I’ve felt for some time that Haiti has historical significance beyond its size. Columbus landed on Hispaniola; Haiti was the first free black republic in history. It changed hands before that between a number of different imperialist powers: Spain, France and since then by the US in all but name. I’ve read that it is the poorest country in the world, that a simple side-by-side satellite photo comparing brown Haiti and the green Domican Republic is enough to condemn the horror of 500+ years of colonialism.

This is all on my mind after learning on the radio this morning that “baby doc” Duvalier died– I’ve heard of his reign of terror, and that of his father, off and on over the years. A peace activist once told me of his time making a documentary video there, of the dead bodies on the streets.

I didn’t know before about the thousands of expatriates who returned to Haiti after the election of the people’s candidate, Aristide. Most fled back home months later after a military coup. Nor did I know about the people’s brief vengeance against their tormentors– burning them alive.

Islands often seem to go to extremes. Easter Island, site of ancient civilizations that collapsed, and of course the giant heads. Nuclear tests on bikini atoll. The English lost their minds and conquered the world.

What’s the saying? No man is an Island? I for one have always felt a magical pull toward them. Self-enclosed and separate from the familiar, yet I imagine myself living on one and always wondering what lies on the other side of the water. Didn’t Robinson Crusoe always dream of building a boat? I can’t remember. I know he wanted to be rescued. Contentment with what one has is a good ending, but it doesn’t make for a particularly gripping narrative.