Gilbert Jean, farmer, family man and Parsley Massacre survivor who bore witness to Trujillo’s terror, dies at 103

OUANAMINTHE, Haïti— As the body of centenarian Gilbert Jean was laid to rest without a grandiose ceremony at the Cemetery of Our Lady of Perpetual Help July 9, residents of this quiet farming community near Haiti’s northeastern border felt the weight of his passing..                                            

The discreet burial of Ton Jilbè — Haitian Creole for Uncle Gilbert, as he was affectionately known by many — reflected the fate of many like him. That of survivors of Dominican dictator Rafael Leónidas Trujillo’s reign of terror against Haitians and Haitian-Dominicans — who lived and died in border communities like Dosmond, just a few miles from the Dominican Republic. 

Along the 224-mile stretch that separates the two nations, generations of Haitian families have kept memories of the 1937 massacre alive in silence, often overlooked by the authorities of both sides that share this complicated history.

On July 1, Ton Jilbè, one of the last known survivors of the 1937 Parsley Massacre, died peacefully at age 103 in his modest home, which he shared with his daughter, Julianise Jean—for over 15 years. His death marks the passing of a living archive of Haitian collective memory and a poignant reminder of the generations who have died without justice for the atrocities they endured.

Jean was 15 years old when Trujillo ordered the extermination of thousands of Haitians and Dominicans of Haitian descent living near the border that existed back then, mainly on paper. It used to be a seamless site. Families crossed back and forth freely to go to work, marketplaces, churches, schools, etc., on one side and home on the other. Sprawling cattle ranches spanned the divide, and Dominicans and Haitians mingled and intermarried frequently.

The massacre, known as the Masak Kout Kouto in Haitian Creole—for stabbing or chopping massacre— and the Parsley Massacre internationally, claimed the lives of at least 20,000 people between Sept. 28 and Oct. 2, 1937. Victims were often identified by their pronunciation of the Spanish word perejil (parsley)—a chilling symbol of racial and ethnic profiling.

“Trujillo did it because he hated us, because he didn’t want to see Black people in his country,” Jean told NPR in 2017, revisiting the painful memories of the massacre decades later. 

That hatred forced Jean to flee with his family, escaping into Haiti from their hometown in the Dominican Republic—where he was born to Zanna Tavien and Wansithe Jean. Thanks to a tip from sympathetic local officials, he and his relatives survived while many others were killed. Jean carried those memories with him for nearly nine decades.  

A farmer, father and witness to history 

After crossing into Haiti, Jean settled in Dosmond, where he began a quiet life of farming and livestock rearing. Over time, he became a well-respected member of his community—a man of humility, hard work and deep spiritual faith.

His daughter, Julianise, described him as a loving and principled father who never sought recognition.

“He didn’t want riches or power. He just wanted to care for those he loved,” she said.

Jean, like most survivors, rarely spoke about the massacre until later in life, when his testimony became an invaluable resource for historians, journalists and human rights advocates. His memories were sharp, his voice steady.

“He was like a living library,” said Louise-Marie, another daughter.

“Ton Jilbè was a good and honest man, but also a vital witness to our history,” said Jésula Blanc, coordinator of the Northeast Gender Platform (PGNE). “Now that he is gone, we must redouble our efforts to preserve his legacy.”

Many see in Jean’s death a legacy erased by silence and a tragedy in many ways.

Despite his symbolic importance, Jean’s passing went largely unnoticed by Haitian or Dominican officials. His funeral on July 9 at Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church in Dosmond was a modest affair, attended only by family, friends and some local residents.

“The passing of such a veteran should be collective mourning,” said Blanc. “But almost all survivors pass unnoticed.”

A 2013 ruling by the Dominican Constitutional Court stripped thousands of Dominicans of Haitian descent of their citizenship, reviving trauma from the Trujillo era. While some bilateral commissions have discussed reparations and joint remembrance projects, concrete steps—such as official apologies or international recognition of the massacre as genocide or crime against humanity—remain elusive.

Despite mounting historical evidence and decades of oral testimony, the Dominican government has never officially acknowledged the massacre as a crime against humanity. The state has erected no monuments on behalf of the victims. No day of remembrance is nationally observed. Haiti, for its part, has also failed to institutionalize the memory of the massacre beyond sporadic civil society efforts and academic conferences.

Under pressure from the United States, Mexico and Cuba, Trujillo paid an indemnity of $525,000 in 1938 to the Haitian government, which used a portion of the money to build communities for refugees from the massacre. Dosmond was one of those communities where most survivors found refuge. To this day, families there struggle with poor housing, a lack of medical clinics and drinkable water.

According to Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International, both governments have failed to address the historical grievances meaningfully. The Inter-American Court of Human Rights has repeatedly called on the Dominican Republic to restore citizenship and stop discriminatory deportations, but the massacre itself remains largely unaddressed in state policy.

A peaceful passing, but no closure

Jean died around 1:00 p.m. EST in the arms of his daughter and caregiver, Julianise, after enjoying a bowl of his favorite dish—rice pudding. Though he suffered from prostate complications, he remained stoic, refusing to complain in his final days.

He was preceded in death by his wife of over 50 years, Cléanthe Paul, and is survived by five children—Julianise, Louise-Marie, Thamara, Saint Julius and Verniau Jean—along with 11 grandchildren and 10 great-grandchildren.

“A week before his death, we could see he didn’t want us to worry,” said Julianise. “He stayed strong for us.”

Jean’s story is both unique and tragically common: a survivor of historic violence who lived with dignity, only to pass in silence. His life is a testament to Haiti’s enduring strength—and to the collective responsibility now resting on future generations to remember, document and demand justice.

In 2025, when the global conversation around racial violence, historic accountability and reparative justice has grown louder, the silence surrounding the 1937 massacre feels even more deafening. 

“That the last voices of this atrocity are dying out without so much as a symbolic gesture from either Haiti or the Dominican Republic is a moral failing,” Johnson Bélance, a human rights advocate, told The Haitian Times from his home in Orlando, Florida. 

“This is compounded by geopolitical neglect, systemic anti-Blackness, and an unwillingness to confront the truths of the past.”

“What do we do when the last voice goes silent?” said Bélance, 44, and a native of Ouanaminthe—who studied engineering in the Dominican Republic.

“We write, we name, we remember. We owe them that much.”

“Ton Jilbè’s death, then, like the passing of other survivors before him, is not just personal. It’s a human rights travesty.  It’s political. It’s historical. And it’s a collective call to remember—and to act—before the entire story is buried with its last survivors,” Bélance said. 

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