If you want to pay for this book to encourage the writer, do so right
Border Crosser is a story of Haiti under the dictatorship of the Duvaliers and terror groups. It is also a story of migration, faith, daily struggles, terror and survival of the human spirit. The Lilites's Family was forced to leave the terror of their island nation for the safety of the US. Its characters will appeal to those who feel great empathy for others and would like to better their conditions
Buy the book at Inspiration Press Shop
This work may fall in the following genres: Fiction, True Crime, Travel, Self-help, Political
Science, History, Foreign study and language, drama, family and relationship. In over 70,000
words, the Lilites tell their story of survival under the regimes of Baby Doc (Jean Claude
Duvalier) in 1986. The story is set against the heyday of the Tonton Macoutes, Duvalier's
henchmen who were never asked twice to carry out his beatings, killings and intimidating acts.
The Lilite family composed of Pa Lilite, Ma Lilite and Kalaloo, their young daughter had to
devise ways to survive after being subjected to all kinds of terror and kidnapping attempts. They
became afraid for their lives. Their only alternative was to exit Haiti clandestinely, just like the
thousands of other fellow men and women. If they got caught in high seas by the US coat
guards, they would be repatriated. This whole period of political upheaval saw the rise of
smugglers and so-called captains of rickety boats to facilitate the crossing to the shores of
Florida. During the crossing, the smugglers ended up taking Cuban political exiles who were
great baseball players in their home countries.
e-book will be delivered via e-mail or diskettes!
A Family’s Will To Stay Together
August nineteen eighty four. The bell of the catholic
church rang at 6 am. It was a new day with a new set of events
scheduled to take place. Suddenly all spirits broke loose. Fire
everywhere! Houses, temples, churches, barns, and grain storage
sheds for the rainy season were all set on fire. The body counts
were estimated at 50. Many children and senior citizens were
reported disappeared. No one had the courage to come to grief
with what really occurred. The local authorities did not want to
make themselves available to answer questions either. None of
them judged it necessary to call the fire station located at
about 20 miles away. Yet, they were the only ones whose phone
was working that morning. What was left of that ancient little
coastal town was just shambles. A whole section of the town,
what took years to become a vibrant slum where most of the poor
lived, was destroyed.
The straw-covered huts and the tin-roofed houses, the
inhabitants' shelter from the upcoming rainy season and the very
violently forecasted hurricane season were reduced to scattered
ambers amidst a total confusion brought on by the fleeing people
and their oppressors' horses. Gasoline had been spread around
all of them before 5 a.m. in a round-up of the town inhabitants.
In the early morning hours, the fresh gasoline smell got
dissipated in the cool air and got mixed in with the usual
maritime high tides. Just in the way of small coastal towns, the
fishermen had already risen and gone to the sea that has nurtured
them and protected them against starvation. They wanted to get
ready for their work day, their daily chores in a deliberate
fight to make a living. Fishing required a lot of sacrifices,
but was very rewarding for them. Getting to the ocean very early
in the morning gave them ample time to prepare their nets and
finish other important tasks. They took into their lungs the
fresh breaths of this pure air as they fixed the numerous holes
in the nets caused by the previous day’s catches. The lunch bag
consisted of a piece of yam, sweet potato, water, and fresh
fruits according to the season, was carefully placed in specially
designed box near the middle of the boat. The crab and lobster
traps were piled up on the side. A few of them needed some
mending too. From the time they woke up and all along their long
walk to the seashores, they had not suspected any ambush against
which they could warn their fellow townspeople. Like sheep ready
to be slaughtered, they had left their family members still
asleep and had gone off for the morning in more than a three-
century-long fight to make ends meet and earn their living.
In fact, those fishermen were doing what their ancestors did
many years ago. It was a tradition for many families. So there
was no reason to stay alert and stand guard that early morning.
Fishing and breathing were synonymous to them. They knew that
one lived to fish. Nothing else mattered much to them. Even
when they toiled the land, they relied heavily on the bounty from
the bottom of the ocean. The chaotic noise from the cries of the
defenseless townspeople seemed to reach some of them en route to
the sea. They were not paying too much attention because of the
early morning waves that came crashing on the sandy shores.
Out of nowhere, about a dozen speedboats and patrol boats,
piloted by arm-brandishing soldiers, were coming in the direction
of the fishermen. "What a good display of our own armed forces!"
they must have been thinking. Most of these patrol boats were
part of the last raids conducted against drug cartels using this
coastal town as a pied-a-terre for their transatlantic shipments.
The authorities even captured a few compact submarines. This
time, they did not use them. Some of the fishermen were even
thinking that owning such boats would help them make a better
catch. They thought that these former drug-trafficking boats
would be fixed and distributed to the neediest fishermen among
them. It was all an illusion! They’d be able to venture out
further on the open sea. However, they were soon awaken from
their early-morning-slow thinking process, torpor when those
soldiers opened fire on them. A few of them would escape the
onslaught. But for many others, it was too late. It was total
confusion on the surface of that vast body of lukewarm water.
The bodies of their partners, friends, comrades, and relatives
had been floating all over the ocean for hours until they had
finally come to grips with what was really happening to them. It
was already too late for many of their loved ones. It was time
for them to run away with all their strength since they had to
row back to any part of the shores. Their canoes were nothing in
comparison to the speedboats bought with their own tax money.
They were run over and capsized. Pinned under their boats for
what seemed an eternity, they resurfaced to be shot at without
impunity. A blown head here, half of an arm over there! A leg
still floating on the canoe, a open torso or chest spilling blood
over the surface of the ocean mixing with the salt water until
the next way carries it and spreads it further. It seemed that
nature had no memory and the ocean was thirsty for the blood of
those it had fed for so long. As fast as they could row their
canoes away from the massacre scenes, they were chased by
speedboats. Their fate was already sealed. "They were running
away from the running river to the fire." It was exactly the
meaning of one of their sayings.
FastCounter by bCentral