For this assignment I decided that I would just write a brief overview of one of the stories in Edwidge Danticat's book Krik. I am mainly going to focus on questions 2 and 3 in the study questions for Chapter 5 of Edwindge Danticat's book, Krik. I tell you that Danticat did an excellent job writing this because I had to go and read this chapter over to figure out that the baby was actually dead when she found it.2. The Cruelty that Haitians Experienced
Edwidge Danticat depicts the violence, brutality and cruelty her people suffered during that time. Danticat shows us the pain of her people through her words and demonstrates their healing power through her various short stories.In her first short story, "Children of the Sea" we are introduced to two young adults who are in love with one another but who are separated because of the terror which existed in their Haitian society. Nonetheless, she became pregnant with one of their children and later killed herself.In her second short story, "Nineteen Thirty-Seven", Danticat depicts t.3. Factors That Push Women To Write
Edwidge Danticat tells us how her desire to write was consuming her in a society where Women's writing was absolutely forbidden, something to do in the corner. (Edwidge Danticat, Kirk. If Danticat had had tried to rebel, she would have probably been seen as the devil "you and your writing demons in your head" (Edwidge Danticat, Kirk. (Edwidge Danticat, Kirk. Also, just like Edwidge Dandicat, a woman may want to give the voice to kitchen poets in order to fight cultural imperialism.4. Truth Commissions
1) What is the potential of truth commissions in helping people and communities recover from mass, systematic violence? What are the potential problems or limitations of truth commissions with respect to this goal? Address this set of questions by drawing on the work of three of the following auth.
Suggestions for Presentations
Texts by Edwidge Danticat
on the Internet
available at University Library Osnabrueck
Arnold, James (ed.). A History of Literature in the Caribbean: Vol. 1: Hispanic and Francophone Regions. Amsterdam [u.a.]: Benjamins, 1994. (A comparative history of literatures in European languages) Standort: B HGR 4712-005 3
Bremer, Thomas (ed.). Alternative Cultures in the Caribbean: First International Conference of the Society of Caribbean Research, Berlin 1988. Frankfurt am Main: Vervuert, 1993. (Bibliotheca Ibero-Americana ; 46) Standort: B MKZ 4604-803 9
Brown-Guillory, Elizabeth (ed.). Women of Color: Mother-Daughter Relationships in Twentieth-Century Literature. Austin: Univ. of Texas Press, 1996. Standort: B EIL 4715-055 7
Cudjoe, Selwyn R. Resistance and Caribbean Literature. Athens, Ohio [u.a.]: Ohio Univ. Press, 1980. Standort: B EFN 4213-301 6
Dabydeen, David (ed.). A Handbook for Teaching Caribbean Literature. London: Heinemann Educational, 1988. Standort: Magazin 4408-485 9
Dance, Dary Cumber (ed.). Fifty Caribbean Writers: A Bio-bibliographical Critical Sourcebook. New York [u.a.]: Greenwood Press, 1986. Standort: B DEQ 4295-332 2
Dash, Michael J. Haiti and the United States: National Stereotypes and the Literary Imagination. Basingstoke u.a. Macmillan, 1988. Standort: B EIL 4412-417 5
Dash, Michael J. Literature and Ideology in Haiti: 1915-1961. London u.a. Macmillan, 1981. Standort: B EYB H 4227-089 8
Diedrich, Maria. Black Imagination and the Middle Passage. New York, NY [u.a.]: Oxford Univ. Press, 1999. (W.E.B. Du Bois Institute Series) Standort: B EID 4715-353 8
Donnell, Alison (ed.). The Routledge Reader in Caribbean Literature. London [u.a.]: Routledge, 1996. Standort: B EKA 4651-803 5
Glaser, Marlies, and Marion Pausch (eds.). Caribbean Writers between Orality & Writing. Amsterdam [u.a.]: Rodopi, 1994. (Matatu ; 12) Standort: B EFN K 4629-481 2
Harney, Stefano. Nationalism and Identity: Culture and the Imagination in a Caribbean Diaspora. Kingston [Jamaica]: Univ. of the West Indies [u.a.], 1996. Standort: B EFN K 4694-172 5
Newson, Adele S. (ed.). Winds of Change: The Transforming Voices of Caribbean Women Writers and Scholars: [The 1996 International Conference of Caribbean Women Writers and Scholars held April 24 - 27 at Florida International University]. New York [u.a.]: Lang, 1998. Standort: Magazin 4538-552 8
Ramchand, Kenneth. The West Indian Novel and Its Background. 2.ed. London u.a. Heinemann, 1983. (Studies in Caribbean Literature) Standort: B DOZ 4271-437 0
Rodriguez, Barbara. Autobiographical Inscriptions: Form, Personhood, and the American Woman Writer of Color. New York, NY [u.a.]: Oxford Univ. Press, 1999. Standort: B EHJ 4718-747 8
Adlerberg, Scott. "The Farming of Bones by Edwidge Danticat." Richmond Review. No Date. <http://www.richmondreview.co.uk/books/farming.html>
Allen-Taylor, J. Douglas. Haïtian Holocaust: Love on the Banks of the Massacre. (Review of The Farming of Bones ). Metro. October 1-7, 1998. <http://www.metroactive.com/papers/metro/10.01.98/cover/lit-danticat-9839.html>
Cryer, Dan. _the farming of bones___ a novel. Review. Salon. August 31, 1998. <http://www.salon.com/books/sneaks/1998/08/31sneaks.html>
Edelman, Dave. Edwidge Danticat's Krik? Krak! Review. Baltimore City Paper. August 23, 1995. <http://www.dave-edelman.com/reviews/danticat.cfm>
Jamison, Laura. "The Exquisite Tales of Edwidge Danticat." (Review of Krik? Krak! ). Hearst Examiner. Thursday, October 16, 1995. <http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/examiner/archive/1995/10/26/STYLE4557.dtl>
Knowles, Roberta Q. Review of Edwidge Danticat: Breath, Eyes, Memory . Caribbean Writer. Vol. 8 (1994), pp. 168-169. <http://rps.uvi.edu/CaribbeanWriter/volume8/v8p168.html>
Seaman, Donna. The Farming of Bones by Edwidge Danticat. Review. Booklist. August 1998. <http://www.richmondreview.co.uk/books/farming.html>
Sheanin, Wendy. "Stories Resound With Haiti's Tragedy, Spirit." (Review of Krik? Krak! ). San Francisco Chronicle. Sunday, May 28, 1995. <http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/archive/1995/05/28/RV67811.DTL>
Stephens, Autumn. "Machetes Haunt a Novel: Recalling the 1937 Haitian Massacre." (Review of The Farming of Bones ). San Francisco Chronicle. Sunday, December 13, 1998. <http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?=/chronicle/archive/1998/12/13/RV4882.DTL>
Sutton, Jennifer. Inheritance. Biographical Essay. Brown Alumni Magazine. February 1996. <http://www.brown.edu/Administration/Brown_Alumni_Magazine/96/96-2/features/danticat.html>
Waters, Erika J. Review of Edwidge Danticat: Krik? Krak! . Caribbean Writer. Vol. 9 (1995), pp. 260-262. <http://rps.uvi.edu/CaribbeanWriter/volume9/v9p260.html>
Interviews with Edwidge Danticat.
Links to Haitian culture, literature, history etc.
Vodun - general information about what we call Voodoo.
Edwidge Danticat was born in Haiti in 1969 and moved to the United States when she was twelve. She is the author of two novels, two collections of stories, two books for young adults, and two nonfiction books, one of which, Brother, I'm Dying, was a finalist for the National Book Award and winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for autobiography. In 2009, she received a MacArthur Genius Fellowship.
In the interview below, Edwidge talks with AALBC.com's Kam WIlliams about her opus, Create Dangerously . a collection of essays based on a series of lectures she delivered at Princeton University last year.
Edwidge Danticat The “Create Dangerously ” Interview
Kam Williams: Hi, Edwidge, thanks for the time.
Edwidge Danticat: I hope you don’t mind that I have my baby daughter with me. Usually, I make some sort of arrangements.
"Create dangerously, for people who read dangerously. This is what I've always thought it meant to be a writer. Writing, knowing in part that no matter how trivial your words may seem, someday, somewhere, someone may risk his or her life to read them."
KW: No need to apologize. I once interviewed Soledad O’Brien while she was surrounded by her kids in the kitchen, and the children’s distractions only added to the experience. First, let me say I enjoyed Create Dangerously immensely. When did you arrive at an understanding that your aesthetic coincided with that of Albert Camus in his essay of the same name which served as the inspiration for your book’s title?
ED: [Laughs] You ask that question in such a very, very serious way. I’ve always enjoyed the work of Camus, and found it very thought-provoking, especially his novels. But less universally read are his essays which are very beautiful. I read that one when I was in college and starting to think seriously about writing. He always seemed to express more ambivalence than certainty. That’s certainly how I feel, that this is all a kind of quest, and that things change in terms of what you’re trying to accomplish as you go along. I like the fact that he talks about both sides and the ambivalence of artists.
KW: FSU grad Laz Lyles says: I heard a New Yorker Magazine podcast that mentioned you and Junot Diaz in tandem as the frontrunner "immigrant" writers. I'd like to know if there are any other writers we should be looking out for who are creating and writing in this tradition.
ED: [Laughs] I don’t know if it’s true that we’re at the forefront. I think we are just part of a big and emerging group. Two of the people I‘m most actively reading right now are Dinaw Mengestu and Jhumpa Lahiri. Also, Tiphanie Yanique who wrote an absolutely amazing novella and collection of short stories called “How to Escape from a Leper Colony.”
KW: Rudy Lewis says: I have read several of your books and think that you are the finest and most courageous writer living today, on par with the late South African poet Dennis Brutus. Do you think it a waste of energy to protest for the return of President Aristide to Haiti when it is almost certain that the United States, Canada, and France will not allow his return?
ED: Rudy is right that it would be very difficult for Aristide to return as a leader because the larger powers won’t allow it, but I don’t think the people in Haiti who support his return would consider it a waste of energy because he is a citizen of Haiti.
KW: Rudy also says: South Africa was a cause célèbre. Why do you think that Haiti has not risen to that level in the African-American political imagination, in their churches and other social and political arenas? Is it the problem of language or some other factors?
ED: There has long been an ideological and intellectual engagement with Haiti as the first black republic by people like Harry Belafonte, Danny Glover. Randall Robinson. Zora Neale Hurston. Langston Hughes. Katherine Dunham, Frederick Douglass and Ntozake Shange. And since the earthquake. we’ve witnessed a very visceral reaction and a new wave of engagement on the part of many African-American communities all across the country.
KW: Speaking of the earthquake, Heritage Konpa Publisher Rene Davis wants to know if there’s an earthquake relief charity you recommend,
ED: There are two. Haitian Women for Haitian Refugees has been on the ground since the beginning. The majority of Haitian households are female-headed because of politics and migration. The other is the Lambi Fund of Haiti. Both work primarily in areas outside of Port-au-Prince which get less aid.
KW: Rene also wants to know whether you have any political aspirations in Haiti, ala Wyclef Jean?
ED: No, no, no, no, no! The only thing I will ever run for is a bus. [LOL]
KW: Harriet Pakula Teweles says: First of all, I want to say how very much I appreciated "The Dew Breaker.” How has winning a MacArthur Award and being dubbed a genius affected your writing process?
ED: It hasn’t made it easier, strangely enough. [Chuckles] Writing is the same, no matter what else happened with your previous book, because ultimately you have to sit down with a blank page and wrestle with an idea. It hasn’t changed that process in terms of the anxiety. Once you’re involved in the work, it’s really just you and the characters and the words. What does change is that the more you do it, the more practice you have, the less stressful writing is. You know how that is, Kam
KW: Yeah. What did being named an Oprah Book Club selection do for you?
ED: It gave me a lot of time. What it did was allow me the time to concentrate on writing so I did not have to do so many other jobs. The greatest gift anyone can give to a writer is time, as you very well know.
KW: Attorney Bernadette Beekman says: I am always so incredibly moved by your writing, especially “Krik Krak,” “The Farming of the Bones” and “The Dew Breaker.” I see that your new work is once again about life's challenges respecting immigrants. I wonder if one day you will write an extended work which will examine happiness instead of suffering.
ED: [Laughs] I think I’m just melancholy by nature, and a lot of that gets into my writing. But on a practical level, I think it’s hard to write a book about happiness because fiction requires tension and complication.
KW: Bernadette asks: When was the last time you were in Haiti?
ED: I was there towards the end of the summer to visit family and to work at a camp called “Li Li Li ” which means “Read Read Read.”
KW: Yale grad Tommy Russell asks: Were you surprised at the outpouring of support after the earthquake? Are things getting better? And what more needs to be done down there?
ED: I was surprised at how broad the recovery was. Every one was doing something. On another level, I probably shouldn’t have been surprised because there is something human about the way people react to and identify with suffering. There’s a lot more empathy in the world than we perhaps realize. The response to the earthquake proved that. Unfortunately, many of the donations haven’t been used, and we still have a million and a half people homeless, plus the recent cholera outbreak shows the vulnerability of the situation. So, I think there needs to be a renewed urgency.
KW: Marcia Evans is a person who grew up in the Cambria Heights section of New York City. She asks: Why is this lovely neighborhood never discussed by the media when covering the Haitian community?
ED: Marcia’s right about that, although since the earthquake there’s a reporter from The New York Times, Anne Barnard, who’s been writing a very extensive series about that particular community in Queens. I think it’s hard for an outsider to capture the flavor of a community and all its nuances, so ultimately Haitian-Americans need to start sharing intimate accounts of their stories. But, Marcia’s right, there are many wonderful stories waiting to be told. We also have to support Haitian-American media, like Heritage Konpa and The Haitian Times, because they not only link Haitian communities to each other, but they are the portals from the Haitian community to the greater community.
KW: Is there any question no one ever asks you, that you wish someone would?
ED: Yes, I’ve been afraid a few times, especially now that I have kids. I’m more afraid for them than for myself.
KW: The Columbus Short question: Are you happy?
ED: Yes, most of the time. [Chuckles]
KW: The Teri Emerson question: When was the last time you had a good laugh?
ED: Just now, with you.
KW: What is your guiltiest pleasure?
ED: That reality show Basketball Wives.
KW: The bookworm Troy Johnson question: What was the last book you read?
"Mengestu stunningly illuminates the immigrant [Ethiopia] experience across two generations."
ED: Dinaw Mengestu’s new book, “How to Read the Air.”
KW: The music maven Heather Covington question: What are you listening to on your iPod?
ED: “The Suburbs ,” the new album from an indie rock group called Arcade Fire.
KW: What is your favorite dish to cook?
ED: Diri Ak Djon-Djon. It’s Haitian rice with mushroom.
KW: The Uduak Oduok question: Who is your favorite clothes designer?
ED: My mama. She sews. [Laughs]
KW: When you look in the mirror, what do you see?
ED: A 40+ year-old woman.
KW: If you could have one wish instantly granted, what would that be for?
ED: A true rebuilding of Haiti.
KW: The Ling-Ju Yen question: What is your earliest childhood memory?
ED: My mother cooking. I think I was about two years-old.
KW: The Nancy Lovell Question: Why do you love doing what you do?
ED: Because it’s fun.
KW: The Flex Alexander question: How do you get through the tough times?
ED: By praying and reading.
KW: The Rudy Lewis question: Who’s at the top of your hero list?
ED: That’s a tricky one.
KW: What advice do you have for anyone who wants to follow in your footsteps?
ED: You know I have to be very introspective to do the work that I do, so I’ll say quite a bit. [LOL]
KW: Finally, how do you want to be remembered? What do you want your legacy to be, and where are you in relation to that at this point in your life?
ED: [Laughs] That’s funny, because that was also Tavis’ last question when I was on his show recently. I have young daughters, and I want my legacy to be more connected to them. I hope to be a good role model for my daughters. I’m only at the beginning of the process, because they’re young.
KW: Thanks again, Edwidge, and best of luck with the book.
ED: Thank you, Kam. It was a lot of fun talking to you.
Edwidge Danticat on finding the courage to write and to read in dangerous circumstances. An excerpt from her new book of essays, Create Dangerously . published this month by Princeton University Press
Edwidge Danticat. Photograph by Nancy Crampton, courtesy Princeton University Press
On November 12, 1964, in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, a huge crowd gathered to witness an execution. The president of Haiti at that time was the dictator François “Papa Doc” Duvalier, who was seven years into what would be a fifteen-year term. On the day of the execution, he decreed that government offices be closed so that hundreds of state employees could be in the crowd. Schools were shut down and principals ordered to bring their students. Hundreds of people from outside the capital were bused in to watch.
The two men to be executed were Marcel Numa and Louis Drouin. Marcel Numa was a tall, dark-skinned twenty-one-year-old. He was from a family of coffee planters in a beautiful southern Haitian town called Jérémie, which is often dubbed the “city of poets.” Numa had studied engineering at the Bronx Merchant Academy in New York and had worked for an American shipping company.
Louis Drouin, nicknamed Milou, was a thirty-one-year-old light-skinned man who was also from Jérémie. He had served in the US army — at Fort Knox, and then at Fort Dix in New Jersey — and had studied finance before working for French, Swiss, and American banks in New York. Marcel Numa and Louis Drouin had been childhood friends in Jérémie.
The men had remained friends when they’d both moved to New York in the 1950s, after François Duvalier came to power. There they had joined a group called Jeune Haiti, or Young Haiti, and were two of thirteen Haitians who left the United States for Haiti in 1964 to engage in a guerrilla war that they hoped would eventually topple the Duvalier dictatorship.
The men of Jeune Haiti spent three months fighting in the hills and mountains of southern Haiti and eventually most of them died in battle. Marcel Numa was captured by members of Duvalier’s army while he was shopping for food in an open market, dressed as a peasant. Louis Drouin was wounded in battle and asked his friends to leave him behind in the woods.
“According to our principles I should have committed suicide in that situation,” Drouin reportedly declared in a final statement at his secret military trial. “Chandler and Guerdès [two other Jeune Haiti members] were wounded. the first one asked. his best friend to finish him off; the second committed suicide after destroying a case of ammunition and all the documents. That did not affect me. I reacted only after the disappearance of Marcel Numa, who had been sent to look for food and for some means of escape by sea. We were very close and our parents were friends.”
After months of attempting to capture the men of Jeune Haiti and after imprisoning and murdering hundreds of their relatives, Papa Doc Duvalier wanted to make a spectacle of Numa and Drouin’s deaths.
So on November 12, 1964, two pine poles are erected outside the national cemetery. A captive audience is gathered.
Radio, print, and television journalists are summoned. Numa and Drouin are dressed in what on old black-and-white film seem to be the clothes in which they’d been captured — khakis for Drouin and a modest white shirt and denim-looking pants for Numa. They are both marched from the edge of the crowd towards the poles. Their hands are tied behind their backs by two of Duvalier’s private henchmen, Tonton Macoutes in dark glasses and civilian dress. The Tonton Macoutes then tie the ropes around the men’s biceps to bind them to the poles and keep them upright.
Numa, the taller and thinner of the two, stands erect, in perfect profile, barely leaning against the square piece of wood behind him. Drouin, who wears brow-line eyeglasses, looks down into the film camera that is taping his final moments. Drouin looks as though he is fighting back tears as he stands there, strapped to the pole, slightly slanted. Drouin’s arms are shorter than Numa’s and the rope appears looser on Drouin. While Numa looks straight ahead, Drouin pushes his head back now and then to rest it on the pole.
Time is slightly compressed on the copy of the film I have and in some places the images skip. There is no sound. A large crowd stretches out far beyond the cement wall behind the bound Numa and Drouin. To the side is a balcony filled with schoolchildren. Some time elapses, it seems, as the schoolchildren and others mill around. The soldiers shift their guns from one hand to the other. Some audience members shield their faces from the sun by raising their hands to their foreheads. Some sit idly on a low stone wall.
A young white priest in a long robe walks out of the crowd with a prayer book in his hands. It seems that he is the person everyone has been waiting for. The priest says a few words to Drouin, who slides his body upward in a defiant pose. Drouin motions with his head towards his friend. The priest spends a little more time with Numa, who bobs his head as the priest speaks. If this is Numa’s extreme unction, it is an abridged version.
The priest then returns to Drouin and is joined there by a stout Macoute in plain clothes and by two uniformed policemen, who lean in to listen to what the priest is saying to Drouin. It is possible that they are all offering Drouin some type of eye or face cover that he’s refusing. Drouin shakes his head as if to say, let’s get it over with. No blinders or hoods are placed on either man.
The firing squad, seven helmeted men in khaki military uniforms, stretch out their hands on either side of their bodies. They touch each other’s shoulders to position and space themselves. The police and army move the crowd back, perhaps to keep them from being hit by ricocheted bullets. The members of the firing squad pick up their Springfield rifles, load their ammunition, and then place their weapons on their shoulders. Off screen someone probably shouts, “Fire!” and they do. Numa and Drouin’s heads slump sideways at the same time, showing that the shots have hit home.
When the men’s bodies slide down the poles, Numa’s arms end up slightly above his shoulders and Drouin’s below his. Their heads return to an upright position above their kneeling bodies, until a soldier in camouflage walks over and delivers the final coup de grâce. after which their heads slump forward and their bodies slide further towards the bottom of the pole. Blood spills out of Numa’s mouth. Drouin’s glasses fall to the ground, pieces of blood and brain matter clouding the cracked lenses.
The next day, Le Matin. the country’s national newspaper, described the stunned-looking crowd as “feverish, communicating in a mutual patriotic exaltation to curse adventurism and brigandage.”
“The government pamphlets circulating in Port-au-Prince last week left little to the imagination,” reported the November 27, 1964, edition of the American newsweekly Time. “‘Dr François Duvalier will fulfil his sacrosanct mission. He has crushed and will always crush the attempts of the opposition. Think well, renegades. Here is the fate awaiting you and your kind.’”
All artists, writers among them, have several stories — one might call them creation myths — that haunt and obsess them. This is one of mine. I don’t even remember when I first heard about it. I feel as though I have always known it, having filled in the curiosity-driven details through photographs, newspaper and magazine articles, books, and films as I have gotten older.
Like many a creation myth, aside from its heartrending clash of life and death, homeland and exile, the execution of Marcel Numa and Louis Drouin involves a disobeyed directive from a higher authority and a brutal punishment as a result. If we think back to the biggest creation myth of all, the world’s very first people, Adam and Eve, disobeyed the superior being that fashioned them out of chaos, defying God’s order not to eat what must have been the world’s most desirable apple. Adam and Eve were then banished from Eden, resulting in everything from our having to punch a clock to spending many long, painful hours giving birth.
The order given to Adam and Eve was not to eat the apple. Their ultimate punishment was banishment, exile from paradise. We, the storytellers of the world, ought to be more grateful than most that banishment, rather than execution, was chosen for Adam and Eve, for had they been executed, there would never have been another story told, no stories to pass on.
In his play Caligula. Albert Camus, from whom I borrow part of the title of this essay, has Caligula, the third Roman emperor, declare that it doesn’t matter whether one is exiled or executed, but it is much more important that Caligula has the power to choose. Even before they were executed, Marcel Numa and Louis Drouin had already been exiled. As young men, they had fled Haiti with their parents when Papa Doc Duvalier had come to power in 1957 and had immediately targeted for arrest all his detractors and resistors in the city of poets and elsewhere.
Marcel Numa and Louis Drouin had made new lives for themselves, becoming productive young immigrants in the United States. In addition to his army and finance experience, Louis Drouin was said to have been a good writer and the communications director of Jeune Haiti. In the United States, he contributed to a Haitian political journal called Lambi. Marcel Numa was from a family of writers. One of his male relatives, Nono Numa, had adapted the seventeenth-century French playwright Pierre Corneille’s Le Cid. placing it in a Haitian setting. Many of the young men Numa and Drouin joined with to form Jeune Haiti had had fathers killed by Papa Doc Duvalier, and had returned, Le Cid and Hamlet-like, to revenge them.
Like most creation myths, this one too exists beyond the scope of my own life, yet it still feels present, even urgent. Marcel Numa and Louis Drouin were patriots who died so that other Haitians could live. They were also immigrants, like me. Yet, they had abandoned comfortable lives in the United States and sacrificed themselves for the homeland. One of the first things the despot Duvalier tried to take away from them was the mythic element of their stories. In the propaganda preceding their execution, he labelled them not Haitian, but foreign rebels, good-for-nothing blans .
At the time of the execution of Marcel Numa and Louis Drouin, my recently married, twenty-nine-year-old parents lived in Haiti, in a neighbourhood called Bel Air, about a thirty-minute walk from the cemetery. Bel Air had a government-sponsored community centre, a centre d’étude. where young men and women — but mostly young men — went to study in the evenings, especially if they had no electricity at home. Some of these young people — not my parents, but young people who studied at the centre — belonged to a book club, a reading group sponsored by the Alliance Française, the French Institute. The book group was called Le Club de Bonne Humeur, or the Good Humor Club. At the time, Le Club de Bonne Humeur was reading Camus’s play Caligula with an eye to possibly staging it.
In Camus’s version of Caligula’s life, when Caligula’s sister, who is also his lover, dies, Caligula unleashes his rage and slowly unravels. In a preface to an English translation of the play, Camus wrote, “I look in vain for philosophy in these four acts. I have little regard for an art that deliberately aims to shock because it is unable to convince.”
After the executions of Marcel Numa and Louis Drouin, as the images of their deaths played over and over in cinemas and on state-run television, the young men and women of the Club de Bonne Humeur, along with the rest of Haiti, desperately needed art that could convince. They needed art that could convince them that they would not die the same way Numa and Drouin did. They needed to be convinced that words could still be spoken, that stories could still be told and passed on. So, as my father used to tell it, these young people donned white sheets as togas and they tried to stage Camus’s play — quietly, quietly — in many of their houses, where they whispered lines like:
Execution relieves and liberates. It is a universal tonic, just in precept as in practice. A man dies because he is guilty. A man is guilty because he is one of Caligula’s subjects. Ergo all men are guilty and shall die. It is only a matter of time and patience.
The legend of the underground staging of this and other plays, clandestine readings of pieces of literature, was so strong that years after Papa Doc Duvalier died, every time there was a political murder in Bel Air, one of the young aspiring intellectuals in the neighbourhood where I spent the first twelve years of my life might inevitably say that someone should put on a play. And because the uncle who raised me while my parents were in New York for two-thirds of the first twelve years of my life, because that uncle was a minister in Bel Air and had a church and school with some available space, occasionally some of these plays were read and staged, quietly, quietly, in the backyard of his church.
There were many recurrences of this story throughout the country, book and theatre clubs secretly cherishing some potentially subversive piece of literature, families burying if not burning their entire libraries, books that might seem innocent but could easily betray them. Novels with the wrong titles. Treatises with the right titles and intentions. Strings of words that, uttered, written, or read, could cause a person’s death. Sometimes these words were written by Haitian writers like Marie Vieux-Chauvet and René Depestre, among others. Other times they were written by foreign or blan writers, writers like Aimé Césaire, Frantz Fanon, or Albert Camus, who were untouchable because they were either not Haitian or already long dead. The fact that death prevented one from being banished — unlike, say, the English novelist Graham Greene, who was banned from Haiti after writing The Comedians — made the “classic” writers all the more appealing. Unlike the country’s own citizens, these writers could neither be tortured or murdered themselves nor cause their family members to be tortured or murdered. And no matter how hard he tried, Papa Doc Duvalier could not make their words go away. Their maxims and phrases would keep coming back, buried deep in memories by the rote recitation techniques that the Haitian school system had taught so well. Because those writers who were still in Haiti, not yet exiled or killed, could not freely perform or print their own words outright, many of them turned, or returned, to the Greeks.
When it was a crime to pick up a bloodied body on the street, Haitian writers introduced Haitian readers to Sophocles’s Oedipus Rex and Antigone. which had been rewritten in Creole and placed in Haitian settings by the playwright Franck Fouché and the poet Felix Morisseau Leroy. This is where these writers placed their bets, striking a dangerous balance between silence and art.
How do writers and readers find each other under such dangerous circumstances? Reading, like writing, under these conditions is disobedience to a directive in which the reader, our Eve, already knows the possible consequences of eating that apple but takes a bold bite anyway.
How does that reader find the courage to take this bite, open that book? After an arrest, an execution? Of course he or she may find it in the power of the hushed chorus of other readers, but she can also find it in the writer’s courage in having stepped forward, in having written, or rewritten, in the first place.
Create dangerously, for people who read dangerously. This is what I’ve always thought it meant to be a writer. Writing, knowing in part that no matter how trivial your words may seem, someday, somewhere, someone may risk his or her life to read them. Coming from where I come from, with the history I have — having spent the first twelve years of my life under both dictatorships of Papa Doc and his son, Jean Claude — this is what I’ve always seen as the unifying principle among all writers. This is what, among other things, might join Albert Camus and Sophocles to Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Osip Mandelstam, and Ralph Waldo Emerson to Ralph Waldo Ellison. Somewhere, if not now, then maybe years in the future, a future that we may have yet to dream of, someone may risk his or her life to read us. Somewhere, if not now, then maybe years in the future, we may also save someone’s life, because they have given us a passport, making us honorary citizens of their culture.
The Caribbean Review of Books. September 2010
Edwidge Danticat was born in Haiti in 1969 and moved to the United States when she was twelve. She is the author of two novels, two collections of stories, two books for young adults, and two nonfiction books, one of which, Brother, I’m Dying. was a finalist for the National Book Award and winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for autobiography. In 2009 she received a MacArthur Fellowship.FROM THE ARCHIVE
“I am looking for a hero”
F.S.J. Ledgister on John Hearne’s Life and Fiction: A Critical Biographical Study. by Shivaun Hearne
Good like cook food
Stephen Narain reviews Caribbean Erotic: Poetry, Prose, and Essays. ed. Opal Palmer Adisa and Donna Aza Weir-Soley
Before night falls
David Iaconangelo reviews the film Jean Gentil. directed by Laura Guzmán and Israel Cárdenas
Elizabeth Walcott-Hackshaw reviews How to Make Love to a Negro Without Getting Tired, I Am a Japanese Writer. and Heading South. by Dany Laferrière
Mervyn Morris reviews Selected Poems. by Ian McDonald, ed. Edward Baugh
Consider the camel
Anu Lakhan reviews Jamaican Food: History, Biology, Culture. by B.W. Higman
Annie Paul on the 2006 Jamaica National Biennial
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