This piece was originally published in collaboration with the Abolition Journal

The minimum is connecting; it doesn’t take many resources to come together, discuss, and share our ideas.

Philly and Port-au-Prince, my two homes, have seen the rise and fall of major political mobilization in the last few years. I often ask myself whether we’ve taken the time to learn all the lessons these moments and movements have to teach us. In May of 2025, I had a chat with James Beltis. He is an organizer who has been at the forefront of some of the social movements in Haiti over the last few years, including the Petro Caribe movement. He has a great way of breaking down what’s happening and helping us focus on what’s essential.  

Talie: James, I wanted to have this talk with you so we can connect and reflect on the movements we’ve been witnessing or participating in, both in Haiti and Philadelphia. The theme for this issue is “everyday shit,” and I’m thinking, in the context of this discussion, what are the mundane, daily things in our lives that can build solidarity and revolution? And what do those things mean for us who are in two different places (me in Philly, and you in Haiti) that have seen a significant amount of revolutionary action in the last few years, but have both arrived at a wall of sorts? I think movements in both places have hit a wall.

James: That’s clear.

Talie: First, I want to ask you how you are doing.

James: Well, as any Haitian living in Haiti right now, I’m not doing great, given the situation of violence in Haiti that seems both out of control and yet controlled by an invisible hand, at the same time. We are experiencing this violence directly right now. It has created a real crisis of perspective, forcing you to plan only in the short term. Because you don’t know what the reality will be tomorrow, you don’t know which neighborhood will be under siege tomorrow. 

Talie: I talk to my friends and family in Haiti every day to check in on how they’re doing and how they’re living. When you’re not in the situation and just receiving updates from people, you have to sort of visualize it in your mind. I continue to fail to imagine how anybody is managing to create a sense of normalcy in the context of insecurity. Yet, that’s exactly what everyone in Port-au-Prince is doing. 

James: Some scholars say that the biggest tragedy that the Haitian population will ever face is slavery. Now, while slavery did not happen to our generation directly, we also know that trauma is transmitted genetically. We know that things that might have happened to our great-great-great-grandparents are now coded into our DNA, even if we aren’t aware of it. So, if somewhere in our bodies we have already experienced the biggest catastrophe possible, that is slavery, we tend to “de-dramatize”—that’s not really a word, but I’m going to use it anyway—we tend to de-dramatize anything else. So it’s no surprise that when disaster strikes, countless songs and jokes come out, and the street bands take to the streets. 

Talie: Because what is a crisis for people who have already experienced the most profound trauma possible?

James: Exactly, as Haitians say, “nothing surprises me.” 

Talie: How familiar are you with the city of Philadelphia?

James: Not very. I know a few historical facts, but that’s it. 

Talie: What I can tell you is that, of all the major cities of the United States, people often say Philadelphia is “the poorest big city” in America. It reminds me of the West’s go-to description of Haiti as “the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere.” There is a historical connection between Philly and Haiti because when the Haitian Revolution started, colonizers and free Black people who wanted to escape the fight fled, and many ended up in Philadelphia. But I, as a person who has spent my whole life between Philadelphia and Port-au-Prince, am more interested in the more abstract or spiritual connections. Philadelphia is one of those cities that really reveal the lie that is the USA because it lays bare the ways this country neglects and oppresses Black people, but simultaneously proves the power Black people have been able to create for themselves in this country.  

Philadelphia also sees a lot of gang violence—the circumstances, the impact, and political context are, of course, very different. However, I think it might still similarly make us lose sight of certain things. People misguidedly find themselves calling on increased police force to protect them from violence in the streets because they are scared. As someone who’s been following the situation in Haiti and how it’s deteriorated, it’s like you said in the beginning: the violence in Haiti seems both out of control and also controlled by an invisible hand. And it makes me want to push people to dig deeper about what’s happening here, why are our young people with so few resources somehow armed? 

James: What you’re saying is so interesting, because for two years now, I’ve been trying to ask questions. I was one of the leaders of the Montana Accord, which I eventually had to walk away from. But the intention was to tackle issues in new and more creative ways, but the traditional wings of this movement dragged down those efforts. One of the most unfortunate mistakes of this crisis is that so many people stood and asked the police to save us from a crisis that is ultimately geopolitical and regional. The US is a major arms manufacturer, and as these guns evolve, they become more and more like gadgets.

I find that many Haitians forget this aspect when analyzing this situation. The US has never been able to solve its gun crisis despite all the tragedy it has caused in its own country, so imagine what it’s causing outside of it, in the Global South. If the US has failed to put restrictions on guns in their home, and allowed it to operate as a random business sector, why would they restrict it here?

Talie: Yes! I always say, everything the US permits in poor American neighborhoods can offer you a reflection of what’s happening in the Global South, in countries like Haiti. If the US government doesn’t give a shit about the life of a child in West Philadelphia—

James: —then it definitely doesn’t care about a child in Lasalin. 

A few years ago, it was estimated that there were 500,000 illegal guns in Haiti. I’m sure this has grown exponentially since those reports came out. The militarization of the Haitian police force alone—because the Haitian police force has essentially become a military force—is entirely equipped with American and Canadian equipment. You look at the civilian defense brigades that neighborhoods have been forced to set up to defend themselves, becoming increasingly armed. These three categories—the Haitian police, individual citizens, and the gangs—are heavily arming themselves. No matter how you look at it, it is a situation that has been profitable for American arms manufacturers. 

Haiti’s politicians have ignored that Haiti is becoming a bigger market for gun manufacturers in the West, and instead have supplemented this market in the name of “fighting gangs.” Instead of investigating the police force’s ties to the gangs, they have instead continued to buy more and more guns for this force. They have tried this strategy for three years with no results, until we find ourselves in a situation where everyone is now waiting for the capital to fall. 

Talie: You say that this strategy automatically assumes that the police are for the people, when in reality, the police are all intertwined. We don’t even know where the police end and the gangs begin. 

In Philadelphia, I would say the police have shown in significant ways that they are not here to protect Black people. Right in my neighborhood, in 1985, the Philadelphia police bombed and burned a whole block while targeting a Black liberation organization, for example. There are movements in the US calling for the abolition of the police system and for us to create new systems of protection, new ways to live, and build together. Because everything that exists today is something that was in someone’s imagination, this whole system in the US came from the imaginations of people who did not see Black people as people, but saw Black people as dangerous. None of these systems were built to serve us. 

This is the same for Haiti, because the systems we are using were handed to us by the West. Many of these institutions were built during the US occupation of Haiti from 1915 to 1934. The US doesn’t just export products; I’ve come to understand that one of the US’s major exports is the Prison Industrial Complex itself. They’ve exported their whole system and shoved it down our throats, even though the founding of Haiti was a project that sought to create something new, something free. 

James: This is one of the successes of the system. It has successfully hindered many people’s perspectives. It convinces you that everything here is definitive, that no other kind of world is possible. Even though in our history as Haitians, we proved that a freer world is possible, and the structures we have here are actually recent. 

The way we are educated, if you are a person who simply went to school and was not intentional about entering into spaces of reflection on history and political education, creating a new world without these systems will seem impossible. We have so much we can learn from abolition movements trying to form new paths.

Still from the documentary, “The Fight for Haiti,” directed by Etant Dupain

Talie: Let’s compare the two, Haiti and the US. 

In 2020, the US saw massive uprisings during the coronavirus pandemic against police brutality and the prison industrial complex. There was a police murder of a Black man right here in West Philadelphia. The rage was alive in the streets; businesses were burned and looted. In many ways, it’s as if the state lost its hold on the city for a period of time. And this was happening across the country. I felt a revolutionary surge that I’ve never felt before in this country. I remember telling myself in 2020 that if those in power can quell this rage that I’m feeling in the streets today and make everyone accept the status quo again, I will know that what we are up against is scarier and more powerful than I thought. 

Now, here we are in 2025, and Donald Trump is president. Biden just spent the previous four years in power (after benefiting from the movement of 2020 to become elected), and I don’t think he accomplished anything regarding the 2020 protests’ demands. The police aren’t any less violent, and Black people are not any freer. So, if you were alive in 2020, you’ve essentially witnessed a massive uprising, and you’ve also witnessed the fire of a massive uprising being successfully crushed. We are watching fascism swallow all the institutions, but we feel more powerless than ever.

Haiti saw the Petro Caribe movement bring thousands to the streets, not just against corruption, but against US imperialism, against the West’s hand in Haiti’s problems. And violence was enacted on the people until marching ceased. I think both Philadelphia and Haiti are at a place where revolutionary action is urgently needed if we are going to make it out of this, but in both places, dominant powers very recently sent a critical message to the masses by successfully blocking our liberation movements in a major way. 

So, what do we do now? I follow your work. You were part of the Petro Caribe movement and the Montana Accord. Both were significant movements that felt potentially promising but ultimately ended in disappointment and even tragedy. Ultimately, the powers you were up against were stronger. 

James: Yes, the social movements are at an impasse. These impasses create a lot of pessimism amongst activists, and make you wonder why we continue to fight when we are constantly losing and the system continues to outmaneuver us.

I always remind my comrades that, as you pointed out, from 2018 to 2021, it was not just Haiti that saw major protests. The Dominican Republic also saw major protests against corruption, and this movement propelled Luis Abinader to the presidency—even though he is violently anti-Haitian. He rode the wave of the anticorruption movement of the Dominican Republic. Many Dominican activists felt that Abinader’s election was the completion of their movement because he seemed less corrupt than most politicians. Certain leftist groups endorsed him despite his being right-leaning. Meanwhile, in Haiti, we see what this has resulted in. Our diplomatic relations with the Dominican Republic have completely degraded, and anti-Haitianism is at an all-time high in that government. 

I think about the Gilet Jaunes (Yellow Vest) protests of France, which, despite their magnitude, did not result in any measures that addressed the demands of the French people. The protesters were repressed until they gave up and went home. This is what we saw in Haiti. What makes Haiti different is that France and the US use their police to repress these social movements, whereas in Haiti, the powers that be erect paramilitary groups and empower gangs to enact violence on their neighbors.

Talie: So, how do you think Haitian and Philadelphia activists can work together, support each other, build solidarity, and learn from each other?

James: We need to communicate! Here in Haiti, even among the different regions of Haiti, the main thing the current crisis has done is separate us. It’s made organizing together extremely difficult. But even the spaces to unite, hang out, and exchange ideas have been taken from us. The more violent the crisis becomes, the less we congregate, and we lose these spaces of dialogue. But technology can help us out here. We first need to create connections and make the habit of making time to connect. I know of organizations that have open Zoom calls at a specific time every week, and it remains open for twenty-four hours, so that anyone from the various countries they organize with can simply log in and talk to each other if they have time. 

The minimum is connecting; it doesn’t take many resources to come together, discuss, and share our ideas. We need to confront our disagreements and heal the connections because one of the biggest things that white supremacy has done to people in places like Haiti and Philadelphia is to separate us. 

To be honest with you, I really think that if it wasn’t for Haiti, I wouldn’t be an artist.

BélO

In 2021, Haiti experienced a series of traumatic events including the assassination of the President Jovenel Moïse, another devastating earthquake of 7.1 magnitude, and the arrival of 15,000 Haitian asylum seekers at the Del Rio, Texas border.

In the midst of recurring trauma, there is a need for Haitians to recalibrate to have deeper conversations about healing. Jean Belony “BélO” Murat is a socially conscious Haitian artist and musical ambassador who uses his distinctive traditional sound to share messages of collective healing and community building.

In this interview, BélO discusses his view of “chèche lavi lòt bò dlo” (looking for a better life abroad) through his work. As a Haitian ambassador, BélO’s objective is to use his music to share Haitian experiences, traditions and culture at home and abroad.

Be sure to check out his latest project, a recreation of his very first album "Lakou Trankil" — which came out 18 years ago now — reimagined with the help of female artists the likes of Wiliadel Denervil, Queen Bee, and Sherlee Skai, who reinterpreted the tracks on the original album to make a compilation of covers called "Fanm Lakou Trankil".

He spoke to Ashley E. Lazarre, PhD Candidate of Global Inclusion and Social Development at the University of Massachusetts Boston. 

Song: Intro Kote Moun Yo by BélO

AEL: In a previous interview, you mentioned that your inspiration always comes from Haiti. Your album “Natif Natal” (of native origin) personifies Haiti as your native roots. Even when you explore other genres, such as Afrobeats with Adekunle Gold or Electronic Music with Michael Brun (which can be considered outside of your norm), no matter what beat you are on when I hear your voice I know this is BélO. Why is it important to you that your inspiration comes from Haiti?

JBM: To be honest with you, I really think that if it wasn’t for Haiti, I wouldn’t be an artist. To me, it is very important for Haiti to be at the center of my music —it is not even a choice— that’s the way it is meant to be.

I did not plan for it to be this way but my mission is to take a socially-conscious approach to my work because Haiti has very specific needs.

It’s been over 200 years since we've been fighting a difficult battle dating back to our independence, including addressing environmental problems and political disasters.

Even if everyone is partying, I have to go to sleep so that I can dream and receive the remedy for the sickness in my country — “Si m pa dòmi mwen p ap fè rèv la” (If I don’t sleep, I won’t have the dream).

The privilege that usually comes with being an artist such as having big cars and luxury, none of that is fit for me.

AEL: In music you talk about an overemphasis on Haiti’s trauma by mainstream media, which can also be reproduced in academia. You challenge these narratives by singing about the importance of HIV screenings, knowing your roots, preserving your culture, farming, and mental health. Why is healing a critical message in your music?

JBM: Because there is a need for healing. The media looks for news that the world is more interested in – that is their role. But what is our role as Haitian people?

If people are trying to demonize you, do you try to put yourself in a better position every day?

I think this is where we should focus our efforts. I also have to be realistic about the current state of our country, but are there a lot of Haitians who focus on promoting good things about our country? Are we proud enough about our Vodou? Do we let people know what it is? Or do we just let Hollywood show one side of it?

That’s why when I am touring, I always wear something Haitian. I always put our traditions to the forefront so that everyone knows that this is traditional Haitian wear, it is from Vodou, it is from Haiti. I want to show the sides of Haiti that people have never seen before. 

We also need more people to bring value to our language. There are many people who have told me that I would be further along in my career as a musician if I sang in languages other than Kreyòl. I always respond by saying “I have gotten quite far using my language”.

If more Haitians created more things in Kreyòl perhaps it would have been a more popular language than it is now. We should not adapt to everything being in English and follow suit because we miss out on our culture and identity. 

“Nou se Wozo, nou pliye nou paka kase”.

Song: Wozo by BélO

AEL: "Wozo" is my favorite song. It inspired me in times where I didn’t really see the light in my work, where it was going or what I wanted to do. The song reminded me of why I am here, specifically that I am Haitian and that there is a deeper sense of resilience in me. I often use “Wozo” as a concept in my research when talking about Haitians and who we are as a people. You released this song after the 2010 earthquake as a reminder to Haitians to uplift themselves. Can you talk about the roots of the Kreyòl term "wozo"? 

JBM: "Wozo" means bamboo tree. A bamboo tree is a plant that you can bend, but it is really hard to break it.

The day after the earthquake in 2010, I was in Guadeloupe when I received the news that “there are no more Haitians left in Haiti”. That’s the way the news was presented to me.

They said it was over for Haiti and that there was no one left standing in the country. I was shocked but I thought “these images and videos are coming from Haiti, so there is at least one Haitian alive.” And knowing my people, if there is at least one man and one woman in Haiti, that’s enough for us to come back to life.

I said to myself  “nou se Wozo, nou pliye nou paka kase” (we are wozo, we bend but we cannot break).

Song: Istwa Dwòl by BélO

AEL: Let’s talk about the concept of “chache lavi lòt bò dlo” (looking for a better life abroad). I think this resonates for me personally, as I have had to step back from going to Haiti frequently due to recent social issues. There is a distance that’s been created between me and home, where I had to find home wherever I am. How do you think the experience of “cheche lavi lòt bò dlo” relates to a search for healing?

JBM: “Al chèche lavi” does not mean going to look for a plate of food. From a Haitian context, a peasant who sends their children to the city to get a better education is looking to “chèche lavi” (look for a better life) for their children. They are aware of the limitations and obstacles that come with being illiterate, so their goal is to provide more for their children.

Haitians fight to give their children a better life so that they don’t have to go through the same obstacles as they have. This also applies to middle class Haitians. Parents send their kids abroad to look for a better life not because they need better food and housing but because there is a bigger vision to fund their future to become doctors, athletes, engineers, or artists.

They go to the U.S. because that is where they can get a better education with resources to learn. “Al chèche lavi” for me means being proactive about looking for a better future. 

AEL: In the video “Istwa Dwòl”, there is a scene of 5 men taking a small boat to leave the country while their families worry about their whereabouts and the potential risks along the journey. This video which was shot more than 15 years ago foreshadows the actual scenes we saw involving the 15,000 Haitian asylum seekers who walked from South America to the Del Rio, Texas border. Why did you choose to show scenes of Haitians escaping home in the video?

JBM: I chose to show these visuals because as the saying goes, "a picture is worth a thousand words". It was important for me to show Haitians that there are some problems that we cannot control but that there are things within our reach. We should focus our energy on the circumstances that we can control. 

The song itself sheds light on the fact that if peasants are leaving, artists are leaving, and doctors are leaving, it is because there is a central problem in our country.

Who will they kidnap when everyone leaves? Or will we rethink our stance to convince each other to stop the self-inflicted violence so we can all be home together again.

With solidarity we can resist being brainwashed and save our country. We know that we are “Wozo” (resilient) and we can get back up, but it is much harder to get back up by yourself than if someone gives you a hand.

Haitians can’t consider each other to be a problem because there are many other external factors that we have to deal with. 

Haiti is our mother and no matter where we are in the world, we will never be considered Haiti’s stepchild. 

Song: Pitit Deyò by BélO

AEL: In the song, you also elaborate on the relationship of the diaspora with Haiti. What does it mean to be a “pitit deyò”?

JBM: I named the song “Pitit Deyò” (stepchild) because in literal terms when a father births a child outside of wedlock we call this child the “stepchild”. But when a mother births a child outside of her marriage, that kid remains her biological child no matter what. Every mother’s child is considered biological.

In that sense, Haiti is our mother and no matter where we are in the world, we will never be considered Haiti’s stepchild. 

With that, the song speaks to improving our relationship with the diaspora. I felt this fear coming from them so that's why I wrote the song.

We cannot just expect the diaspora to send us money via Western Union and nice sneakers every month. We need a relationship that is more inclusive.

AEL: Anthropologist Gina A. Ulysse, speaks about the need for “rasanblaj” – “the need for deeper, thoughtful, and self-reflective conversations among Haitians”. She notes that “living in fragmentation has been our way” and she urges Haitians to take pause to recalibrate. How do you recalibrate in times of crisis, personally and as an artist?

JBM: I would say personally it is a hard thing to do. For the past two years, I’ve been more active on social media, not just to share my art but to share a little message of hope because I know when you are in crisis it is hard to think outside of the box. But as an artist, sometimes I travel or my soul leaves my body and goes to get inspiration elsewhere, not just for me, but to share with other people because to me that’s what an artist is. 

AEL: A great note to end our conversation on. Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts on "chèche lavi lòt bò dlo". 

The situation of the country cannot prevent us from creating. We must continue to create, because it is from creativity that we live. Creativity is our oxygen. Ayibobo.

CHARLINE JEAN GILLES

I'm a young author born in a country where you can count on your fingers how many theatres there are

ANDRISE PIERRE