 'order and prosperity' favored by Toussaint is shown as incompatibile with the goals of the masses, or the dead shadows who accompany the dying Toussaint in exile. Mackandal, Vodou (Toussaint as a Legba and Ogou figure, Dessalines also as Ogou), Macaya (spelled differently in this text), Moyse, and even Dessalines are shown as representing the masses, albeit through a fictionalized and rather short play such as this. 

The ultimate tragedy, therefore, lies in Toussaint necessarily sacrificing himself to pave the way for unity, to lead to conditions in which blacks and mulattoes could work together to defeat Leclerc and Rochambeau. In addition, battles are prominent in the text, but often hinted at, and its interesting how Christophe is largely silenced, Petion makes no appearance, and the conflict between Toussaint and Rigaud is presented as having been entirely orchestrated by the settler royalists, favoring a return to slavery. Toussaint Abreda, the slave Toussaint, caught up in the French modes of civilization and governance, ultimately undoes Toussaint Louverture, making the play very analytical in how once being a privileged slave and free person, Toussaint Louverture was restricted by the norms of 'order and prosperity' antithetical to the radical need for independence.

Moreover, Glissant makes things even more fascinating by including Delgrès, the commandant who led his forces into a mass suicide at Matouba rathern than submit to French forces restoring slavery. This, as well as the Dokos (Macaya and the African-born revolutionaries of the Haitian Revolution, the Maroons) makes the play clearly pan-Africanist and Pan-Caribbean, with the mission for black independence and emancipation tied to liberation of Africa. In the author's own words, the prophetic vision of Toussaint Louverture's leadership and sacrifice is connected with wider anti-colonial movements. 

School Days

“In those days, the blue-eyed Gaul with hair as yellow as wheat was everyone’s ancestor. In those days, Europeans were the founders of History. The world, once shrouded in darkness, began with them. Our islands had been veiled in a fog of nonexistence, crossed by phantom Caribs or Arawaks themselves lost in the obscurity of a cannibal nonhistory. And then, when the colonists arrived, there was light. Civilization. History. The humanization of the teeming Earth. They shouldered the heavy burden of this world they were raising to the lofty heights of consciousness. We had to strive stoutly so as not to abandon them to the solitude of this responsibility. The teacher wanted to carry the world on his shoulders, too” (121-22).

Chamoiseau’s account of his schoolboy days, School Days, translated by Linda Coverdale, is a touching narrative filled with adorable moments of youthful innocence, curiosity, adventure, and struggle. Like his other writings, his playful, unique style of writing that fuses humor  French, Creole, and inventive rhetoric to encapsulate another world succeeds brilliantly in School Days. As a child growing up in Fort-de-France, Martinique, Chamoiseau recounts his younger, preliterate days as a “little black boy” who irritated his mother and older siblings incessantly to have the chance to go to school. Once in school, however, his Creole worldview and self-identity is challenged by the institution’s Francophile nature and the Teacher’s attempts to make Frenchmen out of black, Creole-speaking students. Nevertheless, the sweet novel, though often heavily focused the destructive impact of the Francophilic tendencies of school on the language and identity of Martinique, exemplified by Big Bellybutton, a poor Creole-speaking child who ultimately concedes to the Teacher his inferiority as a poor, black Creole child coming out of the sugar cane shacks of colonial Martinique, can be seen as ending on a positive note through what may be termed as nascent créolité in that Chamoiseau articulates a fusion of the Creole language, mythology, and worldview of Big Bellybutton and his wannabe French Teacher. This fusion consists of not only the African and European elements of culture and language in Martinique, but also the Indian, Syrian, and indigenous Carib and Arawak presence in the history, cuisine and society of the Antilles.

Besides describing the important moment in his early school days when he would become a proponent of créolité, School Days is an artful example of storytelling that captures the world through a child’s eyes. He incorporates Creole phrases, mythology and magic into the story, evident in their belief in magic and quimboiseurs:

To tie up a Teacher (you’re not hearing this from me), you had to cross your fingers and hold them like that, thrust deep in your pockets; stand on your left food in front of the school; murmur over and over again before he appeared: Three dogs three cats tie up the Teacher…Three dogs three cats tie up the Teacher…Three dogs three cats tie up the teacher…(You didn't hear this from me…) (125).

This aforementioned adorable quote marks the belief by a young Chamoiseau, Big Bellybutton (whose ‘real’ French name is never mentioned, only the Creole Big Bellybutton) and other schoolboys in their ability to cause illness toward their Teacher, a Frenchman with black skin and a white mask to whom France was a magic word (108). The little Chamoiseau also had his adorable moments prior to school, scribbling on the walls of his home, persistently demanding of his mother, Mam Ninotte, to take him to school like the Big Kids, his older siblings, and strolling through the city streets as Syrian merchants, workers, and other adults carried on with the busy activities of the day. The student bullies, who persecute Big Bellybutton especially, also provide moments of comic relief when the latter pulls out a snake’s head to scare them away or when the poetic rejoinders of Les Respondeurs or Chamoiseau occasionally breaking his third-person narrative provide further commentary on the little black boy’s life.

Clearly, for Chamoiseau, learning to read and write was not just survival, or learning to live despite going to school to “shed bad manners: rowdy manners, nigger manners, Creole manner—all the same thing” (120). Survival entailed learning to thrive through new discourse, one partly indebted to the negritude past but inclusive of all of Martinique’s heterogeneous origins. Chamoiseau, while criticizing the schools’ attempts to make Gauls out of Martinique’s children, teaching them to see the world and read literature from French eyes, when winter snow and rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed days of blond childhood were never part of life for the overwhelming majority of Martinicans, nonetheless found value in the ability to transport oneself to new terrains, new worlds, beyond the island shores of his home. This necessitates a synthesis of Creole and French, the Caribbean and its diverse origins, to represent the world of his youth in this formative period of his schooling. Overall, this is a fascinating account worth reading by anyone even remotely interested in Martinique, French colonialism, Caribbean literature, or the magical realism of the lens of a bright child. To read it in English was utter delight, since Coverdale’s translation retains the artful blend of Martinican/Creole vocabulary with the collective voice of the narrator and Les Respondeurs in addition to Chamoiseau’s characteristic humor.

Look Over Yonder

"Look Over Yonder" is an interesting example of musical cross-fertilization. Combining elements of French Caribbean biguine with jazz, Zutty Singleton's group illustrates how the roots of "Latin" jazz are as ancient as jazz itself. Horace Eubanks and other jazz musicians in Paris were performing with Caribbean musicians, who also incorporated aspects of jazz into their own styles. 

Boricua

"Boricua" is one of the interesting early attempts by Astor Piazzolla to fuse tango and jazz in a Jazz-Tango quintet. As the title of the piece suggests, this early crossover attempt involved instrumentation typically associated with the Cuban and Puerto Rican influences in Latin jazz. Jason Borge mentions it as an interesting piece, and it certainly is. Perhaps one of the few from this group that is worth hearing. 

Levantines in Haiti

Syrian-Haitian women ca. 1950, CIDIHCA.

Last but certainly not the least in this blog's series on immigration in Haiti, the Levantine presence warrants attention. While they continue to arouse the ire of some Haitians, often accused of selling out the country to the US, they are the products of the what is likely the largest wave of immigration to Haiti in the last century. Although estimates vary, perhaps 10,000 Syriens, mostly from Lebanon, were in Haiti by the early 1900s (Syrien being the general term for people of Levantine origin). Local newspapers of the era inflate the number to 15,000 or higher, but without reliable census figures, it was likely much smaller. Indeed, due to the animosity of Le Devoir and other Haitian newspapers in the early 1900s, it was likely in their interest to exaggerate the number of Syriens in Haiti to alarm the authorities. But assuming a lower estimate of, say, 3000 ca. 1910, which is Aubin's guess, remains a large foreign presence distributed in nearly every region of Haiti. Perhaps many or most of these waves of Syriens who came to Haiti between 1890-1915 left, relocating to New York, Mexico, Honduras,  the Dominican Republic, and other destinations. Clearly, there were thousands of foreigners from the Levant operating in Haiti for at least some period in the 25 years preceding the first US Occupation. 

Feminist Yvonne Hakim-Rimpel was the daughter of a Levantine, Eli Abdallah Hakim. Her sister made history as the first female dentist in Haiti.

In Anglophone scholarship, the best works on Levantines in Haiti are by Plummer and Nicholls. The former situates the growing economic power of Levantines within US economic interests in the Caribbean. In short, the Syriens were supported by the US, which sought to supplant Germany and France in Haiti and ensure the Caribbean remained an American lake. Nicholls, on the other hand, compares the Levantines of Haiti with their kin residing in other Caribbean nations. He uses a comparative approach to reach some conclusions about the nature of social relations, national identity, and assimilation in Haiti, Jamaica, Trinidad and the Dominican Republic through the incorporation or non-incorporation of Levantines in each aforementioned nation. At times, one questions the reasoning of Nicholls for some of his conclusions, especially since anti-Syrien sentiment or policy were present in places where Levantines were assimilable, including Jamaica and the DR. However, Nicholls is probably on to something. For instance, discussions with Haitians  or a quick perusal of Haitian social media do suggest that the Syrien has still not quite been accepted as a Haitian. Additional scholarship in English is difficult to come by, although references to Levantines abound in the literature on the US Occupation, commerce, or the biography of Issa El Saieh. Indeed, Mats Lundahl and Louis Carl Saint Jean's study of Issa El Saieh is a priceless source for information about a prominent Haitian of Arab descent. It explains his Palestinian roots, chain migration from the Levant, his mother's success as a businesswoman, and the ambiguous status of Syrians for much of his life, and El Saieh's role in Haitian music and art. 

Issa El Saieh, born in Petit-Goave to Palestinian parents, led an important band which fused jazz elements with Haitian music. He was immortalized by Graham Greene in The Comedians.

Besides Plummer and Nicholls, a Haitian historian, Joseph Bernard, has also chronicled the history of Arabs in Haiti. In Histoire des colonies arabe et juive d'Haïti, Joseph provides a basic overview of the Arab and Jewish "colonies" in Haiti. The two groups overlap due to the presence of Levantine Jews in Haiti. Bernard credits the Syriens with the introduction of credit in Haiti, outlines their accumulation of capital, and eventual prominence in commerce. Bernard includes cultural production of the era in his overview, such as Vendenesse Ducasse's play, Haitiens et Syriens, which, depicted Syriens in unflattering ways. From the perspective of a social scientist, Labelle's Idéologie de couleur et classes sociales provides a useful overview of social classes in Haiti, often referring to the Syro-Lebanese position in the local social structure. For those interested in literature on Levantines in Haiti, Georgia Makhlouf, a descendant of this community, has written a novel about Haiti, which may be interesting since her perspective is that of a Lebanese woman whose Haitian father returned to the Levant. In addition, a French language documentary on Arab migration to Haiti, Un certain bord de mer, un siècle de migration arabe en Haïti, summarizes the history of Levantines in Haiti while interviewing members of prominent families (Boulos, Acra, Gebara, Apaid, Khawly). 

Part of an article from the 17 Avril 1902 issue of Le Devoir, one of the most consistently anti-Syrien newspapers in Port-au-Prince. Le Devoir was an ardent supporter of the anti-Syrien campaign.

So, where does one begin with tracing the origins of Levantine migration to Haiti? In Lebanon, Syria, and Palestine of the late 19th century, religious persecution and other factors triggered migration to the Americas. These Arabs, mostly Christians with a few Jews among them, were from various villages of Lebanon, Palestine, and Syria, and many brought their families or relatives with them (or sent for them later, often becoming transnational across the Caribbean region). Haiti, along with other parts of Latin America and the Caribbean, received thousands of migrants from the Levant during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. One of the reasons Haiti may have received 10,000 or more during the period 1890-1915 is the relaxed attitude of Haitian authorities with regard to documents. Gonzalez's  Dollar, Dove, and Eagle: One Hundred Years of Palestinian Migration to Honduras suggests this may be the reason Haiti was a popular first destination for Levantines coming to the Americas. It also may explain why the population lacked any formal institutions or organizations, since many were only in Haiti for a short period (in addition to official policy discriminating against Syriens after 1903). 

Within a few years of their earliest documented arrival in 1890, newspapers in Port-au-Prince and Cap-Haitien criticize the Syriens for selling goods in the streets and violating Haitian laws. Almost immediately, negative comparisons are made to the Chinese in the US, with various Haitian newspapers calling for and eventually succeeding in winning anti-Syrien legislation. In fact, heads of state, such as Leconte, provided explicit support for anti-Syrien movements. Laws designed to suppress their growing numbers and curtail their business operations to protect the already weak position of Haitians in commerce de détail were implemented. Furthermore, the 1904 centennial of Haitian independence may have fueled some of the anti-Syrien fervor as local writers and competitors exploited national sentiment or pride. Members of the French and German business community in Haiti also supported these efforts to ensure their own position as Levantines pushed US products in Haiti. Meanwhile, the Syriens, by selling on credit, minimizing their consumption habits (large families allegedly slept in the same room or small homes), traversing the Haitian countryside selling their wares, and receiving protection from US officials (some claimed US citizenship), were able to gradually accumulate capital, enlarge their business concerns, and establish a more permanent foothold.

Interior of the dry goods store owned by Antoine Moussa Talamas in Port-au-Prince. Founded in 1910, a brief description can be found in Haïti, 1919-1920, livre bleu d'Haïti, blue book of Hayti. This Talamas was the grandfather of Issa El Saieh, showing the familial and economic links that bound together various Syrien-owned firms.

Due to repression, looting, and groups like the Anti-Syrien Association, which was formed under Leconte and verified the documents of Syriens, the early Levantine migrants lacked an official association or institution. With the exception of a single restaurant, according to Aubin, they lacked any formal organization which represented them collectively. Since they claimed a variety of nationalities, Syriens could attempt to use French or US citizenship and appeal to those consuls for protection, which they would need. The resentment of the local retailers  and traders, foreign merchants, and, to a certain extent, the popular classes in Haitian towns, must have made the initial experience of Levantines a difficult one to endure. According to Camille Devereux, a cocoa exporter interviewed by The New York Times in 1904 after looting destroyed 3 Syrian shops in Arcahaie, their lifestyle, foreign origins, unhealthy living arrangements, and obsession with making money distinguished them as a problem. Other sources from this era cited by Nicholls also indicate the common perception that the Syrien raised revenue for their families back in the Levant, not investing locally or contributing to national development and industry. Le Devoir compared the situation to that of Argentina, where similar legislation against Syriens were instituted. Unlike other foreigners in Haiti, such as Cubans, who taught valuable skills and often married local women, or Germans who invested in railroads and small-scale industry, the Syrian was accused of parasitism. Indeed, Haiti was not alone in attempting to prohibit Levantine immigration or restrict their commercial activities.

An article from La Ruche also displays anti-Syrien sentiment with regard to corruption and the gros bourgeois during the 1940s. Syriens like Bouez and non-Levantine wealthy businessmen like Oswald Brandt were beneficiaries of Lescot's corrupt administration.

Things begin to improve for Levantines after 1915. The US Occupation completed Haiti's orientation to US finance, industry, and investment, which assisted Syriens who were already tied to US manufacturers or used their networks in New York to buy and sell US goods in Haiti. In 1920, the Syrien community established a formal organization of around 40 members, Club Commercial Syrien, which hosted balls, engaged in charity work, and pursued, as the name would suggest, commercial interests. Members of the organization in the 1920s and 1930s included many of the well-known Levantine families in Haiti: Gebara, Boulos Sada, Shemtob, Bigio. They also hosted Syrian cultural events, bringing speakers such as Habib Estefano to Haiti and promoting Syrian music and culture. Their economic power is also attested by receptions they held for visiting dignitaries, including Horacio Vasquez and Rafael Trujillo of the Dominican Republic. A few, such as the Gebara brothers, launched a cigarette factory with Pantaleon Guilbaud, perhaps one of the first examples of Syrien Haitians investing in industry or manufacturing. These developments suggest a degree of stability for Levantines, as well as attempts to secure their position as well as retain or expand on their connections with other Lebanese, Syrian, and Palestinian groups in the hemisphere. Unfortunately, they do not appear to have established a newspaper, like their counterparts in the Dominican Republic and elsewhere, but a formal organization like the Club Commercial Syrien and their growing economic clout suggest a degree of permanence. Indeed, the Syrian "colony" were one of the groups who petitioned the US to prolong the military occupation. 

President Leconte was especially supportive of discriminatory policy against Syriens in Haiti.

However, resistance to the US Occupation brought with it noirism, Haitian indigenist affirmation of African-derived culture, the salient "color question," and suspicion of groups perceived as pro-US. The Syriens appear to have become targets under Vincent, since Syrian immigration was banned in 1931. Vincent also promoted a return of Haitians to commerce de detail, one of the things Surprise Jazz's ochan for the president in 1936 praised him for accomplishing. Yet by the 1940s, some Syriens, like Bouez, were able to amass fortunes under Lescot, which likely explains why Levantines were targeted by some of the leftists and radicals in 1946. Undoubtedly, some Syrien families, like their counterparts among the Haitian bourgeoisie and other foreign residents, were corrupt and venal, but political corruption, graft, bribery, and violence were never restricted to Haitians of Arab origin. Of course, for some Haitian leftists critical of the anti-national bourgeoisie, or others eager to find a scapegoat, Levantines were the perfect group to blame for the ills of modern Haiti. 

Ironically, only under Duvalier were Syriens to enter politics as officials. Under Francois Duvalier, a Haitiano-Arabe Club was founded, albeit from above and perhaps not representative of Syriens in any form. Indeed, Nicholls found in his interviews that Syriens who entered politics under Duvalier were the exception. Considering their undeniable economic clout by this time, many were likely used by Duvalier for sources of funds and a few opportunistic ones had no qualms with serving him. Later, by the 1970s, the rise of sweatshops also led to some Levantines founding factories in the 1970s and 1980s, under Jean-Claude Duvalier. But, like others, the Syriens were also targeted by Duvalierist violence, as the case of Issa El Saieh's imprisonment demonstrates. As a group with business interests, they may have preferred a Dejoie over Duvalier, but the stability of the dictatorship may have won some of them over. 

 

A beautiful song named after the Boutilliers restaurant of Elias Noustas. 

So, what was the impact of the Syro-Libanais in Haiti? After providing a brief sketch above of their history in Haiti, it is clearly tied to commerce, shifting geopolitics of the US in the Caribbean region, and Haitian economic dependency. As an unfamiliar "Oriental" group of the early 1900s, they sparked considerable discontent upon their arrival in a country whose local retailers and merchants were experiencing a decline from Europeans who gradually gained the upper hand. As illustrated by scholars like Michel Rolph-Trouillot, Haiti's economy had long been dominated by foreigners. After 1915, however, instead of French or German domination, the US, particularly through earlier Syrien intermediaries, became the clear hegemonic force. The question of Syriens is also intimately tied to the question of Haitian national identity. As they are neither European nor are they (usually) of African descent, Levantines were an "Other" whose assimilation (or non-assimilation) may reveal something of significance in Haitian national identity. 

The visit of Habib Estefano to Haiti in the 1920s may indicate how Syriens saw themselves in relation to Latin America and the broader Syro-Lebanese diaspora. 

That someone of Levantine descent, like Issa El Saieh, became such a major figure in mid-20th century Haitian music, while also openly embracing elements of popular culture, folklore and Vodou in his band, suggests a great degree of assimilation. Certainly, Issa El Saieh himself, who preferred to speak Creole and English over French (which he associated with the "mulatto" elite), knew of his insider-outsider status. His prominence in Haitian arts is also worth mentioning, as he supported a number of Haitian painters while selling their works through his gallery. Another example, Habib the Syrian in Alexis's In the Flicker of an Eyelid, is ambiguous politically. One does not know who he will support, but like the other Haitian social classes, he has a presence in the Port-au-Prince brothel. Habib is undeniably Haitian, but what kind of Haitian? If one subscribes to the Leyburn thesis, perhaps the Syrien is just an outsider to the Haitian color-caste hierarchy. But the complexity, nuance, and fluid social relations, one which likely assisted the Levantines in their social ascent, makes this less plausible. Particularly under the Duvalier dictatorship and later periods, a degree of intermarriage, business interests, and political goals unite Syriens with their black or "mulatto" peers of similar status or wealth.