In Haiti, gangs take over and democracy withers

PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti (AP) — Jimmy Cherisier races through the Haitian capital on the back seat of a motorcycle, accompanied by young men wearing black and leopard masks and carrying automatic weapons.

As a pack of bicycles flies past graffiti that reads “mafia boss” in Creole, street vendors selling vegetables, meat and old clothes on the side of the road lower their eyes or peer curiously at the ground.

Cherisier, better known by his childhood nickname Barbecue, has become the most recognizable name in Haiti.

And here, in his territory, surrounded by tin houses and bustling streets of the informal settlement of La Saline, he is the law.

Internationally, he is known as Haiti’s most powerful and feared gang leader, sanctioned by the UN for “serious human rights abuses” and the man behind the fuel blockade that brought the Caribbean nation to its knees late last year.

But if you ask the former cop with the gun tattoo on his arm, he’s a “revolutionary” against a corrupt government that has left a nation of 12 million in the dust.

“I am not a thief. I’m not involved in the kidnapping. I am not a rapist. I’m just doing a social fight,” said Scherezier, leader of the G9 Family and Allies, Associated Press, sitting in a chair in the middle of an empty road in the shadow of a house with bullet-shattered windows. “I pose a threat to the system.”

At a time when democracy in Haiti is fading and banditry is spiraling out of control, it is gunmen like Cherisier who are filling the power vacuum left by a crumbling government. The UN estimated in December that gangs controlled 60% of the Haitian capital, but now most on the streets of Port-au-Prince say the number is closer to 100%.

“From a democratic standpoint, the legitimacy of the Haitian government is practically non-existent,” said Jeremy McDermott, head of InSight Crime, a think tank that specializes in organized crime. “This gives the gangs a stronger political voice and more basis for their claims to be the true representatives of the community.”

Victims of the conflict, politicians, analysts, aid organizations, security forces and international observers fear that the situation will only get worse. They worry that civilians will bear the brunt of the consequences.

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The history of Haiti has long been tragic. Home to the largest slave revolt in the Western Hemisphere, the country gained independence from France in 1804, ahead of other countries in the region.

But for a long time it was the poorest country in the hemisphere, and Haiti experienced a bloody dictatorship in the 20th century that lasted until 1986 and led to the mass executions of tens of thousands of Haitians.

Since then, the country has been plagued by political turmoil, hit by waves of devastating earthquakes, hurricanes and cholera outbreaks.

The latest crisis erupted in full force after the assassination of President Jovenel Moise in 2021. In his absence, the current prime minister, Ariel Henry, has become the country’s leader in a power struggle.

Nearly 200 gangs of Haiti took advantage of the chaos, fighting for control.

Tensions rise in Port-au-Prince. Police checkpoints dot busy intersections, and “down with Henry” graffiti tags can be seen in every part of the city. Haitians walk the streets with anxiety because they know that anything can happen at any moment.

An ambulance driver returning with a patient told the AP that he was kidnapped, held for several days, and asked to pay $1 million to be released.

Such ransoms are now commonplace, used by gangs to fund their war effort.

The UN estimates that, on average, four people are abducted daily in Haiti.

In 2022, the UN registered nearly 2,200 killings, twice as many as a year earlier. Women in the country speak of brutal gang rapes in gang-controlled areas. Patients in trauma wards are caught in the crossfire, mutilated by gunshots from gangs or police.

“No one is safe,” said Peterson Pin, a man with a bullet lodged in his face from a police gunshot after he failed to stop at a police checkpoint on his way home from work.

Meanwhile, a spate of gruesome police killings by gangs has sparked outrage and protests among Haitians.

Following the killing of six officers, a video circulated on social media, likely filmed by the gangs, showing six naked bodies sprawled on the ground with weapons on their chests. Another shows two masked men using officers’ severed limbs to hold cigarettes while smoking.

“Gang-related violence has reached a level not seen in recent years… affecting almost all sectors of society,” Helen La Lime, the UN special envoy for Haiti, told the Security Council in late January.

Henry, the prime minister, has asked the UN to lead a military intervention, but many Haitians insist this is not a solution, citing the past effects of foreign intervention in Haiti. Until now, not a single country has wanted to stand on the ground.

The war has spread beyond historically violent neighborhoods, now engulfing mansion-lined streets previously considered relatively safe.

La Lime has singled out turf wars between Cherisier’s group, G9, and another, G-Pep, as one of the key driving forces.

In October, the UN imposed sanctions on Cherizier, including an arms embargo, an asset freeze and a travel ban.

The body accused him of the La Saline massacre, the economic paralysis of the country, and the use of armed violence and rape to threaten “the peace, security and stability of Haiti”.

At the same time, despite the fact that Henry was not elected to power and his term expired, Henry, whose administration declined a request for comment, continues to be at the helm of a skeletal government. He promised to hold a general election within a year and a half, but failed to do so.

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In early January, the country lost its last democratically elected institution when the terms of office of 10 senators who had symbolically held office expired.

This has turned Haiti into a de facto “dictatorship,” said Patrice Dumont, one of the senators.

He said that even if the current government were ready to hold elections, he didn’t know if that would be possible due to the gangs taking over the city hard.

“Citizens are losing confidence in their country. (Haiti) is facing social degradation,” Dumont said. “We were already a poor country, and we have become even poorer because of this political crisis.”

At the same time, gang leaders such as Cherisier are increasingly using political language, using the end of senators’ terms to question Henry’s authority.

“The government of Ariel Henri is the de facto government. This is a government that has no legitimacy,” Cherisier said.

Cherisier, with a gun tucked into the back of his jeans, took AP around his La Saline property, explaining the harsh conditions the locals live in. He denies the allegations against him, saying that the sanctions imposed on him are based on lies.

Cherisier, who did not tell AP how he got the money, says he is simply trying to ensure security and improve conditions in the areas he controls.

Cherisier walked through piles of rubbish and malnourished kids advertising iPhones with a picture of his face on the back. A drone belonging to his team, monitoring his safety, follows him as he makes his way through rows of crammed houses made of metal sheets and wooden planks.

Accompanied by a group of heavily armed masked men, he prevented the AP from filming or photographing his guards and their weapons.

“We’re bad guys, but we’re not bad-bad guys,” one of the men told an AP video reporter as he led her through the crowded market.

While some speculate that Cherisier will run for office if an election is held, Cherisier insists this is not the case.

It’s clear, InSight Crime’s McDermott said, that gangs are reaping the benefits of political chaos.

Prior to the President’s assassination, Cherisier’s G9 gang federation received half of its money from the government, 30% from kidnappings and 20% from extortion, InSight Crime estimates. According to the organization, after the assassination, public funding was significantly reduced.

However, his gangs have significantly consolidated their power after the group blocked the distribution of fuel from a key Port-au-Prince fuel terminal for two months late last year.

The blockade paralyzed the country in the midst of a cholera outbreak and gave other gangs a springboard to expand. Cherisier said the blockade was carried out in protest against rising inflation, government corruption and deepening inequality in Haiti.

Today, the G9 controls much of downtown Port-au-Prince and is vying for power elsewhere.

“The political Frankenstein lost control of the gangster monster a long time ago,” McDermott said. “Now they rampage uncontrollably across the country, making money in any way possible, primarily by kidnapping people.”

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Civilians such as 9-year-old Christine Julien are among those who pay the price.

A smiling girl who dreams of becoming a doctor wakes up curled up on the floor of her aunt’s porch next to her parents and two sisters.

She is one of at least 155,000 people in Port-au-Prince alone who have been forced to flee their homes due to the violence. It’s been four months since she couldn’t sleep in her bed.

Once upon a time, their area on the northern edge of the city was safe. But she and her mother, Sandra Centeluz, 48, said things started to change last year.

The once bustling streets are deserted. At night, shots were heard outside their window, and when the neighbors set off fireworks, Christina asked her mother if they were bullets.

“When they were shooting, I couldn’t go out into the yard, I couldn’t go to my friends, I had to stay in the house,” Christina said. father, my sister and my brother.”

Christine’s heart began to palpitate due to stress, and Senteluse, a teacher, was worried about her daughter’s health. At the same time, Centeluz and her husband feared that their children might be kidnapped on their way to school.

In October, during the blockade of Chérisier, armed men belonging to the powerful 400 Mawozo gang broke into their area. The same gang was behind the kidnapping of 17 missionaries in 2021.

Christina saw a group of men with guns from a friend’s house and ran home. She said to Senteluz, “Mom, we must go, we must go. I just saw bandits with guns passing by, we need to leave!”

They packed everything they could carry and took refuge in a small two-bedroom house with family members on the other side of town.

Life here is not easy, says Senteluz, her family’s main breadwinner.

“I felt desperate about going to live in a strange house with so many children. I left everything, left with only two bags,” she said.

Senteluse laboriously launders clothes, cooks soup for her family in the kitchen with dirty floors, and helps Cristina, sitting on an empty gas can, carefully do her math homework.

Whenever a gust of wind blows over the nearby hills, the rusty metal roof of the house they share with 10 other people shudders.

The mother once worked as an elementary school teacher, earning 6,000 Haitian gourdes ($41) a month. She had to stop teaching two years ago due to violence. Now she sells slush on the side of the road, earning a fraction of what she once earned.

Young Christina said she misses her friends and her Barbie dolls.

But the sacrifice is worth it, said Senteluse. Over the past few months, she’s heard horror stories of her daughter’s classmates being kidnapped, neighbors having to pay $40,000 ransom, and murders right outside their home.

At least they feel safer here. For now, she added.

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Associated Press journalists Evens Sanon and Fernanda Pesce contributed to this report from Port-au-Prince.

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