[1809 – 1822] España Boba and the Dawn of Independence

We find ourselves now in the year 1809, on the eastern side of Hispaniola. The French have just been expelled, a hard-won victory spearheaded by a man named Juan Sánchez Ramírez, and Spanish flags once again flutter over Santo Domingo. A sigh of relief, perhaps, but one tinged with a desperate hope. Would Mother Spain, now restored, finally nurture this long-suffering colony? Alas, the period that unfolds, stretching to 1822, would earn a rather unflattering name: *La España Boba* – Foolish Spain. And foolish it was, or at least, profoundly neglectful. Imagine a garden, once prized, now left untended, its paths overgrown, its fountains dry. That was Santo Domingo. Spain, embroiled in its own Peninsular War against Napoleon and then grappling with independence movements across its vast American empire, had little attention or resources for its oldest colony. The vital *situado*, the royal subsidy from Mexico that was the lifeblood of the colonial administration and economy, arrived erratically, if at all, leaving the treasury bare and officials unpaid. Life ground to a near standstill. The population, hovering somewhere between perhaps 70,000 to 100,000 souls, was scattered, mostly rural. The once-thriving sugar plantations that had made Hispaniola the jewel of the early Spanish crown were ghosts, replaced by sprawling, often unproductive cattle ranches called *hatos*. The air, once thick with the sweet scent of boiling molasses, now carried the dust of neglected roads and the quiet desperation of poverty. Days were measured by the sun’s arc. Only a tiny criollo elite, descendants of Spanish settlers, clung to vestiges of former grandeur, perhaps with a silk shawl or a tarnished silver buckle. Their whispered conversations lamented the colony's decay within the stone walls of their decaying colonial mansions in Santo Domingo, their ornate ironwork balconies slowly rusting, a stark contrast to the humble *bohíos* – simple wooden or palm-thatched huts – that dotted the countryside, shelters against the sun and tropical downpours. For most, clothing was simple, practical – roughspun cotton or linen shirts and trousers for men, loose dresses for women, often barefoot or in simple leather sandals, designed for the oppressive tropical heat rather than for show. This elite, landowners and a few professionals, occupied the top of a rigid social pyramid. Below them were the *pardos* and *morenos libres* – people of mixed African and European descent, and free Blacks – who navigated a complex world of limited opportunities, often working as artisans, small traders, or overseers. And at the very bottom, though their numbers had dwindled compared to the French side of the island (now Haiti), were the enslaved Africans, their labor still exploited on the *hatos* and in domestic service. Their dreams of freedom were undoubtedly fanned by the very existence of Haiti, a free Black republic, just across the border – a beacon of hope for some, a source of deep anxiety for the white elite and slaveholders. Years crept by. Governors came and went, but the inertia remained. Few ships braved the poorly maintained harbors. Commerce withered. The University of Santo Tomás de Aquino, the first in the Americas, barely functioned, its halls echoing with past glories rather than current scholarship. The silence from Madrid was deafening. It was as if the colony had been set adrift, a forgotten child of a distracted empire. But in this stagnation, new ideas began to stir, carried on the winds of revolution that were sweeping Latin America. Whispers of Bolívar, of San Martín, of self-determination, found fertile ground in the minds of a few. One such mind belonged to José Núñez de Cáceres, a university professor, a lawyer, a criollo weary of Spain’s suffocating indifference. He saw a colony withering on the vine, its potential squandered. Could they not chart their own course? The tension must have been palpable in those clandestine meetings, held in hushed tones behind closed doors, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows as plans were laid. The risk was immense. Spain might be weak, but it was still an empire. And then there was Haiti, a powerful neighbor with its own interests and a history of intervention. Yet, the desire for change, for a new beginning, proved stronger. On November 30th, 1821, Núñez de Cáceres and his supporters made their move. They declared the independence of the Spanish part of Hispaniola, naming it the Independent State of Spanish Haiti. Not as a republic in its own right, initially, but with the audacious intention of joining Simón Bolívar's Gran Colombia, hoping for protection and legitimacy under the wing of the great Liberator. Flags were raised, proclamations read. A brief, intoxicating moment of freedom. Imagine the sudden flurry of activity, the cautious optimism on the streets of Santo Domingo, the taste of sovereignty after centuries of colonial rule. But this dawn was tragically short-lived. It’s often called the "Ephemeral Independence" for a reason. Núñez de Cáceres, for all his intellect, perhaps underestimated the challenges. The new state had no army to speak of, no treasury, and precious little international recognition. Bolívar was far away, preoccupied with his own campaigns in South America. More critically, the Haitian president, Jean-Pierre Boyer, saw an opportunity, and a threat. He viewed the island as indivisible and feared a European power might use the eastern side as a launchpad to re-enslave Haitians or destabilize his nation. Within weeks, the dream began to unravel. Less than three months after the declaration, in February 1822, Haitian forces under Boyer marched into Santo Domingo. There was little to no resistance. The "Ephemeral Independence" was over before it had truly begun, ushering in a new, twenty-two-year period of Haitian unification of the island. The dawn had broken, only to be swiftly swallowed by a new, uncertain day.