The book tells the sweeping story of Haiti from its Indigenous roots to its revolutionary triumphs and modern struggles. Clermont begins with the Taíno people, their cosmology, agriculture, and spiritual life, then moves into the violence of colonization, the contradictions of Enlightenment ideals, and the brutal realities of slavery. From there, he charts the rise of figures like Toussaint Louverture, Dessalines, and Sanité Bélair, weaving in battles like Vertières where Haiti shattered French imperial dreams. Later chapters explore U.S. interference, the persistence of Vodou, and the promise of Haiti’s future. It’s not just a history, though, it’s a vision for rebirth, framed by the phoenix metaphor of destruction and renewal.

Clermont doesn’t write like a detached historian; he writes like someone deeply tied to the soil and spirit of Haiti. In the first chapter, when he describes the Taíno as “one of the most organized and spiritually rich Indigenous cultures in the Caribbean” and details their cassava-centered agriculture and sacred ceremonies. I felt pulled into a world that history books usually skim over. It made me slow down and imagine life before conquest, and it set the emotional tone for the devastation that followed. The writing has a rhythm to it, almost like spoken word, that makes the past feel alive.

At times, though, the style feels heavy-handed. In The Butchers chapter, the descriptions of Columbus’s cruelty, like mutilations and dog hunts, are brutal and vivid. I appreciated the unflinching honesty, but the intensity made it hard to read in long stretches. That said, I think that was Clermont’s point: he wants readers to sit with the horror, not brush past it. His refusal to soften the edges gave the later stories of resistance, like Boukman’s Bois Caïman ceremony or Capois-La-Mort’s charge at Vertières, an even sharper impact. The contrast between oppression and defiance came through strongly.

What I liked most was the forward-looking vision in the final chapters. When Clermont compares Haiti’s potential to countries like Singapore and Rwanda, he takes a risky leap, but it’s also inspiring. He sketches ideas like diaspora investment, cultural exports, and digital startups with a mix of practicality and hope. The “Phoenix Rising” section especially stood out. It felt like a manifesto, not just a history. I could sense his belief that Haiti’s story isn’t finished, and that belief rubbed off on me. I don’t know if every blueprint he offers is realistic, but the spirit behind them is contagious.

I came away both educated and moved. This book isn’t just for history buffs; it’s for anyone who wants to understand Haiti beyond clichés of poverty and disaster. It’s for readers who like stories of resilience, who don’t mind raw truths, and who can appreciate a mix of scholarship and passion. Personally, I found it powerful and memorable. It made me rethink what I thought I knew, and it left me hopeful for what Haiti might still become.

Pages: 236 | ASIN : B0FP9N1MZM