I recently published the first ever translation of a Haitian novel. Fernand Hibbert's Romulus, first published in 1908, is a dramatization of a failed uprising that took place on Haiti's southern peninsula in the late 19th century. Here's the foreword I wrote for it. It's something of a translator's manifesto.
Since the bicentennial of its independence in 2004, and particularly since the devastating earthquake of 2010, Haiti has been on our minds. But ask the man in the street what he knows about the country and he will typically utter something about the “poorest in the Western hemisphere,” “foreign aid vs. political corruption,” or maybe “Voodoo.” Rifle through the international section of any newspaper and you’ll likely see a picture of Bill Clinton or some other white diplomat promising to bring measurable change by some undetermined date. On the whole, here in the First World our insight into the day-to-day lives, the history and the culture of the developing world is marginal at most. Why then—as our world gets smaller, as our cities embrace multiculturalism, as the plastic artefacts of our material and media culture find their way to the remotest ports—why do we know so little about the anonymous majority of the world? Port-au-Prince, after all, is barely a thousand kilometres from Miami.
Did you know, for example, that in 1789, Haiti (then Saint-Domingue) was arguably the most profitable colony in the world? Did you know that when they declared their independence in 1804 they were the second nation in the New World to do so? Were you aware that, despite mass illiteracy, for the century-and-a-half after independence Haiti produced more books per capita than any other nation in the Western Hemisphere save the United States? In 1956, literary critic Edmund Wilson wrote about this thriving print culture: “the literature of Haiti…is highly sophisticated and has a long and sound tradition.”i Be it poetry or prose, they have their masters.
So where did this sophisticated tradition come from?
The modern state of Haiti came about under a host of unique circumstances, and these circumstances have encouraged a literary heritage that is equally unique. Partly, their history and literature have been shaped by a perceived need to prove themselves to the world. The new republic of former slaves stood against everything that the nineteenth century empires were built on. First-generation Haitians were painfully aware of their responsibility to prove the fallacy of the racial ideologies of the day. They became obsessed with the idea of successfully running their state and proving to the world they were more than just “gilded Negroes,” as Bonaparte disdainfully dubbed them.ii Their literary elite, that ever-present and ever-miniscule group, also fell into this mindset of insecure endeavours—and in literature insecurity is not always detrimental (think Kafka, think Hemmingway).
This literary circle, many of whom were educated in post-revolutionary France, lived in a nation founded on ideas of individual liberty, political self-determination and racial equality that surpassed, even scandalized, the progressive minds of Europe. Haiti, since adopting the name, has been a place where the abstract ideas of liberty and equality are felt—in spite of, or perhaps because of, the persistent threat of losing them. Time and time again foreign powers and native authoritarian leaders have sought to dominate the people of Haiti, but they hold their resolve, they’ve done so for over two centuries, they will not be slaves again. Ideas of liberty, which in the developed world often become mundane and theoretical, still mean something in Haiti. This comes across clearly in their literature.
Another aspect of their culture that lends itself to their literature is the idea of heroes in Haitian society. The Revolution comprised a dramatic series of events, which brought several charismatic leaders into power. These men became a virtual pantheon of Haitian history, and subsequent leaders would attempt to espouse this superhuman status in their own political image. Haitian politics have been plagued with personality cults. For better or worse, the Haitian people have a keen appreciation for heroes and heroic tales.
If they have such a profound and sophisticated body of work then why haven’t we heard of it?
We’re ignorant to Haiti’s literature for the same reason that we’re ignorant to its history: the West has consistently tried to forget the place. Historians are to blame. For almost two centuries (they’re getting better these days) when historians mention the Haitian Revolution, it’s as a footnote to the Age of Revolution. In actuality it was the most radical, the most revolutionary of all. Why the silence? Precisely because it was so revolutionary, so “unthinkable.” The Revolution was, until the second half of the twentieth century, typically demoted to the status of a ‘rebellion’ or a ‘revolt,’ ignored because it pointed to themes of slavery, colonialism and race, which, though critical to the existence of the Modern West, have largely been ignored in French history. Western history generally has also neglected these themes until recent decades; only with the increased interest in race beginning in the 1970s has the academic study of Haiti come to maturity.iii
Ultimately, Haitian poverty and non-development sealed the fate of the world’s perspective on the Haitian Revolution. How could it be so significant if it led to such an impoverished society? It’s tempting to think of it as a failed movement, but it isn’t. The government has indeed struggled to find its feet, but the success of a revolution can’t be measured exclusively by the government it produces. Their success transcended their borders. As the vanguard of the decolonization era, Haiti became a rallying point for subsequent Latin American, and later Africa, quests for independence. They welcomed runaway slaves and exiled revolutionary leaders with open arms.iv
As proponents of black dignity they were pointed out by abolitionist in Europe and the United States. Frederick Douglass, who became U.S. ambassador to Haiti after the Civil War, declared that they had “struck for the freedom of every black man in the world.”v They stood up and told the declarers of the Rights of Man that they were in fact men. They defeated the armies of three European empires and established a modern liberal republic—their humanness was now incontestable. Pseudo-scientific racial classifications and draconian ideas of ‘natural conditions’ began to fall out of favour; world over, the ideological basis of slavery began to weaken.vi
Not to say they built a democratic utopia. The champion of the Revolution, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, named himself emperor for life (a pattern that others would follow in 1811 and 1849). Numerous presidents, too, after serving an appointed term, declared themselves leaders for life. For their rivals the ubiquitous coups d’état seemed the only option. Intense rivalry meant a continuous breakdown of political discourse. Literature filled the gap.
This was the tumultuous situation in which Fernand Hibbert wrote Romulus in 1906. An overarching theme is an appeal to discourse. Hibbert’s voice seems to come most clearly through the character of Etienne Trévier, the hardworking merchant who starts off hopeful for Haiti’s future but insists that the government must find some stability in order for the country to succeed. With four military coups since 1988 Hibbert’s call for peaceful resolution is as pertinent as ever.
The pertinence of Romulus is indicative of a more general pertinence of the whole body of Haitian literature. Its universal themes of freedom and equality are timeless and its unique perspective is valuable. Yet only a fraction of the corpus has been translated. This is incongruous with, for example, the global interest in Latin American literature since the 1960.vii In wrapping up this project, and as I look forward to translating other works, I’m reminded of a twenty-nine-year-old British woman who, in 1891, pregnant and in poor health, passed her time learning Russian. She continued under the tutelage of a revolutionary anarchist who had fled to London, and ended up bringing the great works of Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Gogol and others to the attention of the English-speaking world.viii These classics of Russian literature were pertinent in the early twentieth century, just as the great works of Haiti are pertinent today.
NOTES
i Edmund Wilson, Red, Black, Blond and Olive—Studies in Four Civilizations: Zuñi, Haiti, Soviet Russia, Israel. (New York: Oxford, 1956), 110.
ii Napoleon Bonaparte, as quoted in Laurent Dubois, Haiti: The Aftershocks of History. (New York: Henry Holt, 2012), 36.
iii Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past. (Boston: Beacon, 1995), 100.
iv Dubois, Aftershocks, 60.
v Frederick Douglas, as quote in Dubois, Avengers of the New World. (Cambridge: Harvard, 2004), 305.
vi Robin Blackburn, The Overthrow of Colonial Slavery. (Bath: Bookcraft, 1988), 30.
vii Patrick Bellegard-Smith, Haiti: The Breached Citadel. (Boulder: Westview, 1990), 60.
viii Charles A. Moser, “The Achievement of Constance Garnett,” The American Scholar 57 iss. 3 (1988), 431-438.
So where did this sophisticated tradition come from?
The modern state of Haiti came about under a host of unique circumstances, and these circumstances have encouraged a literary heritage that is equally unique. Partly, their history and literature have been shaped by a perceived need to prove themselves to the world. The new republic of former slaves stood against everything that the nineteenth century empires were built on. First-generation Haitians were painfully aware of their responsibility to prove the fallacy of the racial ideologies of the day. They became obsessed with the idea of successfully running their state and proving to the world they were more than just “gilded Negroes,” as Bonaparte disdainfully dubbed them.ii Their literary elite, that ever-present and ever-miniscule group, also fell into this mindset of insecure endeavours—and in literature insecurity is not always detrimental (think Kafka, think Hemmingway).
This literary circle, many of whom were educated in post-revolutionary France, lived in a nation founded on ideas of individual liberty, political self-determination and racial equality that surpassed, even scandalized, the progressive minds of Europe. Haiti, since adopting the name, has been a place where the abstract ideas of liberty and equality are felt—in spite of, or perhaps because of, the persistent threat of losing them. Time and time again foreign powers and native authoritarian leaders have sought to dominate the people of Haiti, but they hold their resolve, they’ve done so for over two centuries, they will not be slaves again. Ideas of liberty, which in the developed world often become mundane and theoretical, still mean something in Haiti. This comes across clearly in their literature.
Another aspect of their culture that lends itself to their literature is the idea of heroes in Haitian society. The Revolution comprised a dramatic series of events, which brought several charismatic leaders into power. These men became a virtual pantheon of Haitian history, and subsequent leaders would attempt to espouse this superhuman status in their own political image. Haitian politics have been plagued with personality cults. For better or worse, the Haitian people have a keen appreciation for heroes and heroic tales.
If they have such a profound and sophisticated body of work then why haven’t we heard of it?
We’re ignorant to Haiti’s literature for the same reason that we’re ignorant to its history: the West has consistently tried to forget the place. Historians are to blame. For almost two centuries (they’re getting better these days) when historians mention the Haitian Revolution, it’s as a footnote to the Age of Revolution. In actuality it was the most radical, the most revolutionary of all. Why the silence? Precisely because it was so revolutionary, so “unthinkable.” The Revolution was, until the second half of the twentieth century, typically demoted to the status of a ‘rebellion’ or a ‘revolt,’ ignored because it pointed to themes of slavery, colonialism and race, which, though critical to the existence of the Modern West, have largely been ignored in French history. Western history generally has also neglected these themes until recent decades; only with the increased interest in race beginning in the 1970s has the academic study of Haiti come to maturity.iii
Ultimately, Haitian poverty and non-development sealed the fate of the world’s perspective on the Haitian Revolution. How could it be so significant if it led to such an impoverished society? It’s tempting to think of it as a failed movement, but it isn’t. The government has indeed struggled to find its feet, but the success of a revolution can’t be measured exclusively by the government it produces. Their success transcended their borders. As the vanguard of the decolonization era, Haiti became a rallying point for subsequent Latin American, and later Africa, quests for independence. They welcomed runaway slaves and exiled revolutionary leaders with open arms.iv
As proponents of black dignity they were pointed out by abolitionist in Europe and the United States. Frederick Douglass, who became U.S. ambassador to Haiti after the Civil War, declared that they had “struck for the freedom of every black man in the world.”v They stood up and told the declarers of the Rights of Man that they were in fact men. They defeated the armies of three European empires and established a modern liberal republic—their humanness was now incontestable. Pseudo-scientific racial classifications and draconian ideas of ‘natural conditions’ began to fall out of favour; world over, the ideological basis of slavery began to weaken.vi
Not to say they built a democratic utopia. The champion of the Revolution, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, named himself emperor for life (a pattern that others would follow in 1811 and 1849). Numerous presidents, too, after serving an appointed term, declared themselves leaders for life. For their rivals the ubiquitous coups d’état seemed the only option. Intense rivalry meant a continuous breakdown of political discourse. Literature filled the gap.
This was the tumultuous situation in which Fernand Hibbert wrote Romulus in 1906. An overarching theme is an appeal to discourse. Hibbert’s voice seems to come most clearly through the character of Etienne Trévier, the hardworking merchant who starts off hopeful for Haiti’s future but insists that the government must find some stability in order for the country to succeed. With four military coups since 1988 Hibbert’s call for peaceful resolution is as pertinent as ever.
The pertinence of Romulus is indicative of a more general pertinence of the whole body of Haitian literature. Its universal themes of freedom and equality are timeless and its unique perspective is valuable. Yet only a fraction of the corpus has been translated. This is incongruous with, for example, the global interest in Latin American literature since the 1960.vii In wrapping up this project, and as I look forward to translating other works, I’m reminded of a twenty-nine-year-old British woman who, in 1891, pregnant and in poor health, passed her time learning Russian. She continued under the tutelage of a revolutionary anarchist who had fled to London, and ended up bringing the great works of Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Gogol and others to the attention of the English-speaking world.viii These classics of Russian literature were pertinent in the early twentieth century, just as the great works of Haiti are pertinent today.
NOTES
i Edmund Wilson, Red, Black, Blond and Olive—Studies in Four Civilizations: Zuñi, Haiti, Soviet Russia, Israel. (New York: Oxford, 1956), 110.
ii Napoleon Bonaparte, as quoted in Laurent Dubois, Haiti: The Aftershocks of History. (New York: Henry Holt, 2012), 36.
iii Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past. (Boston: Beacon, 1995), 100.
iv Dubois, Aftershocks, 60.
v Frederick Douglas, as quote in Dubois, Avengers of the New World. (Cambridge: Harvard, 2004), 305.
vi Robin Blackburn, The Overthrow of Colonial Slavery. (Bath: Bookcraft, 1988), 30.
vii Patrick Bellegard-Smith, Haiti: The Breached Citadel. (Boulder: Westview, 1990), 60.
viii Charles A. Moser, “The Achievement of Constance Garnett,” The American Scholar 57 iss. 3 (1988), 431-438.
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