The Flag Is Watching Us: Haiti’s May 18 Reckoning

By Nancy Roc

May 18 is here, and with it comes a question many Haitians may prefer not to ask: what does a flag still mean when the nation it is supposed to unite is tearing itself apart?

The blue and red of Haiti’s flag should remind us of unity, memory, sacrifice, and dignity regained after slavery. It should speak of Dessalines, Vertières, and the extraordinary birth of the first Black republic. But what becomes of a flag when the country beneath it is wounded, humiliated, displaced, and betrayed by its own sons and daughters?

In the diaspora, May is Haitian Heritage Month. From New York to Miami, Montreal, Paris, and Pointe-à-Pitre, Haitians celebrate culture, music, food, history, resilience, and pride. They raise the flag because they want to preserve what remains of Haiti’s greatness. And they are right to do so.

But how can we ignore the cruel contrast?

On one side, flags are waved in parades and ceremonies. On the other, millions of Haitians are trapped in fear, hunger, humiliation, and abandonment. According to the International Organization for Migration, more than 1.45 million people are now internally displaced in Haiti - families uprooted inside their own homeland, children born into terror, communities emptied by armed gangs.

On one side, there is the Haiti we remember. On the other, the Haiti that is collapsing before our eyes.

The truth is brutal: Haiti has not only been wounded by foreign powers. Haiti has also been devoured from within.

For too long, we have taken refuge in accusation. The French, the Americans, the Dominicans, the international community, the bourgeoisie, the politicians, the NGOs, the diaspora - all have been blamed, and some have indeed played their part. But by accusing everyone, we have too often avoided the mirror.

Who armed the gangs? Who financed the weapons? Who bought consciences? Who turned criminals into political instruments? Who allowed class hatred to replace citizenship? Who applauded violence when it served their camp? Who betrayed the people while speaking in their name?

Our national motto says: “Unity makes strength.” Today, that motto sounds less like a promise than an indictment.

What unity? What strength?

The unity of displaced families sleeping under plastic sheets? The strength of children without school? The pride of young people who no longer dream of building Haiti, but only of escaping it? The dignity of a society where too many have learned that honesty does not protect, work is not enough, and crime often pays better than effort?

Even the language of unity has been stolen. When gangs accused of massacres, rapes, kidnappings, and forced displacement appropriate the expression “Viv Ansanm,” they turn fraternity into obscenity. No one lives together under terror. No community is built with corpses, ransoms, violated women, recruited children, and families expelled from their homes.

This is why May 18 should not be only a celebration. It should be a national examination of conscience.

The diaspora is right to honor the flag. But celebration without moral responsibility risks becoming nostalgia without consequence. Wearing the flag, posting it online, singing it at ceremonies, or carrying it onstage will not save Haiti. A flag is not a magical piece of cloth. It has meaning only if those who salute it also accept the duties it imposes: truth, responsibility, solidarity, justice.

Haiti is not dead as long as there are Haitians capable of refusing lies. But Haiti will not be reborn if we continue to celebrate unity while cultivating hatred, to speak of homeland while plundering it, to invoke the people while abandoning them.

The flag is watching us.

And this year, perhaps more than ever, it is not merely asking us to honor it. It is forcing us to ask what we are still prepared to do to deserve it.

Illustration: Nancy Roc with AI

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