20443: (Chamberlain) Haiti-Street Soldiers (fwd)

[Bob Corbett <corbetre@webster.edu>]

From: Greg Chamberlain <GregChamberlain@compuserve.com>

   By IAN JAMES

   PORT-AU-PRINCE, March 16 (AP) -- They grew up in dirt-floor hovels,
sloshing through puddles of raw sewage and learning early that guns are the
currency of power.
   Armed loyalists of exiled leader Jean-Bertrand Aristide are angry young
slum dwellers who back their president because he sent them money, food and
-- by many accounts -- weapons.
   Two weeks after Aristide's abrupt departure, some say they will lead new
demonstrations to demand his return from nearby Jamaica, where he was to
arrive Monday from the Central African Republic.
   Others say they no longer work for Aristide and would prefer to make
peace -- though they are still prepared to fight.
   "Aristide has said if you cut down the tree, the roots remain. We're the
roots," says Junior Louis-Jeune, 19, who roams the seaside shantytowns of
Cite Soleil packing a .38-caliber pistol.
   Louis-Jeune told The Associated Press he used to earn up to $100 a month
supervising literacy classes at Aristide's private foundation and doing
"whatever we were asked to do," including breaking up opposition marches.
"We would throw rocks and bottles," he says.
   Since Aristide went away, Louis-Jeune hasn't been paid. But the violence
continues. During a pro-Aristide march a week ago, men in trucks with
tinted windows opened fire and killed one Aristide partisan, Louis-Jeune
says.
   The leader of his gang, 22-year-old James "Billy" Petit-Frere, has a
tattoo on his left biceps that reads "Don't Trust Nobody." As for Aristide,
he says, "I don't trust him."
   "I was happy to work with Aristide because Aristide showed me he had
eyes for the poor," Petit-Frere says. But now, he says, "I don't want to
work for any government anymore."
   "People in Cite Soleil died for Aristide a lot ... Maybe if Aristide
comes back too many of us are going to be dead," Petit-Frere says, standing
near a basketball court built by the government, its walls adorned with
graffiti reading "Long live President Aristide."
   "We don't want to fight. We don't have any enemy," Petit-Frere says,
adding that he would turn in stashes of weapons -- from AK-47s to old M-1
rifles -- if other groups disarm and leaders pledge more food aid, schools
and jobs.
   If those aren't forthcoming, "we will still fight. We're ready to die if
necessary."
   Members of his gang, named "Ernesto Che Guevara" after Cuba's
revolutionary hero, bear scars from bullet wounds and fight with weapons
they say came from Aristide's government.
   The allegiances and resentments run deep. After Aristide was ousted in a
1991 coup, paramilitary death squads sprayed Aristide's slum strongholds
with gunfire. Some of today's Aristide loyalists were orphaned by the
killings, which eased in 1994 when U.S. troops restored Aristide.
   "I like Aristide because he's the only one who makes sense," says Joel
Jean, 23, whose mother was killed by paramilitary thugs during a 1994
demonstration.
   Some of the same ex-soldiers and militia fighters who terrorized
Aristide's supporters are among rebels who overran half the country last
month -- and many militants worry they could be targeted.
   Among smoldering trash heaps in Cite Soleil, Aristide has left some
lasting improvements: children play on swings at a new playground;
fishermen weave rope at a government-built wharf; some families live in
concrete-block homes that have replaced shacks of corrugated metal.
   But residents say other government efforts fell short. Two schools built
under Aristide now have no teachers. Truckloads of rice and other food sent
by the government were never enough to feed children who chew on stalks of
sugar cane to hold off hunger.
   Petit-Frere says his gang only wants peace, but gunfire has broken out
between militants and U.S. troops. In the past week, American Marines have
shot and killed at least six Haitians.
   Bloody clashes also erupt among rival gangs. On Saturday two fought over
a shipment of donated rice and flour. Residents say at least four people
were wounded, including two children.
   Police rarely stray into the slum, and lately French troops delivering
school supplies have brought a rare sign of authority. U.S. military
helicopters often roar overhead on patrols.
   The fragile prospect of peace depends largely on whether Haiti's new
U.S.-backed interim leaders heed pleas for help, says Milos Loncarevic, 24,
a Serbian filmmaker documenting life in Cite Soleil.
   "They want to start all over again," he says. "The end is near. It can
be very bloody. It can also be very peaceful."