India, Guadeloupe, Haiti

Although we have written about the tiny Asian Indian presence in Saint Domingue, we always wondered if people of Indian descent came to Haiti from other Caribbean populations in more recent history. Guadeloupe, in at least once case, provided one such example. Named Sinasfamir Mounien, and born in Guadeloupe to parents from India, he married a Haitian woman in Port-au-Prince in 1903. The marriage act alludes to his parents as Indians and the names certainly sound like it, too. What was he doing in Haiti in 1903? Was he able to earn Haitian citizenship as someone of "Indian" origin? Or was it acquired through his marriage to a Haitian woman? Was he searching for economic or professional opportunities denied to him in Guadeloupe but open to enterprising people of color from the French Antilles in Haiti? It would be mildly interesting to uncover what brought this young man from Guadeloupe to Haiti. And where in India did his parents hail from? We know that he stayed in Haiti for at least some time, having a daughter born in Port-au-Prince in 1906. By then, he was named Louis Emilien Mounien and resided in Port-au-Prince with a domicile in Guadeloupe (Pointe-à-Pitre).

Les Indiens de Guadeloupe

A short video on Indian migration to Guadeloupe. 

French Antilleans in Haiti: 1848-1934

Edouard Bloncourt in the Blue Book of Haiti. His import-export business in Cap-Haitien was predated by his merchant past in Port-de-Paix. The Bloncourt family is from Guadeloupe, and Edouard was likely the relative who assisted Yves Bloncourt when he came to Haiti after WWI.

The presence of Afro-descendants or even white Creoles from Martinique and Guadeloupe in Haiti during the 19th and early 20th centuries is surprisingly difficult to investigate. Perhaps due to their cultural and linguistic similarities, the 1500 or more French Antilleans who came to Haiti during the aforementioned period are harder to locate than Syriens or Anglophone West Indian immigrants. The vast majority, according to Zacair, who relied heavily on French consul reports, were from Guadeloupe. Many married into Haitian families and therefore a large number of Haitians today can trace their ancestry to the French Caribbean. The Bloncourt, Boutin, Rabouin, de Catalogne, Demeuran, and many other families have ancestors who came to Haiti during this era, particularly after 1848. Many were "mulattoes" of the professional and bourgeois classes who established maisons de commerce in various Haitian port cities, like the Boutin family in St. Marc. Others were artisans, musicians, mechanics, educators, engineers, merchants, street vendors, laborers, and skilled workers, searching for opportunities beyond the confines of their colonial homes. Like Anglophone Caribbean migrants, such people were possibly also inspired by the idea of living under a black-ruled government where racial discrimination would not curb their freedom.

Gérard de Catalogne is in the second row, second from the left. Son of a Creole father from Martinique and a Haitian woman, de Catalogne diffused the reactionary ideas of Maurras in Haiti.

Indeed, the concentration of land ownership among the white plantocracy after 1848, plus restrictions on the newly freed and "free colored" class after emancipation would have been enough push factors to make Haiti an attractive location. Many former slaves found themselves trapped, working for their former masters as poorly paid plantation laborers. It is also probable that many in Guadeloupe and Martinique saw independent Haiti as a model for the Caribbean. In fact, long before 1848, free people of color from the French Antilles were in Haiti (not to mention connections during Haiti's colonial period). One Edmond Thetis of Martinique served in the army of Henri Christophe before returning to Martinique in 1811, implicated in a revolt. Joseph Saint-Remy, who wrote a biography of Alexandre Petion, was a Haitian born in Guadeloupe. His parents, inspired by Haiti's racially inclusive Constitution of 1816, which invited anyone and everyone of African or Amerindian descent the right to Haitian citizenship, eventually chose to resettle in Haiti.

Migrants from Martinique and other parts of the Antilles were identified as street vendors and artisans in Cap-Haitien and other towns of the Republic, as this 1892 article illustrates.

Saint-Remy's father, a carpenter, brought the family to Les Cayes. The same biographical notice in Saint-Remy's book also claims the father and grandfather of President Salomon were originally from the French Antilles, suggesting another politically important family of French Caribbean roots. Besides the several families from the French Antilles who came to Haiti during this era, Cyril Bissette, whose Revue des colonies published Haitian writer Ignace Nau, also invested time and labor in defending Haiti from what he saw as Schoelcher's attempts to paint Haitian society as hopelessly divided into black versus "mulatto" castes. Bissette even saw Haiti's potential as the capital of a future Caribbean confederation. Of course, one must not forget Guillaume Guillon-Lethière, a Guadeloupe-born artist, who painted The Oath of Our Ancestors. This famous painting of the Haitian Revolution and the uniting of blacks and "mulattoes," with the will of God, must have signified dignity and liberty for oppressed slaves and free people of color living before 1848.  Of course, there were exceptions to favorable views of Haiti among French Caribbean people of color, as the case of Victor Cochinat  in the late 19th century reveals. The journalist from Martinique's vitriolic articles triggered a response from Louis Joseph Janvier, which demonstrates another side of French Caribbean perceptions of Haiti.

Marc Boutin, born in St. Marc to parents from Guadeloupe, inherited his father's maison de commerce. Along with his mother, the family expanded the business to include Port-au-Prince. Aubin also refers to him as one of the French subjects owning land in Haiti. In his case, it was Caradeux, in the Cul de Sac plain. 

Clearly, Haiti was already etched into the minds of many in Guadeloupe and Martinique, perhaps especially so with educated free people of color. Haiti likely appealed to blacks in Martinique and Guadeloupe after 1848. The rise of a socialist party and labor movement in Guadeloupe by the 1890s, one that was specifically linking race and class, may have seen in the Haitian revolutionary past something inspirational. More work needs to be done exploring this, particularly on Hégésippe Jean Légitimus and allusions to Haiti among black workers of the late 19th century. His opponents, for instance, sought to compare him to "savage" Haiti, going so far as calling him a papa loi. For others, Haiti may have signified something else. For example, by the time the Third Republic arose, the "mulatto bourgeoisie" of Martinique were identified by metropolitan authorities as pro-republican and the best local allies. This process is summarized quite well in Church's Paradise Destroyed: Catastrophe and Citizenship in the French Caribbean, which unfortunately does not explore the Haitian connection or the ways in which natural catastrophes may have encouraged migration to Haiti.

Dr. Justin Castera of Jacmel was a martiniquais descent.

It very well could be the preference shown by many French Caribbean businessmen for the Liberals in Haiti was related to their liberal bourgeois politics. This shared fervor for liberalism, plus growing personal ties through marriage, cemented their attachment to the Liberal party. As one would expect, their open sympathy caused tensions with the Haitian government. For example, Ludovic Goubault's transparent support for Haitian rebels in Jeremie during the 1883 revolt illustrates how French West Indians intervened in the political affairs of Haiti. In addition to business and marriage with the Haitian upper classes, some even served in the Haitian military or married into the families of generals. According to Thorald Burnham, Andre de Thomas, for example, married the daughter of a major general and served as his attaché. This gave the "moucas" a surprisingly large influence in Haiti.  Consequently, going to the Black Republic may have meant not solely economic opportunity in commerce, but a chance to participate in the affairs of an independent republic.

Gaston Gerville-Réache worked as a teacher in Port-au-Prince for a short time. Once elected to the French National Assembly, he spoke for Guadeloupeans in Haiti during the turbulent year of 1883. In Paris, he also contributed to Benito Sylvain's La Fraternité . Unlike him, other French Caribbean educators, musicians and professionals stayed in Haiti. Louis Astrée, for instance, was a major figure in 19th century Haitian music as the director of the Musique du Palais.

But, who exactly were these immigrants? How were they received by the Haitian population? Did they chose to become Haitian citizens? After consulting Zacair's article and some of the sources, their position in Haiti was often paradoxical. For instance, they were able to practice professions in Haiti that were prohibited to foreigners. Others, despite marrying Haitians and establishing close ties with the Haitian political and economic elite, exploited their status as French subjects to make inflated claims on the Haitian government for compensation during moments of political turmoil. In fact, some of these French Caribbeans became consuls, while others were involved in larger French commerce or financial interests. As one can expect, French Antilleans, as well as other black immigrants, were occasionally attacked by Haitian political figures for their exploitative behavior and refusing to become Haitian citizens. In terms population and demographics, the "moucas" or French Antillean subjects were clearly an important presence. Indeed, they were numerous enough to form their own quarter in Cap-Haitien, by Bas de la Ravine. In Port-au-Prince, French and French Caribbean residents were involved in a mutual aid society, but Zacair hints at intra-community tensions as the business community sought to exclude workers from Guadeloupe and Martinique from the benefits of the society. Intellectually, some, such as Fernand Keitel, launched Le Cable, a Capois journal highlighted by Marc Péan. For most of the aforementioned groups, assimilation seems to have occurred relatively quickly. This was likely the case for the lower classes, too.  A cursory exploration of Haitian literary references to the French Antilles also sugguests this. Velleda Petite-Caille, in Justin Lhérisson's famous novel may be the best early example.

The Monfleury usine for the preparation of coffee. Aubin claimed Monfleury père  to be of Martinican origin.

As a card reader, she attracts a wealthy clientele, ultimately launching her husband into high society of fin de siècle Port-au-Prince. But Velleda, who does not come from the Martinique "mulatto" bourgeoisie. So, she continues to mispronounce some French phrases, thereby demonstrating an affinity with uneducated lower-class Haitian Creole speakers, whose elocution was also mocked by their social superiors. However, she was not a target of derision or singled out for her origins in Martinique, and her marriage with Eliézer suggests a great degree of cultural compatibility. Unfortunately, her fate does not end well in the novel, but there is no suggestion of bias or exclusive attitudes towards her due to her non-Haitian origins. Perhaps the ease at which she could establish a reputation for fortune-telling is matched by those of the French Antilles who could join Vodou congregations. Burnham alludes to Civil Blain, a Martinican in 19th century Bel Air, who left behind a lakou bearing his name. It is reasonably clear that the lower class waves of migrants from the French Caribbean were capable of assimiling well with locals in the urban popular quarters. Their skin color, language, and the ease with which they could travel into the interior of Haiti likely facilitated this, which perhaps masked their presence in the archives. Many practiced small trades in towns like St. Marc, Port-au-Prince, Cap-Haitien, Aux Cayes, Jacmel, or Gonaives, which brought them into regular contact with Haitians of all backgrounds. Perhaps the commonality of language and culture enabled positive interactions or professional relations, as well as marriage and progeny.

A bizarre story involving from Oct 1900 involving a Haitian woman and her husband from Martinique or Guadeloupe. 

In Eugène Aubin's En Haïti; planteurs d'autrefois, nègres d'aujourd'hui, published five years before the US Occupation, direct accounts of French West Indians abound. Aubin describes landholders, owners of usines for the preparation of coffee, a pious woman from Guadeloupe, an engineer by the name of Emmanuel Odeide working for the Manneville habitation, merchants, and spouses. Examples of their presence abound, such as the wife of General Dorsey Falaise of Croix des Bouquets, a Guadeloupean woman. These French West Indians are described by Aubin as mixing with locals due to language and color. However, his account also attests to their significance in new developments in the economy. Perhaps the business end of the French Caribbean community was ultimately negative for economic development by encouraging dependency on foreign imports, but during the 1870s and 1880s, they introduced some new technology in the coffee industry. Octave Francis, a "mulatto," was identified as one of the first to establish a usine for preparing coffee, in Petionville. Francis's mother was from Martinique while his father was from St. Thomas. While they may not have directly controlled the production of coffee, Francis, Monfleury, and other foreign-owned usines improved the quality of Haitian coffee, thereby increasing prices on the global market while, in some cases, weakening their Haitian intermediaries.

Yves Bloncourt was an early proponent of the Boy Scouts in Haiti.

Another family with origins in Martinique, the Montfleury, were associated with the usine in Carrefour, which was expanded by the two Montfleury sons and a French partner, Bertin.  Their usine employed 50 employees and 150 trieuses, leading to a new community to service the workers in the area. Some also contributed to tentative steps towards restoring sugar production or large-scale production in the Cul-de-Sac plain by providing essential services, like mechanics, management or engineering. A letter to a Haitian who criticized Martinican and Guadeloupean residents was published in Le Nouvelliste. The author, A. Charlesin, appears to be a Martinican or Guadeloupean forger-mechanic working in Haiti. Meanwhile, Zacair describes one who managed a plantation near Leogane managed by a French Antillean. Haiti en 1886 mentions a Martinican horticulteur known throughout Port-au-Prince. Thus, their presence was linked to early capitalist intrusion into the Haitian economy and new industries and businesses, shaping new social relations and methods of production while simultaneously weakening the local merchant class.

President Louis Borno was the son of a naturalized Haitian from Guadeloupe. His non-Haitian roots were a subject of concern to Jacques Roumain, who criticized Borno for being a puppet president of the US Occupation. 

Despite difficulties in knowing exactly how many French Caribbean peoples were in Haiti during the 19th and 20th centuries, their influence likely surpassed their actual numbers. Through commerce, education, music, the arts, and industry, migrants brought with them new ideas, concepts, and interactions which connected Haiti and the French Antilles within the archipelago and their diasporas in France. The Bloncourt family, for instance, had branches in Haiti and Guadeloupe, while Haitian presidents with origins in Martinique and Guadeloupe can be found in the Duvaliers and Louis Borno. Gerard de Catalogne, a descendant of a Martinican and a Haitian woman, was a major figure in 20th century Haitian journalism and politics. In Paris, Haitians such as Firmin brushed shoulders with Adolphe Lara of Guadeloupe. Thus, the French Caribbean and Haiti enjoyed a mutual influence in which the earlier migrations of Martinicans or Guadeloupeans was a pivotal part. The French Caribbean residents in Haiti may have also been influential in aspects of folklore and Vodou dance. Unsurprisingly, the paradoxical relationship of these migrants with Haiti and France illustrates a semi-colonial character in Haiti-France relations. The political independence of Haiti was gradually eroded as France, Germany, and, by the 20th century, the US, increasingly dominated its economic affairs. Those of Martinique or Guadeloupe roots knowingly or unknowingly contributed to this development, even if adopting Haitian citizenship, by encouraging the cultural orientation of the Haitian elite. 

Turning Slaves into Citizens: Revolutionary Guadeloupe and Caribbean Colombia

Again, I find myself posting old class assignments as blog posts. This one is a short assignment for a history class on slavery in the Atlantic World. 

            Caribbean Colombia and the French colony of Guadeloupe demonstrate comparable cases of the development of republicanism and citizenship tied to emancipation. Although the process of slave emancipation in these locations differed, both Guadeloupe and Colombia exemplify republicanism’s emancipatory trajectories in which citizenship was equated with military service, masculine virtue, and fealty to the state. Indeed, Laurent Dubois’s evocative argument pertaining to the appeal of republicanism to people of African descent in Guadeloupe finds undeniable resonance in the works of Marixa, Lasso, Aline Helg and Jason McGraw on Afro-Colombians. The two areas also exhibit the dilemma of a citizen-soldier model for emancipation and political rights in a republican government as well as illustrating the importance of national independence in these settings.

            Republicanism’s equation with abolition began in Guadeloupe during the course of the French Revolution. According to Laurent Dubois, enslaved insurgents in Guadeloupe expressed themselves by acting uninvited in the name of France.[1] For example, in 1793, a slave revolt at Trois-Rivières was justified by its participants in the name of the French Republic, defending it against royalist planters.[2] Steadily, French Republican officials in Saint-Domingue and Guadeloupe began to rely even further on slaves and free men of color as soldiers in order to preserve the colonies, a development that favored the ascension to higher military ranks for men of African descent while disrupting the plantation economy.[3] This notion of a citizen-soldier fighting in defense of France was tied to republican virtues of masculinity and part of the justification for citizenship or political rights. Dubois describes emancipation in this context as a transition from slavery to manhood, to become Republican husbands and soldiers.[4]

In return for emancipation and the rights of citizenship, former slaves were expected to fulfill the labor needs of a plantation colony, leading to coercive labor policies in both Saint-Domingue and Guadeloupe. Influenced by Condorcet and Enlightenment thought, Victor Hugues and his successors prevented democratic rule in the colony, justifying it on the debt of former slaves to France to learn the value of work and produce commodities necessary for the colonial economy.[5] Indeed, administrators assumed freedpeople were degraded by slavery and lacking the skills necessary to participate in elections until a period of tutelage through service and labor on the plantations prepared them to enjoy the political rights contained in citizenship.[6] Accordingly, attempts by freedpeople to avoid plantation work were perceived as ungrateful and undeserving behavior of citizenship, and racialized cultural explanations adopted by Hugues to explain his lack of success in restoring the plantation economy revealed the persistence of racial discrimination.[7]

In Caribbean Colombia, a region in which people of African descent comprised the majority of the population, Marixa Lasso argues for a similar dynamic in which citizenship and emancipation are irrevocably tied with the republican nation. The prominence of men of African descent in the wars of independence in the region provided a path to emancipation while the wartime economic disruptions created opportunities for enslaved people to escape bondage.[8] Pardo or Afro-Colombian men were included in the Colombian national body because the Spanish Cortes of 1810 refused to grant them citizenship, creating an ideological wedge between Creole elites and Spain that favored the wars of independence as white Creoles and people of African descent pushed for an inclusive national body in opposition to the tyranny of Spanish colonial rule.[9] Resembling the French Republic’s emancipation and extension of rights for men of African descent who joined their cause against royalists and the British, Afro-Colombians joined white Creoles in the wars of independence because of opportunities for freedom and rights not recognized by Spain. In so doing, Creoles and pardos came to define the republic with liberty, emancipation, and racially inclusive legal practices, bestowing citizenship rights to men without regards to color. In fact, Afro-Colombians such as prominent veteran of the wars of independence Padilla envisioned a racially harmonious republic in which service to the patria was the main criterion of status rather than the legacy of racial hierarchies from the colonial past.[10] The nationalist character of Colombia’s republicanism also acted as a safeguard for Afro-Colombian’s political rights because the state was required to, at least rhetorically, support racial equality and commit to emancipation, albeit often through a gradualist approach such as free womb laws. This important distinction aided Afro-Colombians while people of color in Guadeloupe saw a reversal once France restored slavery. Intriguingly, like the eventual leaders of Haiti, Guadeloupe’s soldiers of African descent also considered national independence as a method of ensuring their rights.[11] This may be suggestive of the importance of nationalism for consolidating republican discourse’s promise of racial equality. McGraw argues persuasively for this association of equality in the Colombian context of public manumissions blending civic and religious holiday characteristics.[12]

Public manumission ceremonies and rituals became increasingly important ways to assert the connection between republican liberty and slave emancipation.[13] Concurring with Lasso, McGraw contextualizes public manumissions of the 1840s and 1850s in conceptions of republicanism, arguing that these public manumissions sought to create rituals of civic participation and embody the egalitarian rhetoric of citizenship in which all Colombian men were to enjoy.[14] Similar to revolutionary France’s emancipation of slaves, freedpeople were expected to show gratitude to the gift of the state.[15] Likewise, these rituals of citizenship after the 1848 decree of president Mosquera privileged the strongest and youngest slaves for freedom, tying masculinity, virility, and republican virtue of industry to freedom.[16] Besides identifying republicanism with emancipation, industry, and Colombian independence, public manumissions also served to include free people of color while simultaneously demonstrating that those who behaved honorably and obeyed authority would be guaranteed their rights.[17] Subsequently, emancipation in Colombia was also tied with a new liberal democratic conception of citizenship during the presidency of José Hilario López, achieving complete abolition and universal male suffrage.[18]

Whereas the final emancipation of slaves in Colombia did not occur until the 1850s, Guadeloupe’s former slaves were reenslaved from 1802 until 1848. Despite these differing paths to emancipation, a shared convergence of republicanism with emancipation and inclusion of men of African descent connects the two regions to broader patterns of emancipation. In both cases, a republicanist discourse of freedom excludes women from becoming citizen-soldiers capable of embodying masculine virtues, thereby justifying the removal of women of color from formal political participation. Similarly, a shared condescension from the Colombian state to the emancipated, displayed by their minimizing of the agency of Afro-Colombians in resisting slavery, imposed a specific meaning of freedom from above. The same dynamic emerges in Guadeloupe, where enslaved insurgents appropriated the discourse of republicanism and the French Revolution to assert their own rights, but still faced state attempts to monitor and control their labor, movement, and exercise of aforementioned republican rights. For Afro-Colombians, enduring discrimination contradicted the promise of racial equality embedded in Colombian independence and official discourse of racial harmony, although the wars of independence and other measures ensured the majority were already free before the final 1851 emancipation decree.

In addition, the predicament of governing a racially mixed and diverse population arose both in Guadeloupe and 19^th century Colombia. While espousing liberal values and sentiments, Bolivar’s attempts to institute a semi-monarchical constitution exemplify the persistence of racial fears, especially poignant in light of the recent Haitian Revolution. Skepticism of republicanism’s applicability in a racially mixed population illustrate what Aline Helg alludes to as the fear of a black political power and race war, or pardocracia.[19] Lasso refers to this as a concern stemming from white Creoles’ reading of Rousseau’s views on factional politics. Thus, the need to unify an ethnically diverse population led to the development of mestizaje as an ideal. Additionally, white Creoles such as Bolivar endeavored to change the constitution due to aforementioned racial concerns.[20] In Guadeloupe, Hugues also justified his autocratic rule of Guadeloupe on the grounds of its diverse population of whites, blacks of various African ethnic origins, and people of color, each group allegedly opposed to the other.[21] Mestizaje was not a goal of state policy in Guadeloupe, but a similar concern with the inapplicability of republican principles in a heterogeneous society in which whites were a minority ties revolutionary-era Guadeloupe to Colombia’s paradoxical association of republicanism with racial equality.

In summation, republicanism predicated on the aforementioned citizen-soldier model in which the state identifies itself with emancipation resulted in contradictory practices. Men of African descent were able to lay claim to political rights on the grounds of their military service and manhood. However, it failed to ensure access to equality in practice while perpetuating patriarchal conceptions of society. Concerns among white elites or politicians regarding the participation of blacks in the exercise of authority or the specter of race war further restricted the meaning of freedom by weakening explicit racial grievances or pushing gradual emancipation in Colombia. In Guadeloupe, where a nationalist struggle did not materialize, the metropole’s decision to revoke emancipation led to re-enslavement. Afro-Colombians, however, were able to justify their demands for racial equality and freedom in accordance with national republican notions, though white elites, as well as gender and social limitations of Afro-Colombian military veterans’ could weaken attempts to express their grievances as a racial group.

Bibliography

Dubois, Laurent. A Colony of Citizens: Revolution and Slave Emancipation in the French Caribbean, 1787-1804. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004.

Helg, Aline. "Simón Bolívar and the Spectre of "Pardocracia": José Padilla in Post-Independence Cartagena." Journal of Latin American Studies 35, no. 3 (2003): 447-71.

Lasso, Marixa. "Race War and Nation in Caribbean Gran Colombia, Cartagena, 1810–1832." The American Historical Review 111, no. 2 (2006): 336-61.

McGraw, Jason. "Spectacles of Freedom: Public Manumissions, Political Rhetoric, and Citizen Mobilisation in Mid-Nineteenth-Century Colombia," Slavery & Abolition 32 (2011): 268-288.

---

[1] Laurent Dubois, A Colony of Citizens: Revolution and Slave Emancipation in the French Caribbean, 1787-1804 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004), 89.

[2] Ibid, 129.

[3] Ibid, 148.

[4] Ibid, 162.

[5] Ibid, 185.

[6] Ibid, 180.

[7] Ibid, 198.

[8] Marixa Lasso, "Race War and Nation in Caribbean Gran Colombia, Cartagena, 1810–1832."  The American Historical Review 111, no. 2 (2006): 353.

[9] Ibid, 344.

[10] Aline Helg, "Simón Bolívar and the Spectre of "Pardocracia": José Padilla in Post-Independence Cartagena." Journal of Latin American Studies 35, no. 3 (2003): 453.

[11] Dubois, 387.

[12] Jason McGraw, "Spectacles of Freedom: Public Manumissions, Political Rhetoric, and Citizen Mobilisation in Mid-Nineteenth-Century Colombia," Slavery & Abolition 32 (2011): 272.

[13] Lasso, 348.

[14] McGraw, 280.

[15] Ibid, 281.

[16] Ibid, 280.

[17] Ibid, 282.

[18] Ibid, 277.

[19] Helg, 455.

[20] Lasso, 350.

[21] Dubois, 286.

Between Two Worlds

Simone Schwarz-Bart's Between Two Worlds, translated from the French original, Ti-Jean L'horizon, by Barbara Bray is an enchanting magical realist tale about slavery and identity in Guadeloupe, the author's homeland. While clearly specific to Guadeloupe and its rural communities, this postcolonial tale incorporates elements of pan-Caribbean culture and history (slavery, the zombi, a quote from Jacques Roumain, and a return to Africa) to tell the tale of Ti Jean, a young man from Fond Zombi who must return the Sun and save his community, which falls into reenslavement as eternal darkness reigns over the world. Along the way, Ti Jean experiences love, friendship, travels to Africa, France, and the Kingdom of Shades, and is forced to accept himself for what he is and take root in Guadeloupe. 

Although multilayered and at times a bit confusing (the numerous chapters where Ti Jean travels to Africa, for instance, and the dense mythological allusions and history can be hard to follow at times), Ti Jean's tale emphasizes the importance of Guadeloupe and its people's right to live free and with pride. The protagonist's grandfather, the 'Immortal One' who represents the maroons of the days of slavery, and the world of the descendants of slaves who meekly accept their condition, must learn to take pride in their land and free themselves of colonial thinking. Yet, the author does not fall entirely into negritude thought, since Ti Jean's return to Africa is not accepted by Wademba's people, thereby making the people of the Caribbean a branch of the African tree which must find roots in Guadeloupe. 

The text is full of local colors, supernatural events, travels across oceans and rivers, and last, but certainly not least, fully-fleshed symbolism and heroic archetypes. Ti Jean, compared to the Sun multiple times, ultimately frees it (metaphorically freeing the people of Guadeloupe from slavery and white domination) from the Beast (a cow with a pelican nesting in its ear), reminding one of Haitian literary giant Jacques Stephen Alexis, who also wrote of the Sun as an ally of the poor. In addition to ties with that tradition, the text quotes Jacques Roumain's Masters of the Dew in the final section, thereby linking itself with broader trends and a tradition of peasant novel and anti-colonial significance in the French Caribbean world. Needless to say, I could rant without end about the book, its cyclical message, the passionate critique of colonialism, and the numerous worlds the protagonist lives between, but I'll end here. Those eager to read of a fictionalized but highly integrated worlds of death, Africa before colonialism, and 20th century Guadeloupe should be highly interested in this novel. 

Favorite Quotes

"To tell the truth, it is a completely unimportant scrap of earth, and the experts have once and for all dismissed its history as insignificant."

"Moreover, it has a long history, full of wonders, bloodshed, and frustrations, and of desires no less vast than those that filled the skies of Nineveh, Babylon, or Jerusalem."

"Nor did they ask themselves whether Guadeloupe was of any importance in the world, they knew, they knew that rare happenings and unparalleled glories had been seen in the wretched forest they now haunted, and that these deeds had been the exploits of their ancestors."

"Instead of bringing everyone together under one shelter, darkness seemed to have stolen in between the living bodies, making them look just like dim shapes to one another, bereft of their weight of flesh and blood and old alliance."

"And our hero's heart was moved, moved by the living these familiar images as if the two worlds had held out their hands to each other, century after century."

"Being alive and dead at the same time, he belonged to both worlds yet was to both a stranger, as incongruous and out of place on earth as if he had fallen down from a star."

A Colony of Citizens: Revolution and Slave Emancipation in the French Caribbean, 1787-1804

Laurent Dubois's A Colony of Citizens: Revolution and Slave Emancipation in the French Caribbean, 1787-1804 is excellent reading for those curious minds who would like to learn more about Guadeloupe during the French and Haitian Revolutions. Like Saint Domingue, the slaves and free people of color exhibited agency, shaped the outcome of events in the Caribbean and the metropole, and asserted a universalist notion of rights in the language of the French Revolution. Moreover, the administration of Victor Hugues offers many parallels with that of Sonthonax, Toussaint Louverture, and Rigaud in Saint Domingue, governments that defended emancipation while endeavoring to restrict the ex-slaves to the plantation. For anyone interested in Saint Domingue and the Haitian Revolution, Dubois's work places it in a broader context of the Caribbean.

Arrete Mal Parlé

Amazing kadans music from the French Caribbean...some of this beats the original Haitian compas music of the 1970s.

Vincent

Just listen to that saxophone tear it up!

Zagalakatelema

I am loving this song right now. It's danceable, jazzy, and reminds me that there is a whole world of French Caribbean music beyond Haiti. Listen to that saxophone or the percussion! Les Rapaces knew how to make great music.