Vodou's Transatlantic History

Although it took a while, we have finally finished A Transatlantic History of Haitian Vodou: Rasin Figuier, Rasin Bwa Kayiman, and the Rada and Gede Rites by Benjamin Hebblethwaite. An ambitious work, Hebblethwaite explores the African background of the Rada and Gede rites in Haitian Vodou. Using what he terms Vodou hermeneutics, Hebblethwaite draws from ethnomusicology, linguistics, history, and other fields to explore Vodun in Benin as a source (and foil) for Vodou in Saint Domingue (and Haiti). Although previous generations of Haitian ethnologists or foreign academics have explored the African background of Vodou, observable to some extent already in Duverneau Trouillot's ethnographic sketch, Hebblethwaite seeks to explore more seriously African history and religious cultures. This means that the book is structurally divided into two halves, focusing on Vodun in Benin and Vodou songs in Haiti read through the author's "Vodou hermeneutics.'

The first two chapters focus on the historical context of Vodun in Benin, particularly Allada, Hueda and Dahomey. This historical context is key for understanding what the author sees as royalist Vodun tied to the slave trading states of Dahomey, Allada and Vodou versus the communal or local Vodun cults or traditions of victims of the slave raids. Unsurprisingly, in Haiti, where many victims of these slave raids were eventually trafficked through the French slave traders on the Slave Coast, the more familial or communal aspects of Vodun were more relevant for the development of Vodou. That said, elements of Haitian Vodou retain, perhaps, memories of Agaja of Dahomey. But this intervention here is key for understanding why some African "traditional" religions in Saint Domingue were associated with rebellion, as dissident Vodun priests or groups were sometimes targeted by Dahomey for enslavement and export. Indeed, Hebblethwaite compares the royalist Vodun slave trading states like Dahomey to the royalist Catholic French slave traders and enslavers, with our ancestors as the victims of both. Of course, one could also explore why, if what became Vodou in Haiti was not marked by royalist sentiments, why is it that many of the hieratic titles used in Vodouist groups, rara bands or other manifestations of Haitian popular culture featured kings, queens, generals, and the like?

Overall, these two chapters on the politics and practice of Vodun in the Slave Coast are the richest chapters of the text. While one has some quibbles over the author's interpretation of Dahomey's origins and its relations with Allada, Hueda and other polities, he demonstrates how Vodun was inextricably tied to power and community (Law and other historians specializing in this region seem more skeptical or ambivalent on the traditions of Dahomey tying their royal dynasty to Allada, as well as other traditions of origin). This included slave raids, conquests, the incorporation of foreign Vodun into the expansionist Dahomey state, and the proliferation of Vodun cults through migration and refuge. In Saint Domingue, the victims of these processes who were sold to the French inherited these practices. As for why the Rada and Gede rites became so prominent in Sèvis Ginen, the structure of Vodun and its ability to incorporate new or "foreign" ideas and concepts provided a foundation for Vodou. This surely cannot be merely a result of the timing of the arrival of huge numbers of "Arada" captives in Saint Domingue (though it probably played a role). After all, if the timing of arrival was such a significant factor, why is it that the Senegambian and Upper Guinean African "nations" have less influence in the formation of Vodou? 

This is also relevant to the Central African influence, which the author admits has a huge legacy in Haitian Vodou. And while their numbers may have increased exponentially later in the 1700s, the impact of Kongo Catholicism and other religious traditions from West Central Africa must be considered as foundational to the development of Haitian religion. Indeed, even Allada, whose own history of relations with Portugal and Catholicism are worth exploring, may provide signs of Catholic influence in the formation of Vodou in the African past. We can only hope Hebblethwaite or other writers explore these dimensions of Haitian Vodou's transatlantic past.

The last two sections of the book shift to analysis of songs. The Rasin Figuier recordings are fascinating examples of not only retentions of Vodun spirits, Fon or Aja words, but reworkings of Aja-Fon concept and theology. The fourth chapter's analysis of songs from the Gede Rite, however, are less successful. Despite offering a persuasive case for a Gedevi or Gedevi-Yoruba origin for the rite, the historical Gedevi are less visible in the book's historical chapters. Although undoubtedly due to their conquest, absorption and sale to Europeans, the lack of clarity regarding these peoples hinders a deeper historical context for them. The Gede spirits are numerous in Haiti, and while they too reflect African origins, they appear very much Creolized with Miragoane being the source of some (according to Vodou myth). Despite their prominence and their irreverent allusions to sexuality, death, or taboo-busting possessions, the Gedevi connection appears elusive. It also didn't help that many of the Gede songs analyzed here, while lamenting or criticizing social inequality, remind one of the role of "signifying" and tricksters in African American culture. In short, it's less revolutionary or egalitarian than some would like to think...

In spite of the issues with the final two chapters, it is wise to see Hebblethwaite's Vodou Hermeneutics as an analytical tool for a work in progress. With so many rites and traditions of Haitian Vodou to explore, as well as the larger histories of West and Central Africa to help contextualize it, one can only hope the Nago, Kongo, and other rites receive their due for a more comprehensive study of Vodou. One should also extend the field of analysis to more sections of Haiti to see which areas have preserved or maintained some traditions rather than others, and what the impact of urbanization and migration was on those regions. As always, the analysis must include linguistics, African and Haitian history, religious studies, and other fields for an interdisciplinary approach.

Montilus's Dieux en diaspora

Guérin Montilus's Dieux en diaspora. Les Loa Haïtiens et les Vaudou du Royaume d'Allada (Bénin) is a short but richly detailed study comparing the Rada Rite in Haitian Vodou with Vodun in Allada. Based on fieldwork in both Haiti and Allada, Montilus is able to trace the origin of various lwa in Haiti and offer a model for why the mythology around many deviated so greatly from source materials in Allada. However, an African sedimentation of the mythology around many lwa persists, as do some of the concepts and larger framework in which these entities operate. But the destructive impact of the slave trade and enslavement in Saint Domingue, as well as contact with Christianity and various other African peoples undoubtedly led to many transformations and shifts in the conception of the Rada Rite. Montilus hints at this when examining the Simbi spirits, for instance, or theorizing how Congo or Petro rites incorporate more Central African ideas of magic. Montilus's main weakness is perhaps not examining the ways in which Vodun in Benin is a living tradition, hence another cause for its differences from Haitian practice. After all, if Haitians were able to develop a radically new mythology in some cases involving Erzilie, Ogou, Agwe, or other lwa, why wouldn't people in Benin have also adapted the spirits to meet their changing world? One can imagine Dahomey's conquest of Allada in 1724, their conquest of Ouidah, the French colonial conquest, and Christianity also had some impact here (perhaps even before colonialism through contacts with the Portuguese?). The diversity of legends and stories about Legba, Chango, and other vodun in Benin is perhaps a remnant of this great diversity in practice and mythology in today's Benin that has deep historical roots. Anyway, we hope to now read a recently published history of Vodou (again, focusing on the connections to the Slave Coast) that investigates more deeply the political factors shaping religion and spirituality in this part of West Africa. 

Marie Pierre Haoussa and Louis Baronnet fils (1792)

 

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One document we have been thinking about the last few days is a notarized contract from 1792. Establishing a société d'habitation de Marie Pierre Haoussa avec Louis Baronnet fils, the document is interesting for the surname of Marie Pierre: Haoussa. Although most documents in colonial Haiti spell "Hausa" as Aoussa, not Haoussa, we were nonetheless curious about Marie Pierre as a person of possible Hausa extraction. After all, colonial legislation did attempt to push free people to bear African names. Furthermore, people of African origin were sometimes known by a first name and their alleged "nation," too. 

In the case of Marie Pierre Haoussa, however, we could not trace her exact origins. It would appear that she was a free black woman owning land in Aquin, presumably i an area that may be today's la Colline à Mongons. When checking the parish registry, we did come across a Marie Pierre, black Creole, who married her "mulatto" master in 1781. But there is no indication of Marie Pierre's parents' origins in the parish books for Aquin. We were also wondering why she did not use her husband's surname, but he may not have been of legitimate birth either. Either way, Gabriel and this Marie Pierre had a number of children, he married her, and, from what we could gather, the Marie Pierre Haoussa named here could be the same woman.

In terms of her 1792 partnership with a man from Bainet, we were struck by the huge diversity in slaves both brought into their planned coffee farm. Marie Pierre was responsible for bringing 6 slaves, most apparently female. They consist of a mix of Arada, Mandingue, Thiamba, Ibo, Canga and one "nation" we could not decipher in the notary's handwriting (perhaps Aguiam?). Baronnet fils, on the other hand, was responsible for bringing in more slaves who were mostly male. Since the land was apparently held by Marie Pierre Haoussa, he may have been required to supply more of the forced labor. Either way, his enslaved workers were also very diverse in origins. One, whose "nation" looks like Guialuuka, is from a background we could not figure out. But others included Thiamba, Bibi (Ibibio), Biny (possibly Edo, for people from the kingdom of Benin), Congo, Creoles, Ibos, and a Mine. 

Naturally, we will have to conduct further searches in the notarized documents and parish registry to see if we can locate more records of Marie Pierre. But, the fact that she owned land and slaves is consistent with someone who was married to a free "mulatto" landowner for some time in the region. We suspect the "Haoussa" part of her name comes from an African-born father but have to dig deeper into the archives to prove it. 

The Ibo in Haiti

The Igbo peoples have left a cultural legacy in Haiti that survives to this day. The Ibo nanchon in Haitian Vodou, for instance, attests to this Igbo legacy. Whilst perusing runaway advertisements, we focused on Ibo captives in Saint Domingue to look for anything distinctive. As we expected, since the French slave traders were usually not bringing many captives from the Bight of Biafra to Saint Domingue, many Igbo slaves in the colony appear to have been smuggled through other colonies. The above case of Marie, for example, illustrates the example of an English-speaking Igbo in Aquin. One wonders if she was brought to Saint Domingue from Jamaica or another British colony in the Antilles. The "Ibos" of Saint Domingue were also briefly described by Descourtilz and a few other writers on the colony's Africans, often noting their propensity for suicide. 

Another trend we noticed with Igbo captives is a certain degree of ambiguity about their precise "national" origin. Some were listed as Bibi, presumably for the Ibibio peoples of southern Nigeria. Francois, the man above, could have been either one or perhaps from another group in southeastern Nigeria. 

Yet again, another runaway slave was seen as either Bibi (Ibibio) or Ibo. 

Some runaway Igbos from other colonies were identified precisely. For example, Margueritte came to the colony from Mississippi. 

Something we have written about elsewhere is the consistent presence of Ibos in colonial Bainet, in the Sud-Est of Haiti. Three newly arrived Ibos absconded from the Chaumeil habitation in Bainet.

Another Ibo, Marie, was identified as an Anglophone person.

Once again, another Ibo, Etienne, spoke English. This one was "owned" by a free black woman.

As for Saint-Emilion, a runaway described above, he was either Ibo or Chauma. We could not identify Chauma at all, but it indicates once again how ambiguous and problematic the "national" labels assigned to Africans in Saint Domingue truly were.

Alexandre, another Ibo maroon, spoke English.

Jean, an Ibo runaway, similarly spoke English.

We found the above case interesting for its description of an Ibo runaway who spoke Nago (Yoruba). Assuming the Ibo identification is accurate, one wonders if he learned "Nago" in West Africa. 

Congos in Saint Domingue

Since captives from West Central Africa comprised a very large proportion of Africans trafficked to French Saint Domingue, we recently read through every runaway advertisement mentioning "Congos" in the colony. Some of the ads actually reveal intriguing details about the background of so-called "Congo" Africans. For instance, Jean-Pierre, named above, knew how to read and write. Was he from a literate background in Kongo or Soyo, perhaps first learning to read and write in Portuguese? The short description of him seems to imply he was literate in French.

Sometimes, "Congo" slaves were given additional descriptors. The above case, a Congo "Monbala" named Choisi, is an example. Monbala may be a reference to the Mbala people of Congo who are to the east of modern-day Kinshasa.

The Congo-Mouyaca may have been the Yaka peoples. This suggests that slaveholders in Saint Domingue did have some kind of basic understanding of the ethnic heterogeneity of so-called "Congos" on the plantations. 

Some of the "Congos" listed appear to have retained their African names. Angoulou, above, is an example of this. Someone familiar with names and the languages of Central Africa might be able to identify their origins more precisely. 

For instance, the "Congo" named Pierrot was "dit Cimba." Cimba definitely sounds like an African name, probably from a Bantu language like KiKongo. 

One of the "Congo" runaways was said to be a "Congo Binda." We wonder if Binda is actually the Mpinda of Angola. Their language is said to be closer to Kimbundu.

Lucanda was another "Congo" maroon with what appears to be an African name. Lukanda is used as a place name in Congo (DRC) and appears to be used as a name, too.

Another type of "Congo" were the "Congo-bord-la-mer." Like Crispin, we assume they were Kongolese from the area near the Atlantic coast. 

Sometimes, runaway "Congo" were given more than one additional descriptor. In the case of Jolicoeur, he was a "Congo Sondi bord de la mer". If so, he was likely from a coastal area or Kongo and of the Sundi sub-group. 

Another "Congo" named Louis was apparently "owned" by Baudry Deslozieres, a colon whose notes based on conversations with Kikongo-speakers in Saint Domingue was published in the early 19th century. Was Louis one of the unwilling captives who provided information to Baudry Deslozieres?

As for the "Congo Mondivi" group, we are unsure of their origin. The above case,a Joseph around 30 years of age, is ambiguous. There is a place called Mavivi in eastern Congo (DRC), but this seems far too unlikely to have been a source of "Congo" captives. We wonder if the "Mondivi" were the Vili people of Loango.

The "Congo-Mayombe" were one of the more frequently named Kongo sub-groups in the runaway ads. They are undoubtedly linked to the Mayombe.

A useful reminder of how ambiguous these "national" labels were is the case of Vincent. Though he was considered a "Congo" by his "owner" in Saint Domingue, he called himself Senegalese. Given the huge distance and cultural differences between people from the Senegambia and West Central Africa, one wonders if Vincent was trying to take advantage of a certain esteem for "Senegal" captives.

Again, someone with familiarity with Central African languages might have some luck determining possible ethnic origins for "Congo" captives. One of the above 3 maroons, Gazambi, appears to have an African name.

Another pattern we noticed is the frequency with which the name Pedro could be found among "Congo" Africans. We wonder if this is due to some Kongo peoples using Portuguese names in Africa or if it was simply another instance of slaveholders giving their chattel exotic or foreign names.

The "Congo-Monteque" nation most probably refers to the Teke peoples and/or the Batéké Plateau. 

Some "Congo" captives were remarkably mobile. In the above case of Jupiter, we see an example of a slave "owned" by a resident of Kingston, Jamaica yet he escaped to Saint Domingue.

Sometimes "Mayombe" was written in different ways. Thus, we can see the example of so-called "Congo Mayambe" captives in the colony.

In another case of a "Congo" bearing an African name, we can see the case of Minerve, or Pinba. Pinba sounds like the Haitian Creole word Penba, which is used for a "Sly, malicious woman."

Two additional "Congo" captives with what may be African names appear above. Kicony and Bamby are difficult to trace, although kikoni a word in the Taabwa language. 

The "franc Congo" in Saint Domingue likely came from a term used by French slave traders. According to Baudry Deslozieres, the term referred to captives purchased from the "canton of Ambriz." They were considered excellent slaves by the French.

As for the "Missi-Congo" nation, this is presumably an allusion to the Mwisi-Kongo, or MwisiKongo, another term for the Kongolese.

We suspect Mabilla, a "Congo" maroon "due bord de la mer," was from a coastal region.

Macaya is a name of Central African origin that can be found among people of "Congo" origin. It can still be found in the Congo.

As for the "Souty" nation, we assume it is perhaps a reference to the Nsundi or Sundi.

The above "Congo" named Mabiala appears to be another case of a "Congo" with an African name.

Similarly, Bajaca may be an African name for the above "Congo" maroon. 

Some "Congo" slaves spoke other Creole languages of the Caribbean. The above case of Tam illustrates this, since he understood Papiamento.

Yet another "Congo" with an African name can be seen in the case of Matta, or Magloire.

The "Mazelingua" nation could be from Zambia. In Zambia, the name Maselinga exists. 

Recognition of similarities or overlap between the "Congo" and "Mondongue" nations can be see in the case of a woman called Diane. In her own country, she was called Ougan-daga, which bears a resemblace to the surname Ogandaga in Gabon.

As for the "Mazonga-Congo" nation, Narcisse may have hailed from what is now the Pala-Masonga region of Kasai Oriental. Was he of Luba origin?

Another ambiguous "Congo" group were the Masoula. Apparently, 12 of them, labelled Congo in the colony but calling themselves Masoula, ran away. 

Another group we suspect to be of Central African origin, Massangui, were in Saint Domingue. The use of the name for a place can be found in both Congo and Cameroon.

A Congo (Kongo?) Prince in 1782

 

One of the more interesting notices of a runaway "Congo" slave in colonial Haiti is the 1782 case of a "Prince de Congo." Unnamed in the notice, the said maroon spoke of himself as a "Prince of Congo" and was apparently able to wound the son of his "owner" before his escape. Indeed, he was even said to have killed the mother of his sixth child before running away, perhaps a sign of how desperate and eager this Prince was to escape the plantation in Marmelade. From what we can tell, this is the only runaway notice for a "Congo" captive alluding to noble background. Was he from the Kingdom of Congo, as appears likely, and perhaps from one of the competing factions or lineage groups which periodically engaged in battles over the throne of Kongo in the 18th century?

Jean-Baptiste Belley

Somehow we forgot about Jean-Baptiste Belley, perhaps one of the most famous "Senegal" Africans in colonial Haiti. Born a slave, Belley gained his freedom and was one of the prominent free blacks in Okap during the late 18th century. Belley even represented Saint Domingue in France, where the famous portrait above was completed.

"Senegal" Nation and the Senegambia

 

The "Senegal" nation was consistently present among African slaves in Saint Domingue. Throughout the entire colonial era, the slave trade continued to bring captives of Bambara, Mandingue, Poulard, Wolof and "Senegal" backgrounds. Sadly, it is often unclear what people(s) were considered to be part of the "Senegal" nation. Some, with Muslim-sounding names like Aoua, mentioned above, could have come from a number of Senegalese ethic groups. 

Some Senegalese had their African names like Aoua. 

Some people referenced themselves as Poulard (Fulani) but were lumped into the generic "Senegal" nation. Was Auguste, for example, of Toucouleur extraction?

The "Senegalese" named Mallac might bear his African name. We assume Mallac may be Malik. 

Sometimes, the Poulard or Peuls were named as Foulany, or Fulani. It is under this name that Descourtilz wrote about Muslim Fulani captives in Saint Domingue.

Sometims, captives purchased from the coast of Senegal were explicitly labelled as Wolof, or Yolof. This Wolof presence can be attested by words of Wolof origin in Haitian Creole. But we assume Soninke, Serer, Toucouleur, Poulard, Bambara, and Mandingues were all part of the ensemble of "nations" captured and sold to the French slave traders on the coast.