The Haitians Are Coming

Not since the 1959 Cuban revolution has Florida's glittering gold coast experienced anything quite like it: almost daily landings, from Key Biscayne to Palm Beach, of rickety wooden boats, some with homemade sails and tree trunks for masts. All are packed, gunwale to gunwale, with Haitian refugees carrying their possessions on their backs and in small wicker baskets. Fleeing high unemployment, food shortages and political repression at home, they have made the dangerous 800-mile voyage across the open Caribbean in search of a better life in the U.S.

For many of them, it is the second time they have put to sea in the leaky boats, which bear such prayerful names as Bon Dieu Bon (God Is Good) and Dieu Est Mon Pilote (God Is My Pilot). Since the late 1960s, Haitians have been emigrating illegally to the nearby Bahamas, where an estimated 40,000 now live, working as gardeners, servants and day laborers. But Bahamian officials, faced with an unemployment rate of nearly 25%, in June ordered the Haitians to leave. Explained Bahamian Information Services Spokesman Chris Symmonett: "They have been taking jobs Bahamians could perform and putting pressure on our social service system."

The Bahamian crackdown greatly increased the stream of Haitian immigrants to Florida. A record 600 refugees landed in June, including five boatloads on a single day; another 300 arrived by mid-July, swelling the total since November to 1,400. In the comparable period a year earlier, the total was 344. Hundreds more may have died of hunger and thirst or drowned during the passage. Two weeks ago, for example, 23 Haitians died when their crowded boat capsized in choppy seas outside Freeport harbor. Says Truman Carr, an agent of the U.S. Border Patrol: "The boats are overloaded and there is no safety equipment. There's no telling how many have turned over."

The Bahamian exodus has encouraged a cutthroat smuggling trade, with boat captains charging from $50 to $500 per person and pilots of small planes demanding fares as high as $800 for illegal flights to small Florida airfields. One group of 13 Haitians paid a Bahamian boat captain $450 to take them from Nassau to Miami. But he put them ashore on a deserted island in the Bahamas, telling them, "This is Miami." After three days without food or water, they were rescued by a passing fishing boat.

Before last November, the Haitian refugees were sent to detention camps in Florida and Texas until they posted $1,000 bonds, freeing them until they appeared before immigration judges for hearings. Of 7,500 Haitian refugees processed by officials in southern Florida since 1972, there have been final decisions in only 216 cases: 158 have been deported to Haiti and 58 granted asylum. Then, in keeping with the Carter Administration's emphasis on human rights, the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service started releasing the Haitians with temporary work permits pending hearings.

Many of them are unemployed. Those who have found jobs generally work as unskilled laborers, sugar-cane cutters or deliverymen. Most of them live in the crowded apartments of northeast Miami. Some Miamians, including many Cubans, complain that the Haitians are a potential drain on government assistance and should be sent home. But, because they are in the U.S. illegally, they do not qualify for welfare or other government help. The National Council of Churches has, since 1974, provided them with $500,000 worth of emergency housing, food and medicine.

Most of the refugees have requested political asylum, which the U.S. usually grants speedily to those who have actually fled political persecution. But immigration officials believe that the majority of the Haitians have come in search of jobs and should thus be deported. Agrees Haitian Ambassador Georges Salomon: "Only jobs will keep them at home. We are pressing the United States Government to help us create more jobs in Haiti."

Yet the refugees frequently cite disaffection with Haiti's regime, although it has been liberalized somewhat under Papa Doc Duvalier's son Jean-Claude. "I can't say anything against the government or I go to jail," says Andre Gerard, 22, a Haitian who arrived in Miami by way of the Bahamas. Adds Ivon Louis, 27, "It's still the same thing, man. Papa and Baby are the same." qed

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