Well, isn't this a delightful turn of events? Years after the rather messy departure of Haitian President Jovenel Moïse – a departure, we’re reminded, executed by what sounds suspiciously like a privately contracted security firm, albeit one with a penchant for extra-legal activities – arrests are finally being made. Eighteen souls, it seems, have been swept up in the dragnet, courtesy of US officials, no less. One almost wonders if Uncle Sam's investigative zeal flares brighter when the chaos is geographically convenient to its own spheres of influence.
The wire story dutifully informs us that Moïse was "shot dead" by "military-trained Colombian mercenaries." Not, mind you, by a disgruntled populace weary of presidential decrees, nor by a rival political faction, but by hired guns. And here's the truly piquant detail: his "security detail did not intervene to protect him." One might even say they rather conspicuously *failed* to intervene. A government's first, most basic duty is, ostensibly, to protect its leaders and its people. When it can't even manage the former, one must wonder what purpose it serves at all.
This isn't a uniquely Haitian problem, of course. It's merely a particularly vivid illustration of what happens when the apparatus of the state becomes, not a servant of the people, but a prize to be seized, defended, and ultimately, violently contested. Hayek, that oft-ignored prophet of economic liberty, understood that when power is concentrated, it inevitably attracts those most eager to wield it, often with the least regard for the common good. And when the state itself is the primary source of wealth and influence, the incentive to control it, by whatever means necessary, becomes irresistible.
One has to appreciate the sheer, brutal efficiency of a system where even the presidential guard knows better than to get in the way of a well-funded operation. It speaks volumes about the true locus of power in such environments. It’s not in the ornate offices or the official pronouncements; it’s in the streets, among those who can muster the most force, or hire those who can. The idea of a legitimate, stable government, enshrined in law and upheld by voluntary consent, becomes a quaint, almost mythical notion.
And now, after years of "chaos" – a euphemism, surely, for the protracted suffering of millions under a crumbling edifice – these arrests. One can almost hear the gears of the international bureaucracy grinding, belatedly, into action. Was it a sudden surge of justice? Or merely the moment when the geopolitical winds shifted, and some official somewhere decided that a tidy narrative was finally required? The arrests, regardless of their ultimate merit, serve to close a chapter, to provide a sense of resolution. But resolution to what? To the deep-seated pathologies of statecraft that plague so many nations? Doubtful.
The real tragedy isn't just the death of a president, but the relentless failure of the state itself to provide a modicum of order without resorting to coercion, corruption, or utter collapse. The "international community," with its endless parade of aid packages and well-meaning interventions, often seems to miss the fundamental point: the problem isn't always a lack of resources or even intentions, but the very structure of centralized authority that funnels power into fragile, contested hands.
Perhaps, just perhaps, if the people of Haiti, or any nation similarly afflicted, were left to their own devices, to build voluntary associations, to engage in peaceful commerce, and to protect their own rights without the suffocating embrace of an overweening state, such episodes would become historical curiosities rather than recurring nightmares. But then, that would require dismantling the very mechanisms that attract the power-hungry in the first place. And that, dear readers, is a revolution few in power are ever willing to countenance. So, the arrests continue, the narrative shifts, and the perpetual motion machine of state failure grinds on.