1986, February 7, 5 A.M.

1986, February 7, 5 A.M. – evening: (Paper and Iron — The Déchoukaj: A Solitary Church Bell at 5 A.M., the Remarkable Sartorial Shift as the Only People in Denim Were Dead or Being Paraded, Macoute Heads on Spikes and Père Lebrun Necklaces, Bennett Properties Looted on Télé-Haïti, Walking Unchallenged on the Palace Sidewalk for the First Time in a Generation, Green Branches and Blue-and-Red Body Paint, Papa Doc’s Tomb Found Empty, Gracia Jacques Disinterred and Burned, Luc Désir’s Torture Tapes Played on Radio, Madame Max’s Tyrannical Mistress Library, the Vodou Wars and Elmer Gantry Denunciations on Radio Lumière, Columbus Toppled with Pas de Blan en Haïti, Cité Simone Becomes Cité Soleil, and the Airport Becomes Maïs Gâté): A solitary church bell that began ringing insistently at five in the morning performed for the poor of Port-au-Prince what telephones were doing for the rich: announcing that the bird had flown. Soon others joined as sacristans mounted church towers to let their bells peal forth the news — teledjòl had one advantage over the telephone: its circuits could not be overloaded. As the pre-Lenten sun rose from behind Morne l’Hôpital, Port-au-Prince debouched into the streets in a spontaneous demonstration of joy. Throughout the country, macoutes and miliciens so unconnected that they had no idea of what had happened while they slept donned their blé, strapped on revolvers, and were quickly and rudely brought up to date — as the morning progressed, a remarkable sartorial shift occurred: the only people still in denim were either dead, barricaded and fighting for their lives, or being paraded around by angry mobs. The metamorphosis from jubilation to anger was swift — reports began coming in of macoute heads being paraded on spikes; macoutes were stoned to death or, borrowing from South Africa, necklaced with old tires and set afire, the necklaces soon known by the name of Haiti’s largest tire importer — père Lebrun. Bennett properties were targets of particularly intense wrath — Télé-Haïti showed crowds carrying office furniture, light fixtures, toilets, floor tiles, anything that could be pried loose; cars were pushed off showroom floors and down hills in hopes of jump-starting that for which they lacked ignition keys. Many contented themselves with a less dramatic assertion of freedom, opting to join the crowds milling in front of the Palais National — there, like children freed from the thrall of a tyrannical teacher, they reveled in their freedom to walk unchallenged on the sidewalk in front of the palace, an act forbidden for a generation. Many waved green branches stripped from the few trees Port-au-Prince still afforded; long-hidden flags of blue and red emerged to be carried triumphantly; some, lacking cloth, used body makeup to daub blue and red on their faces. The army was golden that morning — soldiers stationed along the palace fence watched with bemused looks as people handed them flowers, sought to shake their hands, or even kiss them, though some noticed the liberating army had moved in to protect certain properties of regime associates from mass action. In the spiritual domain, seeking to avenge themselves against Papa Doc as his enemies had done with his father’s corpse in 1959, an angry mob descended on the Cimetière before Namphy’s videotaped announcement had even been broadcast — using rocks and bits of pipe, the frenzied crowd broke through the final layers of cement to find nothing: François Duvalier’s tomb was empty. The Duvaliers had spirited Papa Doc’s coffin out with the rest of their luggage. Deprived of their quarry, the crowds disinterred Gracia Jacques and burned what was left of him in a celebratory bonfire. Luc Désir’s house yielded tape recordings of torture sessions over which the Bible-toting Baptist had presided — when some of the confiscated tapes were played on the radio, horrified relations of people who had disappeared came forward to identify the voices of loved ones in their terminal agonies. Madame Max Adolphe’s Pétionville house was sacked, its contents revealed to tele-voyeurs — dog-eared titles such as Tyrannical Mistress predominated in the private library of the doyenne of national security. Thanks to the newly respectable Creole orthography of 1979, there appeared in print a word new to urbanites — déchoukaj, long familiar to farmers, meaning to uproot. Given the Duvalier reliance on Vodou, ounfò and oungan throughout the country were déchouké; the Vodou wars progressed as Church encouragement moved from silence to overt support, with Evangelical Protestant figures going on Radio Lumière with Elmer Gantry-like denunciations of anything related to Vodou, encouraging their flocks to uproot all associated with Satan — in response to foreign creeds, Haitians were again destroying part of their collective heritage. Anything with the Duvalier name was subject to an impromptu paint job; the eternal flame at the Nègre Marron statue was doused; mobs toppled the statue of Christopher Columbus on the waterfront, scrawling pas de blan en Haïti on the naked plinth. Cité Simone became Cité Soleil; François Duvalier Airport became temporarily Maïs Gâté — spoiled corn, the name of the area — before taking on the more bland International Airport. Streets reverted to old names not used in a generation.