THE CAUSES AND CONSEQUENCES OF UNDOCUMENTED HAITIAN IMMIGRATION TO

THE DOMINICAN REPUBLIC

Cynthia So

Advisor: Hazel Carby

Reader: Alicia Schmidt Camacho

December 18, 2006

A Senior Essay presented to the Faculty of the Latin American Studies program

in partial fulfillment of the Bachelor’s Degree

Yale College

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction, p. 1

The Roots of Migration, p. 5

Present-Day Consequences, p. 9

Poverty and Power Hierarchies, p. 17

Obstacles to Legal Migration, p. 22

State Responses to Migration, p. 28

Migrant Responses to State Policy, p. 34

Upcoming Trends in Dominican Migratory Politics, p. 36

Lingering Contradictions, p. 40

A Call From the People, p. 43

Non-Governmental Organizations: Successes and Limitations, p. 44

The Potential for Collective Action, p. 49

Photographs, p. 55

Works Cited, p. 65

p. 1

INTRODUCTION

On the morning of May 13th, 2005, I witnessed a raid carried out by Dominican police

forces in a community called Batey Libertad. I was staying with a family in the town and was

awaken by loud shouts and banging on the doors. I thought the batey had flooded. It was my

second visit to the community and the past week had been nothing but downpours. During my

prior visit in March of the same year, I had gained a glimpse of the community, of the poverty

that caused children to be orphaned, the makeshift homes, the bathing water next to the trash

dumping ground, and the listlessness that came from having little to do. I returned because I was

drawn to the spirit of the place, to the smiles despite hardship, the dancing amidst blackouts, and

the sense of community that crossed lines of family and sometimes race. The day of the raid was

the first time I saw this spirit crushed.

When the police left with their first truckload of people, the silence they left behind was

immense. The bachata music had been turned off, the children were nowhere to be seen, and

even the roosters had slowed their crowing. The streets were emptied of all activity as

individuals crowded into dark homes, waiting for the authorities to return. In the dark silence of

that morning, the stories that emerged were frightening.

A woman had been clubbed on the forehead with the butt of a pistol by an enraged police.

An infant only two weeks old was shoved into the arms of a neighbor as her mother was taken

away. The Dominican identification card of a university student was snapped in half when he

protested to an officer that he was a Dominican citizen. Other documents were confiscated at the

immigration office, leaving their owners no protection if the authorities returned to their homes.

Next to me, a mother held back tears as she wondered whether her three children would be

deported to Haiti, a country they had never seen.

p. 2

I cried on this day, feeling helpless and unfairly privileged. My white skin provoked

catcalls and compliments from the Dominican police, not the anger and violence that my

neighbors received. Being dark-skinned meant being Haitian; Haitians were not respected by the

Dominican authorities. One Dominican woman cried with me on this day. The rest of the batey

was silent and subdued. “Estamos acostumbrados de esto,” they explained. “Tiene que ser

fuerte.”1

I could not have learned that day what it meant to be as strong as the individuals in Batey

Libertad. However, I came away with the knowledge that something had to be done. Although

there was much that I did not yet understand, I knew that the individuals around me needed their

voices to be heard by a larger public.

This project is the culmination of a year and a half of trying to understand why something

as violent as this raid was allowed to occur in Batey Libertad, and what it means for the

thousands of Haitian migrants and descendents of migrants living in the Dominican Republic.

Batey Libertad is one of countless bateyes, communities that originally developed alongside the

sugarcane when the first migrant laborers arrived in the Dominican Republic in 1884. These

communities have changed to varying degrees, but remain nevertheless the most impoverished

regions in the country. Although the number of Dominican-born individuals living in the bateyes

has increased significantly over the years, a certain level of migration from Haiti is maintained.

I returned to the Dominican Republic in June of 2006 with the goal of examining more

deeply the patterns of migration from Haiti to the Dominican Republic, and the reasons why

migration continues. I traveled to the border of the Dominican Republic to conduct interviews

with representatives from several non-governmental organizations that worked with Haitian

migrants, as well as individuals living in the town of Dajabón. I also met with various NGOs in 1 “We are used to this. One needs to be strong.”

p. 3

the Dominican capital of Santo Domingo. During this time, I maintained contact with several

individuals who were very knowledgeable about Haitian-Dominican relations, including a

documentary filmmaker and an Ex-General Consul for Haiti in the Dominican Republic. These

experiences were crucial to my understanding of the larger picture of Haitian immigration to the

Dominican Republic. Informal conversations shaped my understanding of the situation as much

as formal interviews.

In addition to speaking with representatives working with Haitian migrants, I focused a

large portion of my research on talking with migrants themselves. I lived with a family in Batey

Libertad for two months, conducting interviews with Haitians and Dominicans, while also

learning about how they live on a daily basis. I carried out thirty-four formal interviews, twenty-

five with individuals who were born in Haiti and the remaining nine interviews with Dominican-

born residents. These interviews, conducted in Haitian Creole and Spanish, covered the historical

trajectory of each interviewee, asking about family, schooling, work, migration, documentation

and current living conditions. The stories that emerged from these interviews repeated

themselves time and again; I heard stories of economic hardship, of abuse by authorities, of the

separation of families and of the difficulty in attaining documentation. I sensed an underlying

wish that migration from Haiti were not a necessity. In piecing together the experiences of

Haitian migrants living in the Dominican Republic, I could have used the stories of many

individuals that I interviewed. The voices that I ultimately chose were those who most eloquently

described the conditions and experiences of at least several others.2

In some cases, the most informative conversations were not interviews, but simply

moments during my stay in which I was able to observe and listen to individuals speak about the

2 Interviews were conducted in June and July of 2006. Names have been changed to protect the individuals interviewed.

p. 4

daily challenges they faced. I learned about the determination of Lili not through a formal

interview, but by accompanying her to Santiago when she was trying to start a business selling

wholesale clothing she bought from Haitian merchants. On another day, I witnessed first-hand

the irregular movement of migrants when two Haitian men jumped onto the back of the pick-up

truck in which I was being taken from the Tilori marketplace to the town of Dajabón. In such

instants, a shared experience heightened the understanding between us and the confidence by

which stories could be shared.

I have intentionally relegated my presence in this paper to the background in order to

foreground the voices of others. Being able to include the voices of migrants I regard as integral

to this project because these individuals are too often reduced to statistics in scholarly works. By

incorporating these voices alongside historical accounts, I hope to provide a broader, more

detailed and more nuanced picture of the very real causes and consequences of migration.

Although I have not attempted to provide the reader with concrete policy recommendations, the

essay does emphasize the many issues that must be addressed before any effective policy can be

created. Most importantly, the human voices that speak in these pages serve as a reminder to us

all of the many lives that will be affected by policy decisions that are made.

When reading this paper, it is important to realize that the stories told here cannot capture

the full depth and complexity of Haitian migration to the Dominican Republic. This project aims

to begin an honest dialog about migration that does not fall back on ideological principles and

rhetoric, but considers the effects of migration on individuals and communities. A sustained

dialog with migrants themselves is a vital element of the search for appropriate responses and

solutions to the problems they continue to face.

p. 5

THE ROOTS OF MIGRATION

Every Tuesday and Saturday, the Haitian-Dominican border at Tilori fills with colors.

The normally grim landscape of rusted tin roofs, dusty mules and rocky hillsides becomes a

meeting place for people who have traveled hours to reach the marketplace. The International

Highway that divides Haiti and the Dominican Republic now bridges the two countries with a

river of people milling past each other, some carrying baskets of eggs to sell, others balancing

sacks of rice on their heads, some sitting on the side of the road next to green mangos bursting

out of burlap sacks, and others carrying nothing at all.

On the Dominican side of the border, an old military lookout stands tall in its camouflage

paint, emerging from a thick forest of trees. It is deserted and has been for at least the last few

years. No one watches over this border crossing. The International Highway, in great need of

repair, serves as a poor barrier to stem the tide of people. Looking out from amid the crowded

wooden homes precariously built on the Haitian hillside, the lush green landscape of the

Dominican Republic beckons with a promise of jobs and economic security. With a gross

national income five times stronger than Haiti’s and an infant mortality reduced by one half,

‘Dominikani’ becomes more than a distant dream.3 For those who are willing to risk leaving all

that they know behind, migrating to the Dominican Republic is a possibility with certain

consequences. (Photos 1-6)

Individuals have been migrating in large numbers from Haiti to the Dominican Republic

since the early 1900s, during the period of United States occupation of both sides of the island.4

3 Bridget Wooding and Richard Moseley-Williams, Needed but Unwanted (London: Catholic Institute for International Relations, 2004), 25. 4 The U.S. occupation in Haiti lasted from 1915 to 1934. In the Dominican Republic, the occupation lasted from 1916 to 1924.

p. 6

The growth of the modern Dominican sugar industry began in 1875, and although its early years

saw a labor force of primarily Dominican nationals, dissatisfaction among laborers and conflicts

with estate owners soon prompted the beginning of a large recruitment of foreign labor. At its

inception, from as early as 1884, this labor arrived predominantly from the Leeward Islands of

St. Kitts, Nevis, Antigua, Anguilla, Montserrat, and St. Martin. Termed ‘cocolos’ by

Dominicans, these laborers were recruited for individual estates at the beginning of the sugarcane

season; the majority returned to their home countries at the end of the harvest. Without

established support networks in the Dominican Republic, the labor of the migrants was

cheapened by estate owners who maintained control over their living standards and

transportation expenditures.5 Dominican estates benefited greatly from this labor, sustaining

informal arrangements with recruiters despite protests from the Dominican elite who feared the

erosion of Dominican values from a black influx of labor. From 1906 to 1913, Dominican

lawmakers pushed new measures to encourage the participation of Dominicans in the sugarcane

labor force. However, neither forced labor programs nor wage compensation succeeded in

recruiting Dominicans to work in the plantations. Without viable programs to support their

nativist sentiments, the influence of the Dominican elite diminished, allowing foreign

recruitment to continue unchecked.6

As early as 1919, the first significant Haitian recruitment to Dominican plantations was

recorded in official documents; by 1920, records show that the number of Haitians living on

Dominican plantations had reached the level of all other migrants combined.7 The transition to

Haitian labor was influenced by several factors, including a fall in real wages in the sugar 5 Cynthia Enloe, The Curious Feminist: Searching for Women in a New Age of Empire (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 2. Enloe provides a useful commentary on cheapened, rather than cheap, labor. 6 Samuel Martínez, “From Hidden Hand to Heavy Hand: Sugar, the State, and Migrant Labor in Haiti and the Dominican Republic,” Latin American Research Review 34, no. 1 (1999): 63-65. 7 José del Castillo, “La inmigración de braceros azucareros en la República Dominicana, 1900-1930,” Cuadernos del Cendia CCLXII, no. 7: 47-55. See the table pullout between p. 48 and 49 and the tables on p. 53-55.

p. 7

industry and the increasing organization and assertiveness of the Leewardian labor force already

employed. Thus, migrants from the Leeward Islands were discouraged from migrating to the

Dominican Republic at the same time that sugar estate owners were searching for labor in other

markets. Meanwhile, the U.S. occupation of both sides of Hispaniola set up an infrastructure for

a cross-border migration that was supported and policed by new government forces.

A series of executive orders promulgated by the U.S. controlled government established

regulations in the Dominican Republic for the recruitment and control of migrants arriving to

work in the sugarcane. These orders restricted entry to migrants sponsored by Dominican

employers, prohibited migrants from leaving the plantations before the end of their term of

contract, and mandated the return of migrants to their home country within a month after the

harvest.8 In Haiti and the Dominican Republic, taxes were collected before and after crossing the

border; for some time, the emigration tax made up the largest source of income for the Haitian

government.9 Moreover, concerns about the ease by which migrants could cross the border were

addressed by the adoption of measures that required every laborer to maintain a permit to reside

in the Dominican Republic, which would be paid for by the company that recruited the migrant.

Despite these measures, the clandestine movement of Haitian laborers continued through

the poorly guarded land crossings. Neither Dominican officials nor the U.S. occupation

government attempted to enforce the immigration legislation that had been created. Interdictions

at the border and inspections at plantations were rare, if not nonexistent. The unofficial

recruitment greatly benefited estate owners who did not pay taxes, did not need permits, and who

could more easily exploit a vulnerable migrant labor force. Without documents, the recruited

migrants had no recourse against abusive labor arrangements and had little ability to leave the

8 Refer to Castillo, 47-49 for information about the executive orders. 9 Martínez, “From Hidden Hand to Heavy Hand,” 68.

p. 8

plantations. Furthermore, no labor regulations were enforced on the estates. A decline in labor

conditions coincided with the beginning of the Haitian presence on Dominican sugar plantations

and with a sharp fall in wages and a change to piece-rate payment.10

During the following decades, Haitian migration remained a constant force in the

Dominican Republic and was supported by official measures on both sides of the border. The

governments of Haiti and the Dominican Republic signed agreements in 1952, 1959 and 1966 to

encourage and regulate the recruitment of Haitian laborers for Dominican sugar plantations.

Among the measures adopted, the employer was required to obtain documentation for every

migrant recruited, draft a labor contract that established maximum hours of work, as well as

retain one Dominican peso every week for each laborer, to be returned to the worker in U.S.

dollars upon completion of the term. At this time, the employer was required to provide the

laborer with return transportation to Haiti. Again, few of the measures were enforced, causing

many laborers to be left stranded at the end of the harvest without the means to return to Haiti.

Arbitrary raids were carried out that repatriated the correct number of migrants to Haiti, but

failed to distinguish between those migrants who were bound by contract to leave and those who

were not. Many were deported to Haiti who did not want to leave the Dominican Republic and

were under no obligation to do so.11

Although no official number was established in the early agreements for how many

Haitian migrants could be recruited to work in Dominican plantations, the cooperation of the

Haitian government in facilitating this recruitment was implicit. In later contracts between the

Dominican State Sugar Council12 and the Haitian government, direct exchanges of money were

made to insure Haiti’s support. In an accord of 1974, seventy-five U.S. dollars were promised to

10 Martínez, “From Hidden Hand to Heavy Hand,” 66. 11 Martínez, “From Hidden Hand to Heavy Hand,” 75. 12 Known in Spanish as ‘Consejo Estatal del Azúcar,’ or the CEA.

p. 9

the Haitian government for every migrant recruited, presumably to cover the administration costs

of the emigration. That year, a total of 900,000 U.S. dollars were awarded to the government of

Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier, far greater than the cost of any administrative work that may

have been necessary. In an agreement two years later, 720,000 dollars were granted as a flat sum

for the recruitment of 12,000 workers during the 1976-1977 harvest. The number of Haitian

migrants recruited annually grew steadily from 12,000 to 19,000 during the years between 1974

and 1986, the year Duvalier fled Haiti with the money from the CEA.13

Considering the history of Haitian migration to the Dominican Republic, it should come

as little surprise that irregular and often coercive migration continues to this day. Although the

Dominican sugar plantations were privatized in 1999, thereby removing the intermediary force

of the CEA, recruitment in Haiti has continued through agents hired by private Dominican

companies to bring a set number of laborers to work in Dominican fields. These ‘buscones’

colaborate with border officials and transportation agents to bring busloads of undocumented

Haitian migrants into the Dominican Republic. Although corruption is widespread and abuses

are common, no Dominican administration has committed to enforcing the system of

immigration that is theoretically in place. Clandestine movement of people continues to be a

business from which many profit and private interest groups within Dominican politics continue

to dominate the terms and conditions of the labor force.

PRESENT-DAY CONSEQUENCES

It was late in the afternoon in June of 2006, and the market at Tilori had just dispersed.

As the vehicle rounded the corner, it came upon two individuals standing alongside the road,

13 Jose Israel Cuello Hernandez, Contratación de mano de obra haitiana destinada a la industria azucarera dominicana 1952-1986 (Santo Domingo: Editora Taller, 1997), 160-174, 210-215, 230-234.

p. 10

carrying one small drawstring bag between the two of them. After leaving the marketplace, the

truck had stopped twice to pick up passengers as it made its way down the long and winding

road to Loma de Cabrera. The truck slowed, and the two men climbed into the back of the flat-

bed, positioning themselves precariously on the metal rim as the vehicle lunged forward. The two

smelled strongly of the fields, of thick sweat that seeped into clothing and emerged from every

pore. However, having just passed through a lush forest with no side roads or paths in sight, it

was unclear from where these men had come.

One man was younger than the other, with a boyish expression and an ease about himself

as he settled into the rhythm of the vehicle. The other, though smaller in size, carried long years

on his body and hunched over with his fatigue. The two sat in silence, with the sputtering sound

of the weak motor in the background.

When the first raindrops began to fall, the men relaxed from the suffocating heat of the

day. However, as the raindrops fell faster they turned into projectiles that hammered against the

two worn out bodies, transforming the landscape into a blur of motion as the vehicle picked up

speed. As if to distract himself from the cold wind hitting his bare skin, the elder man spoke and

began to reveal his story.

They had set out early in the morning from their home in rural Haiti. Knowing that the

journey would be long and difficult, they brought only a small bag in which they could safeguard

the precious money they would need. They traveled with only the clothing on their backs; the rest

of their lives remained behind if they should ever come home. The two men were brothers,

leaving several younger siblings and a resilient mother who had worked for years to save up the

money necessary to send these sons to find employment in the Dominican Republic.

The men had traveled by foot to reach the spot on the side of the road where the truck

had found them. They were on their way to Santo Domingo, where they hoped to reunite with an

p. 11

older brother and a sister who had gone before them. They had no way of knowing where to find

these siblings, or whether or not they were still alive. Yet, the two men traveled without looking

backwards, determined to make the most of this opportunity that life had given them.

Without official documents, the men had heard it would be possible to arrange special

seating on tour buses that traveled from the mountain town of Loma de Cabrera to the

Dominican capital. They would pay 3500 pesos each to Caribe Tours, the largest bus company

in the Dominican Republic. Known for its air conditioning and comfortable seating, Caribe

Tours normally charged a fare of approximately 200 pesos.14

As the men reached their destination, the elder brother yelled to the driver to slow down.

They climbed out of the truck and searched for forty pesos to pay for the ride. They paused a

moment to wait for their change, and then they disappeared into the thick trees alongside the

road. The truck had not yet reached Loma de Cabrera, but it was approaching the first houses of

the town and the first of several military checkpoints. The men disappeared in the way that they

had come, invisible to the greater public eye.

A common phrase along the Dominican-Haitian border states rightfully that the border

thrives upon disorder. “A border without contraband is no border at all,” stated one immigration

official during an informal conversation one night on his porch.15 Although many individuals

complain about the Haitian immigration, the majority of people along the border benefit from the

immigration in some way. The obvious beneficiaries are the agricultural estate owners who hire

cheapened labor to work in their fields and the illegal traffickers who make their livelihood by

transporting undocumented migrants. Additionally, the meager wages of military officials at

14 The exchange rate at the time was $1 US to 32 pesos (June 2006). 15 Dominican customs official, Informal conversation with author, Dajabón, Dominican Republic, 14 June 2006.

p. 12

checkpoints across the country are supplemented by the bribes they receive from drivers of

vehicles carrying undocumented individuals and from individual migrants who pass on foot.

Dominican banks in the border town of Dajabón also benefit, as it is widely known that Haitians

cross the border by day to deposit their savings in these banks.16 Moreover, as the mayor of a

small town called Clavellina pointed out, small scale taxi drivers in the border region would lose

all their business without the constant movement of Haitians from the border inland. “Without

Haitians, the community would fall,” he asserted.17

Yet, although the irregular migration produces profit for many, it poses great risks for the

migrants themselves. In January of 2006, twenty-four Haitians died from asphyxiation in the

back of a closed truck as they were being transported from Haiti to Santiago, the second largest

city in the Dominican Republic. Having paid between 2000 and 2500 pesos to be transported in

the vehicle, they remained locked in the back of the truck for four days at the border waiting for

an opportune moment to cross. By the time they reached the Dominican main road, many had

died and their bodies were left abandoned alongside the road.18 Although this incident was

brought to the attention of the authorities and several were arrested on charges of abuse, smaller

incidents occur on a regular basis and are never reported due to the clandestine nature of the

movement.

The majority of undocumented Haitians complete the journey across the border by one of

two means: walking through the countryside on foot or paying a vehicle to bring them inland. If

completed on foot, the trip can take several days and is a grueling and dangerous affair. Tidjo,

who now lives in Batey Libertad, describes his journey in a fire of words: “Lè mwen vini premye

16 Chio Villalona, Centro Cultural de Dajabón, Informal conversation with author, Dajabón, Dominican Republic, 14 June 2006. 17 Mayor of Clavellina, Interview with author, Clavellina, Dominican Republic, 19 June 2006. 18 Listin Diario, “Grupo de haitianos llevaba cuatro días dentro de furgón,” 12 January 2006.

p. 13

fwa, mwen vini a pye. Mwen pase anpil mizè. Kat jou map mache. Mwen dòmi nan kay bèf,

mwen dòmi la. Tè a sèch; pa gen dlo. Kote met dlo pou bèf, se la map bwè dlo. Mwen mache

jounnen avek swa. Lè m rive a pati de minuit, pou mwen dòmi. Mwen konn rankontre ak guard,

yo pran lajan tou. Lè yo kenbe nou, yo vòlè lajan. Si ou gen mil goud, yo pran tout mil goud la;

si ou gen senk san goud, yo pran tout senk san goud la.”19

The experience of Tidjo is not uncommon. Sometimes those who arrive from Haiti are so

famished that they are taken directly to the nearest hospital to be re-hydrated. Without money or

food, they rely upon friends and family members to care for them upon arrival. Those without

prior connections among the resident Haitian community must depend upon the generosity of

other migrants who understand their situation. Of the twenty-five individuals in Batey Libertad

who answered the question, “Ki jan ou vin Dominikani?”20 five individuals asserted that they

walked the entire journey and seven responded that they used a combination of walking and paid

transportation. Five replied that they used only a paid vehicle, and four asserted that they had

been transported directly by the company that recruited them.21

Whether one arrives on foot or by vehicle, the journey is dangerous, involving intense

physical strain and the possibility of abuse by traffickers and military officials. Furthermore, the

casualties of migration do not cease after the migrants reach the communities and plantations

where they will work. Labor in the fields is strenuous work, leading many to premature

retirement when their bodies break down. ‘Chita nap chita’ is the phrase used by Haitians to

19 “When I came the first time, I came by foot. I went through a lot of misery. I walked for four days. I slept in cattle stalls, I slept there. The ground was dry; there was no water. Where the cows drank water, I drank water. I walked through the mornings and the afternoons. When I arrived around midnight, I finally slept. Sometimes I ran into military officials. They took my money. When they find you, they steal all your money. If you have 1000 goud, they take 1000 goud; if you have 500 goud, they take all 500 goud.” Tidjo, Interview with author, Batey Libertad, 24 June 2006. 20 “How did you come to the Dominican Republic?” 21 The four officially recruited migrants arrived in the Dominican Republic during the earlier years of Haitian immigration, between 1966 and 1981.

p. 14

describe the pastime of sitting outside one’s home when one can no longer work.22 After years of

exposure to agricultural chemicals, wading through bogs, and bending over under the hot sun,

men and women develop chronic respiratory problems, migraine headaches, and a general

weakness that is not uncommon among individuals in their thirties.

Michele Wucker describes the difficult conditions found on Dominican sugar plantations

in her book Why the Cocks Fight:

When they arrived, the Haitians went to work cutting cane under the hot Caribbean sun. Their thin shoes hardly stood up to the deep piles of cane stalks under their feet. Dust from the fields filled their lungs and worked its way into the cuts the sharp cane spears etched into their arms, legs, and chests. Their lunch was the same as breakfast: nothing but the sweet juice they chewed from stalks of sugarcane. At night, the cutters returned to their bateyes, the islands of cement-block barracks far out in the cañaverales, waves of cane that go on for miles and miles outside of La Romana. If the Haitians were lucky, dinner was a bit of rice, maybe with a tin of sardines, eaten by starlight, since there was no electricity.23 The Dominican Republic used to be almost wholly a sugarcane producing country. In

recent years, the sugarcane fields in many regions have been replaced by other crops, most

notably rice, coffee and tobacco. Individuals from Batey Libertad work predominantly in the rice

plantations that surround the batey for miles. They wake up before sunrise to begin their work

while the fields are still cool from the evening. They wade through wet mud to pull weeds from

the growing crops. When the crops are ready, they use machetes to cut the stalks near the roots

for harvest. Heads remain invisible throughout the day, submerged in the tall grasses; backs

remain bent under the weight of the work. (Photo 7)

On a Tuesday afternoon, three young men from the batey observe as a team of laborers

work in the rice field across the main road from the batey. They watch as their friends labor

under the lazy eye of a Dominican overseer, a man who is paid significantly more than the

22 ‘Chita nap chita’ means literally ‘we are sitting.’ 23 Michele Wucker, Why the Cocks Fight: Dominicans, Haitians, and the Struggle for Hispaniola (New York: Hill and Wang, 1999), 94.

p. 15

Haitian laborers for a job that mocks their arduous work. One onlooker becomes defiant with

time and shouts to the motionless Dominican overseer, “Bese! Bese!”24 The overseer turns his

head slowly and stares at the onlookers. His wheat-colored skin contrasts with the black of the

men around him. He holds his head up high, calm in the knowledge of his privilege.

Although work is more available in the Dominican Republic than in Haiti, migrants

remain in poverty, often paid less than half of the Dominican minimum wage.25 In spite of close-

knit communities that Haitians build among themselves, they remain largely removed from any

external networks of social support. When military officials arrive to carry out large-scale

repatriations in their communities, the migrants are left without defense and are often subjected

to great humiliations.

In the days between May 13 and May 15 of 2005, two thousand Haitian migrants and

Dominicans of Haitian descent were deported to Haiti.26 Military officials entered homes at five

in the morning, knocking down doors and taking people from their beds, often with only the

clothing in which they had been sleeping. Individuals were crowded into trucks and brought to

immigration headquarters, where some were allowed to return to their communities in the

Dominican Republic and others were sent to Haiti. Of the approximately 200 individuals taken

from the small village of Batey Libertad, twenty-six held official Dominican identity cards

affirming Dominican nationality, eleven others had Dominican birth certificates that verified

nationality by jus solis,27 and two held temporary residency papers that allowed them to remain

legally in the country. Accounts from the first day of the raid asserted that individuals were hit

24 “Bend down! Bend down!” 25 In a study conducted in 2002, migrants reported receiving 40 pesos or less for eight hours of work, equaling approximately $1.25 US. The Dominican minimum wage in 2002 was 80 to 100 pesos for an eight hour day. Plataforma “VIDA” – GARR, Tras las Huellas de los Braceros, July 2002, 54. See also: Frank Moya Pons, El Batey (Santo Domingo: Fondo para el avance de las ciencias sociales, 1986). 26 Amnesty International, “Open letter to the President of the Dominican Republic,” 8 March 2006. 27 According to the Dominican Constitution, anyone who is born in Dominican territory is a Dominican citizen.

p. 16

and harassed, identity cards were destroyed by military officials, and many families were torn

apart leaving some children orphaned.28 Moreover, for some migrants the most difficult part of

the repatriations was being forced to cross the border barefoot and in rags, with the humiliation

of being seen by one’s peers in such a broken state.29 (Photo 8)

Officially, the raids in May of 2005 should not have occurred. The American Convention

on Human Rights, to which the Dominican Republic is a signatory, strictly prohibits the mass

deportation of individuals.30 Moreover, Haiti and the Dominican Republic signed a protocol in

1999 that detailed the acceptable mechanisms of repatriation between the two countries.31

Among its measures, the protocol prohibits deportations between the hours of 6 pm and 8 am, it

prohibits the separation of families and the confiscation of documents, and it requires that every

individual be granted an official copy of a deportation order prior to being repatriated. Although

the Dominican Republic clearly violated the protocol, Haiti also fell short of its responsibilities.

According to the protocol, Haiti agreed to establish control along the Haitian-Dominican border

to avoid the illegal movement of people and to double its efforts to provide Haitian documents to

its nationals living in the Dominican Republic. The protocol was an empty gesture; neither

country was truly committed to improve the situation for Haitians residing in the Dominican

Republic.

28 See “Illegal People: Haitians and Dominico-Haitians in the Dominican Republic,” Human Rights Watch 14, no. 1 (2002), <www.hrw.org/reports/2002/domrep> for an in-depth look at past deportations and other human rights abuses against Haitians in the Dominican Republic. 29 Gianni Dal Mas, Solidaridad Fronteriza, Interview with author, Dajabón, Dominican Republic, 19 June 2006. 30 American Convention on Human Rights, 22 November 1969, Article 22.9. 31 Protocol of Understanding on the Mechanisms of Repatriation Between the Dominican Republic and Haiti, 2 December 1999.

p. 17

POVERTY AND POWER HIERARCHIES

Nonetheless, the vulnerability of Haitian migrants in the Dominican Republic is not a

simple matter of neglect and violation by immigration authorities on both sides of the border.

The roots of migration reach far deeper into the problems of poverty and power hierarchies that

push Haitian individuals to leave their home country despite knowledge of the dangers that await

them. Although not all Haitians are aware of the risks involved in migrating to the Dominican

Republic, many Haitians are conscious of these dangers and continue to migrate.

Despite how simple it might seem for one to pick up one’s belongings in Haiti and cross

the border into the Dominican Republic, most individuals are not so naïve as to think that the

journey will be easy. Individuals speak of saving money for years to send one child to work in

‘Dominikani.’ They are precise in the amount of money they will need: 1560 pesos for a small

truck to take them across the border and into the interior of the Dominican Republic, 400 pesos

to bribe the officials they will meet along the way, and another few hundred pesos to carry them

through their first weeks before they find a job. Although few individuals in Haiti remain in

contact with those who have migrated before them, they understand the difficulty of life in the

Dominican Republic. They understand that the wages will be low and the work will be

strenuous. They understand that being undocumented makes them vulnerable to many abuses.

Yet, they believe that a difficult life in the Dominican Republic is better than being trapped in

Haiti without the possibility of finding a job or providing for one’s family.

For many in Batey Libertad, ‘mizè’ is almost taken for granted as the reason one has

migrated to the Dominican Republic.32 When asked, “Poukisa ou vin Dominikani?”33 many laugh

32 ‘Economic misery.’ See Samuel Martínez, Peripheral Migrants: Haitians and Dominican Republic Sugar Plantations (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1995), 171-175, for a discussion on the significance and limitations of ‘mizè.’ 33 “Why did you come to the Dominican Republic?”

p. 18

at the ignorance of the question. A typical response is, “Sitiyasyon pa bon nan Ayiti.”34 Often,

such a statement is sufficient, and the respondent moves on to more interesting aspects of his or

her experience. However, sometimes a story is related that illustrates the truth of the assertion.

“Papa m te mouri, m vin travay ka ede manman m.”35 Lamèsi crossed the border at the

age of nineteen after his father died. With no other means for travel, he walked for three days

until he reached the community of Batey Libertad. For many, the death of a parent is the initial

trigger for one to leave Haiti; the eldest child assumes the role of provider, leaving his or her

home to find work to support the family. Often, the only work available is in the Dominican

Republic.

For others, the decision to migrate is more complicated. Kristòf, now twenty years old,

was born in the Dominican Republic when his mother was working in the sugarcane. As a young

child, he returned to Haiti because his mother believed that an education in the Haitian school

system would provide him with a more rigorous learning environment. However, at the age of

ten, Kristòf’s family could no longer financially support his Haitian education. Because all

schools in Haiti are private, Kristòf’s only option was to return to the Dominican Republic where

he might study with his Dominican birth certificate. Kristòf’s situation might seem extraordinary,

but it is not uncommon for families who would otherwise prefer to send their children to Haitian

schools to send their children to the Dominican Republic when hit with a financial crisis.

Unfortunately for Kristòf, his mother’s untimely death when he was fourteen precluded his

completion of a primary education. Six years later, Kristòf is about to begin the Dominican

equivalent of high school.36

34 “The situation is not good in Haiti.” 35 “My father died. I came to work so that I could support my mother.” Lamèsi, Interview with author, Batey Libertad, 24 June 2006. 36 Kristòf, Interview with author, Batey Libertad, 12 June 2006.

p. 19

The stories of Lamèsi and Kristòf are mirrored by the stories of many others who have

decided to migrate to the Dominican Republic for reasons related to the economic desperation

found in Haiti. Although an individual may decide to migrate after the death of a parent or in

order to attend a public school, ultimately it is the inability to provide for oneself and one’s

family that is the inherent force that makes migration necessary. A 2002 study on Haitian

migration conducted by the International Organization of Migrants and the Latin American

Faculty of Social Science found that 90.1 percent of respondents came to the Dominican

Republic for employment opportunities and better work conditions. 26.8 percent asserted

furthermore that they came to reunite a family, and only 11.9 percent of respondents named

political instability as a factor in their decision. Truly, economic motives are the overwhelming

force pushing Haitians to leave their country.37

Yet, a distinction must be made between those who come to the Dominican Republic to

work in any job that they can find, and those who come with a plan to support an existing

business venture. This distinction tends to fall along gendered lines, with women more often

arriving in the Dominican Republic with entrepreneurial goals. In the 2002 IOM study of Haitian

migration, 5.9% of Haitian women responded that they arrived in the Dominican Republic to sell

goods, compared to 0.7% of men. 2.2% of women responded that they arrived to buy, with 0.7%

of men in the same category. The percentage of migrants coming to build a business in the

Dominican Republic is small compared to those who arrive merely to find a waged job.

However, their presence is significant, particularly in several regions of the country, most

notably along the border in Dajabón and in the Dominican capital.

37 Encuesta sobre inmigrantes haitianos en la República Dominicana (Santo Domingo: IOM and FLACSO, 2002), 76.

p. 20

In Dajabón, the presence of Haitian vendors is unmistakable. Women carrying ladies

underwear stand outside of restaurants hoping to sell a pair to the customers eating within.

Others walk around with baskets of toiletries: shampoo, conditioner, soap and deodorant.

Sometimes the women sell avocados in baskets above their heads. On street corners, young

Haitian boys sell second-hand tennis shoes and Haitian rum. These women and children find a

market in the Dominican Republic that is otherwise nonexistent in Haiti. Merchants can sell in a

day what would otherwise take them a week to sell in Haiti. It is not uncommon for these

vendors to travel daily across the border to and from the Dominican Republic, wading across the

knee-deep Masacre River at dawn and at dusk. The merchant women are called madansara,

named after the black finch bird whose flighty movement to find food for its young mirrors that

of the women who cross the border to sell goods to provide for their families. (Photos 9-10)

In Santo Domingo, the madansara are more permanent residents, living in hotel rooms

out of which they sell their goods. Michele Wucker describes the activities of Haitian vendors

who ship their products from Haiti to sell in the Dominican neighborhood of Little Haiti:

An older woman, Marie, sits with her calculator amid piles of brassieres, underwear, shirts, and dozens of maroon bottles of Placenta Shampoo. A bottle is worth about 50 pesos in Port-au-Prince. The rumbling tap-taps carry the loads on the ninety-minute trip to the border, where they wait for days until the military customs officials allow them through after charging them another 50 pesos, ‘tax,’ to allow the shampoo through. By the time it arrives in Santo Domingo, the bottle costs 125 pesos.

Not all the merchants, however, bring their goods from Haiti. Wucker describes the

activities of a merchant named Sister Boyer who buys her products within the Dominican capital:

Two mornings a week, she leaves before dawn to buy clothes in the market or farther away at the industrial free-trade zones at the edge of the capital. (The industrial parks, by law only for export, are not supposed to sell clothes locally, but the little merchants can get seconds from them.) Then she hurries back before her own customers begin to arrive. Sister Boyer is a sharp bargainer, not one to let a customer get the better of her, and has gained a loyal following of Dominican shop owners who come here for her goods.38

38 Wucker, 86-87, 87.

p. 21

Within Batey Libertad, several women have opened businesses similar to those found in

Little Haiti, but on a smaller scale. The majority of women living in the batey were involved in

commerce prior to migrating to the Dominican Republic. These women sold clothing and food

during their teenage years in Haiti before crossing the border. Yet, when they arrive in the

Dominican Republic, most of these women begin waged work as agricultural laborers, since the

work is more readily available. Only a few women come with the determination to continue and

expand their commercial activities from the outset. Others set up small businesses only after

years of fieldwork have taken a toll on their bodies. Although the pattern of buying and selling

varies among vendors, many women in the batey buy clothing in bulk from other Haitian

merchants in the Dominican city of Santiago.39 In the days after their trip to the city, these

women display the clothing for sale on racks outside of their homes. Some women set up late-

night stands to sell fried dough and plantains to hungry neighbors on a Saturday evening. Others

sell toiletries, fruits and spices from wholesale vendors that pass periodically through the batey.

Although the market in the batey is small, the customers are loyal and often have no other place

to buy their basic necessities. Lack of documentation prevents many residents from leaving the

batey at all, due to their fear of meeting authorities along the route. (Photo 11)

The occupational trajectory for men in the batey is slightly different, as Haitian men

generally do not take part in small-scale commercial activity. In contrast to the women, the large

majority of men worked in small-scale agriculture before leaving Haiti, either on a family plot or

on a small local farm. When these men arrive in the Dominican Republic, they usually find work

in agriculture or construction, obtaining waged jobs on large Dominican plantations or smaller

private plots.

39 Most Haitian clothing vendors receive cheap second-hand clothing in Haiti, donated from the United States.

p. 22

The roots of undocumented immigration and its consequences for present-day migration

are complex, and the clandestine movement of people is lucrative for many. Undocumented

migration continues precisely because so many have a stake in the movement. However,

migrating by irregular means is not lucrative for the migrants themselves, who are made more

vulnerable because of their irregular status. Clandestine migration is dangerous for migrants, yet

they continue to migrate due to the desperate nature of their situation. Though it is clear why

Haitians migrate, one might wonder why Haitians migrate predominantly through irregular

means, particularly when this movement is so often destructive. What is preventing Haitians who

understand the dangers of clandestine movement from taking a more secure route of legal

immigration? Examining this question is crucial to the discussion of potential solutions to stem

the irregular movement of people from Haiti to the Dominican Republic. Alternatives to illegal

migration must be created in order to protect lives, provide order, and improve the conditions for

Haitian migrants in the country.

OBSTACLES TO LEGAL MIGRATION

In 1991, the number of Haitian migrants residing ‘illegally’ in the Dominican Republic

was estimated to be around ninety percent.40 Today, the number appears to have changed little.

Officially, there are less than 5,000 Haitian migrants registered as legal residents in the

Dominican Republic. This number does not take into account those individuals who reside

temporarily in the country with both a Haitian passport and a Dominican visa. There are

currently between 6,000 and 8,000 Haitian students at universities in the Dominican Republic,

the majority of who have entered the country on a tourist visa. There are thousands more who

40 Ramón Antonio Veras, “Contratos y reclutamientos de braceros: entradas clandestinas o repatriación,” in La cuestión haitiana en Santo Domingo, ed. Wilfredo Lozano, 113 (Santo Domingo: FLACSO, 1992).

p. 23

enter the country with a visa to work. The Haitian consulate estimates that about 50,000 visas are

granted every year.41

Considering that the total number of Haitian migrants in the country is estimated to be

between 380,000 and 500,000,42 it is possible to determine an approximate percentage of

migrants who reside legally in the country. According to the numbers, a small one to two percent

of migrants have achieved legal residency. This number reflects the enormous obstacles that

migrants face when applying for residency. Residency involves a long process of security checks

and physical examinations, including yearly payments that many cannot afford. Moreover, in

order to begin this process, one must have arrived in the Dominican Republic under legal

circumstances and have all one’s documents in order.

Nevertheless, although very few are able to achieve formal residency, others can maintain

short-term visas and passports. Haitians who hold visas and passports have legal authorization to

remain in the country. Because the visas distributed by the Haitian consulate vary in the length of

the authorized stay, it is impossible to determine how many migrants with visas are residing in

the country at any given time. Yet, even at the high end of the estimate, not more than fifteen

percent of the Haitian population in the Dominican Republic might hold a visa.43

Though the numbers are inexact, one reality is certain: a very small proportion of Haitian

migrants live in the Dominican Republic under fully regularized conditions. The obstacles to

41 Edwin Paraison, Ex-General Consulate of Haiti in the Dominican Republic, Informal conversation with author, Santo Domingo, 13 July 2006. Confirmed in an email by Edwin Paraison, “Re: LF ET DIRECTEUR OIM SUR L'IMPORTANCE DE LA MIGRATION,” 24 September 2006, personal email (24 Sept 2006). 42 See Wooding and Moseley-Williams, 33-35 for further explanation of these estimates. Both figures cite a 1991 census by the Dominican National Office of Statistics, which estimates that 245,000 Haitians resided in the Dominican Republic during this year. Assuming a rate of growth similar to the 1970s and 1980s, this figure would rise to 500,000 in the year 2002. The 380,000 figure, however, assumes that half of the estimated 240,000 migrants deported during these years did not return to the Dominican Republic. 43 Calculations were performed in the following manner: total number of visas given out by the Haitian consulate each year = 50,000; total number of Haitian migrants in the country = 380,000. At the extreme, if each visa given out was a full year visa, during that year only 13% of Haitian migrants would hold a visa.

p. 24

attaining basic documentation are many, including financial limitations, inability to procure

prerequisite documents, difficulty in finding transportation to cities where documents are

processed, and the challenge of renewing documents every few years. A Haitian passport costs

$70 U.S., renewable every five years, and must be processed in Port-au-Prince. A visa to come to

the Dominican Republic may cost between $100 and $200 U.S., for a stay as short as three

months or as long as one year. Granting of such visas is often an arbitrary affair, and the costs

are outstandingly high. Considering that the gross national income in Haiti per capita was $450

U.S. in 2005, and that much of this income is concentrated in the hands of a small but wealthy

Haitian elite, the average Haitian individual will have a difficult, if not impossible, time finding

the money to migrate legally.44 Moreover, even if an individual can find the money initially to

buy a passport and a visa, it is unlikely that he or she will find a job in the Dominican Republic

that pays enough for him or her to renew the documentation every year.

Nikòl arrived in the Dominican Republic in 2001, at the age of twenty-six. Already a

mother of three, she had saved money from her job in Haiti selling clothing, and had bought both

a passport and a visa for her travels. During this time, she made approximately 1500 goud each

month, the majority of which went to maintain her family. It took her a full two weeks to pass

through the bureaucracy in Port-au-Prince to attain a Haitian passport, having paid 2000 goud for

the document.45 She paid an additional $120 U.S. to buy a three-month visa to enter the

Dominican Republic.46 Despite the costs, Nikòl attained the necessary documents for her travel

and arrived in Batey Libertad in 2001 to live with her aunt, who was already an established

44 World Bank, “World Development Indicators database,” 1 July 2006 <http://siteresources.worldbank.org/DATASTATISTICS/Resources/GNIPC.pdf> (16 December 2006). 45 In 2001, the Haitian exchange rate was approximately 24 goud to $1 US. Bureau of Economic and Business Affairs, U.S. Department of State, “2001 Country Reports on Economic Policy and Trade Practices,” February 2002, <http://www.state.gov/documents/organization/8205.pdf> (Nov. 5, 2006). 46 As a point of comparison, a visitor from the United States who wishes to remain for three months in the Dominican Republic must pay $20 US total, $10 upon arrival and $10 upon exit (Summer, 2006).

p. 25

member of the community. Nikòl spent a large portion of her first three months in the Dominican

Republic becoming familiar with the community and learning how she might set up a business in

the future. She was unable to establish the business and returned to Haiti at the end of the three-

month period. Nikòl returned a second time to the Dominican Republic in 2002 with another

visa. She started a business, making approximately 3000 pesos each month, over double what

she earned in Haiti. As Nikòl explained, items sold faster in the Dominican Republic, allowing

her business to grow more rapidly. “Si ou achte yon bagay, ou ka vann li pi vit, pi fasil. Rad mal

achte, rad pou vann, soulye, sandal, mange, tout bagay.”47

Unfortunately, when Nikòl returned to Haiti the second time, her suitcase was stolen in

transit along with all of her documents. Nikòl had hoped to return to the Dominican Republic

within the year but decided at that moment that it would be too difficult to replace her stolen

documents. Not only were her passport and visa gone, but also her Haitian birth certificate and

identification card. Thus, the third time Nikòl returned to the Dominican Republic in 2003, she

arrived ‘anba fil,’48 paying 1000 pesos to a driver who brought her from Haiti to Batey Libertad.

Regrettably, without a passport or a visa, Nikòl has found commerce difficult, as she is unable to

travel freely within the country.

Nikòl’s story illustrates the tenacity of migrants who are willing to make sacrifices to

come to the Dominican Republic. However, even in such cases, hardship often intervenes,

making it difficult for individuals to maintain a regularized status in the country. Nikòl had the

advantage of holding a Haitian birth certificate and identity papers before applying for further

travel documents. Yet, many Haitians lack even such fundamental documents, particularly in the

47 “If you buy something, you can sell it faster, easier. I buy clothing to sell, shoes, sandals, food, everything.” Nikòl, Interview with author, Batey Libertad, 23 June 2006. 48 ‘Anba fil’ means literally ‘under the wire.’ It is a term used to describe undocumented immigration.

p. 26

most rural regions of Haiti. Without basic documents to begin with, the idea of working through

a long bureaucracy to attain one’s passport and visa can be very daunting.

In 2005, Solidaridad Fronteriza, an NGO along the border of Haiti and the Dominican

Republic, began a campaign to illustrate the dangers of clandestine migration, and the safer

alternative of legal migration. Among the materials distributed for the campaign were pamphlets

that read: “Mejor pagar una visa que pagar con la vida. Un buscón no te salva la vida.”49

Solidaridad Fronteriza was firm in its message to migrants about the dangers of illegal migration

and the advantage of migrating through legal mechanisms. They argued that even financially,

legal migration could sometimes be advantageous for migrants, as the costs of bribing officials

and hiring illegal transportation could be quite high, not to mention the costs when one is

spontaneously deported to Haiti. Nevertheless, as asserted by Gianni Dal Mas, the

Communications Director for Solidaridad Fronteriza, the campaign was a failure and little

change had been observed.50 (Photos 12-13)

When asked to comment on the failure of the campaign, Dal Mas explained that the

obstacles that Haitians face are not merely financial. The inefficient bureaucracy in Haiti

prevents many Haitians from holding even a birth certificate, which is a prerequisite for

obtaining a passport. Moreover, in order to apply for any kind of documentation in Haiti, one

must travel to Port-au-Prince, which is a difficult journey for those living in rural Haiti without

access to good roads and transportation. Processing can take a few weeks for a simple document,

which can be a problem for those who hold a job or who are the primary caretaker for a family.

Additionally, many Haitians hold a deeply rooted distrust of government authorities, and are

often reluctant to solicit documents under any circumstances.

49 “It is better to pay for a visa than to pay with one’s life. An illegal trafficker will not save your life.” 50 Gianni Dal Mas, 19 June 2006.

p. 27

The implications of the failure of Solidaridad Fronteriza’s campaign are serious. Without

viable legal mechanisms to migrate, individuals will find other ways to enter the Dominican

Republic. Illegal immigration continues, along with the corruption and abuse that comes with it.

Although individuals understand the dangers involved in illegal migration, they continue to put

themselves at risk as long as the opportunities lie on the other side of the border. Dal Mas

explained the situation clearly, “Todo el mundo dice que a ellos no les gusta a la República

Dominicana; si ellos pudiesen regresar para Haití, lo harían hoy mismo. Pero no pueden; las

condiciones son muy pobres allá y no pueden.”51

When examining the problems associated with irregular migration to the Dominican

Republic, the high levels of poverty and insecurity in Haiti must be addressed. As long as

individuals are desperate to leave their country, they will find desperate means to do so.

Moreover, the demand for cheapened, undocumented labor in the Dominican Republic, and the

facilitation of clandestine movement by recruiters, traffickers, and government agents are

significant concerns that must be dealt with. Yet, even if changes are made to address these

concerns, there needs to be a viable legal alternative for individuals who wish to migrate to the

Dominican Republic from Haiti. Both Haiti and the Dominican Republic must play a role in

creating such alternatives. The Haitian government needs to address the lack of infrastructure in

Haiti that causes many within its own borders to remain undocumented. Haitian authorities

should streamline the process of attaining Haitian documents and consider reducing the costs to

facilitate the process for its citizens. Meanwhile, Dominican authorities must re-examine the

reasons for charging over $100 U.S. for a visa that many Haitians will use to work at or below

51 “Everyone says that they don’t like the Dominican Republic, that if they could return to Haiti today, they would. But they can’t. The conditions are very poor there and they can’t.” Although Dal Mas romanticizes Haiti, as seen through the eyes of the migrants, he makes a distinction between the real Haiti with poor living conditions and the imagined, nostalgic Haiti that migrants wish to return to.

p. 28

minimum wage in agricultural labor or construction.52 Due to the large dependence of Dominican

plantations on Haitian labor, the Dominican Republic should look toward restructuring its visa

program to create a viable means for migrants to arrive safely and legally to complete this labor.

If guest worker programs are to be considered, they need to be structured in such a way that

short-term migrants are given full rights as human beings during the time they are working in the

Dominican Republic.53

STATE RESPONSES TO MIGRATION

Unfortunately, few effective measures have come from either side of the island, and those

that have been passed are limited in scope and enforcement capability, and sometimes even

questionable in legality. The agreements between Haiti and the Dominican Republic during the

middle of the twentieth century were the first in a series of legislative acts that were meant to

facilitate the orderly movement of Haitian laborers into Dominican plantations, but instead

resulted in the increase in clandestine recruitment and employment by unscrupulous Dominican

employers.54 Since the last of the formal accords in 1986, the Dominican Republic has passed

additional laws, responding to pressure from international human rights groups to reduce the

illegal trafficking and abuse of Haitian migrant workers in the country.

In 1989, America’s Human Rights Watch initiated a campaign to expose the terrible

conditions on Dominican plantations that employed Haitian labor, calling on the United States

government to examine its role as a close trade partner with the Dominican sugar industry.

Increasing pressure by U.S. Trade Representative Carla Hills and the U.S. House of 52 The Dominican minimum wage in 2002 was 80 to 100 pesos for an eight hour work day. This amounts to between $2.50 US and $3.25 US. On the higher estimate, an individual working six days a week for a month would earn approximately $75 US in that time. Plataforma “VIDA” – GARR, 54. 53 Fair wages, decent living conditions, in-country mobility and the consideration for a migrant’s family should be incorporated, at the very least. 54 Refer to “The Roots of Migration,” 7-9, of this document.

p. 29

Representatives pushed the Dominican President Joaquín Balaguer to pass a new decree in 1990.

Decree 417 reinforced the responsibility of Dominican estate owners to register all migrant

laborers with appropriate labor contracts, as well as committed Dominican authorities to conduct

periodic inspections on plantations in order to ensure the provision of a minimum standard of

living.55 This measure appeased the U.S. government, which issued a statement in 1991 that the

Dominican Republic was successfully implementing programs to improve the situation for

migrant laborers in the country. In fact, however, the decree failed to improve conditions on the

plantations due to its complete lack of enforcement.

In 1991, massive deportations were carried out under the guise of human rights when

Balaguer announced the repatriation of all foreigners under the age of sixteen or over sixty who

were working in Dominican plantations.56 Many of those deported had been long-time residents

of the Dominican Republic and were forcibly removed without time to gather their belongings.

Wages were left unpaid, documents were ignored or destroyed, and individuals were arbitrarily

taken based upon ‘Haitian appearance.’ Because Haitians are usually darker-skinned than

Dominicans, racism often plays a role in the way that Haitian migrants are treated. Violence and

abusive language directed against Haitians escalates due to racist tendencies, seen most notably

during the raids of Haitian communities.57 The actions of Dominican forces surrounding the 1991

55 Joaquín Balaguer, “La presencia de nacionales haitianos, especialmente su condición de inmigrantes con permiso de residencia temporal o de jornaleros a término fijo,” Decreto 417-1990, 15 October 1990, <www.acnur.org/biblioteca/pdf/0244.pdf> (29 October 2006). 56 Joaquín Balaguer, Decreto 233-1991, 13 June 1991, <www.acnur.org/biblioteca/pdf/0245.pdf> (29 October 2006). 57 Other examples of racist tendencies: dark-skinned individuals are singled out on public buses to show documentation and are harassed by Dominican officials at checkpoints, even if they prove Dominican nationality. The Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo used racist ideology to further his consolidation of power, establishing a distinct racial hierarchy in the Dominican Republic that remains to this day. For more information, refer to: Ernesto Sagás, Race and Politics in the Dominican Republic (Florida: University Press of Florida, 2000). For a striking example of racist ideology within Dominican political thought, see also: Joaquín Balaguer, La isla al revés: Haití y el destino dominicano (Santo Domingo: Librería Dominicana, 1983), written by the three time (twenty-four years) Dominican president.

p. 30

deportations were a clear reflection of the true stance of the Dominican government behind its

façade of concern.58

In the following decade, further measures were passed by Dominican lawmakers, in

theory to protect Haitian migrants from illegal trafficking. In 1998, Law 344 established long

prison sentences and large fines for those who participated in the illegal recruitment and

movement of migrants. The law was replaced in 2003 by Law 137, which has subsequently been

used by human rights groups, including Solidaridad Fronteriza, to conduct awareness campaigns

against illegal trafficking.59 Although the law has been successful in provoking discussion around

the topic within certain circles, it has failed to reduce the level of corruption among recruiters,

traffickers and government agents. Between 1998 and 2001, not one person had been convicted

in violation of the original Law 344.60 Since 2001, convictions have been just as scarce, despite

the widely known fact that trafficking occurs on a regular basis.

In addition to poor enforcement of regulatory measures to protect Haitian migrants, the

Dominican Republic has participated in other less official practices to provide documents to

recruited laborers on its plantations. Since the 1970s, the Dominican Republic has periodically

allowed migrants working on Dominican estates to solicit a temporary work permit to remain on

Dominican plantations for six months.61 These permits were generally paid for by the migrants,

requiring between 800 and 1300 pesos. In theory, the granting of documents was a step in the

right direction; in practice, however, the temporary work permits offered by the Dominican

government merely promoted the illegal movement of Haitian migrants, providing a temporary

58 Human Rights Watch, Overview of human rights developments, Dominican Republic 2006, <www.hrw.org/doc?t=americas&c=domini> (29 October 2006). 59 Congreso Nacional, “Sobre tráfico ilícito de migrantes y trata de personas,” Ley No 137-03, 7 August 2003, <www.acnur.org/biblioteca/pdf/2400.pdf> (29 October 2006). 60 Plataforma “VIDA” – GARR, Tras las huellas de los braceros, July 2002, 45-46. 61 Beginning in 2004, the Dominican government began to gradually withdraw the work permits from the plantations.

p. 31

solution that only succeeded in obtaining funds for the Dominican treasury. As asserted by

Gianni Dal Mas, the work permits were a form of legalizing an illegal situation. After crossing

the border irregularly, traveling to the plantation using clandestine transportation, and being

unofficially contracted by an employer, the migrant could buy a temporary identity document

from the Dominican government, which did not allow free movement within the country and was

not universally recognized as an official document. More often than not, the temporary work

card was disregarded by Dominican authorities, confiscated or destroyed. Furthermore, the

document expired after six months, after which it was the migrant’s responsibility either to leave

the plantation and return to Haiti, buy a new card for another six months, or remain

undocumented on the estate. Truly, no option was ideal, nor prevented exploitation. “Qué era ese

carnet?” asked Dal Mas. “Ese carnet era la más grande mentira del mundo.”62

The temporary work card remains a document that many Haitian migrants hold onto as

indication of their documentation within the country. During interviews, several respondents

rifled through wallets to present their card, still intact years after the expiration date. For some,

the work permit illustrated a great humiliation, when it was taken away, destroyed during raids,

or simply ignored. For others, the document presented hope, as it had given some parents the

opportunity to declare their children as Dominican citizens. In recent years, however, the work

card has been more a source of frustration than hope, as recent Dominican administrations have

begun to withdraw the work permits and restrict nationality claims to only children born of two

Dominican parents in the Dominican Republic.

According to the Dominican Constitution of 1865, any child born in Dominican territory

is granted nationality on the basis of jus solis. In 1908, a clause appeared in the Constitution

restricting nationality for those children born to individuals considered to be in transit. The 62 “What was the work permit? This work permit was a great lie.” Gianni Dal Mas, 19 June 2006.

p. 32

Constitution states: “Son dominicanos: Todas las personas que nacieron en el territorio de la

República, con excepción de los hijos legítimos de los extranjeros residentes en el país en

representación diplomática o los que están de tránsito en él.”63 Legally, being in transit signifies

that an individual has a destination outside of the country through which one is passing. As

explained by Pedro Ubiera, a Dominican scholar concerned with migratory politics, “ ‘De

tránsito,’ literalmente significa ‘ir de paso’ en este caso, por el territorio . . . es decir, la situación

en la cual se efectúa el traslado de un lugar a otro sin haberse llegado al destino.”64 Yet,

Dominican authorities have used this clause to deny Dominican citizenship to the children of

undocumented residents in the Dominican Republic, arguing that their undocumented status

implies their transitory nature. In terms of pure semantics alone, such actions may be bordering

on the unconstitutional.

For families of Haitian migrants living in the Dominican Republic, the ramifications of

such Dominican claims are clear. Families are split between those children who are able to

obtain a Dominican birth certificate and those who are not. During the 1970s and 1980s, when

Dominican authorities granted temporary work permits liberally and respected them more

readily, a common practice among birth registration officials was to provide Dominican birth

certificates to those children born of parents who held a temporary work card. In the Dominican

Republic, a Dominican birth certificate is sufficient to indicate Dominican nationality. Thus, for

children who hold a Dominican birth certificate, it is a simple matter to obtain full Dominican

citizenship upon the completion of adult age.

63 “Are Dominicans: All individuals who were born in Dominican territory, with the exception of the legitimate children of foreign residents in diplomatic representation in the Dominican Republic or those who are in transit in the territory.” Asamblea Nacional, “Constitución política de la República Dominicana,” 25 July 2002, <pdba.georgetown.edu/Constitutions/DomRep/domrep02.html> (24 November 2006). 64 “In transit means literally to pass through, in this case through the territory; that is to say the situation in which one moves from one place to another without having arrived at one’s destination.” Pedro Ubiera, “Derecho y políticas de migración,” Estudios sociales 30, no. 108 (1997): 79.

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The family of Miriana is a striking example of the consequences of Dominican policy

during the era of official recruitment and the granting of temporary work cards on Dominican

sugarcane plantations. Miriana, though only forty-six years old, carries her age heavily after

years of working in agricultural labor. She is one of the women for whom ‘chita nap chita’ has

become a constant reality. Chronic headaches and respiratory difficulty hinder her activities.

Miriana is the mother of six children between the ages of four and twenty-four. The eldest two

children hold Dominican birth certificates and the Dominican cédula, which indicates Dominican

citizenship. The eldest child is now studying accounting at the state university in Santiago, with

the help of a scholarship fund. Miriana has a third child who holds a Haitian birth certificate and

lives with his godmother in Haiti. However, Miriana’s three youngest children lack formal

documentation of any kind, which has posed problems for schooling and travel through the

country.65

In order to enroll in a Dominican school, a child must have a birth certificate. Although

not necessarily a Dominican birth certificate, the difficulty in obtaining Haitian papers makes it

practically impossible for one living in the Dominican Republic to solicit Haitian

documentation.66 In Batey Libertad, children without birth certificates can attend the local school

within the batey, which reaches the level of middle school. However, in order to attend high

school at one of the Dominican public schools, a student must obtain further documentation. The

process to obtain such documents is a difficult and costly procedure, which in many cases

involves illicit maneuvers. Many children do not undergo this process and therefore remain at a

primary school level of education. 65 Miriana, Interview with author, Batey Libertad, 8 July 2006. 66 Children of Haitian parents born in the Dominican Republic can solicit a Haitian birth certificate and become Haitian nationals by the Haitian Constitution. The practical difficulty in doing so prevents the majority of individuals from taking these steps, particularly when considering that even after attaining the papers, the newborn child will also have to solicit further documentation from the Dominican consulate, such as a visa, in order to remain legally in the Dominican Republic.

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In Batey Libertad, the divide between children who have birth certificates and those who

do not corresponds loosely with a change in Dominican policy that occurred when sugarcane was

removed from the batey region in 1986. When the sugarcane was removed, Dominican officials

no longer accepted the temporary work permit as sufficient documentation for a parent to declare

the birth of his or her child. Thus, many children in the batey who were born after 1986 lack

documentation and therefore face greater challenges as they grow up in Dominican society.

Rather than be accepted as first-generation Dominicans, these children inherit their parents’

irregular status, making it immensely difficult for them to break the cycle of poverty and social

isolation, which is thus maintained throughout their families and their communities.

MIGRANT RESPONSES TO STATE POLICY

Nevertheless, when official policy leaves no viable alternative for migrants, they devise

their own means to confront the situation. Haitian migrants living in the Dominican Republic

have confronted the problem of obtaining birth certificates for their children through several

mechanisms. Undocumented parents have enlisted the support of documented godparents to

declare a child. Additionally, when a child with a birth certificate dies, individuals within the

community arrange to buy the birth certificate from the deceased child’s family, thus utilizing

the community’s resources in the most efficient manner. Yet, although many families are

successful in such maneuvers, these practices and procedures have left their mark upon

individuals and place many at a disadvantage.

Jan explains how he decided to ask his child’s godfather to declare his son, and why this

decision has created difficulties for his family. “Tú sabes, pasa mucha calamidad. Yo no quiero

que le pasa mucha calamidad igual como yo. Entonces, yo pagué a uno que tiene documentos

dos mil pesos para que me consiga documentos. Me salió dos mil quinientos pesos. Él fue como

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el padre. Entonces, en el documento, el nombre mío no anda en esto.”67 Jan remembers the 2005

raids that took his wife away from the community and how he looked for his wife in Haiti to

bring her back to the batey. He remembers this moment as he asserts, “Si yo iba allá en Haití

para mi hijo, yo no puedo venir con él. Yo puedo llamarle a su padrino para que vaya a buscar el

muchacho. Mientras que no puedo traerlo porque tú sabes, no fue el nombre mío que está

apuntado.”68 In emergency situations, Jan’s name would have little effect when trying to

convince authorities to release his child from custody.

Jan’s child, however, is luckier than others in the batey, for he will grow up with a name

that is his own and a birth certificate that protects him within the Dominican Republic. Luis, Lili

and Kodèm, three siblings who were also born in Batey Libertad, are not so lucky. Born to a

young mother and an absentee father, these children never obtained identity documents upon

their birth. Luis’s given name was Manouli, a name that has since been forgotten by all but his

family. At the age of fifteen, Manouli solicited a birth certificate from the family of a dead

teenager named Luis, in order that he might attend the high school in the nearby town. Although

he will always be called Papo by his closest friends, he began high school with a new name and a

new identity. Luis’s acquired document has allowed him to graduate from high school and obtain

a job working in the free trade industrial zone near the batey.

Luis’s younger sister followed close behind him, soliciting a document at the age of

twenty, from the family of a girl whose real age was thirteen. Lili bought the birth certificate on

credit from a man in the community, and two years later still owes 6000 pesos for the

transaction. Lili laughs when she explains that she is still fifteen years old. She must wait three 67 “You know, we face a lot of hardship. I don’t want my son to face as much hardship as I have. So I paid a man two thousand pesos to get my son’s documents for me. I ended up paying two thousand five hundred pesos. He went as the father. Thus, my name does not appear on the document.” Jan, Interview with author, Batey Libertad, 29 June 2006. 68 “If I went to Haiti for my son, I would not be able to return [to the Dominican Republic] with him. I can call his godfather to look for the child, but I can’t bring him myself because my name is not included on the document.”

p. 36

years before she reaches adult age in the Dominican Republic. She hopes to finish high school,

although her immediate goal is to pay off her debt with a small business of buying and selling

clothing in the batey. Yet, her inexperience with commerce has hindered this goal; after her first

trip to the market in Santiago, Lili was left 600 pesos further in debt.

The youngest sibling of the three, Kodèm, still lacks documentation of any kind. Kodèm

is a serious student, intelligent and dedicated to his work. With an official letter written by a

local human rights lawyer, Kodèm was granted special permission to attend the high school in

the nearby town of Esperanza. He succeeded in graduating from high school and is looking

forward to attending the university in Santiago. In recent months, Kodèm has continued visits to

the human rights lawyer, trying to get his documents in order for enrolling at the university level.

Kodèm is making plans to solicit a Haitian birth certificate from the consulate in Santo Domingo,

after which he will also solicit a Haitian passport that will allow him to study at the Dominican

state university. The process may take months or even years, and will require a significant

amount of financial support. Although Kodèm cannot afford this maneuver, he has the support of

his family members, who are determined to see him complete his education. Kodèm’s older

brother Luis has offered to work and give up his own education just to see this happen.

UPCOMING TRENDS IN DOMINICAN MIGRATORY POLITICS

As individuals like Kodèm and Luis struggle to make it through a system that does not

have their best interest in mind, new children are being born without birth certificates and will

face even tougher circumstances as Dominican authorities become less willing to work with

Haitian migrants. The current Fernández administration has been silent in the face of claims of

human rights violations committed by the Dominican state regarding the denial of Dominican

birth certificates to children of Haitian descent. In October of 2005, the Interamerican Court of

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Human Rights ruled on a case of two young girls of Haitian descent who were denied Dominican

birth certificates despite the fact that both parents presented Dominican identity papers and

hospital documents stating that the children had been born in the country. The Court ruled that

the actions of the Dominican state were unconstitutional and placed the children in a situation of

continued vulnerability. The court tribunal issued the following remark: “El estatus migratorio de

una persona no puede ser condición para el otorgamiento de la nacionalidad por el Estado . . . la

condición del nacimiento en el territorio del Estado es la única a ser demostrada para la

adquisicíon de la nacionalidad.”69

The Dominican Republic was given six months to acknowledge the ruling and begin

reforms in the country. Yet, the decision was not acknowledged publicly until after the six month

period and no official reforms had been discussed. A published Supreme Court report in January

of 2006 seemed an indicator of the Dominican Republic’s stance.70 The Supreme Court report

did not mention the October decision; however, a lengthy discussion of migratory politics in the

document responded directly to the allegations of the ruling, using an argument of national

sovereignty and international trends to justify the state’s actions. In the report, the Supreme

Court directly denied that the state’s actions were a result of discriminatory policies based on

69 “The migratory status of a person cannot be a condition for the granting of nationality by the State . . . the fact of being born within the nation’s territory is the only required condition for acquiring nationality.” “Corte Interamericana de los Derechos Humanos falla a favor de derechos niñas y niños,” Espacio de comunicación insular, 7 October 2005, <espacinsular.org/article.php3?id_article=374> (21 November 2006). 70 In June of 2006, 8 months after the decision, the Dominican Secretary of Foreign Affairs, Carlos Morales Troncoso, announced that the Dominican government would take measures to make the necessary reforms. Skepticism from the human rights civil sector prompted an open letter to President Leonel Fernández on September 11, 2006, reminding him of the importance of the government’s upcoming actions. The letter can be found: “Organizaciones envían carta al Presidente de la República Leonel Fernández,” Espacio de Comunicación Insular, 11 Sept 2006, <www.espacinsular.org/spip.php?article2271> (29 October 2006). Further information about the Interamerican Court decision can be found: GARR, Informe: Migración haitiana y derechos humanos en 2005, 28 October 2006, <http://www.espacinsular.org/IMG/doc/Informe_GARR_DH_05_espanol.doc> (29 October 2006). Currently, the October 2005 decision is being reconsidered in the court, based on allegations from the Dominican government that the girls were not born on Dominican territory. “U.S. ambassador calls on Dominican Republic to respect Haitian migrant rights,” Associated Press, 22 November 2006.

p. 38

“raza, color, creencias u origen,”71 and used the protests in France and the hardening against

undocumented immigrants in the United States as examples of a global trend to re-examine

immigration policy. In direct conflict with the October decision, the Supreme Court asserted that

only children of permanent residents would be granted citizenship, reminding that the regulation

and control of people entering and exiting the country was an “inalienable y soberano” right of

the Dominican State.72

Since January of 2006, the Dominican Republic has moved father from the October

decision, entering a stage of constitutional reform that promises to change the migratory politics

of the Dominican Republic. President Leonel Fernández has stated publicly that he plans to

reform the jus solis clause of the Constitution, in order to clarify that children of undocumented

immigrants will not be granted Dominican citizenship. This action follows legal reform already

in place from 2004 that states that all non-residents in the Dominican Republic are considered to

be in transit for the purpose of determining the nationality of their children. The new Law 285

affects Haitian migrants most of all, considering the enormous hurdles these migrants face in

order to attain residency. Fernández is moving away from jus solis at the same time he is moving

toward a jus sanguini approach to nationality; he has proposed to extend nationality to children

born to Dominican nationals living outside of the country, without requiring that these families

solicit the citizenship. In recent speeches, Fernández has referred to a great wall – “un muro de

700 kilómetros” – being constructed in the United States to stem undocumented immigration; it

is unclear whether Fernández hopes to build a similar wall in the Dominican Republic.73

71 “Race, color, beliefs or origen.” 72 “Inalienable and sovereign.” Suprema Corte de Justicia, República Dominicana, “A Modo de Informe Anual,” 7 January 2006, <www.suprema.gov.do/novedades/discursos/discursos2006/Discurso%20D%C3%Ada%20del% 20Poder%20Judicial%202006.pdf> (21 November 2006). 73 “A wall of 700 kilometers.” The Dominican Republic has publicized plans to build a strong military force along the entire 391 kilometer border with Haiti. 1000 troops could enter the region as soon as January 2007. “U.S. ambassador calls on Dominican Republic to respect Haitian migrant rights,” Associated Press, 22 November 2006.

p. 39

Nevertheless, it is clear that Fernández’s “Revolución Democrática en la República Dominicana”

plans to leave many individuals behind. Fernández has yet to respond to what will happen to the

thousands of undocumented Haitian migrants already working and living in the country.74

The ramifications of Fernández’s pointed constitutional reform are serious for the Haitian

migrants currently living in the Dominican Republic. Without the opportunity to declare their

children as Dominican nationals, their families will be stuck in permanent illegality. The stories

of Luis and Lili will become success stories within communities that are struggling to survive

with dignity in the Dominican Republic.75

Furthermore, what will be the impact of such actions on the Dominican Republic itself?

Over the past century, the Dominican Republic has relied on the presence of Haitian migrants to

complete the work that Dominicans are unwilling to do. The employment of undocumented

Haitian labor has made millions of dollars for the Dominican agricultural industry. If the

Dominican Republic succeeds in closing the door on Haitian immigration, who will come to

replace the labor that they once completed?

The actions of the Dominican Republic are alarming not merely on the basic level of

migrant rights; they are of concern because of the contradictory message that they promote. In

truth, it is improbable that Haitian labor will be replaced on Dominican plantations. As long as

Haitian labor continues to be needed on Dominican plantations, it seems likely that a certain 74 “Democratic Revolution in the Dominican Republic.” “El discurso del Presidente: La Nacionalidad traba la democracia,” Espacio de comunicación insular, 31 October 2006, <www.espacinsular.org/spip.php?article2547> (21 November 2006). 75 Note of Addition (March 2008): Since 2007, the Dominican central government has made it a policy to deny the legalization of the Dominican birth certificate of any individual with one or both parents of Haitian nationality, regardless of whether these birth certificates have been accepted and notarized in the past. Currently countless individuals are in a state of suspended citizenship – able to vote and hold a Dominican cédula, which many had been granted before the recent tightening of citizenship requirements – yet unable to solicit a new notarized birth certificate for purposes such as attending university, soliciting a passport, or filing for a marriage certificate. Many cases have been brought to the administrative council of the Central Electoral Board in order to be granted authorization to move forward with the document processing, yet the large majority of cases remain unattended, the number growing since June of 2007.

p. 40

level of clandestine migration will be permitted in order to allow Dominican businesses to

survive. Thus, while maintaining the façade of a hard-line immigration policy, the success of this

policy is contingent upon the continuation of a baseline level of illegal trafficking. The

probability of such an outcome is great if one takes Dominican historical responses to the

problem as an indication of the future.

LINGERING CONTRADICTIONS

During the early 1990s, the Dominican Republic faced a hostile international

environment when human rights groups began to denounce the government for its lax policy on

the exploitation of undocumented Haitian labor. In 1991, President Balaguer responded by

forcibly deporting six to seven thousand Haitian migrants, claiming that the repatriations were to

ensure that those working on Dominican plantations were of the proper age. Balaguer drew a

hard-line approach to irregular Haitian immigration; yet at the same time, he reopened the border

months later to allow many of the same migrants the opportunity to return to the Dominican

Republic to continue their work in the sugarcane and other crops. What Balaguer understood was

the dependence of the Dominican agricultural industry on Haitian migrant labor. Although he

could arbitrarily deport the undocumented migrant population, he could not do so without

allowing their subsequent return.

Jozèfa remembers the incident clearly. In June, the authorities entered Batey Libertad and

deported the majority of its residents, sending them directly to Haiti on overcrowded buses in the

pouring rain. In November of the same year, Balaguer reopened the border, such that she and the

others could return to the Dominican Republic as if nothing had happened. Jozèfa returned,

although she recalls that many of her peers remained in Haiti because of the humiliation of being

p. 41

sent away.76 The Dominican sugar and construction industries faced severe labor shortages

during the following year.77

The history of the Dominican Republic’s ambivalent attitude toward Haitian immigration

reaches farther back to the era of dictator Rafael Trujillo, when the level of animosity toward

Haitian migrants was at its extreme. However, even during this era, the need for Haitians on

Dominican plantations was recognized. Trujillo’s rule from 1930 to 1961 was filled with

nationalist rhetoric about the ‘pacific invasion’ of the Haitians, who would degrade the

Dominican Republic’s cultural and racial landscape. During his rule, Trujillo devised a racial

hierarchy in the Dominican Republic, by which Dominican citizens would be labeled blanco,

trigeño, indio or indio oscuro78; black was reserved for Haitians or those of other Afro-Caribbean

descent. Manipulating nativist fears, Trujillo reconstructed an old anti-Haitian sentiment in order

to build support for his nationalist regime.79 With these tactics, Trujillo fomented the conditions

for a 1937 massacre of approximately 25,000 Haitians living along the Dominican-Haitian

border. Trujillo justified this massacre in the name of the protecting the patria, the motherland.

Nevertheless, Trujillo knew that the Dominican plantations relied on a large supply of

Haitian labor. During the 1937 massacre, Trujillo spared the thousands of Haitians living on

Dominican bateyes and plantations. Samuel Martínez, a scholar of Haitian labor and migration,

describes the situation well:

Regardless of the dictator’s intentions, no more chilling way could be imagined of conveying to Haitian immigrants the message that the sugar bateyes would be their only secure place on Dominican soil . . . Even as wealthy individuals and corporations benefited from cheap, compliant Haitian labor, government propaganda against Haitians 76 Jozèfa, Interview with author, Batey Libertad, 13 June 2006. 77 Atlapedia Online, “Dominican Republic,” <www.atlapedia.com/online/countries/dominrep.htm> (25 November 2006). 78 White, wheat-colored, Indian, dark Indian. 79 A repressive Haitian occupation of the Dominican Republic from 1822 to 1844 lingers in Dominican national memory, promoting continued anti-Haitian sentiment. Despite the Dominican Republic’s long colonization by the Spanish, the country celebrates its independence from Haiti, not Spain.

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served to deflect Dominican workers’ anger away from the national bourgeoisie and U.S. neoimperialism . . . a sizable Haitian presence was tacitly tolerated, even as anti- Haitianism was used for sometimes unexpected political ends.80 In fact, Trujillo was one of the largest beneficiaries of the Haitian labor, as he gained

control of two thirds of the Dominican sugar estates by the time of his death in 1961. By building

a strong infrastructure along the Dominican-Haitian border, Trujillo’s military was able to

interdict the majority of undocumented Haitian migrants attempting to cross the border. Rather

than return the migrants to Haiti, Trujillo’s army shipped them to work on Trujillo’s sugar

estates. In this way, Trujillo gained almost complete control of the Haitian migrant labor supply;

combining this control with intimidation tactics and high export taxes, Trujillo acquired many

Dominican estates during the early 1950s. In 1952, while still publicly denouncing the use of

Haitian labor, Trujillo quietly signed an international accord with Haiti to begin Haitian

sponsored recruitment to Dominican plantations. In the following decades, this recruitment

would become an official policy of the Dominican government, and many years after Trujillo’s

assassination, his legacy would remain in the continued actions of the Dominican State Sugar

Council.

The fact that one of the greatest opponents to Haitian migration was also one of its

greatest beneficiaries resonates with the contemporary situation. As Dominican authorities

become stricter on irregular immigration, it remains to be seen whether legal alternatives will

emerge to allow Haitian migrants to enter the country on other terms. While anti-Haitian rhetoric

continues to fill Dominican politics, it is unclear whether Dominican industrialists will find new

sectors of the population to fill their continued need for labor. If history is at all an indicator, the

Dominican Republic is in a difficult situation with the real possibility of repeating the same

mistakes. Thus far, the Dominican Republic has continued to place the burden of migration on 80 Martínez, “From Hidden Hand to Heavy Hand,” 70, 71-72.

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the migrants themselves without addressing the factors that make this migration necessary.

Furthermore, the Dominican Republic has remained silent on legal alternatives, while avoiding

the fact that countless undocumented Haitians remain disenfranchised and stateless within the

country.

A CALL FROM THE PEOPLE

Although skirting the issue of Haitian migration has worked in the past for the Dominican

government, it appears that it will be insufficient as individuals continue to become conscious of

their rights within a larger international framework of human rights. For decades, the Dominican

Republic has stayed far away from the border region it shares with Haiti, leaving this region the

least developed within the nation. For one to travel between two towns along the western border,

it is often easier to travel via Santo Domingo, which is on the far eastern part of the island. The

roads along the border are so damaged that travel, even by motorcycle, is difficult. The

International Highway, narrow, unpaved and incomplete in many sections, is a proper indicator

of the state of infrastructure within this region.

In August of 2006, a man named Ángel Sosa decided to protest the state’s abandonment

of his hometown border region. In the recent congressional election campaigns, the government

had begun several projects in the region of Dajabón, including paving a road that would stretch

between Dajabón and Loma de Cabrera. However, the moment the elections concluded, the

projects were left unfinished and deserted. Sosa set out on foot from Dajabón on August 4th,

traveling eleven days across the country to Santo Domingo with a heavy wooden cross on his

back to protest the government’s inaction. Sosa was interned for one night at a hospital in La

Vega due to pulmonary difficulties, yet he continued the journey of 305 kilometers to reach the

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Dominican capital. Sosa became “el Hombre de la Cruz,”81 an inspirational figure for the many

who had also witnessed the unfinished promises of the Dominican government to its people.

Upon Sosa’s arrival in the capital city on August 15th, Sosa was met by two representatives from

the Fernández administration who assured him publicly that the government projects in the

border region would be recommenced at the end of the month. Even more than the outcome of

the situation, the real significance of the protest was the hope that it provided that the

government would listen to organized action coming from its people.82

An unanswered question remains whether the government will listen when the call does

not come from a Dominican, but from the masses of Haitian immigrants who reside in the

country. Unfortunately, no such collective action has surfaced to prompt a government response.

Nonetheless, numerous non-governmental organizations have developed in order to address the

difficult conditions faced by Haitian migrants in the Dominican Republic. These NGOs are

attempting to serve needs left unmet by the government, and are important actors to promote

change within an otherwise stagnant environment.

NON-GOVERNMENTAL ORGANIZATIONS: SUCCESSES AND LIMITATIONS

Several organizations working with undocumented Haitian migrants are the following:

SJRM, Servicio Jesuita a Refugiados y Migrantes; MUDHA, Movimiento de Mujeres Domínico-

Haitianas; ACMDH, Asociación Comunitaria de Migrantes y Domínico-haitianos; and Fanm

Vanyan.83 These NGOs span the range of organizational structure, from a large international

organization with a regional focus in the Dominican Republic and Haiti, to a small grassroots

81 “The Man of the Cross.” 82 “El Gobierno admite ante el Hombre de la Cruz que todas las obras de las provincias están detenidas,” Clave Digital, 16 August 2006, <www.clavedigital.com/Portada/Articulo.asp?Id_Articulo=8010> (21 November 2006). 83 Jesuit Services for Refugees and Migrants; Movement of Dominican-Haitian Women; Community Association of Migrants and Dominican-Haitians; Valiant Woman.

p. 45

organization focusing on the needs of one local community. These organizations are addressing

important concerns within the migrant community, including assisting individuals to solicit

documentation, providing legal advocacy, addressing public health concerns, as well as

educating migrants about their rights, responsibilities and available resources.

SJRM is an international organization with offices in Europe, South America and the

Caribbean. Within the Dominican Republic, SJRM has several branches, including that of

Solidaridad Fronteriza, its branch along the Dominican-Haitian border. At Solidaridad

Fronteriza, a principle project has been its awareness campaign about the dangers and negative

consequences of illegal immigration. During raids and other difficult moments for Haitian

migrants, SJRM acts as an advocate, releasing documented individuals from custody and

reuniting families that had been separated. During the May 2005 raid in Batey Libertad, SJRM

provided milk and other necessary products for a child whose mother was taken during the raid.

At its office in the capital, a large role of SJRM is to help undocumented migrants pass through

the often confusing process of attaining resident status.

MUDHA is an organization similar to SJRM in terms of its breadth within the Dominican

Republic. Founded by a Dominican-Haitian woman, MUDHA works primarily in thirteen batey

communities, providing health care education and workshops about migrant rights and resources.

MUDHA trains a ‘promotora comunitaria’ within each community, a woman who provides

important leadership to continue MUDHA’s projects in the region. Along with SJRM, MUDHA

has been involved in pressuring the government to change its policies with regard to Haitian

migrants. Denunciations are frequent, and although they have so far produced little change,

MUDHA is determined to continue speaking out until the government begins to listen. Most

recently, MUDHA was fundamental in pushing forward the October 2005 Interamerican Court

decision.

p. 46

Sonia Pierre, the founder of MUDHA, was awarded on November 17th, 2006, the Robert

F. Kennedy Memorial Award for Human Rights, for her dedication to combating the challenges

faced by Haitian-Dominicans in the Dominican Republic. The award granted Pierre $30,000 for

her organization and the services of an attorney to follow up on the recent Interamerican Court

ruling.84 The award is an important achievement for MUDHA, not merely for the resources it

provides, but for the positive publicity it gives to their work. Such positive feedback from the

United States may be an important step toward bringing about change in the Dominican

Republic. Although denunciations have had little effect, the continued international support of

grassroots organization in the Dominican Republic may be more successful.

In contrast to the work of SJRM and MUDHA, ACMDH is a small organization working

in the capital of the Dominican Republic, founded by a Haitian migrant who came to the

Dominican Republic for political reasons. With a large association of migrants who live in Santo

Domingo, ACMDH has worked tirelessly to assist its members in the long process toward legal

resident status in the country. ACMDH facilitates medical exams, the gathering of prerequisite

documents, as well as providing financial assistance for those who qualify. Additionally,

ACMDH is currently working to develop a long-term Spanish language program for migrants

living in the city. The founder of ACMDH, Teole García, is a man dedicated to his work, who

manages with the small funds that his organization has been able to solicit.

Finally, Fanm Vanyan is the smallest of the four organizations, working directly in Batey

Libertad to help the women of the community find legal status within the Dominican Republic.

The most recent initiative of this group of thirty-three Haitian women is a candle-making project,

with which the women have been able to raise a significant pool of funds to pay for passports

and visas for the women. Both ACMDH and Fanm Vanyan, the two organizations founded and 84 Jonathan Katz, “Dominican-Haitian to win RFK award,” Associated Press, 17 November 2006.

p. 47

maintained by Haitian migrants, have focused their efforts on attaining legal documents for their

members. These migrants are aware of the importance of holding documentation, making this

goal a priority for their group. As the women of Fanm Vanyan assert, when the ‘guardia’ come

to Batey Libertad, they hope that the mothers of the community can remain a stable force in the

town, in order to care for the children and the homes left behind.85 (Photo 14)

The four NGOs described here illustrate some examples of ways that individuals and

organizations are confronting the challenges faced by those of Haitian descent in the Dominican

Republic. These NGOs are some of the most effective in the field, yet even these organizations

have the tendency to face stagnancy with time. During an interview with one representative from

Servicio Jesuita a Refugiados y Migrantes, frustration was expressed about the lack of viable

proposals set forth by the organization. SJRM had been author to many reports denouncing the

Dominican government and asking for change, but well-considered, specific recommendations

had not been made.

The representative remarked that because money from international donors was being

sent to the organization based on the severity of the situation for migrants in the country, in some

ways SJRM relied on the maintenance of this crisis for migrants in order to sustain substantial

financial commitment from donors. The respondent wondered whether real action was being

avoided in order to maintain the financial status quo. This point brings up an important

contradiction in the work of NGOs. If, in fact, NGOs do their work effectively, they are working

toward their own demise; for the moment when the problems have been solved, their work is no

longer necessary. This contradiction is problematic when considering that NGOs provide jobs for

individuals in the Dominican Republic, which in many cases are the more comfortable jobs

85 Guardia refers to the Dominican police forces that enter the bateyes during raids.

p. 48

within the country. If individuals within the organization benefit by maintaining the current

conditions, what is pushing these organizations to produce lasting change?

Representatives from MUDHA voiced similar concerns when speaking about the lack of

political action being taken by organizations dedicated to defending the human rights of Haitian

migrants. Alba Reyes spoke of the many studies and investigations conducted by groups

throughout the Dominican Republic, and the tendency for these studies to remain at the academic

level: “Aquí hay otro problema de las organizaciones de la sociedad civil, organizaciones que

hacen muchos estudios, muchas investigaciones sobre esa migración haitiana, pero todo se queda

en investigación; no hay propuestas, alternativas frente a las organizaciones internacionales,

frente a esa migración.”86 Moreover, Alba asserted that even organizations that work directly

with migrants, serving as legal advocates and supporters, would not take a political stand when

confronting the failings of the Dominican state. She explains:

Cuando hay que hacer acciones políticas, que hay que hacer en este caso, nadie quiere comprometerse a esto, incluso las propias organizaciones que trabajan con migrantes, que son supuestamente defensores de los derechos humanos de esta población. Esto se queda en discurso, en los papeles, se queda en los callecitos de los bateyes, en los grandes seminarios en los hoteles; pero nadie quiere asumir acciones políticas frente a esta situación. Nadie. El estado, pero también las organizaciones de la sociedad civil que trabajamos en los derechos humanos, tampoco queremos asumir el compromiso político.87 Alba expresses the difficult fact that no organization wants to make a political

commitment in the debate of Haitian migration, due to the fear of making enemies or being

labeled as anti-Dominican. Sonia Pierre illustrates the validity of these concerns, as she has been

86 “Here there is another problem of the organizations of civil society, organizations that complete many studies, many investigations about Haitian immigration, but everything remains in studies; there are no proposals, no alternatives offered to international organizations, to confront this migration.” Alba Reyes, MUDHA, Interview with author, Santo Domingo, 14 July 2006. 87 “When political action is necessary, which is necessary in this case, no one wants to commit themselves, even the very organizations that work with migrants, who are supposedly defenders of the human rights of this population. Everything remains in discussion, on paper, on the small streets of the bateyes, in the big conferences in the hotels; but nobody wants to assume political action to confront this situation. Nobody. The state, but also our organizations of civil society who work in human rights, neither do we want to assume the political commitment.”

p. 49

forced several times to go into hiding against threats to herself and her family. Truly, the

passions that the anti-Haitian sentiment can provoke in the Dominican Republic can be

frightening for even the most devoted human rights advocate. For these reasons, MUDHA has

realized that they cannot confront the situation on their own, but will require a greater level of

action among the large migrant community they work with.

Liliana Dolis, a long-time coordinator for MUDHA explained that one of the greatest

challenges in their work was confronting the level of passivity seen in the majority of Haitian

migrants. She states, “Tenemos que cambiar la actitud pasiva de los migrantes y concientizar a la

población haitiana que es posible salir de esto. La gente tiene que organizarse para luchar. Tiene

que entrar al hospital con la actitud que esto es mi derecho.”88

THE POTENTIAL FOR COLLECTIVE ACTION

Grassroots migrant organizations such as ACMDH and Fanm Vanyan are positive signs

for the possibility of a migrant movement in which migrants demand their own civil rights. The

fact that migrants have organized to pool resources and help one another speaks strongly to their

potential to develop collaborative long-term strategies to pressure officials to make lasting

change. Non-governmental organizations like MUDHA and SJRM are ideal actors to prepare

migrants for such a role, as they already provide workshops and resources on related topics, such

as the rights and responsibilities an individual has under the law. It would be a small step for

NGOs to expand their assistance to migrants to teach them how to collectively organize, protest

peacefully and advocate actively for their communities. Empowering individuals through

88 “We have to change the passive actitude of the migrants and make the Haitian population aware that it is possible to overcome this. The people need to organize themselves in order to fight. They have to enter a hospital with the attitude that this is my right.” Liliana Dolis, Interview with author, Santo Domingo, 14 July 2006.

p. 50

collective action can be a powerful tool, particularly when attempting to combat the political

stagnancy of NGOs as institutions.

The passivity of migrants, as commented on by Dolis from MUDHA, is not an absolute

reality but a temporary reaction to immediate circumstances. While some might point to the

migrants and say that they have been so victimized by the state-less apparatus of their country

that they have given up the hope of making lasting organized change, one must probe further to

see a more complete picture. Haitian migrants who have succeeded in reaching the Dominican

Republic already have a level of determination that places them above the rest. As seen by the

stories of countless Haitians living within the Dominican Republic, these individuals are capable

of formulating practical responses to their everyday conditions. Their lack of action may be

simply a result of inertia – the difficulty of creating a movement out of nothing, and the

increased difficulty when one is unfamiliar with the country in which one lives. Moreover, the

long history of humiliating acts by the Dominican state and the degradation of being used as

cheapened labor, could only serve to further break the will of migrants who have traveled so far

to reach stunted opportunities. The vulnerability of migrants is reinforced by actions such as the

brutal 1991 repatriation of individuals from their homes in the Dominican Republic, followed by

the mocking reopening of the borders months later for their return.

The potential effect of a collective movement from migrants is great if one considers the

role migrants play in the economy of the Dominican Republic. Contrary to Dominican labor laws

which require eighty percent of the workforce to be comprised of Dominican nationals, in fact

the numbers are reversed: eighty percent of the Dominican workforce is foreign labor, with a

mere twenty percent native Dominican.89 With such a large presence in the Dominican labor

market, Haitian migrants have enormous power. Although each Haitian migrant is given little 89 Liliana Dolis, 14 July 2006.

p. 51

attention as an individual, the group of migrants together has a significant influence in the

Dominican Republic. If migrants organize with specific, feasible demands, such a call might

receive an answer from the Dominican government. Considering the effect created by a single

man walking across the country with a cross on his back, the possibility for collective action

from migrants is substantial.

As the Dominican Republic moves towards a new future, with a new constitution and

new requirements for citizenship, the Dominican Republic cannot ignore the past and its very

real implications for the present. Undocumented Haitian immigration is a reality for the

Dominican Republic, and state politicians need to begin an honest dialog to determine what can

be done to fill the space of undocumented migration with viable legal alternatives. From a purely

practical standpoint, such a dialog is necessary to satisfy an economic need of the Dominican

Republic, while avoiding the destabilizing force of a large, disenfranchised population within the

country. The Dominican Republic is at a point in history where its immigration policy can be

reformed and adapted to a modern reality; the Dominican Republic must take advantage of this

opportunity to construct a policy that is practical and just, without making the same mistakes of

the past.

In this dialog for reform, innovative responses should be considered to address concerns

specific to the Haitian-Dominican debate. Campaigns to provide amnesty to long-term migrants

are a partial solution and must be accompanied by other measures to protect migrants from the

time they decide to migrate; guest worker programs, if considered, must be examined carefully

so that they will not restrict the basic rights of the individuals contracted for labor. Moreover,

less traditional approaches may play an important role in the mending of relations between the

two countries, while also reducing the corruption and abuse directed against Haitian migrants.

Recently among some circles, the possibility of an open zone along the border for free commerce

p. 52

and exchange of goods has been discussed with optimism about its potential effects along the

border region. This zone would be a bi-national project between Haiti and the Dominican

Republic, such that any individual could enter the space to conduct his or her trade freely.

Currently much of the cross-border exchange occurs unofficially, and individuals like the

madansara put their bodies in danger to cross the border daily to maintain their commerce.

Sometimes these women are intercepted and brought to the Dominican ‘fortaleza’ where they are

held at the prison until there are a sufficient number of undocumented migrants to collectively

deport to Haiti. With an open zone along the border, such measures would be avoided and the

madansara could conduct their commerce freely.90

Racism and xenophobia against Haitian migrants must also be addressed in the

Dominican Republic, along with the continued legacy of Trujillo within Dominican political

thought. Certain sectors of civil society are currently promoting the idea of changing the name of

the Masacre River to remove the violent connotations it has with the 1937 Haitian massacre. A

proposed new name is ‘Río de la Reconciliación,’91 which would be accompanied by a

monument to commemorate the thousands who died by the side of this river. No Dominican

administration has ever offered a public apology for the deaths carried out at the hand of

Dominican forces, and such a symbolic action could be instrumental in gradually changing the

negative views associated with Haitians.

Nonetheless, actions cannot be focused merely on the Dominican Republic, as it is clear

that the difficult conditions in Haiti are pushing many to leave their country out of necessity.

Migrant rights must also consider the right for an individual to remain in his or her country of

origin. The poverty and insecurity in Haiti must be addressed, as well as the lack of infrastructure

90 Rómulo Vallejo, Filmmaker, Interview with author, Dajabón, Dominican Republic, 14 June 2006. 91 ‘River of Reconciliation.’

p. 53

and social programs, and the widespread unemployment in the country. The international

community has been ineffective thus far in providing adequate support for Haiti’s development.

One representative from the Pan American Development Foundation, a non-profit organization

affiliated with the Organization of American States, suggested that what was needed in Haiti was

an increase in security forces, to provide order, reduce violence and rebuild the Haitian

government.92 Although he addresses an important concern of security, the international

community cannot blindly fund police forces in Haiti without looking also to long-term solutions

that will create infrastructure and establish greatly needed social programs. There are no easy

answers, but thoughtful dialog must begin in order for solutions to emerge.

The voices that fill this paper each belong to a human life. Jozèfa, Nikòl, Tidjo and Lili

are individuals whose stories stand for the larger reality of the thousands of Haitian migrants

living in the Dominican Republic. These individuals are not bitter because of the struggles they

have faced, but they are tired, and they long for change. Remembering the family members they

left behind in Haiti, they wish for an alternative to the constant migration made necessary by

economic ‘mizè.’ Recalling the humiliation of deportations and destroyed documents, they hope

for the day when they will be respected in their adopted country.

“Si los gobiernos de Haití y la República Dominicana pudieran ser como hermanos, como

vecinos, uno podría entrar y salir mejor del país.”93 “Nou kapab fè yon inyon, paske dominiken

se yon nasyon ki ansanm ayisyen.”94 Their hopes are idealistic and such transformations do not

come easily, but the migrants are patient as they wait. As urged by Mario Marazziti, an Italian

scholar involved in numerous international peace dialogues, Haiti and the Dominican Republic

92 Daniel Oneil, Pan American Development Foundation, Interview with author, Santo Domingo, 20 July 2006. 93 “If the governments of Haiti and the Dominican Republic could be like brothers, like neighbors, one might be able to enter and leave the country more easily.” (Jozèfa, 13 June 2006) 94 “We can make a union, because the Dominican Republic is a nation together with Haiti.” (Michèl, Interview with author, Batey Libertad, 26 June 2006)

p. 54

must combat the pathology of the memory and the history that divide them. He reminds the

audience during a keynote address, “Primero la paz, después viene la justicia.”95 A society must

remove its “lentes deformadores”96 to see without fear and search for positive solutions. The

collaborative efforts of NGOs, politicians and migrants are fundamental if these changes are to

take place. We must look forward to a day when borders will be superfluous, and Haiti and the

Dominican Republic will work toward a future that is mutually beneficial for the entire island.

95 “First peace, then comes justice.” Mario Marazziti, Keynote address, Seminario Internacional: Construcción de Paz en Culturas con Violencia, Santo Domingo, 14 July 2006. 96 “Deforming lenses.” Mario Marazziti, 14 July 2006.

p. 55

1-6: THE MARKET AT TILORI – JUNE 2006 1. The colors of the marketplace 2. Rusted tin roofs, dusty mules and rocky hillsides

p. 56

3. The International Highway 4. An old military lookout

p. 57

5. Crowded homes on the Haitian hillside 6. Looking toward the Dominican Republic from Haiti

p. 58

7. THE RICE FIELDS NEAR BATEY LIBERTAD – MARCH 2006 8. MANOLO ON THE DAY OF THE RAID, BATEY LIBERTAD – MAY 2005

p. 59

9-10. THE MADANSARA IN DAJABÓN – JUNE 2006

p. 60

11. A WOMAN SELLING OKRA AND BREAD IN BATEY LIBERTAD – JUNE 2006 12-13. THE ANTI-TRAFFICKING CAMPAIGN OF SOLIDARIDAD FRONTERIZA – 2005, 2006 12. Pamphlet ‘Ley 137-03’

p. 61

13. Pamphlet ‘Mejor pagar una visa que pagar con la vida’ 14. THE CANDLE-MAKING OF FANM VANYAN – JUNE 2006

p. 62

15-17. BATEY LIBERTAD – 2005, 2006 15. The main road of the batey 16. Mariz, the youngest daughter of Manolo 17. Yuly, tying her shoelace

p. 63

18. AN ENCOUNTER IN DAJABÓN BETWEEN HAITIANS AND DOMINICAN POLICE – JUNE 2006 19. THE BRIDGE BETWEEN DAJABÓN AND OUANAMINTHE ON MARKET DAY – JUNE 2006

p. 64

20-21. THE MASACRE RIVER BETWEEN DAJABÓN AND OUANAMINTHE – JUNE 2006

p. 65

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