Rasanblaj

What are our origins? Whether it was from civil rights activist Ella Baker who would ask fellow citizens: ‘Where do your people come from?’ Or our Ayiti community who still ask, ‘What’s your family’s name and where in Ayiti are you and they from?’ These rooting questions and stories matter. Let’s think then about the African coasts.

In my classes and community work, our look at Afrique begins with their kingdom formations. Just as I do not embrace the term ‘minority’ as black and brown folk have contributed to global history in major ways; I never, ever, ever begin the stories of Africa in bondage. That false start prioritizes white history rather than ours. We were not captive but rather we were free. 

Geographers, Geologists, and scholars from Religious, Archeological, Architectural Studies, and the like keep finding remnants of African nations and their enduring impact, pre-colonial contact. We know the names of the Ashanti kingdom, the Zulus, and the early states of Timbuktu, Songhay, Egypt, and the Akan states. In these spaces, our zanzets traded and mined salt and gold created STEM, recorded their presence, and documented their encounters with the Muslim world and her people, etc. 

Three Takeaways

Three takeaways are important as we reflect on our stories. I mention the kingdoms of Ashanti and the Zulu to reference the fact that in the midst of unrelenting European violence on our African continent, Africans still formed nation-states, elected, appointed, and promoted leaders, and survived despite the trifecta of European 1. religious violence, 2. trans-Atlantic trading, and later 3. forced labor for gold, diamonds, and railway work, etc. 

We resisted and survived from the beginning through the present. Second, the diversities of people originating from the coastal parts of Africa and the interior contributed to our diversity in the Caribbean. That drum style, the piman (hot spice) that we use, dance moves, braided and loc’ed hairdo, and our acknowledgment of Bondyé (God), our ancestors, the earth, birds and animals come from how our African zanzet interacted humanely with the aforementioned. These are just a snapshot of our look at coastal civilizations from our past. 

Borders have always been blurry in Hispaniola. Foreign Spain and France split the island into two entities into what we know as colonial Santo Domingo and Saint-Domingue. Several treaties beyond the infamous Treaty of Ryswick divided Hispaniola into the inequitable, geographic terrain of 1/3  for Ayiti and 2/3^rd for la República Dominicana. 

Even as Europe carved up the Caribbean and wreaked havoc on its native citizens like the Taino-Arawak, Ciboneys, and Caribs, we resisted. Names like Anacoana and Caonabo, religious entities like the zemis, and tools like the kanoahs (canoes), all helped our indigenous zanzet survive. In spite of the violence heaped unto them, indigenous citizens of Hispaniola united, strategized, and protested against Christopher Columbus’s and the invaders brute force. 

Three takeaways

Three takeaways are important as we reflect on our stories. We know their names. There were at least 3 distinct groups of Hispaniola natives even if the records are mere traces. In the face of forced religious conversions, violence, and coercive labor practices, Hispaniola natives survived. The manioc (yucca), batata, (sweet potato), maize (corn), canoes, fishing praxis, religious carvings, and community organizing, remains. Although Spain, France and so many other foreign entities divided the nation up, our native zanzet waged protest wars against them. We resisted from across the borders of colonialism. This is part of our story of where Ayiti, Ayisien, and Ayisienne come from. As oral stories inform us, the name of our nation itself, Ayiti, meaning mountainous land derives, from the Taino-Arawak’s legacy.   

Often folks describe Ayiti as the most African place in the Caribbean. Why? Our melanin, speech acts like our language Kreyòl and expressions that are similar to the Igbo language, religious cultures like Vodou(n), drums and musical style, and certainly our foods (yams, red meat, and herbs). Our elders often referencing Ginen (Guinea) as the place of our Diaspora’s return, all attest to this literal and figurative connection to Afrique/Africa. Some of us desire to return home; a longing that is felt and reverberates across generations.

Let us pause and trace our story backward, to see how African we as Haitians are. It behooves us to document the names and groups. Although these records are scant, they remain important to know our stories. The archives recorded Africans in Saint-Domingue as Boukman Dutty and Fatima and groups such as Arada, Mandingo, and Ibo. Linguists have increasingly linked the Kreyòl language to a blend of French and a rich collection of African languages ranging from Ewe, Twi, and Wolof.

Three takeaways

Three takeaways are important. The trans-Atlantic slave trade encompassed a significant portion of Africa, not simply the West. Viewed as disposable beings, these Africans coming to the Americas in chains and on ships, were diverse human beings politically, economically, spiritually, and gender and sexuality-wise. Finally, we do not know their names. How do you find your zanzet (ancestors) when they are listed with no names or as François, Makaya, and Marie? Or when they are stereotyped as aggressive, inhumane, and lascivious?

Our stories matter, so we begin it here. A nod to how continental Africa contributed to St. Domingue and Ayiti’s birth is of paramount importance! Thus, even if we cannot say for certain that we are Nigerian, Senegalese, Congolese, Ghanaian, or from Togo and Benin, we are still from Africa–the cradle of humankind!