El Arriero

Yet another classic from Gato Barbieri's early 1970s output. "El Arriero" is by Atahualpa Yupaniqui, but Gato added his own utterly unique sound and style to it. It works quite well with the jazz musicians he recorded Fenix with in 1971.

Claude Moise on Firmin

Claude Moise's essay in the 117th issue of Conjonction is a fine overview on the life and works of Anténor Firmin, one of Haiti's greatest intellectuals. For Moise, Firmin was an honest and sincere patriot who believed Haiti needed non-despotic, regular administration under civil authorities that promoted the economy and the education of the masses. Otherwise, Haiti would never become truly democratic or fully civilized, in the sense of uplifting the masses, reforming administration, and providing the required rational governance that would lead to Haitian economic growth. While surprisingly brief on the details of Firmin's famous essay arguing in favor of racial equality, Moise does contextualize Firmin's background and intellectual and political writings with the events and features of Haitian society and politics in the decades leading to the US Occupation of 1915. By the end of his life, Firmin had even moved beyond the Liberal program of his heroes, Edmond Paul and Boyer Bazelais, favoring more state intervention whilst lamenting the lingering impact of colorism and inequality. Sadly, the Haiti of today would probably horrify Firmin even more than the despotic regimes of incompetent leaders and the parasitic elites of the pre-1915 years... 

The Sokoto Caliphate

Murray Last's The Sokoto Caliphate is perhaps outdated, but still highly useful for an overview on the history of Sokoto. Beginning with the regional background and the origins of Uthman Dan Fodio early Community of followers, Last covers the jihad, the early expansion and consolidation of the Caliphate, its administration, and the vizierate. Basing his work mainly on local Arabic sources penned in the 19th and 20th centuries, Last's work is supplemented by the journals, letters, and colonial-era documentation when available. Thus, the portrait of the Caliphate is undoubtedly one of its elite. Those eager to find a deeper social history or economic history of the Sokoto Caliphate will be disappointed. Indeed, the study itself is mainly focused on Sokoto and its hinterland, meaning those eager for a complete history of Sokoto that includes the developments in all its emirates during the period from, say, 1804-1903, will not find it here. Nonetheless, Last's history is still significant in its rich use of the aforementioned sources to demonstrate how Uthman Dan Fodio's successors created an Islamic state which managed to survive for a century, transforming the larger Central Sudanic region in the process. 

In fact, through its early days battling with Gobir and establishing a new state after their hijra, to the establishment of a more established administrative structure during the reign of Muhammad Bello as caliph, one must note the accomplishments of the jihad. First, the Hausa kingdoms were transformed in a process that drew from Fulani, Hausa, Tuareg and other ethnic groups supporting it (or, indifferently allowing it). Second, the Shaikh and his successors were able to transcend a strictly Fulani base for power by moving beyond a solely Fulani/Fulani clan alliances and marriages. Third, Bello was able to promote the settlement of "cattle Fulani" in the sparsely settled area of Sokoto's hinterland, thereby encouraging them to become sedentary, more productive and more amenable to thorough Islamization. Fourth, the jihad established a state system in which the moral authority of the caliph was strong enough to never be successfully rebelled against by the major emirates. Fifth, the Sokoto rulers cultivated a unity through their adherence to Islam and the guidance of Islamic Law and religion as recommended in the writings of Uthman dan Fodio and his brother and son. Unlike their "pagan" and other enemies, the forces of the Sokoto caliphate were usually more unified, even when the major emirates to the east only sent "presents" as tribute or did not fully participate in the annual campaigns.

Of course, Sokoto's growth and economic importance also transformed the Central Sudan. Borno, which lost some of its territory to the forces of the jihad, mainly coexisted peacefully with Sokoto after al-Kanemi's heroic saving of the kingdom. Relations with Baghirmi were to be peaceful in order to secure an eastern route to the Nile, when the Mahdi was supposedly to appear (Islamic millennialism in the Sokoto Caliphate is a topic worthy of additional study). The Tuareg and Agades were of course already linked to Hausaland via the salt trade and other forms of commerce, but the Sokoto Caliphate's expansion likely helped to secure it as the economic center of the vast region. Studying its economic history and the role of slavery, textile production, the salt and kola nut trades, and trans-Saharan commerce will be our next areas of research. 

Tabaqat and Sudanic Africa

MacMichael's abridged translation of the Tabaqat in A History of the Arabs in the Sudan and Some Account of the People who Preceded Them and of the Tribes Inhabiting Dárfūr, Volume 2 is outdated and probably riddled with errors. That said, it is, to our knowledge, the most complete English translation of a major source on the history of the Islamic holymen of the Funj Sultanate. Written in the early 1800s by Muhammad wad Dayf Allah, it contains rich biographies loaded with anecdotes, stories, miracles, and portraits of the lives of major figures in Sudanese Islam since the 16th century. Moreover, some of the biographies illustrate the Islamic ties to Kordofan, Darfur, Borno, Wadai, Hausaland, the Maghreb, Egypt, the Arabian Peninsula, and more. Let us take a closer look at some of these ties to Sudanic Africa

First of all, it is interesting to note that one of the major founding figures associated with Sufism in Sudan was Tag El Din Bahari, a native of Baghdad (in the translation of MacMichael, his full name is given as Muhammad El Bahari Tag El Din El Baghdadi). He arrived in the Sudan after completing the pilgrimage and is frequently mentioned in the text for his students and acolytes. There is no evidence of contacts for this Sufi teacher and al-Baghdadi of Air, yet one cannot help but notice the presence of two Iraqi Sufis of major import in both the Air region and in the Funj Sultanate in the 16th century. Given the evidence of later contacts by the 1600s between the Eastern Sudan and Central Sudan, one should delve deeper into the history of Sufism and Eastern influences on its practices in Air, Hausaland, and Borno, possibly tracing signs of influence or exchange with the domain of the Funj rulers. 

Additional signs of contact with the Central Sudan can be seen in the case of Muhammad ibn Adlan el Shaf'ai El Hoshabi, said to have done missionary work in Borno and Hausaland (256). Alas, there is no precise date given to make sense of the chronology of his time in the Central Sudan. Yet we know from Krump's account of his travels in the Sudan, that caravans including Borno and Fezzan Sufis and travelers were going to the Funj Sultanate. Thus, by the early 18th century, it was at least not unheard of for Sufis to travel between the Fezzan and Borno and the Sinnar Sultanate in caravans. Indeed, one of the holymen included in the Tabaqat was allegedly from the Fezzan, Abdulla el Sherif (227). In fact, some of the holymen of Funj kingdom even studied under West Africans in eastern lands. For instance, Khogali ibn Abd el Rahman ibn Ibrahim studied in Medina under Sheikh Ahmad el Tabankatawi el Fellati (250). The latter, whose precise origins are unclear in MacMichael's translation, was probably from the Western or Central Sudan but established in Medina, where he was an influential scholar of Islamic studies. Amusingly, MacMichael translates the anecdote of Khogali ibn Abd el Rahman ibn Ibrahim stopping Bukr of Darfur from attacking Sennar by striking him with his rod (251).

Additional holymen from the Funj sultanate who traveled to western lands included Abu Surur El Fadli, who taught in Darfur and was murdered in Wadai by his concubines (229). Likewise, Abu Zayd ibn el Sheikh Abd el Kadir traveled to Darfur and Borku during the reign of Sultan Ya'akub, said to have ruled in Wadai from 1681-1701 and to have lost a war with Ahmad Bukr of Darfur (281). Last, but certainly not least, Hasan ibn Hasuna ibn El Haj Musa, who died in 1664, was a wealthy holyman who owned many slaves and livestock. He was said to have traded many horses to Tekali, Borku and Darfur (244). This last individual's trading ventures establishes the tie between commerce and religion as well as the significance of the horse trade with areas far to the west of the Nile. Undoubtedly, the expansion of Muslim-ruled states in Darfur and Wadai favored this economic, cultural, and religious exchange with both the Funj Sultanate and Borno. Alas, the absence of a Tabaqat for Borno, Kanem, Wadai and Darfur makes it harder to explore these connections and movements that entailed commerce, Sufism, and Islamic scholarship. 

Anacaona, Poème Dramatique

Anacaona, poème dramatique by Burr-Reynaud, Frédéric Burr-Reynaud and Dominique Hippolyte is yet another play inspired by Haiti's indigenous past and the Spanish conquest. First staged in 1927, the play continues the Haitian tradition of connecting the struggles of the "Taino" with the descendants of African slaves who avenge them by defeating the French in 1804. Since it was also staged during the US Occupation, one can easily imagine the play appealing to nationalist sentiments in favor of Haitian independence and anti-imperialism, too. 

However, this short play fictionalizes aspects of the Xaragua Massacre orchestrated by Ovando. Although Ovando is portrayed as already plotting to destroy Xaragua and even convinces his officers that the Indians are plotting against them, the authors also add romance. Ovando actually falls in love with Anacaona, so completely seduced and beguiled by her charm, beauty and etiquette. Anacaona, however, cannot forget the fate of Caonabo, and only hopes to win over the Spanish with her charms to avert greater disaster. Sadly, Ovando nonetheless orders the massacres and becomes irate when rejected by Anacaona, who is later killed. 

Throughout the play, an old woman, Mataba, repeatedly warns of the Spanish plot to destroy Xaragua and enslave and oppress the Indian population. Alas, the other Indian leaders do not heed her warnings, so Mataba predicts the eventual vengeance of the indigenous population by blacks (today's Haitians). Thus, through a fraternal bond based on their exploitation and subjugation by Europeans, Haitians and "Tainos" are connected. Again, this is neither surprising, nor deviating from typical Haitian literary portrayals of the island's indigenous peoples. One can also see the authors continuing to use words derived from sources on the Kalinago, too. Thus, moutoutou, ouicou, Nonun, Savacou, Kouroumon, and other Kalinago words make an appearance. One scene even has Anacaona and her court praying to the cemis, including among them names from Kalinago (Island Carib) religion and spirituality. 

La fille du Kacik

In spite of its flaws, Henri Chauvet's La fille du Kacik is an interesting work of drama for the context in which it was produced. Published in 1894, ten years before the Centennial of Haitian independence, the play was undoubtedly connecting Caonabo's resistance to Spanish oppression and invasion with the origins of Haiti as an independent state. Needless to say, Chauvet took many liberties with history to portray Caonabo as a proto-nationalist leader eager to build an alliance with caciques across the island to defeat the Spaniards. The play, as one might expect, also focuses on his defeat of the whites left at Navidad by Columbus and the routing of a group led by Arana sent to avenge the men killed by Caonabo. Anacaona, who is mentioned once in a line by Mamona, the daughter of Caonabo, appears to either not be married yet to Caonabo or is marginal to the story. Xaragua, however, is mentioned briefly, and Bohechio as in agreement with Caonabo's plan to drive out the whites left in Marien. 

Much of the plot is centered on the tragic romance of Rodrigo, a "good" white who is opposed to the avarice and abuses of his fellow Spaniards eager to find gold and take advantage of indigenous women. Mamona, the beloved daughter of Caonabo, is rescued by Rodrigo from a caiman one day whilst resting near the Artibonite River. Because Rodrigo saved Mamona's life (who also happens to be named after Atabey, the mother of Yucahu), he is spared by Caonabo when Macao, a guide, leads the reconnaissance mission of the Spaniards straight into the domains of Caonabo. The powerful cacique, driven by a hatred for the Spaniards after their numerous depredations across the island for gold and women, has the Spaniards on the reconnaissance mission executed while Rodrigo, spared because of Mamona's love, is torn by his sense of honor and his feelings for Mamona. In a twist that is promising and liberatory, Caonabo later goes on to defeat the forces led by Arana to avenge the death of the Spaniards executed by the powerful cacique. In one moving scene, Caonabo similarly alludes to the barbarism of the Spaniards, despite the latter referring to the Indians as barbarians instead of civilized. Anyway, as one might expect, the romance of Mamona and Rodrigo is a tragic one, ending in the former's death and the suicide of the former. Nonetheless, Caonabo's pledge to liberate and defend Haiti, frequently alluding to the Aya aya bombe chant (which is actually of African origin) and even the Tree of Liberty, expresses Chauvet's desire to insert Caonabo into the pantheon of national heroes and founders. Guacanagaric, on the other hand, is more akin to a traitor and perhaps comparable to Rigaud?

Despite its anti-colonial themes, however, Chauvet's play surprisingly refuses to pass judgment on Columbus. Instead of the Admiral bearing any blame, it is really the rapacious appetite of the Spaniards in his service who are responsible for the abuses and exploitation of the island's indigenous people. Chauvet, through Rodrigo, prefers to portray Columbus as a heroic figure whose accomplishments represented an advance in science and human knowledge. Obviously, this version of events is not matched by the historical record, but it falls into line with the depiction of Columbus in Nau's history of Haiti's indigenous past. Another intriguing feature in the play is Chauvet's heavy reliance on Kalinago language and culture for what is ostensibly "Taino" Haiti. Instead of referring to clubs by their Taino name, macana, Chauvet uses boutou. He also uses Kalinago names for a variety of things, like karbet, Nonum, Louquo, Kouroumon, and Mabouya. Although the Taino and Kalinago cultures were definitely in contact in the precolonial Caribbean, the ubiquity of references and names derived from cultures non-indigenous to Hispaniola is a bit jarring. However, it does reflect 19th century Haitian knowledge of the island's indigenous peoples, which sometimes carelessly applied data from the Lesser Antilles to Hispaniola. Likewise, one wonders if, like Nau, Chauvet also believed the false idea that the sambas of 19th century Haiti were somehow derived from or influenced by the Taino singer-poets and their areytos, even though the word points more to Africa. 

The Serpent and the Rainbow

Although we have known of the "problematic" horror film, The Serpent and the Rainbow, for several years, it was only this year that we sat down and watched it. It's actually a bit more sophisticated and intriguing than we initially thought. Indeed, director Wes Craven actually shot some scenes in Haiti, too. Judging from the architecture of the houses in what is supposed to be Port-au-Prince, we suspect shooting was done in Cap-Haitien. In fact, one scene even takes place at Sans Souci, the palace of Henri Christophe! So, this mediocre horror flick actually shows viewers some of Haiti's rich patrimony. Strangely, the story is set in Port-au-Prince despite the use of Cap-Haitien and Haiti's distinctive Nord. Nonetheless, the writer and director clearly went at least somewhat beyond the eponymous study which inspired this film for sources. This surprising mix of evidence of depth with the typical horror shlock is what makes this movie distinct.

Let's briefly discuss the bad things about this film so we can better appreciate its strengths. First, the Haitian characters. Most, if not all, are played by African American and other non-Haitian actors. You know what that means...horrible, inconsistent Haitian accents! One actor, who plays Mozart in the film, sometimes drops his ersatz "Haitian" accent in the middle of his lines. The film likewise exploits the usual stereotypes of Haiti and the "Other" as barbarian and violent, although this is mainly associated with the Macoutes and/or forces of Duvalierism rather than Haitian Vodou. To its credit, Craven's movie tries to highlight that dichotomy, so that beautiful, pious, celebratory and devout rites, rituals and practices drawn from Haiti's syncretic mix of Catholicism and African traditions can be seen in all its beauty. One is also a little confused by the Amazonian shaman and the experience of Alan in South America, although we suppose it helps establish for the audience that our protagonist is no ordinary US anthropologist. Indeed, he's willing to "go native" and try unknown concoctions and experience alternate states of consciousness. To the film's credit, this Amazonian adventure, in which the protagonist manages to make it back to "civilization" on his own (well, with the aid of a jaguar-spirit guide) is only a small part of the film's overall narrative. But this leads to the film's other inconsistencies. 

Part of our protagonist's reasons for traveling to the Amazon and Haiti was on behalf of pharmaceutical interests in the US hoping to develop drugs and medical treatments from unknown plants and healing practices of indigenous peoples. Thus, Alan is actually acting on behalf of the extractive forces which seek to exploit the knowledge and resources of indigenous and Global South populations. Perhaps this was written intentionally to highlight the similarly colonialist position of the academic anthropologist in non-Western societies. Yet this also contradicts the film's subtle anti-colonial critique of US imperialism and its morally inconsistent desire to portray the protagonist as a hero for defeating the Tonton Macoute chief, Peytraud. The white American protagonist is more loyal to Haiti than to the profits of the medical industry, represented in part by his boredom and discomfort after returning from Haiti, but it is hard to see him as exactly heroic when it is the Haitian people themselves who are responsible for bringing to an end the Duvalier regime and storming the structure in which the Macoute captain uses for macabre rituals, torture, and, most importantly, the film's final part. Last, but certainly not least, the first torture scene, in which Alan is suffering at the hands of Peytraud, the latter rejects the idea of disfiguring the "pretty white face" of the former, highlighting a racialized dimension of power and status that does not seem to match Peytraud's defiant attitude against the US, inferred from his reference to Grenada and the haste with which the US rushes to assert its control of the Caribbean in the name of "stability." 

Despite our misgivings about the aforementioned features, we found it actually thrilling to see the film match the fall of the Duvalier regimes with the likewise defeat of Captain Peytraud and the Macoutes (associated with zombification and sorcery). The shadow of Duvalier lingers everywhere in the film's Haitian scenes, with posters of Papa Doc and Baby Doc frequently appearing. The Tonton Macoutes are likewise omnipresent, spying on Alan's movements and participating in the disappearance of others or the torture and killings against dissidents and free thinkers. Indeed, the zombie whose story instigates Alan's travels to Haiti, Christophe (almost certainly a name inspired by Henri Christophe), was formerly a schoolteacher who spoke his minds and paid the consequences via zombification by Peytraud (whose name evokes Petro, perhaps matching his violent and aggressive tendencies). The Serpent and the Rainbow actually does a decent job capturing this element of repression, fear, and exploitation of Duvalierist Haiti, even when the plot makes no sense and the Vodou ceremony scenes are illogical. 

Similarly great, it would seem that Craven and his team actually did some research about Haiti. For example, one scene in which revelers and penitents travel to a site and pray to the Virgin Mary/Erzulie was probably inspired by Saut d'Eau. Another area in which the writers seemed to do some homework was the character of Marielle Duchamp, a Haitian doctor whose father was a houngan. Duchamp is a devotee of Erzulie, and based on her sensual, loving, and romantic interest for Alan, she lives up to that lwa. She's also one of the few "mulatto" Haitian characters, perhaps another sign that the film's writers were aware of one of the popular forms in which she can be depicted. In fact, one almost wonders if Rachel Beauvoir-Dominique was the inspiration for Duchamp's character, particularly since the book which inspired the film featured Max Beauvoir and his daughter. Finally, the character of Lucien Celine, a houngan and ally to Alan and Marielle, seems to run a hotel based on the famous Oloffson. These nice touches and little things make the film somewhat more respectful of Haiti than the typical US horror movie.

The Incas

The Incas by Franklin Pease García Yrigoyen is a short overview on the civilization of the Incas worth perusal. Though meant as an introduction, we are trying to read more studies of the Incas written by Peruvian and South American historians and scholars. Pease's study is also worth reading for representing the state of historiography of the era on the Incas, drawing on both Latin American and European/North American historical and anthropological studies. In that regard, it is interesting to note that some of the themes Pease focused on were similar to those of Maria Rostworowski's study of the Inca Empire (Tawantinsuyu). Like her, he focuses on idea of reciprocity as the basis of Inca power, a feature which allowed the rulers of Cusco to receive tribute in labor services in exchange for the distribution of products and goods like cloth. While we personally disagree with some of the ideas here (such as a dualism in the Inca position) and are probably still more biased in terms of the "historic" rather than "mytho" elements of Inca History as recorded in the Spanish chronicles, The Incas is a useful reminder of the ongoing debate on so many elements of the Incas and pre-Hispanic Andean Civilization. For instance, the position of the Inca itself sometimes being assumed to be comparable to a European monarch or certain assumptions about, say, yanacona that hastily compare their position to servitude or bondage, are all subjects for debate and further inquiry. The notion of the term Inca being derived from the Aymara enqa is an intriguing one, too. This would connect with the idea of the Inca and "generative principles" that highlight the connection of the Incas to religion and ritual in Andean cosmovisions. The author has also inspired us to look more closely at Andean resistance to the Spanish from c.1535-1571 to make sense of what extent the Vilcabamba Inca rump state actually was linked to wider subversive events and revolts in the early colonial period. 

Modern Analogies and Medieval Nubia

Ali Osman's Economy and trade of medieval Nubia is premised on the notion of continuity across Nubian history. With this probably fair assumption, his thesis proceeds to explore possible mechanisms and systems of economics and exchange in Nubia based on analogous practices in modern Nubia. This can be justified by the, again, probably fair, conclusion that relations with their environment, technology, and rural/village systems of land proprietorship and lineages have not changed drastically until the 20th century. While Osman is undoubtedly correct to point to the necessity of using contemporary Nubian ethnographic and linguistic evidence to make sense of Christian Nubia, his analogous model does veer a little too far by attempting to compare Nubia's river trade of the early 20th century to the organization of trade 1000 years ago. Again, the environment hasn't changed that much and there undoubtedly was much continuity at the village level (at least) from the Christian period through post-Christian kingdoms. But, one suspects that the impact of religion and the gradual shift to Islam may have introduced more changes in social, economic, spiritual, and political features than we think. Despite some similarities between the state of Kokka, for instance, and medieval Nubia, the practice of Islam and changes in the "superstructure" of society may have introduced or led to other changes on the micro-level. Despite our own hesitations about some of the study's conclusions, it was fascinating to read Osman's personal, autobiographic details. Indeed, oral traditions of his own lineage identify a Christian ancestor who lived several centuries ago! And the author's comments about official versus popular trade seem reasonable. 

Fra Mauro, Kanem, Organa

Source

Fra Mauro's depiction of the Lake Chad region correctly named some of the peoples and features of the area, like Bagirmi, Bulala (after they were the dominant power in Kanem), and the Mandara Mountains. He must've had 'native' informants from Kanem or Borno or access to decent Arabic sources by geographers.

Source

But why continue to use the name "Organa" instead of Kanem? Fra Mauro knew of the Marghi, Mandara, Bagirmi, Bolala (Bulala in Kanem and Lake Fitri), and perhaps he thought Lake Chad was a giant marsh due to its seasonal fluctuations. But why continue to use the name Organa when his Arabic and/or Africans sources have specified Kanem and Borno as place names by the mid-15th century. Was it due to the fact that the Bulana rulers had already seized power in Kanem by this time? It could have been due to the already established pattern in medieval European Cartography to refer to Kanem as Organa, something which was already apparent in the 14th century map of Angelino Dulcert.

Source

The Angelino Dulcert map also mentions the king of Organa fighting naked "blacks" by the sea, which I interpret to mean Lake Chad. There's a French translation and commentary of his map here that makes it even more likely to be Kanem. 

Incas of the Caribbean

Manco Capac, First of the Incas in a Cusco School painting part of a series at the Brooklyn Museum.

One of the most peculiar developments near the end of the Haitian Revolution was the adoption of the name Inca and children of the Sun by Jean-Jacques Dessalines. According to historian Thomas Madiou, Dessalines began using the name by the autumn of 1802, referring to those who submitted to him in opposition to the forces of Leclerc (Madiou 451). However, Dessalines dropped the Inca name after July 1803, when he began to refer to his forces as Armée Indigène, asserting indigeneity in opposition to the French (Geggus 52). Although a number of observers and historians have commented on this “Inca Episode” in the history of the Indigenous Army, contextualizing it within the broader context of nationalist struggles in the Americas demonstrates the power of Inca symbolism across much of the Americas, extending even into the Caribbean. Rebecca Earle’s The Return of the Native: Indians and Myth-Making in Spanish America, 1810–1930 provides a context for understanding the appeal of the Inca to the Haitian independence movement. Thus, this brief post will endeavor to elucidate the origins of Inca symbolism and its appeal to the people of Saint Domingue in the 18th century, and connect it to the independence movement that led to independence in 1804. By the conclusion, hopefully Antillean “Incas” will seem less aberrant or surprising.

First, one must determine to what extent people in Saint Domingue were aware of the history of the Incas. Residents of the colony likely encountered the Inca through encyclopedias, histories, and theater. The colonial newspaper, Affiches américaines, actually listed a history of the Incas for sale in the colony on the 31st of October 1780.^[1] On the 17th of May 1783, the same newspaper also listed a book entitled Les Incas as available at the Imprimerie Royale. While it is uncertain if this is a reference to Marmontel’s Les Incas or another work, these references in the colonial press establish the availability of books on the Inca.^[2] Those able to read French texts, undoubtedly mostly whites, but a small number of the population of African descent, too, could have accessed these books through purchase, borrowing texts, or through conversation with those who had read such works.^[3] Those interested in the island of Hispaniola’s indigenous past may have also been familiar with the Incas and Peru through encyclopedias, plays, and histories, which could have reached free people of color and slaves through a variety of avenues. For example, Charles Arthaud, a doctor and member of the Cercle des Philadelphes at Le Cap, authored a study of the island’s indigenous people, Recherches sur la constitution des naturels du pays, sur leurs arts, leur industrie, et les moyens de leur subsistance.^[4] Arthaud and similar philosophes were likely familiar with the Incas through their research. In addition, copies of Voltaire’s Alzire were also listed in the press as available for consumers in a notice on April 15, 1775 at Le Cap. This latter work, we shall see, was a popular choice for stage adaptation in the colony and likely a significant contributor to the appeal of the Incas to the Haitian revolutionaries.

The colonial press also covered the Tupac Amaru Rebellion in Peru during the 1780s. A major revolt led by a descendant of the Incas, Tupac Amaru was mentioned in Affiches américaines 5 times from 1781 to 1784 (Thomson 426). While the brief articles did not invariably provide the most detail, the reference to Tupac Amaru’s presentation of himself as an Inca and the references to his followers as children of the Sun likely stood out to readers. Those familiar with the Incas through encyclopedias, Voltaire’s Alzire, Marmontel’s Les Incas or other texts would have undoubtedly been at least somewhat aware of this historical background. The rebels may have even aroused sympathy from those in the colony who saw the Inca through the lens of the Black Legend of Spanish cruelty and tyranny. Nonetheless, coverage of the rebels in the 1 May 1782 article referred to the actions of Tupac Amaru’s band as “brigandages” whilst also referring to the event as “too interesting” to not cover. One can imagine that enslaved people and free people of color who heard the news may have been interested, too. After all, a subjugated, oppressed people had risen in revolt, perhaps recalling to some their own racialized subordination in the French colony. Those familiar with the Incas through books or Alzire may have even conceptualized the Incas as captives or slaves rising against their oppressors in a way similar to slave revolts and marronage in the colony.

Louis Rigaud's portraits of various heads of state in 19th century Haiti, currently at the Yale Peabody Museum. Composite by Dionne-Smith. Read "Decolonizing Time: Nineteenth-Century Haitian Portraiture

and the Critique of Anachronism in Caribbean Art" by Erica Moiah James for more context on portraiture.

The next area in which familiarity with the Incas developed was theater. Theater could reach more people than written texts in a colonial society with low literacy rates, and audiences likely discussed what they saw with friends, families and neighbors.^[5] Enslaved people were probably exposed to this, directly or indirectly, while free people of color were sometimes prominent actors themselves or audience members of stage productions. Indeed, according to Fischer, “Theater appears to have been one arena where blacks, whites, and mulattoes mixed with relative ease and where the laws governing theatrical performances in France were relaxed long before the “liberation of theaters” in the metropolis” (Fischer 208). Theater, therefore, was a sure way in which certain themes, messages, and ideas were bound to circulate among all of the 3 racial groups in the colony. This is precisely why Voltaire’s Peruvian-inspired play, Alzire, likely contributed to the appeal of the Inca to the Haitian revolutionaries in 1802. Between 1765 and 1783, the play was staged at least 7 times in the colony, including performances in Port-au-Prince, Le Cap and Saint-Marc. This suggests that the play’s plot was probably familiar to audiences, and certainly those familiar with the text of the work or Voltaire’s other likely  books knew of it by reputation. Since free people of color and perhaps some of the slave population would have seen the play or at least heard about its plot, setting, and characters, Alzire was possibly the most important source of information on the Inca Empire and Peru. Moreover, one staging of the play included an actor, Dainville, who allegedly wore authentic costumes for the role, suggesting audiences had a glimpse of what was believed to be Inca dress.^[6] As a result of the frequency of performances of Alzire plus the availability of the play in book form to consumers, Voltaire’s story was familiar and accessible..

The play itself, a story set in colonial Peru that pits a tyrannical governor, Guzman, against Zamor, a cacique of Potosi and lover of Alzire, critiques the Spanish conquest and, intriguingly, reverses the charge of barbarism against the Europeans. Zamor, believed to be dead, returns to see Alzire and later slays Guzman, described in the text as “Zamor, our country’s great avenger” (Voltaire 13). Despite Voltaire’s admiration for the Incas, however, the play ends with a message of the moral redemption of Guzman. This, in turn, demonstrates to Zamor that Christianity and the Europeans were not entirely iniquitous. In other words, Zamor, the Avenger of the Americas, is ready to enjoy the benefits of Spanish or European civilization through the benevolent, paternal figure of Alvarez, the father of Guzman. One can envision free people of color in a colony like Saint Domingue imagining themselves as Zamor, ready to lead the masses into a truly novel New World with the benefits of European civilization. The message is thus ambiguously critical of colonialism since the new generation of indigenous elites, represented by Alzire and Zamor, the latter presumed to convert to Christianity later, will likely seek the counsel of Alvarez (the positive side of European civilization). If one wishes to trace the origin of this ambiguity deeper in time, El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, whose Royal Commentaries was well-known to French intellectuals, was the mestizo product of the Spanish conquest whose work served as one of the foundational sources for French historical and literary production related to Peru.^[7] El Inca Garcilaso, torn between the idealized version of his mother’s people and his Spanish background and experience, indirectly influenced Alzire and how audiences in Saint Domingue viewed the Incas.

Efigies de los incas o reyes del Perú, a Cusco School painting of the 18th century depicting the Incas and Spanish viceroys currently in Lima. Image credit: PI Prefix 1294B. Ojeda 2005-2025.

Besides theater, news and books, familiarity with the Inca may have reached Saint Domingue through contact with pro-independence Creoles from Spanish America in France. For example, Franciso de Miranda, who interacted with Brissot, was already interested in the Incas before the Haitian Revolution.^[8] Although Miranda did not go so far as to desire an actual Inca ruler at the head of government, his interest in reviving the name for an independent South American state was mirrored by other movements in South America. For instance, the Inca Plan of 1816, in which Rio de la Plata leaders at the Congress of Tucumán actively discussed the idea of reviving an Inca empire led by an Indian, reveals how some pro-independence leaders seriously considered a revival of the Inca state (Earle 44). Other pro-independence writers across South America drew on the Incas, Inca symbolism, or the idea of a hereditary monarchy led by a titular Inca. Undoubtedly, Haiti’s use of this symbolism predated much of the South American nationalist movements, though Francisco de Miranda may have been one of the early influences since 1790. Of course, as Earle’s work suggests, romanticized notions of the Incas or the pre-conquest societies as idealized groups wronged by Spanish colonialism became part of an invented past for a creole nationalism. However, Earle tracks how this changed over time as liberals and conservatives appropriated the past of pre-colonial societies while maintaining their own elite positions and access to power. Regardless of their lofty praise indigenous civilizations or the metaphorical use of the Indian as a foundational figure for the nation, the direct descendants of the indigenous peoples were usually marginalized. In Haiti, on the other hand, where there were no natives, Creoles of varying degrees of African descent participated in a similar discourse that privileged the elites and marginalized the bossales (or their descendants).^[9] 

In order to better understand how this process worked in the Haitian context, a closer examination of how free people of color and black Creoles related to indigeneity is necessary. According to Haitian historian Beauvais Lespinasse, free people of color sometimes sought patents to be recognized as having Indian rather than African origins. However, the French government in 1771 urged officials to not recognize these claims by free people of color (Lespinasse 237). Nonetheless, this demonstrates how some free people of color sought to identify with (fictitious?) indigenous ancestry rather than African to gain the same privileges of whites.^[10] Intriguingly, Hilliard d’Auberteuil in the 18th century also noted the pattern of rich free people of color claiming Amerindian origin through the Indians of Saint-Christophe in order to gain the rights of whites (d’Auberteuil 82). While it is certainly possible that some of these families did indeed have partial Amerindian ancestry, it is clear that the main reason these families suddenly discovered or proclaimed it had more to do with increasing discrimination in colonial society.^[11] But it may also explain why claiming indigeneity and the label of indigenous appealed to them in the later stages of the Haitian Revolution. Free people of color, and Creoles of African descent could easily envision themselves as the rightful heirs to the vanquished indigenous population devastated by the Spanish conquest. After all, some of them were already claiming Indian ancestry. It also provided an avenue to choose a common identity that united mixed-race and black Creoles while eventually including the African-born brought to the island against their will. For the latter, the use of indigeneity as the result of a forced relocation via the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade could serve the palingenesis of a new Haitian people.

Gérin in Histoire d'Haïti: 1807-1811 by Thomas Madiou.

Perhaps a clear example from the life of General Etienne Elie Gérin will establish this with greater clarity. According to the third volume of historian Joseph Saint-Rémy’s history Pétion, it was actually Gérin, the antiquaire, who first called the army in the Sud and Ouest the “Inca Army” (Saint-Rémy 75). This testimony is contradicted by the chronology of Thomas Madiou, who attributed the name to Dessalines and his circle. Nonetheless, descriptions of Gérin by Ardouin and Guy-Joseph Bonnet suggest he was quite interested in the island’s past. For instance, in the 6th volume of Beaubrun Ardouin’s monumental history, Ardouin repeats an anecdote he heard from Bonnet. Apparently, some time after the assassination of Dessalines, Gérin actually proposed remodeling Haiti as a caciquat, or cacicazgo, like the indigenous polities of the island in precolonial times (Ardouin 447). This political system would have established a supreme cacique with lesser caciques serving in the departments or provinces. Of course, the nobility would be created by the children of the signers of the Haitian Act of Independence. A similar story is likely recounted in Guy-Joseph Bonnet’s memoirs, in a critical discussion of Gérin. Again, he allegedly wanted to create a “superior cacique” in the constitution as the head of government (Bonnet 154). Saint-Rémy likewise reported a few more details on Gérin in the 5th tome of Pétion et Haïti: étude monographique et historique. While contrasting him and Pétion, he described the former as someone with a deep education and interest in the “Taino” indigenous population of the island. He was also said to have been inspired by Marmontel’s Les Incas when, in 1802, he began calling his army in the Sud and part of the Ouest the “Inca Army.” Last, but certainly not least, Gérin was interested in composing a Haitian Creole grammaire for use in education (Saint-Rémy 2).^[12] Though the idea of establishing a new state as a caciquat was rather different from the title of Incas Gérin also used during the Revolution, it illustrates how even after the assassination of Dessalines, some still looked to indigenous, precolonial societies as a model for a free state.^[13] Indeed, Gérin and some of the affranchis who had been to France may have even heard of Jean-Baptiste Picquenard’s novel that proposed a Peruvian origin of the “Taino” (Geggus 52). It is difficult to determine to what extent Picquenard’s novel would have influenced this discourse of indigeneity and the Incas in the last few years of the Haitian Revolution.^[14] But one can easily imagine someone like Gérin, seeing a link between Haiti’s indigenous population and Peru, championing the use of the name Inca for the Indigenous Army.

Furthermore, allusions to the Inca abound in subsequent literature of Haiti. Voyage dans le nord d'Hayti by Hérard Dumesle even compared Vincent Ogé to Manco-Capack, who brought light to the ancient peoples of the Americas (Dumesle 75). This comparison to the founder of the Inca dynasty is no coincidence. Though published in 1824, Dumesle’s work clearly demonstrated an ongoing appeal of the Incas to Haitian readers well into the 19th century. Privileging Ogé rather than, say, an enslaved person, was also significant. Centering affranchis who were initially only fighting for their rights rather than slaves, Dumesle nonetheless reveals an affiliation with the Incas as an elite group who brought civilization or enlightenment to the Andes. Dumesle wanted to depict Ogé and his class as the ones who paved the road for a great, future society in which, to no surprise, their own privileges and power were not to be questioned.^[15] In addition to Dumesle, other works by Haitian authors of the 19th century allude to the Incas. For example, a hymne haytienne entitled “Quoi? Tu te tais Peuple Indigène!” translated in Poetry of Haitian Independence, alludes to Haitians as children of the Sun while praising Dessalines (2).^[16] Undoubtedly, Dessalines continued to welcome comparisons to the Incas despite renaming his army in 1803. Another tract, Baron de Vastey’s Le système colonial dévoilé, cites El Inca Garcilaso on its first page as a reference for the Spanish conquest of Peru, followed by a brief overview of the indigenous cacicazgos of Haiti (de Vastey 1).^[17] Undeniably, Haitians aware of the history of the Americas were familiar with the Incas as a great civilization destroyed by Spanish avarice and cruelty, which they compared to French rapacity and inhumane exploitation of enslaved people and free people of color in Haiti.

Consequently, the salience of the Incas to the Haitian revolutionaries was an established and meaningful symbol of independence. Indeed, even outsiders were struck by its use in Haiti. A clear example can be seen in the work of Jean Abeille, the author of Essai sur nos colonies, et sur le rétablissement de Saint Domingue, ou considérations sur leur législation, administration, commerce et agriculture, published in 1805. Abeille, writing in favor of the French reconquest, actually referred to Haitians as “prétendus incas” (Abeille 17). In Abeille’s view, the leaders of independent Haiti were tyrants and a moral outrage, yet one notes how the Inca appellation of the Haitian leaders was still used. Another source, a report from 1804, even alluded to Dessalines as “jefe de la casa de los Incas” (AGI ESTADO, leg 68, exp 3).^[18] Haitian assertions of indigeneity and the Inca title were clearly understood by French and European observers, who would have shared this broader Atlantic World conceptualization of the Incas. For Abeille, a former planter in Saint Domingue, the idea of Dessalines as an Inca ruling an “empire of liberty” was anathema, hence his description of it as embodying the opposite of the virtues attributed to the Incas in the idealized French historical and literary production on Peru.

The continued reference to Dessalines and early Haiti as Incas, plus ongoing Haitian interest in the same affiliation, express a Haitian pattern in a general trend of Creole nationalism in the 19th century. While in the case of Haiti, there were few or no “Taino” left, the powerful and widespread appeal of the Inca Empire and its symbolism in the Atlantic World resonated in the Antilles.^[19] Thus, even in a land without a recognized, surviving indigenous people, the image of the “Indian” and its romanticized Inca incarnation, appealed to those desirous of independence. Unsurprisingly, free people of color may have been more influenced by the Inca trope, but the use of the Inca title by Dessalines even after 1803 attests to its broad appeal. Like their creole patriot counterparts in the South American republics, the future Haitian elite borrowed from a shared corpus of tropes, symbols and meaning to “avenge the Americas.”

Bibliography

Abeille, Jean. Essai sur nos colonies et sur le rétablissement de Saint Domingue, ou considérations sur leur législation, administration, commerce et agriculture. Chomel, imprimeur-libraire, 1805.

Affiches américaines. Port-au-Prince and Cap-Français, 1766-1790. https://dloc.com/AA00000449/00002/

Archivo General de Indias, Sevilla (AGI). Estado leg 68, no. 3. https://pares.mcu.es/ParesBusquedas20/catalogo/description/66193

Ardouin, Beaubrun. Études sur l'histoire d'Haïti: Suivies de la vie du Général J.-M. Borgella, Tome 6. Dezobry et E. Magdeleine, (Typographie de Prévôt et Drouard), 1856.

Bonnet, Guy-Joseph. Souvenirs historiques de Guy-Joseph Bonnet, général de division des armées de la République d'Haïti, ancien aide de camp de Rigaud. Documents relatifs à toutes les phases de la révolution de Saint-Domingue, recueillis et mis en ordre par Edmond Bonnet. Auguste Durand, 1864.

Daut, Marlene, and Kaiama L. Glover, editors. A History of Haitian Literature. Cambridge University Press, 2024.

Dumesle, Hérard. Voyage dans le nord d'Hayti, ou, Révélation des lieux et des monuments historiques. De l'Imprimerie du Gouvernement, 1824.

Earle, Rebecca. The Return of the Native: Indians and Myth-making in Spanish America, 1810-1930. Duke University Press, 2007.

Garrigus, John D. Before Haiti: Race and Citizenship in French Saint-Domingue. Palgrave Macmillan, 2006.

Geggus, David. "The Naming Of Haiti." NWIG: New West Indian Guide / Nieuwe West-Indische Gids 71, no. 1/2 (1997): 43-68. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41849817

Hilliard d'Auberteuil, Michel-René. Considérations sur l'état présent de la colonie française de Saint-Domingue: Ouvrage politique et législatif, présenté au Ministre De La Marine. Grangé, 1776.

Jenson, Deborah. Beyond the Slave Narrative: Politics, Sex, and Manuscripts in the Haitian Revolution. Liverpool University Press, 2011.

Kadish, Doris Y and Deborah Jenson. Poetry of Haitian Independence. Yale University Press, 2015.

Lespinasse, Beauvais. Histoire des affranchis de Saint-Domingue. Imprimerie Joseph Kugelmann, 1882.

Madiou, Thomas. Histoire d'Haïti, Tome II, 1799-1803. Editions Henri Deschamps, 1989.

McClellan, James E.. Colonialism and Science: Saint Domingue in the Old Regime. Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992.

Ojeda, Almerindo. 2005-2025. Project for the Engraved Sources of Spanish Colonial Art (PESSCA). Website located at colonialart.org. Date Accessed: 01/01/2025.

Saint-Rémy, Joseph. Pétion et Haïti: étude monographique et historique. Auguste Durand, 1853-1857.

Thomson, Sinclair. “Sovereignty Disavowed: The Tupac Amaru Revolution in the Atlantic World.” Atlantic Studies, 13 no. 3 (2016), 407–431. https://doi.org/10.1080/14788810.2016.1181537

Vastey, Baron de. Le système colonial dévoilé. P. Roux, Imprimeur du Roi, 1814.

Voltaire. Seven Plays by Voltaire; Translated by William F. Fleming, Howard Fertig, 1988.

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[1] An additional possible source of information on the Incas and the Spanish Conquest may have been Abbé Raynal's Histoire philosophique et politique des établissements et du commerce des Européens dans les deux Indes.

[2] Jean-François Marmontel, a friend of Voltaire, wrote a historical romance on the conquest of Peru. His work was, as one might expect, similar to Voltaire’s on the subject of Peru, and known to some in Saint Domingue, including one of the generous of the Indigenous Army.

[3] On literacy in Saint Domingue’s people of color, see Jean Fouchard, Les marrons du syllabaire: quelques aspects du problème de l'instruction et de l'éducation des esclaves et affranchis de Saint-Domingue.

[4] An interest in the island of Hispaniola’s indigenous past was quite strong with the Cercle des Philadelphes. See Colonialism and Science: Saint Domingue and the Old Regime by James E. McClellan III.

[5] On theatre in Saint Domingue, see Jean Fouchard, Le théâtre à Saint-Domingue.

[6] “Authentic” Inca regal garb likely left quite an impression on viewers. Even if rather deviant from historically accurate clothing, special costumes probably fueled more discussion about the play.

[7] The child of a conquistador and a woman from the Inca nobility, El Inca Garcilaso wrote his history of the Incas as an elderly man in Spain, with the help of other written sources and the manuscript of a text by Blas Valera, a Jesuit mestizo from Peru. See The Jesuit and the Incas: The Extraordinary Life of Padre Blas Valera, S.J. by Sabine Hyland.

[8] See Hacía una historia de lo imposible by Juan Antonio Fernandez for intriguing details about Miranda’s time in Europe and the possible flow of ideas that reached free people of color from Saint Domingue.

[9] Possibly fruitful comparisons could be made with the Spanish Caribbean, too. A large corpus of poems, novels, histories and legends were connected to independence movements in Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic. For an introduction to the theme of the Indian in the Spanish Caribbean, consult Jalil Sued Badillo’s "The Theme of the Indigenous in the National Projects of the Hispanic Caribbean"in Making Alternative Histories: The Practice of Archaeology and History in Non-Western Settings.

[10] Note historian Thomas Madiou’s claim to have Amerindian ancestry through his mother’s family; see Madiou, Autobiographie. Some affranchis were probably accurately reporting their ancestry.

[11] The scholarship of John Garrigus is particularly strong on the contours of race and increasing hostility directed against free people of color after the Seven Years War. See Before Haiti: Race and Citizenship in French Saint-Domingue.

[12] Sadly, for posterity’s sake, Gérin’s interests in promoting Haitian Creole in education were not taken seriously by his contemporaries. Such a move, and so early in Haitian independence, could have led to higher literacy rates, assuming schools were actually established and funded.

[13] Early 19th century Haitian understandings of “Taino” chiefdoms of the precolonial era likely drew from references to it by Charlevoix, Moreau de Saint–Méry and encyclopedias. One wonders if Gérin’s plan for the nobility created from the families of the signers of the Act of Independence was designed to recreate the so-called nitaino status.

[14] Picquenard’s novel, Zoflora ou la bonne négresse, anecdote coloniale, may have had only a very limited circulation in Saint Domingue. Nonetheless, though a novel, the author posited a Peruvian origin of the “Taino” while noting similarities in color, moeurs, and religions.

[15] David Nicholls has aroused much debate about the so-called “mulatto legend” of Haitian history he attributed to Beaubrun Ardouin and other historians of 19th century Haiti. But this discourse of the Haitian people as not “ready” for republican governance or “civilization” and requiring elite tutelage has deeper roots in the Haitian Revolution. For views of 19th century Haitians about Africa and the “Guinean” customs seen as retrograde, Thomas Madiou’s Histoire d'Haiti is illustrative.

[16] Additional poems are worthy of mention here, but the symbolic references to the Sun in early Haitian poetry were not always drawing on Inca symbolism.

[17] More could be said about the problematic ways in which Baron de Vastey wrote about indigenous peoples of the Americas. Despite his familiarity with El Inca Garcilaso, in another work, Réflexions sur une lettre de Mazères, he incorrectly associated khipu with Mexico. In his desire to defend Africa and the black race as not entirely uncivilized, he boldly ranked Africans as more civilized than the Indians of the Americas.

[18] The same source also described Dessalines as “General of Mexico.” If so, then the hemispheric dimensions of Dessalines’ claim to be the Avenger of the Americas was rhetorically promoted by this.

[19] Although we respect Taino revivalist movements, the evidence for Saint Domingue indicates a very small presence of “Amerindian” peoples in the French colony. The percentage of that group that may have, to some degree, been descendants of the indigenous population of the island, was likely an even smaller number. Those looking for more evidence of Hispaniola’s indigenous people in this period (18th century) are more likely to find traces of it in the Spanish colony.