[1822 – 1844] Under Haitian Rule: Twenty-Two Years of Unification

The year is 1822. The eastern flank of Hispaniola, the land we now call the Dominican Republic, has just exhaled after a fleeting breath of self-rule – a mere nine weeks of what history dubs the "Ephemeral Independence" under José Núñez de Cáceres. But the winds shifted quickly. From the west, a formidable presence was advancing. Jean-Pierre Boyer, president of Haiti – the nation forged in the fires of the world’s only successful slave rebellion – arrived not as a simple conqueror, but with a grand vision of unification. His army, some 12,000 disciplined soldiers, met little organized resistance as they marched into the ancient city of Santo Domingo. The very air, usually thick with the scent of tropical blossoms and sea salt from the Ozama River, now vibrated with a new, palpable tension. For Boyer, a unified island was no mere ambition; it was a strategic imperative. He harbored a deep-seated fear: a separate, Spanish-speaking territory could become a vulnerable foothold for European powers, particularly France or Spain, to reclaim colonial dominance and thereby threaten Haiti's fiercely won sovereignty. His mantra was "Hispaniola, one and indivisible." One of Boyer's first, and arguably most revolutionary, decrees was the immediate and total abolition of slavery throughout the eastern territory. Consider this: for approximately 8,000 to 9,000 souls who had lived chained to an existence of forced labor, this was a seismic shift. Legally, they were free. Yet, this liberation arrived under the Haitian flag, and not all ensuing changes were embraced. The new regime aimed to reshape the eastern economy, historically reliant on subsistence farming and cattle ranching across vast, sparsely populated *hatos*. Boyer introduced the Code Rural, a system designed to stimulate export agriculture – sugar cane, coffee, cocoa – mirroring Haiti's more intensive model. This policy often compelled peasants, accustomed to their small, independent *conucos* (subsistence plots), to cultivate cash crops, effectively tying them to designated lands. It felt less like freedom and more like a new form of constraint. The traditional *hateros*, the powerful cattle-ranching elite, watched their economic and social influence erode as their lands were targeted for redistribution – a process often fraught with inefficiency and local opposition. French, the language of the Haitian administration, became the official tongue. This was a jarring imposition in a land that had breathed and dreamed in Spanish for over three centuries. The esteemed University of Santo Tomás de Aquino, the oldest beacon of higher learning in the Americas, was shuttered in 1823, its resources reallocated. This act struck at the intellectual and cultural core of the society, leaving a generation without local higher education. Churches, the spiritual anchors of Dominican life, found their properties confiscated, their societal sway diminished. Though Boyer was Catholic, his state was secular, and many Dominicans perceived these measures as an affront to their deeply ingrained faith and identity. The great bells of the Catedral Primada de América, which for centuries had summoned the faithful to Spanish Mass, now echoed in a city governed by French-speaking officials, their chimes often punctuated by the rhythmic tramp of Haitian military boots. Daily existence grew arduous for many. Haiti faced an enormous indemnity demanded by France – a staggering 150 million francs – compensation for "lost property," which chillingly included formerly enslaved people. To meet this debt, Boyer levied heavy taxes across the unified island. The eastern part, less commercially developed, felt this burden acutely. Coin was scarce. The mahogany trade, felling the island's rich dark timber, continued, but profits largely flowed westward. You might see Dominican laborers, clad in simple, often patched, cotton shirts and trousers, their feet bare or in rough sandals, toiling under a blistering sun, their earnings meager. In towns like Santo Domingo, its ancient stones having witnessed conquest, pirates, and now unification, a heavy stillness settled. The grand cathedral, the Alcázar de Colón – these silent witnesses of a Spanish past now overlooked streets where the sight of Haitian soldiers, their blue and red woolen uniforms a stark, somewhat alien presence against the sun-bleached colonial stonework, became a daily reality. Some proud colonial edifices, with their ornate balconies, began to show signs of neglect, their grandeur slowly succumbing to the austerity of the times. Discontent, a quiet but persistent ember, glowed beneath the surface. The cultural chasm was wide. Language, religious practices (Dominican Catholicism contrasting with Haitian Catholicism often blended with Vodou traditions), food, and historical narratives – all diverged. While the Haitian presence meant order and the end of slavery for some, for a growing number of Dominicans, it signified a loss of autonomy and economic drain. Many prominent Dominican families, particularly from the educated and landowning classes – the *ausentes* – chose exile over assimilation, further weakening local leadership and fostering resentment. Yet, from this crucible of occupation, something new and powerful began to crystallize: a distinct Dominican national consciousness. The shared experience of economic hardship, the suppression of their language and customs, and the omnipresent foreign military forged a sense of common identity, distinct from both their Spanish colonial lineage and Haitian governance. It was in hushed whispers exchanged in dimly lit back rooms, over the aroma of stewing *sancocho* or brewing coffee, that the first fragile threads of rebellion were spun. In 1838, a charismatic young intellectual, Juan Pablo Duarte, ignited by ideals of liberty and self-determination, co-founded a secret society: La Trinitaria. Alongside him stood Francisco del Rosario Sánchez and Matías Ramón Mella. Their mission was audacious: complete independence. They operated with utmost caution, organizing in clandestine cells of three to preserve secrecy, their meetings often held in ordinary homes, the everyday sounds of family life masking their revolutionary intent. Their oath, a solemn vow "to cooperate with my person, life and goods in the definitive separation from the Haitian government and to implant a free, sovereign and independent republic," became their guiding star. The twenty-two years of unification weighed heavily. But Boyer's regime, once appearing so entrenched, began to fray under internal pressures in Haiti – economic woes and mounting political opposition. This instability in the west created a crack, a sliver of opportunity. When Boyer was finally overthrown in Haiti in 1843, a tremor of anticipation ran through the eastern territory. The moment that Duarte and his fellow Trinitarios had meticulously planned and fervently prayed for was drawing near. The atmosphere in Santo Domingo, for so long thick with resignation and muted defiance, began to charge with a dangerous, intoxicating hope. The long years of unification were not to end with a sigh, but with the imminent roar of revolution.