Deliverance

For once, the day that Haitians will remember was one of jubilation: their first freely elected President returning in triumph to vanquish the ghosts of the country's past. On that bright Saturday afternoon, as Jean-Bertrand Aristide paced through the ceremonies of reinstatement, his euphoric nation could reasonably embrace the vision he offered them -- that it was their day of deliverance.

Aristide's joy-filled return marked more than a victory for the activist priest who transformed Haitian politics. As he gratefully acknowledged, the moment would never have occurred without the persistence of Bill Clinton, who dispatched a peaceful army to pave the way. Now the U.S. and Aristide depend on each other for success. The Haitian leader's ceremonial return was visibly orchestrated by his muscular allies. When he arrived a few minutes before noon, it was aboard a U.S. Air Force jet. For his safety, he was allowed only the most subdued reception by a privileged phalanx of dignitaries at the airport, protected by a cordon of American soldiers.

But no one would muffle the President's real welcome. The poor who form the bedrock of his constituency had begun celebrating hours before. As Aristide prepared late into Friday night, throngs of supporters were deliriously dancing through the slums of the capital, festooning the streets with Christmas lights. When the exhausted President finally went to bed for the last time in his Washington apartment, it was 4 a.m. An hour later, his mother ) roused him with a good-luck phone call. "Tonight, I intend to sleep well," he declared the next morning, "even if I'm in the Duvaliers' old bed."

As his jet approached, crowds eager to catch a glimpse of their returning savior flocked to the National Palace, packing the streets so tightly that the faces of those standing next to the fence were squeezed like lemons between the iron bars. "For three years we have suffered," said Michel Jasmine, a member of the crowd. "But God has been good to us; he has given us back Aristide. Now we face a new life." When the President finally appeared, he was dwarfed by the bulletproof shield that surrounded the podium, another sign of how fragile his safety is in this divided society. A dozen U.S. soldiers with binoculars were perched atop the palace, scanning the crowds. Another eight sharpshooters were crouched on the police station across the street. And somewhere in the capital was a top-secret team of Delta Force commandos, ready to respond if an attempt were made on his life.

For a moment, the crowd seemed overwhelmed and strangely hushed. They waited with a stilled reverence that bordered on the mystical. When Aristide finally spoke, his message was unmistakable. In Creole, English, French and, finally, Spanish, he repeated words of peace and nonviolence over and over. "Honor. Respect," he intoned. "Honor. Respect."

For much of the week, the U.S. had been spreading the same ideas, plastering pleas for reconciliation and democracy on billboards, flags and wall posters. But the people still needed to hear the message directly from Aristide. "This is a day on which the sun of democracy rises, never to set," he said, "a day of national reconciliation, a day for the eyes of justice to open and never close again." The crowd cheered wildly as he promised, "Never, never, never again will blood be shed in this country."