On the night of July 7, 2021, Haitian President Jovenel Moïse was gunned down in his residence in Pétion-Ville. The operation was swift, silent, carried out by a foreign commando unit. Four years later, the mystery remains unsolved: who killed the president? And above all, why? This investigation retraces the failures, complicities, and silences behind an assassination that laid bare the decomposition of a state.
The night Haiti tipped Over
A president shot, a first lady wounded, a nation unmoored
By July 2021, Haiti was already more shadow than democracy. The country was spiraling into institutional crisis, riddled with gang violence, chronic shortages, and a corruption that seemed to have infiltrated the last bastions of the state. For months, President Jovenel Moïse’s mandate had been the subject of fierce controversy: critics accused him of clinging to power beyond the legal limit, while he maintained that his five-year term would only end in 2022. This constitutional standoff, amid widespread impunity and governmental paralysis, set the stage for tragedy.
That tragedy struck in the early hours of July 7, 2021. In his private residence in Pétion-Ville, a residential area perched above Port-au-Prince, Moïse was assassinated with chilling violence. Riddled with bullets, the president’s body bore the signs of a methodical execution. Beside him, First Lady Martine Moïse was seriously wounded but managed to survive and was swiftly evacuated to the United States.
The shockwave quickly spread beyond Haiti’s borders. Initial investigations revealed the involvement of a foreign commando unit composed mostly of Colombians and Haitian-Americans. The operation appeared planned, funded, and executed with disturbing precision. But behind the dramatic images of captured assailants and bodies on the ground, a deeper question loomed: who had really ordered this hit? And why?
More than a simple political assassination, Moïse’s murder would soon become a judicial nightmare, a stark revelation of state decay, and a new fracture for an already crumbling Haitian society.
Phantom republic
When the state wavers between a contested mandate and collapsed legitimacy
Even before gunfire echoed through the night in Pétion-Ville, Jovenel Moïse’s authority was already contested, his legitimacy eroded, and his power fractured. Elected in 2016 after a vote marred by fraud and initially annulled, Moïse took office in February 2017. Five years later, one burning question divided the country: should his mandate have ended in 2021 or 2022?
For the opposition and part of civil society, the term began with the original 2015 election, despite its irregularities. For Moïse, his five-year term started in 2017, with his official inauguration. This seemingly technical dispute had explosive consequences. It fueled months of protest, sometimes violent, a prolonged institutional paralysis (Parliament was non-functional), and a government ruling by decree, without legislative oversight.
Haiti thus sank into a kind of authoritarian presidentialism, where Moïse, increasingly isolated, accused a “mafia-style oligarchy” of plotting against him, while his opponents saw him as an outlaw president. Trust in institutions melted away. The already weakened state lost any ability to mediate tensions.
But Haiti’s crisis wasn’t merely institutional—it was also subterranean, opaque, entangled with drug trafficking and organized corruption. Strategically located between South America and the U.S., Haiti has long served as a hub in the regional narcotics trade. Control of this route involves not just gangs or cartels, but also key segments of the state apparatus.
Persistent rumors—and occasionally direct testimony—pointed to collusion between the government and traffickers, even in the president’s inner circle. The name of Dimitri Hérard, head of presidential security (now incarcerated), is often cited as a symbol of the porous boundary between official duties and criminal networks. Multiple reports accused individuals close to Moïse of protecting or even facilitating armed groups and transnational operations.
In this context, Moïse’s assassination could not be seen as an isolated act. It was already perceived as the culmination of a system where legal authority was being undermined, infiltrated, or outright bought. The Haitian republic, corroded from within, provided ideal terrain for a coup—whether political, criminal, or hybrid.
The shadow conspiracy
How a puzzle of mercenaries, businessmen, and traitors took shape
The assassination of Jovenel Moïse did not stem from a sudden impulse. It was part of a long-planned strategy blending political ambition, financial opportunism, and internal complicity. Investigators identified two initial scenarios envisioned by the presumed masterminds: Plan A, a supposedly “legal” scheme to arrest the president and install a transitional authority; and Plan B, more direct—his physical elimination.
At the heart of the plot was a widespread belief among the attackers that Moïse kept millions in cash and sensitive documents at home. Thus, the motive of theft became entwined with political aims—namely the project to install Christian Emmanuel Sanon, an obscure Haitian-American pastor, as an interim “ready-to-go” president. Some members of the commando unit genuinely believed they were part of an “official liberation mission.” They realized they’d been used only after the attack.
Key players in this convoluted web began to emerge. Chief among them was Joseph Félix Badio, a former anti-corruption official suspected of coordinating the operation’s logistics. He allegedly gave the order to kill Moïse two days before the assault, overriding the original arrest plan.
Another central figure: Christian Emmanuel Sanon, portrayed as the conspirators’ “designated president.” Based in Florida, he was involved in recruiting mercenaries through CTU Security, a Colombian firm run by ex-military officer Antonio Intriago. Sanon reportedly received opaque funding from Worldwide Capital, a Miami-based entity that helped finance logistics, airfare, and gear.
Ex-police officer Wilson Coq-Thélot rounds out the gallery. According to Haitian authorities, he served as the go-between for planners and foot soldiers, coordinating efforts on the ground.
Between May and July 2021, preparations accelerated. Multiple meetings were held in the Dominican Republic where the plotters refined their plan. Twenty-eight men, including 21 former Colombian soldiers, were recruited. They were promised salaries, quick visas, and vaguely presented orders that seemed official. Some truly believed they were coming to arrest a president on behalf of a legitimate Haitian authority.
Once in Port-au-Prince, they were housed in safehouses, with weapons, vehicles, and fake uniforms. The operation took on the appearance of a paramilitary raid: the mercenaries were armed, disciplined, and acted in structured formation. On the night of the assault, they posed as DEA agents to confuse and neutralize the presidential guards without resistance.
Yet the entire operation, for all its tactical precision, rested on a shaky foundation: no warrant, no legitimacy, no real international backing. It was a coup disguised as a police operation, an act of war dressed up as law enforcement.
Midnight, silence. 1:05 a.m., carnage.
A chilling reconstruction of a presidential murder
The night of July 6–7, 2021, Pétion-Ville fell asleep in tension, unaware of the historic rupture about to unfold. At 1:05 a.m., a convoy of six vehicles entered the president’s neighborhood. Inside were part of the Colombian-Haitian-American commando unit—armed, equipped, and tactically organized.
They announced themselves as DEA agents—a strategic lie meant to prevent resistance. Videos filmed by neighbors confirmed the deception: a voice on a megaphone ordered Haitian police not to shoot, claiming it was an official operation. The ruse worked. No bodyguard fired a shot.
Inside, the mercenaries isolated the security detail and reached the presidential bedroom. The events, reconstructed through forensic evidence and eyewitness testimony, are chilling. Jovenel Moïse was riddled with twelve bullets, including shots to the head and chest. His left eye was torn out. No signs of struggle, no injured guards—as if the execution happened in a carefully orchestrated closed room.
Martine Moïse was hit by several bullets but miraculously survived. She managed to call for help in the hours that followed and was evacuated to the U.S. in critical condition.
The attackers then searched the house, taking sensitive documents, phones, and cash-filled suitcases. Multiple sources cited sums between $18 and $45 million stolen in cash—a claim that, if true, strengthens the theory of a financial motive.
Around 2:30 a.m., the commandos tried to escape. But the plan unraveled. Haitian police were alerted. A security perimeter was established. Gunfire broke out around the house where some mercenaries had barricaded themselves with hostages. Tension rose until dawn. Several assailants were killed, captured, or fled. Others took refuge in the Taiwanese embassy, where they were arrested after a 24-hour standoff.
In less than ten hours, Haiti lost its president, exposed the porousness of its security apparatus, and revealed to the world a level of state breakdown rarely seen. The night of July 7 was not just a presidential murder—it was a brutal display of a state’s inability to protect its own head of state.
The investigation—or a smokescreen
Arrests, threatened judges, an elusive truth
By dawn on July 7, 2021, as the news of President Moïse’s assassination spread, Haiti descended into complete shock. The government immediately declared a state of siege: borders were temporarily closed, gatherings banned, and the army was called in. But beneath this show of force, disarray was evident. The chain of command was unclear, power was vacant, and the risk of political chaos loomed large.
Internationally, condemnation was swift. The UN, African Union, OAS, United States, France, and the Vatican all called for calm and demanded an independent investigation. The murder of a sitting head of state, in his own country, by foreign mercenaries, is an extraordinarily rare event in modern history. The geopolitical stakes of the affair sparked as much emotion as suspicion.
Haitian authorities quickly announced several arrests. In total, over 40 people were taken into custody, including 18 ex-Colombian soldiers, three Haitian-Americans (including James Solages and Joseph Vincent), and Haitian nationals close to the presidential circle, such as palace security chief Dimitri Hérard—accused of deliberately dismantling the protective measures the night of the attack.
But beyond the arrests, the investigation stalled. Three judges assigned to the case recused themselves in succession, citing death threats and political pressure. One of them, Gary Orélien, was accused of corruption and manipulation. Witnesses disappeared, evidence was scattered, and the inquiry struggled to identify who commissioned the assassination, for what purpose, and with what funding.
Extradition requests were sent to several countries, especially the U.S., where some financial connections appeared to lead. But international cooperation remained partial, and the full scope of the involved networks—including firms like CTU Security and Worldwide Capital, based in Florida—remained murky.
Facing the apparent ineffectiveness of the Haitian probe, the FBI and U.S. federal prosecutors took over parts of the case. In February 2023, four men were indicted in Florida, including Antonio Intriago, director of CTU, and Arcangel Pretel Ortiz, responsible for mercenary recruitment. In parallel, several Haitian detainees were extradited to the U.S., where the investigation progressed much faster than in Haiti.
This dual-track justice system—paralyzed nationally, active internationally—highlights a bitter truth: Haiti, unable to manage such a major case on its own, is now dependent on foreign jurisdictions for even a glimmer of justice.
A decapitated country, a capital surrendered to gangs
Political and security chaos after Pétion-Ville
In the aftermath of Jovenel Moïse’s assassination, Haiti fell into an unprecedented constitutional vacuum. No Senate president, no functional legislature, a resigned government—the Haitian state was decapitated, with no clear successor. Two men immediately claimed power: acting Prime Minister Claude Joseph and Ariel Henry, named days before the attack but never officially sworn in.
This standoff, emblematic of Haiti’s fractured power structure, threw the country into open institutional crisis. After several tense weeks, Claude Joseph eventually stepped down under international pressure, leaving Ariel Henry to lead a de facto government with no electoral mandate. The transition did little to ease concerns—many saw it as an elite bargain rather than a democratic process.
The president’s assassination accelerated Haiti’s national disintegration. Armed gangs, already powerful, expanded their control over vast territories. Port-au-Prince turned into a de facto war zone, with daily kidnappings, urban violence, and armed control over entire neighborhoods. The weakened state could no longer provide security, justice, or basic services.
On the international stage, Haiti appeared to be a failed state, incapable of ensuring its own stability. Calls for foreign intervention multiplied—some coming from the Haitian government itself. A multinational support mission led by Kenya was proposed with UN backing, but faced widespread resistance, both domestically and abroad.
The investigation revealed the involvement of nationals from several countries (Colombia, the United States, the Dominican Republic), giving the case a highly sensitive geopolitical dimension. Bilateral relations were briefly strained, particularly with Colombia, whose citizens were held in Haiti under reportedly inhumane conditions.
The United States, while quick to condemn the attack, remained silent about potential links between the plotters and former federal agents—some of whom may have collaborated with the DEA or FBI. This silence fueled suspicions of opaque supervision, or even a tacit deal to avoid revealing compromising ties between Haitian power circles and U.S. agencies.
In this climate of opacity and generalized distrust, Moïse’s assassination did more than reshape Haitian politics—it shattered it into permanent fragmentation, where no authority seems capable of governing without international support.
Four years of lies and silence
All leads pursued—except a clear truth
Jovenel Moïse’s assassination, beyond its shocking nature, quickly generated a multitude of hypotheses. Was it a political act to prevent reform or silence a dangerous revelation? A business feud gone deadly? Or a botched civilian-military coup disguised as a bloody robbery?
Some analysts, like Frédéric Thomas, point to a score-settling among oligarchic factions—each tied to a part of the state or the shadow economy. In his final months, Moïse publicly denounced energy-sector “oligarchs” and threatened to expose exploitative contracts. According to close associates, he was preparing a “clean-hands operation” to crack down on corruption, particularly in customs and the electricity sector.
Seen through this lens, the assassination could be a preemptive strike by those with everything to lose. Others argue it was a failed coup, derailed by internal betrayals or logistical shortcomings.
From the outset, the presence of Colombian and Haitian-American nationals living in Florida steered suspicion toward foreign interference—perhaps even an operation enabled by the silent complicity of international actors. Several captured mercenaries claimed they’d been hired for a legal mission allegedly backed by “American authorization.”
One name resurfaces repeatedly: James Solages, a Haitian-American detainee who initially claimed to work for the DEA. U.S. authorities quickly denied any official link—but doubts linger. Other obscure names tied to private security, evangelical networks, or ex-military also circulate, but no formal accountability has been established.
The U.S., despite its role in the FBI-led investigation, has so far avoided revealing financial or logistical links between the plot’s masterminds and its own nationals. This silence bolsters the theory of passive—or strategic—complicity, meant to shield sensitive geopolitical interests in the region.
More recently, in February 2024, Haitian judge Walter Wesser Voltaire formally indicted several public figures, including Martine Moïse, the former First Lady, as well as former Prime Minister Claude Joseph and ex-police chief Léon Charles.
Their alleged involvement—still unclear—rests on undisclosed elements, but the move reignites the theory of an inside job, orchestrated within Haiti’s own power structures. The idea of an assassination facilitated by high-level internal complicity, possibly motivated by a power succession struggle, is gaining traction. Ariel Henry, himself cited in multiple phone recordings, has denied involvement, but his calls with Joseph Badio the night before the murder remain unexplained.
In short, the Moïse case has become a hydra. Each theory opens new blind spots, new complicities, new silences. And at the heart of the fog, one certainty endures: the crime far exceeds its perpetrators. Those who pulled the trigger that night were merely tools in a murky game of power, money, politics, and state betrayal.
The legacy of blood
What Moïse’s assassination says about Haiti’s future
Four years after the assassination of Jovenel Moïse, no trial has been held in Haiti. The case—split between Port-au-Prince, Miami, and Bogotá—remains mired in judicial delays, threats against judges, disappearing witnesses, and political manipulation. Four investigating magistrates have taken up the case, but none have managed to present a coherent version of the events or name an official mastermind.
The few recent indictments—including those of Martine Moïse and former high-ranking officials—raise as many questions as hopes. Are they signs of genuine judicial progress, or politically motivated moves? Observers remain cautious, especially since the alleged masterminds are still at large or extradited abroad with no coordinated judicial process.
Institutionally, the assassination has worsened the collapse of the Haitian state. No president has been elected since. Parliament remains dissolved, and elections have been repeatedly postponed. The country is run by an interim government without legal foundation, while gangs control 80% of Port-au-Prince and the population sinks further into misery.
The security vacuum has reached such a critical point that the international community was forced to intervene: in 2023, under a UN mandate, a multinational mission led by Kenya was formally approved to restore a semblance of order. Yet its deployment has been repeatedly delayed, reflecting the deep distrust and exhaustion surrounding Haiti—a country now seen by some as a lost cause.
The assassination of Moïse marked a point of no return in Haiti’s modern history. It exposed deep fractures in its political system, the permeability of its institutions to organized crime, and the judiciary’s inability to address matters of state. But it also forced the international community to confront the failure of decades of ineffective aid and support policies.
To move forward, several paths are essential. Establishing a special, independent court with international backing could help restore some judicial credibility. A constitutional reform is equally urgent, as is a credible electoral process. But without real will—both local and global—to tackle the roots of impunity, the lessons of Pétion-Ville may go unheeded.
Jovenel Moïse’s assassination is not just a criminal case. It is the terminal symptom of a collapsing state—undone by violence, opaque power structures, and international abandonment. Four years later, no truth, no justice, no redemption has emerged from this presidential carnage. It remains an open wound—both national and geopolitical—that only a radical overhaul of Haiti’s system might one day hope to heal.
SOURCES
The facts reported in this article are based on a combination of official reports, journalistic investigations, and publicly available legal documents. Key sources include dispatches from the Associated Press (AP, 2024), which revealed the indictment of several Haitian political figures, including the late president’s widow, Martine Moïse. Analyses published in The New Yorker and Axios (2023) helped contextualize the involvement of Florida-based private firms, such as CTU Security, as well as the role of foreign nationals in orchestrating the assassination.
Table of Contents
- The Night Haiti Tipped Over
A president shot, a first lady wounded, a nation unmoored - Phantom Republic
When the state wavers between a contested mandate and collapsed legitimacy - The Shadow Conspiracy
How a puzzle of mercenaries, businessmen, and traitors took shape - Midnight, Silence. 1:05 a.m., Carnage.
A chilling reconstruction of a presidential murder - The Investigation—or a Smokescreen
Arrests, threatened judges, an elusive truth - A Decapitated Country, a Capital Surrendered to Gangs
Political and security chaos after Pétion-Ville - Four Years of Lies and Silence
All leads pursued—except a clear truth - The Legacy of Blood
What Moïse’s assassination says about Haiti’s future
