In 1804, a towering Negro named Henri Christophe tore the white center out of the French tricolor and proclaimed himself emperor of the world's first black republic. Nine years of bloody rebellion had, in fact, led to the extermination of Haiti's white population. Today Christophe's flag, a somber red and blue banner, still flies over the presidential palace in Port-au-Prince--a reminder of a painful past.

Haiti in the mid-Twentieth Century is not much closer to republicanism than it was in its first days of independence, In 1820 Emperor Christophe committed suicide, inaugurating a succession of dictators, cabals, marine interventions, and assassinations. The whitedomed palace is presently occupied by Francois Duvalier, a 56-year old country doctor who boosted himself to power in 1957 following a ten-month, period of turmoil in which six governments ruled.

But ruling agrarian Haiti is not an easy job. The nation's only communications system, for instance, is a haphazard affair controlled entirely by the army. Daily, the country's capital, Port-au-Prince, goes without electricity for three aggravating and unpredictable hourly periods because not enough power can be generated to supply the city's rather unspectacular needs.

Five years ago the present government initiated an extensive and largely successful campaign to gain international credit by drawing more of the lucrative American tourist trade. The nation's rich folk culture became its greatest asset. European and American markets consumed Haitian primitive art by the shipload, and over a hundred thousand wallet-loose tourists ranged the Haitian hills annually.

But Duvalier's tenacity has destroyed the tourist trade. Long before the expiration of his six-year term, the President made it clear he was fond of the palace and had little intention of leaving. Early in 1963 he cancelled the scheduled May election and set about fortifying his position. To make up for the half-hearted and unreliable army, the country doctor had developed a private hatchet force called the tonton macoute. Part vigilante, part mafia, the tonton macoute exercised--and continues to exercise--an unpredictable but bloody power. To replace popularity--by this time Duvalier enjoyed little--he unleashed a propaganda campaign that featured large neon inscriptions (the only neon in Port-au-Prince), "I AM THE HAITIAN FLAG ONE AND INDIVISIBLE, DR. F. DUVALIER" and life size portraits bearing the doctor's slogan, "COUNTRY, PEACE AND JUSTICE."

Relations between the United States and the President steadily worsened until last April when palace intrigue, a threatened Dominican invasion, and a final refusal to hold elections brought the United States to the verge of marine invasion. Port-au-Prince has since ceased to be a port of call for the dollar bearing Caribbean cruise ships. All but one of the six international airlines that serviced Haiti have suspended operations and, at that, Pan American's daily flight carries more people out than in.

Opposition to the government currently is disorganized and factional. Gatherings of more than three people are forbidden, hence it is difficult even to express discontent. Much grumbling--but understandably little conspiring--takes place in the midst of the lethargic soccer games that forever occupy the country's dusty streets. Haitians have little political education beyond memories of past blood baths; although the recent invasion by a band of exiles under ex-general Leon Cantave raised hopes in the capital, there was no active expression of support.

For the most part, Haiti still lies outside of the Twentieth Century. She enjoys sophistication in her Creole language and literature, and her highly developed art form. So much most countries in this hemisphere cannot boast. But she totally lacks a sense of social demand or action. Her people don't have much; they don't ask much; and they don't get much.