Classism in Haiti: An unfortunate reality
By Marjory Sheba
As a Haitian born and raised in Haiti, until the age of 9—like so many of my peers who live abroad—the culture is very much alive and well in me. I support Haitian programs, observe Haitian holidays, buy Haitian art and can appreciate the warm and ambitious spirit of the immigrant Haitian newcomer. And, when the terrible earthquake took place in 2010, I cried for days, was stricken with grief for months and did everything within my means to help.
But, as time passed and as I delved deeper into the core of the Haitian culture—its innate psychology, and essence—I began to develop a growing discomfort for the skim access and fragmented identity it offers me as a fully vested Haitian-American. Hence, I decided to shed all previous conceptions I had about what it means to be a Haitian and allow myself to truly analyze this inherited culture I had been taught to love, and assess it for it what it is.
To start, I had to revisit the definition of culture (in this case, n. the customary beliefs, traditions and material traits of a racial, religious, or social group) and the role it played in my upbringing. History teaches that many of our traditions today derive from a combination of recipes and rituals our ancestors brought with them from various tribes of Africa and the result of blood integration with the French and Spaniards during colonization. We are who we are today due to our past, and follow the ways of our fathers and mothers due to tradition and culture. But, what we pass on from one generation to the next can be completely bias and downright destructive to an otherwise flourishing and tolerant society.
Celebrative tradition and holiday observation aside, at the heart of the Haitian culture, lies an ugly stigma, perhaps more crippling to its progress than its own economic state, known as "Classism": The unapologetic dismissiveness and prejudice of the supposed elite, or higher class, towards those who are, or perceived as being, in a lower social class. This polemical matter is so rampant in the country, it has become a norm; a way of life. For the educated and affluent Diaspora-Haitian, who like myself see themselves in the ranks of those in a more opportunistic position in Haiti, awaits a rude awakening: the realization that we no longer fit in and are very much an outsider.
Spend some time in Haiti, after a long absence, and you might find yourself asking “What class of Haitians do I belong to?” There is a division line in every direction: The light-skin vs. the dark-skin, the rich vs. the poor, the educated vs. the illiterate and the Haitian vs. the Diaspora-Haitian. Yet, no one seems interested in mending the ties. One quickly begins to realize that the dream of a homely Haiti "Cherie" that we all share as Haitian-born citizens living outside of the country, may very much remain only as such: A dream; a figment of our hopeful imagination.
In my case, during a short visit in Haiti, while attending a private party put on by a member of the elite community, I observed a significant amount of prejudice to which I, also, fell prey. Of the 200 plus guests who were present, I could have accounted for only a handful of darker skin Haitians in the room, myself included; all awkwardly flocked in one corner or another. However, the servers and kitchen staff, or “bonne” as they call them, were all of darker skin. The greeting ladies and receptionists were all mulattos with the scarcest trace of black in them and although everyone present could speak and understand Kreyol, all of the conversations and presentations were conducted in French. Certainly, I held my own, but I couldn’t help but feel for those international visiting Haitians in the room, whose fluency in Kreyol quickly made them an outcast. There was an imposing air of gross pretention that seemed to choke the very spirit of camaraderie that underlined the soiree.
The following day, I listened to a wealthy Haitian man in the group, darker than my tar father, tell his fair skin, young daughter not to speak Kreyol or mingle with “these people” as he pointed to a group of poor Haitian students who waited outside a building with her. She looked at her dad, with sadness and confusion. I watched this sort of imbalance play out in almost every place I went during my stay. At times more unbearably than others, as in when I heard a poor Haitian woman tell a light-skin ‘bourgeoise’ at the airport that it was not her place to stay at the end of a long line, although she had just arrived, and urged her to go to the very front, which she did without hesitation. Complacency has long set-in and the dark-skin and poor, who are the majority, have further implicated themselves as the “lesser than” by their own ignorance and acceptance.
Spend some time in Haiti, after a long absence, and you might find yourself asking “What class of Haitians do I belong to?” There is a division line in every direction: The light-skin vs. the dark-skin, the rich vs. the poor, the educated vs. the illiterate and the Haitian vs. the Diaspora-Haitian. Yet, no one seems interested in mending the ties. One quickly begins to realize that the dream of a homely Haiti "Cherie" that we all share as Haitian-born citizens living outside of the country, may very much remain only as such: A dream; a figment of our hopeful imagination.
In my case, during a short visit in Haiti, while attending a private party put on by a member of the elite community, I observed a significant amount of prejudice to which I, also, fell prey. Of the 200 plus guests who were present, I could have accounted for only a handful of darker skin Haitians in the room, myself included; all awkwardly flocked in one corner or another. However, the servers and kitchen staff, or “bonne” as they call them, were all of darker skin. The greeting ladies and receptionists were all mulattos with the scarcest trace of black in them and although everyone present could speak and understand Kreyol, all of the conversations and presentations were conducted in French. Certainly, I held my own, but I couldn’t help but feel for those international visiting Haitians in the room, whose fluency in Kreyol quickly made them an outcast. There was an imposing air of gross pretention that seemed to choke the very spirit of camaraderie that underlined the soiree.
The following day, I listened to a wealthy Haitian man in the group, darker than my tar father, tell his fair skin, young daughter not to speak Kreyol or mingle with “these people” as he pointed to a group of poor Haitian students who waited outside a building with her. She looked at her dad, with sadness and confusion. I watched this sort of imbalance play out in almost every place I went during my stay. At times more unbearably than others, as in when I heard a poor Haitian woman tell a light-skin ‘bourgeoise’ at the airport that it was not her place to stay at the end of a long line, although she had just arrived, and urged her to go to the very front, which she did without hesitation. Complacency has long set-in and the dark-skin and poor, who are the majority, have further implicated themselves as the “lesser than” by their own ignorance and acceptance.
This experience left me distressed at a crossroad where losing my sense of identity with the culture I’ve claimed all my life, was the last thing I expected. For years, I considered myself a true child of the land and basked in all things Haitian, proud of the culture and loving the customs of its people. I kept quiet in the face of the Haitian Mulatto, who although my education and means might have surpassed, considered me unequal to him, due to my dark color. And the “Moun Lakay” whom I belonged to and felt most comfortable with, rejected me for being a product of the Diaspora. But, this time, I dared to question the answers. This time, I wanted to believe I can face the very evils that plague our people and see them for what they really are: “Scars of Slavery” (as aptly titled in a book by Dr. Rickter Mesadieu). All remnants of a time when we were taught to hate our sun-kissed, African bodies, coarse-curly hair and forget the language of our people. I have since met many who, much like me, have journeyed into that somber reality; but now offer it as the reason for their complete withdrawal from the Haitian community and discontinued practice of Haitian customs. They make a strong case, as to why they have fully immersed themselves and their children into their other shared American, Canadian and Caribbean cultures; an unfortunate reality for a country already suffering from substantial brain-drainage.
As for myself, I have chosen to hold on to the love I have for the beautiful land of Haiti and its distinguished history, but I will not succumb to the methodology and ideology of a culture infused with the old slave master’s classism mentality. I am an African-Haitian living in America, I've endured too much racism and prejudice in this land where I am viewed as a foreigner, to tolerate the same in my homeland. Haiti and all of its rich, natural resources is still a Black country; therefore it is because of that Black race of Haitian people and all their land has to offer that those who harness and harvest the millions they do from it, are able to. So, why despise the very people who help you rise? Instead of further enabling an absurd indifference, why don't we practice tolerance and acceptance for all? If Haiti is good enough of a land to profit from, then it should be good enough of a land to respect and care for, along with its people, language and culture.
