Motherland

A conversation

This piece is a bonus addition to this series of letters to my family.

We often question our parents—the people who watched us grow up and deeply shaped our identity. Yet we rarely question another parent that raises us as well: our country.

The stories and beliefs it passes on to us often become the way we see the world, long before we ever have the chance to choose for ourselves.

---

Motherland,

you, once called the Pearl of the Antilles,
for your beauty, your wealth,
for what you represented.

Your history stood as an example,
like a thread of light
in the heart of the darkness
of a world still far too divided.

You knew the chains,
you knew suffering,
and so you fought.

So many are those for whom you fought.
So many are the wars that were never yours.
So many are the homelands whose foundations you helped lay.
homelands that now look down on you,
homelands that still humiliate your children.

Haiti,
once a symbol of freedom,
resilience, and courage,
now
a land in agony,
a wounded people,
cast aside
like an object that is no longer useful,
like a spring with nothing left to give.

Today, I write.
Not to recall your former glory.

No.

I write to settle accounts.

Not with those you helped,
Not with those who erased you from their stories.
Not with the others.

I write to settle my accounts
with you,
Motherland.

I did not choose you as a mother.
Perhaps you did not choose
for me to be your child either.

It was the work of providence.

You took me into your arms,
perhaps with frustration,
with a little sadness hidden behind your joy.

Perhaps, deep within your heart,
there were lamentations,
because you were already carrying a burden,
costumes that held you captive.

You gave me a foundation,
like a loving mother who,
for her children, becomes a home.

You protected me from the noise outside.
You gave me plains on which to learn to run,
rivers in which to wash,
springs from which to cool myself,
fresh food to strengthen me.

And above all,
you forged me,
gave me a mind of steel..

You demanded more from me than others did.
Your way of teaching was harsher,
the conditions more primitive.

Some of my brothers and sisters
criticize the way you raised us.

They praise the quality of others,
how much easier it is to learn from them.

Few take the time to consider
that when one is accustomed to extremes,
what is normal can begin to feel easy.

I still carry the marks
of your educational,
financial,
and social severity.

You told me again and again
that I was better than the others,
that I had to be.

You told me I was strong,
that I had to become stronger,
to fight,
to survive,
to find my way out.

You forced your intelligence into me,
with the rod,
if necessary.

You wanted me to be more intelligent
than the others,
or at least more than ordinary.

I know that, presented this way,
one might say I am accusing you of arrogance.

But you know, I understand you, Motherland.

I had to leave you
to understand the weight of your lessons.

I had to live among others
to understand the meaning
behind your proud teachings.

Because you knew,
long before I ever realized,
that being your son was not a gift,
that carrying your name was also a burden.

Yes, I understand.

You were trying to make up for that weakness.

You were trying to fill me with value
when your image threatened to close doors in my face.

Your teachings helped me enter.

I had to leave
to understand what it means
to be your son.

As Youssoupha said:

“I had to give everything
just to be given half.”

I understand this necessary arrogance.

Like a child,
I believed every story you told me.

I carried them proudly,
like guides,
like absolute truths.

They were useful to me,
certainly,
but they also confined me.

You taught me
a world in black and white,
them against me,
and me against them.

Lucky Dube expresses this tension better.

In Trinity, he says:

“When I see a white man,
I see an oppressor.”

Just as you told me:

“When they see a Black man,
they see a criminal.”

It is not entirely false,
but I must admit that you were wrong,
Motherland.

Because of your teachings,
I lived among them
without ever truly living with them.

Do you know the loneliness that brought me?

In preparing me,
you also programmed me
to see enemies and adversaries everywhere.

A way of seeing
that brought me more suffering
than peace.

And your image never stopped haunting me,
as though every one of my actions
had to serve to restore your honor,
as though being myself
could never meet your standards.

But did you choose those standards?

That does not erase the suffering
your name has caused me,
or the shame I have felt.

Yes, Motherland,
there was a time
when I was ashamed to be your child.

But I never denied you.

I watched my brothers and sisters reject you
out of fear of being rejected.

But I never denied you,
even when it meant being rejected myself.

Some often think
that I betray your memory.

Tell me, Motherland,
should I support my brothers and sisters
simply because they come from you,
even when I believe they are wrong?

Should I set reason aside
to support and defend
the reckless actions
of my own people?

Would it be a betrayal of you
if I became friends with others?

I learned your principles.
I carried them for a long time.

And I also came to see their limits.

The world is not only black and white.

Yes, many have rejected me because of you.
Yes, may doors have been shut in my face because of you.
Yes, many are times I have had to do more
just to receive half of what others receive.

Yes, many have judged and condemned me
before ever knowing me,
simply because I am your child.

And yet, many more have accepted me.

Some walked beside me.
Others helped me.
They supported me.

Many see me beyond your image.

And perhaps, through me,
they have come to see you differently.

Know this well, Motherland:

I do not deny your teachings.
I will never throw away your stories.
I will keep your anger and your hatred near me.

But from now on,
they are no longer absolute truths,
nor standards by which I judge.

They remain as warnings.

We live in a biased world,
and even your darkest teachings
carry their share of truth.

There will probably always be
people who despise you,
others who persecute and condemn me
Because of your name.

Your teachings prepare me to face them.

For that,
I will always be grateful.

But I choose understanding.

I no longer condemn others
simply because they come from somewhere else.

I no longer judge people
the way you taught me to.

I judge them by their actions.

I will no longer condemn anyone automatically
because they are different from us.

I want to replace that hatred
with understanding,
integration,
connection.

Be assured, Motherland,
I will remain cautious.

Because I am your child,
as fierce and resilient as you,
generous yet untamed like you,
gentle and also as destructive as you.

Haiti,
Motherland,
you, once called the Pearl of the Antilles,

now in agony,

like all your children,
I carry your scars,
I inherit your labels.

You rocked me,
you taught me,
you shaped me,
you equipped me to face the world.

Yes, I come from you.

A little different, perhaps.

I am my own voice,
searching for a better version of you.

You remain my home,
my foundation.

I do not know whether I can say
that I am proud to be your child.
But I can proudly say
that I am your child.

You are not simply part of my story.

You are its first author,
its first light.

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Mirror Question:

What is one belief you inherited from where you come from that you have never stopped to question?

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With Clarity,
Odel A.
The Mirror Room