PAT ROBERTSON: “Something happened a long time ago in Haiti and people might not want to talk about it. They were under the heel of the French. You know, Napoleon III and whatever... And they got together and swore a pact to the devil. They said, “We will serve you if you get us free from the prince.” True story. And so the devil said, “OK, it’s a deal.” They kicked the French out, the Haitians revolted and got themselves free.
But ever since, they have been cursed by one thing after the other, desperately poor. That island of Hispaniola is one island. It’s cut down the middle, on the one side is Haiti, on the other side is the Dominican Republic. The Dominican Republic is prosperous, healthy, full of resorts, etc. Haiti is in desperate poverty. Same island.
They need to have, and we need to pray for them, a great turning to God. And out of this tragedy I’m optimistic something good may come. But right now, we’re helping the suffering people and the suffering is unimaginable.”
"I'm just gonna tell you, if I was named envoy to Haiti, I'd quit government. Envoy to Haiti? You can't even pick up a prostitute down there without genuine fear of AIDS."
"We've already donated to Haiti. It's called the U.S. income tax"
“Obama will use Haiti to boost credibility with "light-skinned and dark-skinned black community in this country"
The Land Will Vomit You Out and Whatever
I hadn’t thought much of their slope lately. All of their horrible words remaining filth. What have they said that is more than worthless, less than lies? I would wager nothing, that the blackness of their hearts is deeper than the flames of their hell, thicker than their self-made gods to whom they bend. Why do the victims, the barely living, the Haitian, have to be surrounded by the whole horror of hell as the air smacks of a privileged, oozing, green foam? Where do I stand among the living, among the breathing souls and beating hearts? Where do I stand if not on the side of the thankless flesh, the desperate skin, the gushing blood, the dying plea, the murdered, the agonized, the ragged, the hungry, the dead?Their voice of filth won’t sink past the concrete of desperation. Their evil bile won’t break through to those under ground. Their stained tongues won’t shake over Haitians tonight. Their foul gods won’t come squalling their seething fists.
Bloodied and bruised the living will climb up again after weeping in the dark, after bleeding, after pleading with creation’s offspring, Haiti will crawl out from the chaos and rise again to drink from the breathing waters. They cannot be hurt anymore than they've been. The moving ground has swallowed more than flesh, spoken more than a filthy mouthed bigot can utter, felt more than all of the conjured hell of the privileged, further than the depth of those yammering toward gloom, than stacks of bodies reaching for things that seem to shriek in the closing skies.
What is the noise I seek? The sound of a furious reward, the whirling of a hellish clamor, the shrieking racket of cowards as the land vomits them out... and whatever.
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