“My color is the eternal problem of my life”
Essential historical background to understand Ayiti and Guadeloupe
Before they became postcard destinations, overseas departments, or symbols of crisis, Haiti and Guadeloupe were first and foremost ancient lands, inhabited long before the arrival of Europeans. Long before Christopher Columbus, the islands of the Caribbean were home to Indigenous civilizations, notably the Taíno and the Kalinago (Caribs). Haiti was called Ayiti, “the land of high mountains” or “the mountain in the sea.” Guadeloupe was known as Karukera, “the island of beautiful waters.” These societies lived from fishing, agriculture, and inter-island trade. They had their own languages, spiritual systems, and forms of social organization.
The arrival of Christopher Columbus in 1492 marked the beginning of a brutal turning point. Disease, violence, and enslavement decimated Indigenous populations within just a few decades. Haiti/Ayiti—then called Saint-Domingue—became in the 17th century the richest colony of the French Empire. Guadeloupe, officially colonized by France in 1635, followed the same economic model: sugar plantations, monoculture, and exploitation.
The system relied on the transatlantic slave trade. Hundreds of thousands of Africans were forcibly deported to these islands to work under inhumane conditions. A strict racial hierarchy took hold: white landowners, free people of color, and enslaved Black people. It is here that colorism emerged—this social classification based on shades of skin.
The wealth produced in Saint-Domingue was immense: sugar, coffee, indigo. It fueled the French economy. Guadeloupe, smaller in scale, operated within the same logic of economic dependence on the metropole.
In 1791, in Saint-Domingue, a slave revolt erupted. It became the only successful slave revolution in modern history. In 1804, Haiti/Ayiti declared its independence, becoming the first free Black republic in the world—a major symbolic victory against the colonial order.
But that victory came at a price. In 1825, France imposed a colossal indemnity on Haiti/Ayiti in exchange for recognizing its independence. This debt weighed on the Haitian economy for more than a century.
Guadeloupe, meanwhile, remained French. Slavery was definitively abolished there in 1848. The island remained a colony and became an overseas department in 1946. It is legally French, but geographically and culturally Caribbean.
Haiti/Ayiti, independent but isolated, experienced political instability, foreign occupations (notably by the United States in the 20th century), dictatorships, and economic crises. Yet it remains a major cultural force in the Caribbean: literature, painting, music (kompa, roots), Vodou spirituality, cuisine, and Creole language.
Guadeloupe, integrated into the French Republic, benefits from infrastructure and economic transfers but remains marked by strong dependence on the mainland. Social tensions are recurrent: high cost of living, unemployment, and land inequalities inherited from the plantation system. The chlordecone scandal—a pesticide heavily used in banana plantations until 1993 despite its known dangers—revealed the persistence of unequal power relations between center and periphery. The health consequences, particularly the high rate of prostate cancer, remain a burning issue.
Despite their different political trajectories—one independent, the other a French department—Haiti/Ayiti and Guadeloupe share deep legacies:
- The population largely descended from the forced African diaspora.
- Creole language was born from contact between African languages and French.
- culture of resistance and pride.
- strong spiritual foundation.
- central importance of family and intergenerational transmission.
Both societies bear the marks of the colonial system: social hierarchies linked to skin color, internalized European norms, and tensions surrounding African identity. In Haiti/Ayiti, independence forged a powerful national consciousness, but also long-term international marginalization. In Guadeloupe, belonging to France guarantees institutional stability, yet raises ongoing questions about autonomy, recognition, and colonial memory. In Western media, Haiti/Ayiti is often reduced to poverty, natural disasters, and political instability. What is forgotten is that it was once the richest colony in the world in the 18th century, and then the first independent Black nation. Guadeloupe is often idealized: beaches, sunshine, exoticism. Less is said about social struggles, high living costs, and the economic legacy of the plantation system.
In both cases, history is fragmented.
To understand these territories is to understand:
the lasting impact of slavery,
the construction of Creole identities,
the differing consequences of independence and assimilation,
the persistence of racial representations inherited from colonization.
Haiti/Ayiti and Guadeloupe are not merely two Caribbean islands. They are two different responses to the same historical wound. One chose—and paid dearly for—radical rupture. The other remained within the framework of the French state, with the protections and contradictions that entails. But both carry a shared memory: that of displaced peoples who transformed endured violence into culture, language, music, and identity.
I was born in France, but I come from two islands that never leave my mind: Haiti/Ayiti and Guadeloupe. My family history moves between these two territories, both marked by slavery and French colonization, and by legacies that remain visible today. Growing up with these roots means understanding very early on that skin color, whether in the French Caribbean or in mainland France, is never merely aesthetic. It is social. Political. Historical.
“My color is the eternal problem of my life.”
Colorism — this internal hierarchy based on shades of skin — did not emerge by cultural accident. It is the direct legacy of the colonial system, which classified individuals according to precise racial categories (mulattoes, quadroons, mixed-blood), with differentiated rights. That structure deeply shaped post-slavery societies. I learned this despite myself. In Haiti/Ayiti, my light skin can evoke colonial ancestry. Historically, the mulatto elite occupied positions of power after independence in 1804, leaving lasting social tensions. Yet there, what matters above all is one’s relationship to the culture.
In Haiti/Ayiti, my color may suggest colonial ancestry, but it is not disturbing. People place more importance on my connection to the culture than on my complexion. What matters most is that you are proud of and close to your culture.
If I speak Creole, if I know the history, I am one of them. If I do not speak it, I may be taken for a tourist, or even assumed to have money, light skin sometimes being associated with higher social status. The shade may surprise, but it is not enough to exclude.
In Guadeloupe, the perception is more ambivalent. I am called “chabine.” Some use it as a compliment. I do not experience it that way.
It hurts me because I did not choose to be light-skinned. Sometimes I feel as though people think it is a choice. They treat it as a simple description or even a compliment, since lighter skin is still perceived in many parts of the world as more beautiful than darker skin.
The word itself carries symbolic violence: its etymology refers to animal crossbreeding. It also evokes the idea of “escaped skin,” escaped from Blackness. Light enough to be identified as Antillean, yet too light to be fully legitimate. This paradox reflects the internalization of colonial hierarchies: light skin as social elevation, dark skin as presumed proximity to poverty.
“Spoiler alert: I am not socially elevated. I am just light-skinned.”
Neither Antillean enough, nor simply French. In mainland France, the experience takes another form.
I was born in France, but I went through an identity crisis. In metropolitan France, I am perceived as mixed-race or Black. In the Caribbean, I am perceived as French.
In middle school, I felt like a “fake” Antillean. My Creole has a French accent. I do not live on the island. I am suspected of being an outsider. In mainland France, it is the opposite. Some assume I have a white parent. For ten years, people were “shocked” when they saw my parents, who are darker than I am. When they learned about my Haitian background, I heard: “Oh, but you’re light for a Haitian,” or “Oh, you’re pretty for a Haitian.” Thanks to them, I learned that apparently there is only one color for Haitians — and that we are supposed to be ugly. These remarks reveal a simplistic racialized vision: in France, being Black or mixed-race is often perceived as a homogeneous category, without recognition of Haitian or Guadeloupean cultural specificities.
What history still explains
French colonial history continues to shape representations.
We are proud of our roots and fight for our rights. Yet we will always feel inferior to the white man. We will be proud of our melanin, yet still create distinctions between light and dark skin.
This paradox runs through our societies. In Guadeloupe, the historical presence of the Békés — descendants of colonists — reminds us that racial hierarchy was also structured economically. The chlordecone scandal, a pesticide massively used until 1993 despite being banned elsewhere, reinforced the feeling of abandonment and institutional contempt.
In Haiti/Ayiti, history is just as heavy. In 1804, the first independent Black republic, the country was forced to pay a colossal debt to France in exchange for recognition of its independence — a debt that burdened its development for more than a century. Yet French media often reduce Haiti/Ayiti to misery.
I am saddened and angry. I do not deny that Haiti/Ayiti is struggling, but there is so much more. Ayiti is the land of high mountains. It is the first independent Black nation. It is music, konpa, soup joumou, art, and solidarity. Ayiti will not break.
In the same way, Guadeloupe is idealized as a postcard. Sun, beaches, exoticism. Less is said about unemployment, high living costs, and water shortages. “People in mainland France only know what they see on paper and do not necessarily try to learn more.”
Deconstructing to transmit
Yes, I believe there is still an unconscious valorization of lighter skin. “Light skin is often valued for what it symbolizes — social elevation, wealth, beauty… while darker skin is associated with lower social rank and poverty.” Deconstructing this requires education, culture, and open conversation.
We can, and we MUST dismantle these representations through education, culture, podcasts, and social media. Many people do not know their history. The duty of transmission is being lost, even though it is essential. The past still shapes the present.
Passing on history. The Creole language. Music. Food. Landscapes. Showing that our islands may not be rolling in gold, but they are treasures.
A complementary identity
What makes my dual identity unique is its complementarity.
I come from two magnificent islands that are both similar and different. Many Haitians and Guadeloupeans understand each other’s Creole. Our histories are intertwined, our cultures respond to one another, while each retains its own distinct identity.
Today, I no longer try to choose. I am the product of Haiti/Ayiti and Guadeloupe — and of France as well. I am the reflection of a complex history, sometimes painful, but rich and resilient.
Neither too light.
Nor not enough.
Simply the heir of two peoples who, despite everything, continue to stand tall.
Testimony collected from Cammy