Of the many topics discussed in this interview, none stuck with me more than the Baron de Vastey toast described below.
The year is 1816. The kingdom of Haiti stands diplomatically alone, a beacon of defiance in a world that would rather see it erased. The West will not recognize it. The French whisper of reconquest. The Americans tighten their embargo. And yet, some of the most prominent Black men of Haiti do not beg. They do not slouch, nor bow their heads, nor hold out trembling hands for the recognition of their former masters. They stand upright. Their backs stiff. Their voices firm. Sovereignty personified.
It is August 24th, and Cap Henry is alive with celebration. Queen Marie-Louise Coidavid’s birthday has brought together European and American merchants, men who speak the language of commerce and power. One can imagine that the tables at the Café des Étrangers were laid out in grandeur—fine china, silver goblets, the hum of conversation swirling in the candlelight. The foreign dignitaries drank, their eyes trained on the Haitian court, watching, measuring. And then, a figure rises. Baron de Vastey—scribe, scholar, warrior of words—lifts his glass and said the following:
“To the gratitude that we owe the virtuous philanthropists who have defended our cause with as much enthusiasm as disinterestedness. But if their wishes and their efforts prove ineffective, then let us make use of our swords to cleave the body of the enemies of humanity and preserve the rights that we derive from God, Nature, and Justice.”
I’m guessing the words landed heavy in the room, layered with intent. A toast, yes. But also a warning. T
Later in this interview, Prof. Bongie said that Vastey’s toast was double-edged, laced with both gratitude and forewarning. It reckoned with the truth that humanitarian assistance, no matter how well-intentioned, might prove impotent—a grand performance of righteousness that did nothing to alter the balance of power. And if the limits of charity were reached, then Haiti would look not to foreign hands for salvation, but to the example of its own revolution. The world had already seen what the people of this nation would do when their freedom was threatened. They had no intention of repeating their chains.
Interviews like this—and so many before it—remind me that Haiti’s chains were never truly broken. They were just reforged, made thinner, less visible, but no less binding. The weight of empire did not lift; it simply changed form–neocolonialism.
Dr. Patrick Bellegarde-Smith once put it to me plain: What’s so “neo” about colonialism? Great question. New, old—call it whatever the fuck. The wolf does not change, only the cut of its clothing. Where once there were shackles of iron, now there are debts and embargoes, puppet leaders and foreign troops, development plans written in distant boardrooms with no seats for the people they claim to save.
To Vastey, sovereignty was not just a word, not a desperate plea for recognition. It was posture. It was dignity. It was the stiff-backed refusal to beg, the readiness to trade but never to kneel. He stood in a room full of Europeans and Americans, lifted his glass, and with the same breath that offered gratitude, made it clear that if philanthropy failed, the sword would follow.
Today, that sword is gone. In its place are tin cups and empty hands. Disaster capitalism has hollowed Haiti out, turned every crisis into an opportunity—for someone else. The vultures swoop in when the ground shakes, when the streets flood, when the people starve. Money flows, but not to Haitians. Decisions are made, but not by Haitians. Sovereignty, once a declaration of strength, has become an afterthought, a slogan for leaders who answer not to their people but to their creditors.
And so Haiti stands, bound in a different way but bound all the same. It is the same struggle. The same fight. But the question now is whether there is still a Vastey among us—someone who will remind the world that Haitian sovereignty is not something to be requested. It is something to be taken.
