by Jean Numa Goudou
Tuesday, January 1, 2019 ((rezonodwes.com)) – She tastes good, soup. Well … yes, especially if she got the final touches of grandmother, of which she alone has the secret.
Beef (top of sirloin), diced, lemon juice, garlic cloves minced, Grandma's spices, carrots, celery stalks, leek, potatoes or otherwise the Italian macaroni, the “Disease” are well suited to please the taste buds Haitian and those friends of Haiti
But on January 1, it is hard to say as much about Haitians, who are humans, who tear each other apart. The yellow of the giraumon must make us laugh yellow. In the face. Because if it has not lost its color, it must lose its meaning more than 200 years after independence.
Our ancestors drank this soup to mark forever, and the yellow colors, their freedom face to white slavery. They would say what about what we have become: a municipality in the international community. A territory, hardly autonomous, where candidate for “elections”, the CASEC, or even the presidency, must seek the approval of a proconsul or a “white manan” . The industry of the demo A territory where violent street demonstrations have become a thriving industry for collaborators who do not understand the scope, much less the consequences of their actions on their own offspring, their families.
Ah! … I was going to forget. The children of these “politicians”, who huddle the city, burn the property of others, study abroad. Their children are cool, and moreover cool, miserable taxpayers and not the burden of this band of excited, ceaseless, day laborers of trouble and mischief that shout on behalf of the highest bidder. Around the world, Haitians meet to drink together, this good soup. While drinking mine this morning, I had a whole gustatory manifestation of the ingredients mentioned above.
My ancestors consumed it, the first time, on January 1, 1804. It was for them to devote their freedom of free men in the face of slavery in all its stupidity. I drink it to renew each year my freedom of thought. A big thank you to my ancestors.
But collectively Haiti is not free. And it is this “collectively” that matters here, for me at least. Since, whether you are a millionaire, Ti-Rouge whom you liked to call “Mr. the president “ until you feel god of Haiti darling, ” senators “whether you are a doctor, agronomist, Dame sara : your denominator is Haiti. His passport does not exceed the limits of 27,000 square kilometers.
There, except death, a day for all, we find ourselves at this point in common. And I can tell you that from abroad, I observe that we are all in the same basket and we look down on us without telling us in the face.
While we are nothing but a collective puppet and world.
Jean Numa Goudou