Who Paid for That Mansion? A Senator or the Haitian People?

MONTREAL — He is one of the few lawmakers left in Haiti, a close ally of the assassinated president who has kept his seat while the country’s democratic institutions have been whittled away.

As one of only 10 remaining members in all of Haiti’s Parliament, Rony Célestin, a swaggering figure who styles himself as a self-made multimillionaire, belongs to a tiny circle of leaders with the legal authority to steer the nation out of crisis now that the president is dead.

But to many Haitians, Célestin is also a symbol of one of their biggest grievances: a ruling class that enriches itself while so many go hungry.

In recent months, as the country erupted in protest over abuse of power by the political elite, Célestin has been parrying accusations of corruption from Haitian activists over his purchase of a mansion almost 2,000 miles away in Canada.

The sprawling $3.4 million villa, with its sweeping driveway, home cinema, wine cellar and swimming pool overlooking a lake, was among the most expensive homes ever sold in one of Quebec’s most affluent neighborhoods, and the purchase set off a corruption investigation into Célestin by officials in Haiti.

The villa has become emblematic of the chasm between the gilded lifestyles of Haiti’s elite and the majority of the population, who on average earn less than $2.41 a day. Célestin’s ownership has incited outrage over capital flight — legal and illicit — that drains money from Haiti and weakens the country’s institutions.

Célestin vehemently denies any wrongdoing, describing himself as a savvy entrepreneur whose success and donations to the election campaign of the assassinated president, Jovenel Moïse, have afforded him a variety of privileges, including the ability to pay for the villa and get his wife a job at the Haitian consulate in Montreal.

“I have enough influence, if I wanted to make her an ambassador, that would happen,” he told The New York Times.

But the Times found little or no indication in Haiti of the thriving businesses that Célestin cites as the source of his great wealth. Some appear to operate on a much smaller scale than he claimed, if at all, in some cases.

His lawyer declined to provide details about his businesses with the anti-corruption inquiry in Haiti underway. Anger over the mansion became so pitched that some members of Montreal’s Haitian community hid in the bushes around the home in Laval, an affluent suburb, and sneaked onto the grounds, hoping to confront Célestin and his family.

“Haiti is a poor country where people are dying of hunger, and here you have rich people trying to take their money out of the country and buying mansions in cash,” said Frantz André, a leading Haitian human rights advocate in Montreal who has led protests outside the Haitian consulate in recent months.

Because Haiti, a country of 11 million people, has so few functioning institutions, Célestin could help play a pivotal role in the nation’s future. Only 10 senators out of 30 remain in Parliament, and Célestin is one. The terms of the other 20 expired, and new elections were never called. The lower house of Parliament is entirely vacant, and the head of the nation’s highest court died of COVID-19 in June.

That leaves senators like Célestin among the few remaining elected officials in Haiti, with a powerful say in determining how the country should be led after the brazen assassination of Moïse on Wednesday.

But critics call the Senate dysfunctional. And as the country has spiraled into turmoil in recent months, members of the political elite have prospered abroad in places like the Dominican Republic, the United States and Canada, investing their money — and in some cases laundering it, authorities say — through real estate

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