Dominicans and Haitians: More than just "A Single Story"

A Single Story

Before coming to the DR I read about it's history, which meant I read about it's relationship with Haiti. I read about the 1937 "Parsley Massacre" (link). I read about the recent change in law that stripped many Haitian-Dominicans of their citizenship, rendering them effectively stateless. I read about the "colorism" of the DR that prizes light skin above dark, Spanish ancestry above African: a scale that places Haitians at the bottom. I read about the history of the importation and concentration of Haitian laborers in bateys - temporary labor camps that have become permanent fixtures.

I am writing this entry in response to a prompt from the blog challenge to reflect on "The Dangers of a Single Story." The phrase comes from this TED talk by the Nigerian author Chimananda Ngozi Adichie.



We watched it during PC training. If you haven't (you should - it's good) here's the gist: looking at other people from a single perspective is not only dehumanizing it also provides bad data. It limits your chance to participate in the world.

I came here with a pre-packaged "single story" on racism in the DR. I came here expecting a through-and-through racist society, a place of systemic oppression and universal, brutal discrimination. What I found is much more complex.

Cognitive Dissonance
During training our host mom surprised me by comparing the experience of Haitians in the Dominican Republic to the experience of Dominicans in the  United States. "They come here for a better life for themselves and their children, to make money to send back home. They work very, very hard."

This surprised me. At the time, I attributed it to her unique, individual progressiveness. She's a wonderful woman but I am happy to report she's not that unique. I have since heard this sentiment echoed by many other Dominicans.

When I received my project folder last May that it described my host community as being half split between a long standing Dominican population and recent Haitian immigrants. Since we are within walking distance of the border, the vast majority of these immigrants are undocumented.

I braced myself for ugliness but I arrived to find a community where Haitians and Dominicans live side-by-side with almost no conflict. Where their children go to school together and play in the streets. Where, yes, Haitians work for Dominicans (not the other way around) but where it is not uncommon to see them relax together afterwards. Where they pray together in the same churches.  Where, occasionally, they intermarry.

I took a Kreyol class because I expected to need it to communicate with half of my neighbors only to find they speak better Spanish than I do.

When a Haitian immigrant recently packed up their things and to head back across the border, I saw as many Dominicans bid them farewell as Haitians.

In training, we were told that volunteers of "visible African descent" (a politely bureaucratic way of saying "dark-skinned") should always carry their passport when traveling in the border region in case they were stopped by border patrol guards who might mistake them for Haitian. I have seen Haitians taken off the bus at military check points, but have been asked for my own papers as well.

Other Stories
I started comparing notes with other volunteers. One told me that a Dominican community member in their site described member Haitians as "our brother and sisters." Another volunteer described the racist language that he heard in his site, the terrible things he heard Dominicans say about Haitians. They were exactly the kind of thing I expected to hear everywhere but have never heard in my site.

"Do they treat them badly?" I asked.

"There's not really any Haitians in my site," he explained.

For the New Year, Cat and I visited a volunteer who lives in a batey. To walk around the impoverished conditions was humbling. They were far worse than in my site. The batey - a mere 35 km from the second largest city in the country - is about 90% Haitian. The Dominicans who comprise the remaining 10% live in houses while most of the Haitians live in buildings that used to be barracks for laborers.

With my experience in the border - hours closer to Haiti than the batey - I expected to find Haitians speaking Spanish, eager to integrate. Instead, I was told by our host (she speaks Kreyol; I still don't) that the residents see themselves as wholly Haitian. Even those that have their citizenship explicitly choose not to identify as Dominican or even Haitian Dominican. Even after 3 generations, they still don't teach their kids Spanish.

A Question is the Opposite of a Story
I would love to draw some kind of conclusion from all of this, to say that desptire my worst expectations I did not find the DR to be a society with systemic racism (I did) or that the border region is some kind of unique oasis free of discrimination (it's not). I would love to have explain (to myself if no one else) the surprising attitudes of the Haitian residents in the batey so deep in the heart of la República. But I can't.

This is probably for the best. If I did these things, they would just be more stories I tell myself. While many stories would surely be better than just one I think I'll opt instead to listen.

 This post is part of Blogging Abroad's 2017 New Years Blog Challenge, week two: The Danger of a Single Story.