Our two-car convoy left the celebration to troll the streets of chimere-controlled neighborhoods. Main thoroughfares were empty. Many of the gunmen seemed to have vanished in the last hour or so since we were denied access at a chimere roadblock.
Juste proceeded cautiously up John Brown Avenue, named for the famous American abolitionist. In recent days, several bodies — surely the handiwork of the chimeres — were found dumped here. Bound at the wrists, blindfolded and killed execution style, the corpses were reminders not to cross the president or his supporters, even when Aristide was looking pretty shaky and his resignation appeared inevitable.
Up ahead, a half-dozen surly looking youths emerged from a doorway and stood on the corner, shotguns and rifles slung carelessly over their shoulders. It was the type of posturing we'd seen dozens of times in the last few days. Usually we'd nod, look for some sign of acknowledgement, then pass.
But Juste sensed their anger immediately. A U-turn at that point would show fear, and might incite them to start shooting. He reasoned that we should proceed slowly and hope for the best. The second carload of shooters behind us followed our lead as we drifted slowly past the scowling faces and jerking arms that leveled their weapons directly at us as we passed.
The first shots ripped across the front of our SUV from just feet away, galvanizing everyone into fetal position as close to the floorboards as possible. Juste mashed down the accelerator and drove on instinct. Head below the dashboard, he safely navigated us through several rounds of gunfire till he turned a corner and bolted back to the hotel.
With my heart no longer in my throat and — thanks to Juste — free from bullet holes, I began over the next few days to puzzle together just what was happening in Haiti. Until Aristide's flight, the story had been, "Could he survive an attempted overthrow?" or "How will the chimere match up in firepower and fighting prowess with the Philippe-led rebels?"
But none of that mattered once he was gone. One day after Aristide headed for the Central African Republic — a trip he says was forced on him by the United States — US Marines and other international forces landed and took up positions at the presidential palace and the port, hoping to bring some semblance of order to the capital and help end the rampant looting.
By Wednesday, the Marines had effectively neutralized Philippe, telling him his rebels would have to put down their weapons or face the full brunt of the Marine artillery. The young leader who just one day earlier proclaimed himself "the military chief" of all Haiti was seen the next sporting civilian jeans and a polo shirt — talking about reaching out to those hurt in the conflict.
Over the next few days, I learned that for many Haitians, Aristide was not the answer to their problems; he was just another corrupt politician who abused his office at the expense of his people. His departure was reason enough to rejoice, even though little would change in their lives. Many in the city's vast slums would still live in the same squalid hovels with no clean water or electricity.
I also learned that the vast majority of Haitians were on the sidelines of this battle. They supported neither the chimeres nor the rebels, who entered the capital to a chorus of joy hour after Aristide's Feb. 29 departure. For some, it was merely a matter of survival. Supporting the conquerors meant they were less likely to be killed in the coming days.
When Philippe and his rebels took over the police station opposite the palace on March 1, thousands of Haitians flooded the streets hailing them as liberators. But who knows how many were actually happy to see the fatigue-wearing former soldiers? How many of the Haitians screaming Philippe's name and mobbing him as if he were a rock star were swearing their eternal allegiance to Aristide 48 hours ago?
Nothing made sense. The more time spent trying to parse out the players and their causes, the more difficult it became to put people into distinct categories. There were no black hats and white hats in Haiti. The man selling you a soda today could have well been a masked chimere holding a gun to your head yesterday.
Tension over where anyone's allegiance lay was making my job difficult. Man-on-the-street interviews were nervous affairs. People no longer crowded around for an opportunity to speak, but to listen to the watered-down, neutral observations of those brave enough to speak. Many were afraid that Aristide supporters or his opponents might be listening. It wasn't worth dying to offer an honest opinion to a reporter.
Meanwhile, retribution killings were the shooter's photo du jour. With the chimeres on the run, Haiti's civil police were back in action and apparently out for revenge for being sidelined by the vigilantes. One day on John Brown Avenue, we came across a minivan stopped in the middle of the road — two men were dead at the scene. One was horribly twisted inside the vehicle; the other was face down on the sidewalk, his head blown open and his brain exposed.
A dozen or so shooters gathered around to take pictures, then drove off.
One week after Aristide's departure, his opponents felt confident enough to demonstrate. Thousands of people filled the plaza outside the presidential palace after marching for hours from the nearby wealthy suburb of Petionville.
Unlike most of the media coverage during Haiti's unrest would lead you to believe, not every Haitian is dirt poor. There is a tiny minority of affluent businessmen and lawmakers that wield enormous power. Though not formally aligned with the rebels, the highly influential opposition — along with the United States and France — had been the driving force behind Aristide's departure.
To Aristide's faithful, they are the devil personified.
The opposition demonstration was largely peaceful. Protesters chanted and sang while fire trucks sprayed the crowd playfully, cooling them off in the 90-degree sun. The festive atmosphere of the march was punctuated by a celebratory song sung over and over.
"Now that Aristide is gone, they're cooling us with water instead of spraying us with tear gas," said the people laughing and celebrating. The only unrest evident from Sunday's rally was when a group of people started a fire in front of the palace gates where Marines stood guard, filling the air with thick, black plumes of smoke.
But then, just moments after the revelry began to die down, the shooting began, sending what was left of the crowd into a panic as people scattered in every direction to avoid the gunfire.
Shots rang out from across the plaza. Witnesses later pointed at several buildings from which they said snipers took aim. A Haitian man approached me shouting manically, "One of you, one of you, shot here," pointing to his neck. Later it was learned that a photographer for the Florida Sun-Sentinel had indeed been shot and evacuated by Marines on patrol.
A Spanish TV journalist wasn't so fortunate. He was shot in the stomach and died about a half hour later in a local hospital.
I saw two Haitians killed that day. One, it turns out, by the Marines posted at the palace's northeast corner. It was the first time they'd opened fire since arriving, though it wouldn't be the last.
Amidst the melee, I sidled up to the nervous soldiers and asked them what had happened. A slight affirmative nod answered my question whether they had just opened fire. Moments later, shots rang out again.
"Get down, get down!" they screamed, training their M16 on an assailant I couldn't see. Shock waves from their fire ripped through my fear-rattled brain. Along with the rest of the crowd, I ran in a crouch from their shooting, then reversed course when the shots seemed to be coming from another direction.
With nowhere to run for cover, I found myself standing in the middle of the plaza, upright and bewildered. I didn't know what to do, so I stood there, hands in the air in fed-up disgust.
Then the shots stopped. The Marines saddled up in a convoy to patrol the streets and look for the gunmen.
We all knew it was the chimeres. They had been biding their time since Aristide fled, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. Now they'd made their point. The conflict was just beginning for them.
In a surreal turn of events, a parade float entered the plaza minutes after the shooting stopped, blaring festival music while people danced and cheered on top. Some Haitians that stayed in the plaza during the shoot out began waving flags and cheering. The float was apparently the tail end of the anti-Aristide demonstration.
A booming voice asked US forces at the palace to "not shoot them."
"If you want to know the truth about what is going on in Haiti, I will tell you," said the voice.
I didn't want to know anymore. I was tired of asking. Two days later, I went home.
Carmen Gentile is United Press International's Latin American Correspondent based in Sao Paulo, Brazil. He can be reached at cgentile at upi dot com.
