Black Lives Matter in Haiti
By Beverly bell August 2020 Anthony Pascal, also known as Konpè Filo (born March 11, 1953), died on July 31, 2020. Or, as I know he viewed it, went back to Ginen, his ancestral and spiritual home in Africa. I first met Filo in 1984. By then, he had already been a star in a constellation of young, radical, Haitian journalists for a decade. Together, those journalists shone light on the bloody, peace-of-the-graveyard rule of Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier. Filo was also an actor in socially conscious films. Some context for what comes next: When Reagan was elected in 1980, tyrants around the world took it as a “coast is clear” call to rid themselves of the riffraff demanding democracy. Across continents, “security” forces and death squads went into overdrive. In Haiti, journalists and human rights activists had an especially bad time of it, since Duvalier – like his father, the other half of the 30-year dictatorship – had distinguished himself as one of the most brutal despots in the world long before Reagan came along. On election day in the US, November 2, 1980, as soon as it became clear that Reagan had won, the Tontons Macoutes – Duvalier’s personal killing force – filled the streets, shooting into the air and shouting, “The cowboys are back in power!” Throughout that month, journalists and human rights leaders were arrested and tortured, exiled or killed. On November 28, 1980, a handful of journalists from the speak-truth-to-power Radio Haïti Inter, including Filo, were picked up at the station. This was Filo’s second arrest within six weeks. This time, he was tortured so viciously that his jaw caused him great sufferance for the rest of his life. Filo was released from prison only to be put on a plane and thrown out of his homeland, where he remained until 1986, when the U.S. decided to withdraw support from Duvalier. The U.S. government having enabled both father and son to sustain their iron grips, the younger President-for-Life would flee to France days later. I met Filo during his exile, when he lived in a safe house of radical Haitian priests in Brooklyn. Within minutes of our meeting, he took me up to the roof to see the view, and we talked for hours. Again and again over the decades, Filo showed me the view – that is, his alternative ways of seeing so many things – and we talked for hours. His perspectives always opened my eyes wider. Here are two of those perspectives. I published the first in an article entitled “Is Haiti Poor?” in T_ruthout_ , March 8, 2011. In response to the title question, Filo replied: is You stand in front of your neighbor’s house and you ask, ‘Did you drink coffee yet today?’ You “But it’s hard for a little country to rise up, especially in our case. We’re still paying a toll because of the independence we got [from France in 1804]. We’ve also exported revolution, helping other people liberate themselves and gain their sovereignty in South America [assisting the liberator Simon Bolivar in Venezuela] and in [the Siege of Savannah in the revolutionary war in] America. So the war against us has never ended. There’s still an embargo, a barrier blocking us. “Haiti could go far. But humanity has to become more solidarity-minded so that the global economy doesn’t predominate and crush us. “And the wealthy need to understand that they can’t take their riches with them. What they have, they should use for good, because those riches actually belong to everyone. As Victor Hugo wrote, ‘We’re all children of God.’” The second alternative perspective - actually a combination of Filo’s and my own - I shared in the book Fault Lines. “Late one night, Filo and I drove through Carrefour. The name of the sprawling shantytown means ‘crossroads,’ but to outsiders it might mean only ‘raw poverty.’ The population is so dense you can’t believe everyone fits, and in fact they don’t: folks sleep in shifts in the small houses as there isn’t enough room for all to lie down at “That depends on how you define poverty and wealth. Is Haiti poor? No, I would say Haiti a rich country. We have solidarity and community. We’re raised in compounds with common courtyards and we know that what you have, you have to share with your neighbors. know that your success and your family’s success depend on the community’s well-being. That’s the model we have. once. One result is that the streets are packed at all hours. As always, that evening the smell was thick, as was the gray slime that covered the street, because it didn’t drain and no one with power or resources had ever bothered to fix it. As was often the case, the electricity was out, and the only light came from the glow of kerosene lamps made from Famosa tomato paste cans. The lamps were set on tables along the sides of the busy road, as there were no sidewalks. Arms draped around each other’s shoulders, the crowds packed around each table spinning yarns, arguing, and laughing. In the candlelight, their sweat-covered faces glistened. As we passed through, Filo mused, “Look at all this community. Beautiful, huh?” Filo later abandoned politics, alienating many in the progressive movement. He explained the reason to me: “Look at all this gray hair. What did I ever accomplish in all those years?” I could see his point. Change is grueling and exhausting to come by, and perhaps equally so to sustain. Filo then entered deeply into Vodou, the Africanist religion and life path. He became a Vodou priest and ambassador of his country’s popular culture. All the while, he remained in media - still one of the nation’s top stars, but no longer in justice-focused radio. Instead, he had a nightly TV show with diverse guests, most of them addressing cultural issues. Filo took me to Vodou ceremonies deep in the woods; to smoky clubs with sultry _konpa _music from days of yore, where we danced for hours; to nighttime gatherings by the sea, where friends in the cultural and political intelligentsia shared food, rum, laughter, and great conversations... Ah, he showed me much throughout the decades. Filo told me a few years back that I was one of his great loves in life. I say the same about him. And I offer _lwanj, _praises, to his rich, complicated, and profoundly contributory life. _Ayibobo! _ _On air at Radio Haiti Inter, September 1980, a few weeks before his first arrest, and a few years before I met him in exile. _ ** * * * * * * * * * To all the demonstrators, occupiers, filmers of police violence, dismantlers of monuments to hate, walls of moms, leafblower dads, and others, who take blows or bullets, and risk jail, injury, or death: thank you. To all the organizers, strategists, legal defense teams, non-profit toilers, journalists, advocates, funders, artists, musicians, singers, elected officials, intellectuals, clergy, and more, who are laboring for structural justice and an end to white supremacy, police tyranny, and fascism: thank you. You are providing a profound service to all of us, in the US and around the globe. You are engendering hope, protecting lives, and just possibly saving our collective soul. BLACK LIVES MATTER.