Price-Mars says the schools decide whether Haiti survives

In July 1912 Jean Price-Mars published an article in the review Haïti Littéraire et Scientifique calling for the reform of primary education. His argument was blunt. A modernised school system was the condition of national survival, and no other project counted until that one was carried. Price-Mars was a physician, diplomat and teacher who became the central figure of Haitian ethnology, and his interest in schools ran straight into that later work. The Haitian state in 1912 printed a budget for public instruction detailed enough to impress foreign visitors and funded almost nothing outside the towns. Around five Haitians in six could not read. The peasant majority, whose labour paid the customs duties that kept the government alive, had no school to send a child to and no reason to trust the one they were promised. Price-Mars was addressing an elite that had spent a century treating rural illiteracy as scenery.

The European war arrived while most colonial administrations in Africa were still consolidating what they had seized. German Togo and Cameroon were invaded late in 1914, and the fighting in Cameroon ran into 1916. South African forces took German South West Africa and stayed there for more than seventy years. In eastern Africa the German commander von Lettow-Vorbeck kept a column moving through Mozambique, Nyasaland and northeastern Rhodesia and gave himself up only when he heard of the armistice in November 1918. Most of the soldiers on both sides were African, led by small numbers of European officers. Between 750,000 and one million Africans were pressed into service as porters, and roughly one in five of them died, mostly of disease. Armies burned crops and stores as they moved. France sent 150,000 West Africans to the Western Front and thirty thousand of them were killed. Conscription acquired a name among Africans, the blood tax. French operations against resistance to recruitment completed the conquest of West African districts that had held out since the 1880s.

Joseph Philippe Lemercier Laroche was born in Haiti, sent to France as a boy to study, and qualified as an engineer. He married a Frenchwoman, Juliette, and they had two daughters. Engineering work in Europe was closed to a Black man whatever his qualifications, so the family booked passage home to Haiti, where he expected to be hired for what he could do. They boarded the Titanic at Cherbourg. He was the wealthiest Black passenger on the ship. When it struck an iceberg in the North Atlantic on the night of 14 April 1912, Laroche put Juliette and the girls into a lifeboat. They reached New York. He did not. For most of the twentieth century the Titanic was retold without him, in books, exhibitions and films with room for the millionaires and the steerage Irish and none for a Haitian engineer travelling first class with his family. The remembrance industry wanted its dead wealthy and white. Laroche was one of those two things.

Under its charter the Banque Nationale de la République d'Haïti owed the government its revenues only at the close of the fiscal year, while the government needed cash every month. Cincinnatus Leconte asked for a supplementary convention to keep the old arrangement running. The bank refused, hinting that a monthly allowance might follow some form of control over the customs. Its New York group, run by Roger Farnham of the National City Bank, assured the State Department that no such thought had crossed anyone's mind. A convention was patched together anyway, and honest collection under Leconte and Tancrède Auguste left the government square with the bank and more than eight hundred thousand dollars in hand when the 1913 fiscal year closed. The bank opened a second front instead. It held ten million francs in gold meant to retire the debased paper gourdes, was lending that gold at twelve and a half percent, and would not give it up. When the assembly closed the loopholes, the bank called in loans and stopped making new ones.