Vodou Hermeneutics and Vodou's Transatlantic History

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

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

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

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

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

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

Favorite Pictures from Le vodou fon dans le Royaume d'Allada

  

Although the quality of the images and the binding of the book made it difficult to use or interpret all the photos in Le vodou fon dans le Royaume d'Allada (Bas-Dahomey): ses images et ses symboles, we had some favorites from the bunch. A very short book comprised of photographs by Montilus and short captions describing them, all centered on Fon Vodou in Allada, there are some striking images. Some depict animal sacrifice, temples, various types of priests or priestesses, hunsi and sacred drums, or people tied to the Allada court. Unsurprisingly, the priests affiliated with royal cults seem to have the finest and most elaborate styles of dress.

The "traditional king" of Allada even appears in one photo. Presumably this is a Adjahuto, descendants of a figure appointed by the king of Dahomey after the Dahomian conquest of Allada in the 1720s.

One photo that was partly cut off by the binding showed a vast crowed gathered for a prayer by a temple associated with the kings of Allada. 

Some of the photos of Vodou temples were grainy, but this one is quite clear. It appears to lack any figurative paintings but the different patterns on the exterior wall presumably have some meaning not explained by Montilus.

The dokpe of Allada are sort of our like cumbite but in the Fon context also involved in burials or funeral services.

A bokono is also included. In the Fon context, they are specialists in Fa or Ifa divination. We still consider it intriguing that this sense of the word has been lost in Haiti and boko became a term for sorcerers.

Unfortunately, Montilus did not provide much detail on the Allada king's traditional court and their role in the ancestral cults. 

Dieux en diaspora, Les Loa Haïtiens et les Vaudou du Royaume d'Allada (Bénin)

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

Ghana Nila

Listening to more of Alice Coltrane's discography revealed a funky, soulful version of "Ghana Nila." This is perhaps closer to something Coltrane's sister would have written, yet so consistent with her approach to spirituality and the ashram she began in California. 

The Mystery of the Mune

 

A plausible map of Kanem's 13th century apogee available on Wikipedia.

The Mune, an object opened by Dunama Dibalemi (r. 1210-1248), is one of the heavily contested or debated topics in the annals of the Sayfawa dynasty. Said to have led to the period of strife, defeat, and civil wars that followed Dunama Dibalemi's reign, the Mune has been interpreted by some as a pagan relic, an Islamic covenant, and even tied to Egyptian conspiracies against the mai. Older academics tried to contextualize it as Dunama the ardent Islamic reformer, eager to end pre-Islamic customs or influences in the state. Others stress the interpretation of Ahmad b. Furtu or Muhammad Yanbu, which suggests the Mune was a revered Islamic relic. Thus, in their eyes, Dunama Dibalemi went against Islam and the advice of his court. A thorough second look at the various contexts in which the Mune was discussed in Borno sources as well as an examination of Kanuri religious practices may shed additional light on this poorly understood aspect of Kanem-Borno history. Ultimately, the Mune may best be understood as a symbol for proper leadership.

 

Let us begin with one of the earliest written sources on the Mune. Ahmad b. Furtu, chief imam and chronicler of Idris b. Ali (r. 1564-1596), mentioned the Mune in the context of Idris b. Ali's campaigns against the Bulala sultan in Kanem. Since Kanem was the ancient homeland of the Sayfawa dynasty, it is not surprising that Ahmad b. Furtu also wrote of visits to the burial places of Sayfawa ancestors or compared Idris b. Ali to Dunama Dibalemi. It would seem that by the 16th century, Borno tradition remembered Dunama Dibalemi as a seminal figure in the history of the maiwa. Informants on this past included elders and sheikhs. More specifically, a shaykh named Wunoma Muhammad al-Saghir ibn Tuguma spoke of Dunama Dibalemi's army including 30,000 cavalry (Sudanese Memoirs I, 50). In terms of the Mune itself, Ahmad b. Furtu wrote it "was a certain thing wrapped up and hidden away whereon depended their victory in war" (Sudanese Memoirs I, 69-70). It was thus something held by the Sayfawa dynasty for generations and believed to be essential for military victory or success. Ahmad b. Furtu stressed that Dunama Dibalemi disobeyed "his people" by opening the Mune and whatever was inside flew away. In addition to losing what ensured victory against infidels, Ahmad b. Furtu wrote, "It is said that when Dunama opened it, whatever was inside flew away impelling the chief men of the kingdom to greed for dominion and high rank" (Sudanese Memoirs I, 70). As if it was not already clear, Ahmad b. Furtu also compared the Mune to the Ark of the Covenant and immediately wrote of the war with the Tubu during Dunama Dibalemi's reign. This was followed by further conflict with the Bulala. Undoubtedly, Ahmad b. Furtu (and presumably elders and shaykhs relying on tradition) saw the Mune as Ilslamic and something held by the Banu Sayf for generations which ensured their military victories as well as internal political stability.

The next source, the Diwan, is much briefer. Since we are relying on the French translation of Lange, which used a 19th century copy found by Barth, we are assuming the Diwan given to Barth represented a 19th century product. While there may have been a longer chronicle or much earlier girgams that were periodically updated over the centuries, we do not have any such document from the reign of Dunama Dibalemi or his immediate successors. So, what does the Diwan tell us about the Mune? Like Ahmad b. Furtu, the chronicle attributes the opening of the Mune, a thing known only to God the most high, to Dunama Dibalemi. Moreover, like Ahmad b. Furtu, it also tells us that Dunama engaged in at least one war, his sons were dispersed. Furthermore, "Auparavant il n'y avait pas eu des factions" (Diwan, 72). Unmistakably, the Diwan emphasizes the rise of political factions with the sons of the mai taking different sides. This corroborates the view of Ahmad b. Furtu, who wrote of the chief men of Kanem aspiring to higher positions and power after the opening of the Mune. The general picture is one of the Mune as a holy object and the opening or cutting of it was actually un-Islamic. In his commentary on it, Lange tried to argue that the Diwan and Ahmad b. Furtu saw the "pagan" object as something that must be maintained by the Sayfawa for reasons of state security. However, it is far more likely that the authors of these aforementioned texts truly believed that the Mune was a Muslim object akin to the Ark of the Covenant. 

The next major source on the Mune is Muhammad Yanbu. A scion of the Sayfawa dynasty who lived in the 18th and 19th centuries, Yanbu wrote al-Idara fi nizam al-mamlaka wa 'l-imara. This author wrote that the Mune was actually carried on military campaigns. Yanbu also emphasized the Mune as a convenant with Ten Commandments the Banu Say were supposed to maintain (Bobboyi, 87). One such commandment was, "Eightly, to hold fast, all together, to the rope of Allah and not be divided" (Bobboyi 88). This commandment seems particularly relevant since the Sayfawa princes apparently began to form or align themselves with factions, eventually leading to civil wars and internal discord that weakened Kanem after Dunama Dibalemi's reign. Based on Ahmad b. Furtu, Muhammad Yanbu and Borno oral sources, Bobboyi believed the Mune represented "a conceptualization of the Islamic political role of the Sayfawa sultans by the 'Ulama, at least from the sixteenth century" (Bobboyi, 88). Besides these aforementioned written sources, abundant Borno oral traditions consulted by Bobboyi stress the central role of the Mune in the fall of Sayfawa rule in Kanem. For example, the Mune commandment to never flee from battle when defeated, as Bobboyi elucidates, informed the custom among the Sayfawa for the ruler to dismount, sit on his shield and say, "Munem Bago." This apparently means "Fleeing is not in the Mune" (Bobboyi, 107). Undoubtedly, the Mune and its commandments were understood in this broadly Islamic ideology of a proper, just ruler.

Additional Borno sources on the Mune were utilized by historian Muhammad Nur Alkali. One of his sources, an unpublished text he entitled The story of the mune written 1185 A.H. (NO, 1771) as a memory of the golden age of the Sayfawa rule, was written by the amir of Alarge, Muhammad b. al-Hajj b. Ali. A translation and commentary by Abdullahi Smith was included in Kyari Tijani's "The Mune in Pre-Colonial Borno." This source includes a list of pledges or dictates the Sayfawa must maintain, which is essentially the same as the Commandments in al-Idara (Alkali, 43-44). Alkali also included material from al-Idara which blamed the Egyptians for influencing Dunama Dibalemi's actions with regard to the Mune: "Thus, Mai Dunoma’s decision to open the Mune was not only seen as a break-away from an established tradition of his ancestors but was also considered a conspiracy against the state by the Egyptians who influenced the Mai into taking this decision" (Alkali, 70). A possible foreign involvement or influence on Dunama Dibalemi was certainly possible. He was likely the ruler of Kanem when Kanemi pilgrims and students began to pay Ibn Rashiq in Cairo to teach at a madrasa, sometime in the 1240s (Levtzion & Hopkins, 353). Furthermore, one mahram said to originate during the reign of Dunama Dibalemi's father designates Dunama Dibalemi as "Al Hajj Dunama ibn Dabale" (Bornu Sahara and Sudan, 20). There are no Egyptian sources to corroborate a pilgrimage undertaken by Dunama Dibalemi, but he likely sponsored the Kanemi students and pilgrims who passed through Cairo in the 1240s and began to study at Madrasat Ibn Rashiq. 

Since contact with Ayyubid Egypt did occur and it entailed Islamic teaching, there may have been some kind of foreign involvement or pressure that influenced Dunama's decision to open the Mune. Alternatively, one wonders if the story of an Egyptian conspiracy here is merely a muddled alternative version of Egyptian involvement in the drowning of Dunama b. Hummay in c. 1140 (Diwan, 69). Unfortunately, there are no Fatimid sources on the alleged pilgrimages of Dunama b. Hummay or any involvement in his death. But since Dunama Dibalemi shared the same name, is it possible the idea of Egyptian involvement arose because of Dunama b. Hummay's death, a death in the sea of Moses which the Kanem ruler could not part? Or was there pressure from Egyptian scholars to end the veneration of the Mune that reached Dunama in Kanem? Alternatively, is the Egyptian involvement related to Ayyubid fears of Kanem's influence in the Fazzan and lands in the east, toward Nubia? One of the Borno sources, written in the late 1700s, merely states, "Some Egyptians who came to him advised him that it would be preferable to open it to find out what it contained" (Tijani, 239). 

Alternatively, given its Judeo-Christian overtones and clear resemblance with the Ark of the Covenant, was there some creative reimagining of Sayf b. Dhi Yazan legends in which he actually took the Ark of the Covenant from Ethiopia? Or was this a reference to the period of Jewish rulers in Himyar? In one of the story cycles of the Sayf legends written in Mamluk Egypt, Sayf was interested in seizing a book on the history of the Nile. Is it possible that Coptic and Islamic legends in Egypt about the Ark of the Covenant being in Ethiopia possibly influenced, even indirectly, the Mune traditions acquiring more overt Biblical characteristics? Unfortunately, the ascent of the Solomonic dynasty in Ethiopia only began in 1270, but the idea of the Christian kingdom as the land of Sheba and its Solomonic connections predate this period. Is it possible that the Mune was creatively reimagining the Ark of the Covenant based on traditions of Sayf b. Dhi Yazan defeating the Abyssinians? Or was this due to the brief period of a Jewish kingdom at Himyar? Either way, it was undoubtedly reimagined with a more Islamic veneer by the 16th century. It nonetheless demonstrates how complex the Mune and its origins were.

With Borno sources emphasizing an Islamic orientation of the Mune and connecting it to an ideology of kingship, what room is left for interpretations of it as a pagan relic or symbol from the pre-Islamic past? Palmer, whose diffusionist imagination often got the better of him, tried to link the Mune to sacra of the Hausa, Kwararafa, and Zaghawa peoples. When informed by a Zaghawa of Wadai that a Koran covered in skins like the Kano dirki was a Mani, and pagan Zaghawa saw the Mani as a ram stored in a cave with sacred objects, Palmer leapt at the opportunity to bring in the Ancient Egyptian god, Aman (Amun, perhaps). Consequently, Dunama Dibalemi's opening the Mune was seen by Palmer as the first truly Islamic ruler of Kanem ending pagan practices (Bornu Sahara and Sudan). However, this view is contradicted by local written sources and oral traditions. In our own feeble attempts at reconstructing pre-Islamic religion in Kanem, we preferred to view the Mune as a type of sacrum from the pre-Islamic period which was adapted after the conversion of the Sayfawa maiwa in the late 11th century. 

Looking at the sources on it again, we find it impossible to answer. Either the Mune was purely inspired and began during the reign of Hummay or the tradition attributing its opening or "cutting" to Dunama Dibalemi is meant metaphorically to refer to the loss of internal unity during and after Dunama Dibalemi's reign. In that sense, he violated one of the central commandments and his successors truly paid the consequences. Yet, the Mune must have also been an actual object at one point if it was carried into battle. Its possible pre-Islamic, Judeo-Christian, and Islamic meanings or origins suggest the need for a closer exploration of Kanem-Borno's intellectual history. Understanding, to whatever extent possible, the connections with the broader Islamic world and perhaps, the Egyptian context in which Kanem pilgrims and students began to travel more frequently in Ayyubid and Mamluk Egypt may provide further clues for the development of the Mune ideology. 

Bibliography

Alkali, Mohammad Nur. 2013. Kanem-Borno under the Sayfawa: A Study of the Origin, Growth, and Collapse of a Dynasty (891-1846) . Nigeria: University of Maiduguri.

Bobboyi, Hamidu. The ’Ulama of Borno : A Study of the Relations between Scholars and State under the Sayfawa, 1470-1808. Dissertation, 1992.

Hopkins, J. F. P., and Nehemia Levtzion (editors). Corpus of Early Arabic Sources for West African History. Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener Publishers, 2000.

Lange, Dierk. Le Dīwān Des Sultans Du (Kānem-)Bornū: Chronologie Et Histoire D'un Royaume Africain (de La Fin Du Xe Siècle Jusqu'à 1808). Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1977.

Palmer, H.R. Sudanese Memoirs: Being Mainly Translations of a Number of Arabic Manuscripts Relating to the Central and Western Sudan. 1st ed., new impression. London: Cass, 1967.

___________. The Bornu Sahara and Sudan. London: J. Murray, 1936.

Jesuits in the Kingdom of Prester John

Des jésuites au royaume du prêtre Jean (Ethiopie): stratégies, rencontres et tentatives d'implantation, 1495-1633 by Hervé Pennec is another study of the Jesuits and the mission in Ethiopia. Since the scholarly literature and written sources on the topic is vast, Pennec proposes new interpretations and questions about the subject. While revisiting the sources and challenging readers to reconsider the strategies and tactics employed by both the Jesuits and ruler Susenyos, one can see that the topic of the Jesuits in Ethiopia and this transformation of Prester John of myth into the "real" Ethiopia which the Latin West engaged in the Early Modern Period still raises many questions.

The first third of the book begins with Portugal's early relations with the Christian kingdom of Ethiopia, and how Ignatius of Loyola (and others) mistakenly assumed the Abyssinian ruler was ready to submit to Christ. Relying on outdated information from Alvares, plus the issue of Bermudes and his claim to be Roman Catholic patriarch, confusion abounded. Despite being well-informed on some aspects of Ethiopia, the founder of the Jesuit order wrongly believed that Ethiopia was ready for submission to the papacy. Of course, Galadewos had no interest in doing such a thing, and the early wave of Jesuits in Ethiopia found themselves largely on the periphery. Still, despite their small numbers in the second half of the 16th century, Ethiopian religious literature engaged in a Christological written (and oral) debate with the Jesuit missionaries, particularly once Susenyos converted to Catholicism in 1622. Despite their complete lack of success in converting Ethiopian rulers, the early Jesuits did proselytize and preach to Luso-Ethiopians, maintaining Roman Catholicism among descendants of Portuguese in Abyssinia. Moreover, Goa, as the capital of Portuguese India and center of the Jesuit missions in the Orient, was also an early example of a periphery being arguably more important or essential for the survival of the Jesuit mission in Ethiopia than Rome, Portugal and Spain. Goa, much closer to the Jesuit missions and capable of receiving and sending information more quickly, shaped the decisions on personnel who were ultimately sent to Ethiopia. This was no simple matter, since Ottoman control of the Red Sea made the matter more difficult.

Pennec likewise focuses on how the Jesuits, once able to establish a foothold again in 1603, particularly with the arrival of Pero Paes. Whilst it would take several more years before an Ethiopian ruler converted to Catholicism, one can begin to see here the Jesuits establishing stone churches and residences (with Ethiopian workers and at least one Indian). By erecting churches in stone, some beautifully designed, the Jesuits were implanting themselves in the kingdom on a more permanent basis. By doing so, they were also increasingly drawn into what Pennec sees as royally-sponsored churches. Gifts of land (gult), money, supplies, and the involvement of Susenyos in the ceremony culminating the completion of churches was partly a way for Susenyos to assert his power. This meat that Susenyos, and his brother who converted to Catholicism before him, were incorporating the Jesuits into a familiar patter of royal sponsorship and assertions of power, particularly in Gojjam and around Lake Tana. While the Jesuits undoubtedly benefitted from receiving lands, supplies, funds, and elite backers, they were also part of a strategy of Ethiopian rulers to express their power, which even included enlisting the Jesuits (or the masons among them) to construct stone palaces and monumental architecture for him. This complex process was followed by the Jesuit experience in Ethiopia after the conversion of Susenyos. Part of this complex relationship was also due to Susenyos's desire for Spanish troops to be sent to Ethiopia to help him as a prerequisite for converting, while the Jesuits told him he would have to submit to the papacy before any European troops would come to his aid.

With the 1620s, Pero Paes died but Susenyos's conversion gave the Jesuits their legitimacy and renewed the mission by the arrival of more missionaries. Although a failure within ten years, as Susenyos abdicated and his son, Fasiladas, later exiled the Jesuits, one can see this experience as the zenith of the mission. More missionaries on the ground, conversions of more Ethiopians (although the numbers given by the Jesuits are problematic, it seems that Gojjam had more converts), and Susenyos sidelining his Catholic brother as a supporter of the Catholics. Nonetheless, the mission's short-lived success came to an end with Susenyos's abdication. Pennec's study is less focused on this period, highlighting how Paes and d'Almeida's histories of Ethiopia must be analyzed carefully for the ways in which the authors engaged with Ethiopian written sources, especially the royal chronicle on the reign of Susenyos. Paes especially, despite his nearly 20 years spent in Ethiopia and his familiarity with ge'ez and Amharic, must be interpreted for the ways they cite, paraphrase, and refute Ethiopian sources. For instance, the question of the metropolitan accused of fathering children, drinking, and abusing his ecclesiastical authority in Paes's redaction of the chronicle of Susenyos, and being involved in a revolt in 1617 against the king, may not necessarily be an insertion by Paes. It is possible that later versions of the chronicle after Susenyos's reign censored that segment of the chronicle, but Paes, who was of course biased against the metropolitan sent from Egypt, may have been closer to the truth.

Indian Division

One thing that requires further study is the indigenous division in the Dominican form of Vodou. Apparently absent in Haiti, the existence of an entire division of spirits associated with the indigenous past of Hispaniola (and water) is interesting for what it may suggest about indigenous Taino spirituality surviving today. The few writings we have found on it are the work of Carlos Esteban Deive on Dominican Vodou, Martha Ellen Davis's work, and an article by Geo. Ripley. Additional mentions of indigenous features in Dominican spirituality and religious practice can be found in Lundius and Lundahl's study of the Palma Sola movement as well as Jana Pesoutova's Indigenous Ancestors and Healing Landscapes. Undoubtedly, additional works exist, but of varying quality and often difficult to locate. As for the appearance of Indian spirits in Haitian Vodou, the only account we know of is a short article by Odette Roy Fombrun of questionable reliability. 

From Deive's account, the Indian Division included spirits or luases like Agalla Dulce, India de Agua Azul, Caonabo, Cayacoa, Enriquillo, Guaroa, Hatuey, Mencia, Hacuai Danto, Guarionex, Carmela, Carmelina Dansoleil, Guacanagarix, Tamayo and a chief of the division, Gamao. Obviously, several of these were caciques of Hispaniola at the time of Spanish arrival or early resisters to the encomienda system and colonial oppression (Enriquillo, Tamayo). Intriguingly, at least one has a name of Haitian Creole origin and a few appear to be linked to water (Agua Azul) or perhaps places or springs. Agalla Dulce, intriguingly, brings to mind a possible etymology of the word cemi, linking it to the concept of sweetness. However, the vast majority of the spirits listed here are "deified" historical persons. A similar concept can be found in Haitian Vodou, which includes Dessalines as a lwa (not to mention the West African origins of some spirits, which can be traced to figures who were deified in the past (Chango, or Shango, anyone?). 

What about Davis, the author of La Otra ciencia? According to Davis, the Indian Division emphasizes water and has an ecological aspect that may reflect animistic influences. She further specified that in the capital, Santo Domingo, historic caciques were worshipped, like Anacaona. In this case, the service to cacique/lwa was akin to the appearance of Indians in Espiritismo. In the Southwest of the Dominican, in areas like San Juan de la Maguana, more Indian spirits can be found, yet they are not, from what we can tell, caciques. Davis's view here finds further support from Pesoutova's work, which emphasizes traditions of Indian spirits in locales like Banica or in the San Juan de la Maguana region. It would seem that two distinct traditions of Indian spirits exist here, if Davis is correct. 

What about the Indian Division according to Lundahl and Lundius? They mentioned the leader of the Indian Division in Dominican Vodou as a spirit called Tinyó, or Gamao. Interestingly, he also has a name of Creole origin, Le Gran Solei, and a chromolithograph of St. Nicolas of Bari is used for him. They additionally specify the importance of Indian spirits in the Dominican Southwest, particularly in the valley of San Juan de la Maguana. This includes practices associated with the large Corral de Los Indios as well as rites and rituals tied to the memory of Caonabo and Anacaona. One particular spot in this area of the country, La Agüita, was associated with St. John the Baptist and a number of Indian spirits. Again, there is an association with water (here believed to have healing properties) and Indian spirits, as well as syncretism with Catholic and African beliefs. 

Although much more research remains to be done on the Indian Division, it does seem to reflect a mix of old, animistic properties and belief in spirits tied to Dominican folk belief (and pre-Columbian religion). The appearance of lwa named after historic caciques might be the result of a mixture of Vodou, Espiritismo, and Dominican folk belief, perhaps explaining why it was more evident in the area of the capital, according to Davis. Either way, if Ripley, who included a ceremonial song for the Indian Division in a short essay, is believed, "Indio soy, vivo en el monte huyendo porque los españoles me van siguiendo." The Indian as ancestor, symbol, and spirit is clearly relevant today in the Dominican Republic. 

The Extirpation of Idolatry in Peru

Pablo Joseph de Arriaga's The Extirpation of Idolatry in Peru is a fascinating report on the widespread maintenance of precolonial religious traditions and spirituality among indigenous peoples in colonial Peru. A Jesuit priest who promoted "visits" by priests to identify huacas, "sorcerers" and practitioners or observers of the pre-Christian faith, in order to destroy relics, mummies, huacas, and force "sorcerers" and those who still consulted them to cease, Arriaga is an important source on the nature of Andean indigenous religion and spirituality. For instance, one chapter provides a wealth of detail about the sorcerers or witches who plagued a coastal community, gathering at night to kill their victims through supernatural means. Supposedly, this league of witches honored a "lion" deity. 

Much of the text also describes other aspects of Andean religion, particularly the veneration accorded to huacas, mummified ancestors, and household gods or clan-affiliated gods and myths of origin. This information was considered very important for the clergy operating in these areas so they could better refute the "errors" of the Indians in the communities they served. Of course, Arriaga also reserved criticism for the Spaniards and Church, which often failed to actually educate the Indians about the fundamentals of the Catholic faith and failing to provide a good example to inculcate proper Christian values and practice. Furthermore, far too few priests actually mastered indigenous languages like Quechua or Aymara to give effective sermons or provide a fuller education to Indians about the "true" religion that they had been exposed to since the Spanish Conquest. 

While modern readers today might find much to lament or be disgusted by in Arriaga's account, it nonetheless helps us identify some of the religious practices and traditions of precolonial Peru. Unfortunately, we do not have more texts like the Huarochiri Manuscript to shed fuller light on what must have been the very detailed and regionally specific traditions, legends, fables, and huacas of more areas in colonial Peru. Arriaga's account on how the visits should work and the state of Christianity among Indians in the early 1600s helps fill in the gaps. 

Hatk al-Sitr and Bori in Ottoman Tunisia

Ismael Montana's study and translation of Hatk al-Sitr is an interesting study of the manifestation of the Bori cult in Ottoman Tunisia. Although, sadly, too brief of a treatise, al-Timbuktawi's biased yet provocative denunciation of the religion as shirk requiring state intervention to eradicate it and reenslave recalcitrant "Sudan Tunis" in the Regency is both disturbing and illustrative of West African jihadist intellectuals of the late 18th and early 19th century. To Montana, al-Timbuktawi's views and his intervention in the state of affairs in Tunis, through which he passed whilst performing the pilgrimage, represents an instance of West African Islamic intellectual currents and interactions with both Wahabbism and North Africa. 

Surprisingly, however, Montana did not fully explore the deeply misogynistic element of al-Timbuktawi's work, which sees Bori's threat to the Islamic state and society of Tunisia as particularly dangerous due to the role of its female priests, "lesbianism" and the local Tunisian women enthralled by this cult of ritual healing and polytheism. This gendered dimension is mentioned in terms of the prominent role played by women as ritual leaders and priestesses in Bori, but its gendered impact on local Tunisian society seems to us as particularly important, since it reflects both the misogyny of al-Timbuktawi (and probably many of the pro-jihad intellectuals in West Africa) and another aspect of the great role of women in Bori. 

We hope to read Tremearne's later account of Bori to gain deeper insights into this gendered dimension of the religion as well as its practice in both Hausaland and North Africa. Since al-Timbuktawi was mainly writing for the purpose of convincing the authorities in Tunis to suppress Bori, he does not cover in great detail the religion or the ethnic origins of its practitioners. Certainly, the Hausa influence is predominant based on some of the names and titles used in the cult (referring back to political titles in Borno or Hausa kingdoms, for instance, or using Hausa words). But, one wonders about the Bambara, Songhay, and Nupe mentioned by al-Timbuktawi. Indeed, if Bori in North Africa is similar to Gnawa in Morocco, one also wonders if a degree of syncretism was also emerging within West Africa itself due to the slave trade between the areas of the Niger Bend and the Central Sudan. For instance, were there "Bambara" and Songhay groups present in the Hausa kingdoms who introduced aspects of the Bamana boli and Songhay holey? And what of Hausa captives, Nupe and even Yoruba groups who may have also interacted with the ritual and theological facets of "indigenous" African religions in Hausaland? While some of the similarities with Vodun and Yoruba practice may be superficial, the prominence of animal sacrifice in specific rituals, spirit possession, and the ways in which Bori could coexist with Islam like Vodou and Yoruba religion with Catholicism have always struck us as areas worthy of further exploration.

Espiritismo and Puerto Ricans in NYC

Jose Morales-Dorta's Puerto Rican Espiritismo: Religion and Psychotherapy is a study of Espiritismo's appeal among poor and working-class Puerto Ricans in New York City. Relying on surveys, observation of Espiritismo centros and statistics and studies of the low status, marginalization and impoverished conditions of Puerto Rican life in NYC, Morales-Dorta's sympathetic portrayal of Espiritismo stresses its positive relationship on mental and physical health. Unlike the institutions offering care to those in need of psychotherapy, which often were disconnected to Puerto Rican communities, alienating and lacking Spanish-speaking social workers, therapists or doctors, Espiritismo centros featured members of the community who drew from long-standing traditions of spirits as the cause of ailments, methods to invoke spirits through mediums, and healing practices from herbal remedies and spiritual intervention. The Puerto Rican seeking aid for ailments both physical or mental could find a supportive community which used action via mediums and spirit possessions as psychodrama that allowed the "patient" a space for the expression of emotions. This exteriorization of the patient's psychological woes in the environment of a centro reminds one of certain Haitian interpretations of Vodou, too. 

However, our main purpose in reading Morales-Dorta was for insights on the indigenous influences in Puerto Rican Espiritismo. According to him, statues of Indians are common at centros. In addition, Indian and African spirits were predominant among Cuban and Puerto Rican mediums. Indian spirits were associated with a high spiritual level, too. In addition, some of the healing practices do, vaguely, recall Taino or indigenous Caribbean shamanistic practices. However, since Espiritismo clearly owes at least some of its terminology to Kardec and has undeniably incorporated the Bible, Christianity and African influences, the Taino legacy is not always so clear. In order to truly elucidate the depth of Taino influence in Puerto Rican Espiritismo, one must dig deeper into the history of Taino religion, Puerto Rican folk healing, and the "Creolization" of Espiritismo in Puerto Rico. Nonetheless, this brief study, too brief for a proper analysis of this topic, does point strongly to some Taino influence. As of now, it seems less obvious than that of the ceremonia del cordon in Cuba. 

Oswald Durand's Le Vaudoux

So interesting to read Oswald Durand's Vodou-inspired poetry which, like that of non-Haitian authors, relies on perhaps primitivist discourse on the Haitian religion. 

   

  

The Areito in Espiritismo

Huellas vivas del indocubano by Jose Antonio Garcia Molina, Mercedes Garrido Mazorra and Daisy Fariñas Gutierrez presents a strong case for Taino retentions in the ceremonia del cordón in Cuban Espiritismo. Basing their theory on ethnographic observation, historical sources and the Cuban and Caribbean anthropological tradition, the authors argue that the specific type of Espiritisma ceremony described in the book, in Cuba's Oriente, is based on the Taino areito. Since historical sources attest to indigenous survival in that part of the island, and ethnographic analyses of campesino religion, spirituality, material culture, genetics, folklore, and popular healing demonstrate a palpable indigenous legacy, one can see how the Taino areito was adapted into a particularly Cuban form of Espiritismo. Since the worldview of Espiritismo overlaps with Taino or indigenous Caribbean beliefs, as well as those of Afro-Cubans, Taino ritual healing customs and the areito as a healing process were adaptable to the ceremonia del cordón that developed in eastern Cuba by the 20th century.

What is astonishing about this study is the wealth of details attesting to indigenous survival and retentions in Cuba's east. Perhaps something similar could be found for Indiera in Puerto Rico and, perhaps, the Dominican Southwest? Either way, it is remarkable the degree to which some indigenous customs and traditions persisted, besides the obvious ones related to material culture. For instance, the Cuban healing practice derived from the behiques, of sucking on the patient, was practiced in Cuba as recently as the 1930s. Matrilineal inheritance was also practiced by some families of probable Indian descent. In addition, veneration of the Sun, belief in the transformation into animals, and characteristics of mediums and guides in Cuban Espiritismo seem to owe something to the behiques of the Taino. While sometimes the authors may be wrong about the Amerindian origin or root of this or that Cuban custom or ritual practice, overall their case is strong for a significant legacy to Cuba's first, primordial, root. Indian survivals even surface in Cuban Espiritismo with a commission for Indians and commemoration of Guama. Cuban transculturation makes it sometimes difficult to distinguish all the components in the national stew, but the indigenous ingredients are very clear in Cuba's eastern provinces. 

While our understanding of the areito saw it as less of a healing practice than a community-wide ceremony for celebrating, remembering the past, and commemorating the accomplishments of caciques. However, the specific type of singing, dancing in a circle while holding hands, and absence of more typical African influences suggests that the Cuban Espiritista ritual might be the closest glimpse we have of what the areito looked like in the distant past. We know from Spanish sources that the areito was still practiced by Tainos in Hispaniola several decades after the Spanish conquest. In Cuba and Puerto Rico, where documented indigenous communities also survived, one can assume the areito was practiced there well into the colonial era. Agustin Stahl even suggested that elements of the areito may be found in the country dancing of the Puerto Rican peasant. However, nothing from the rural or ceremonial dances of today's Puerto Rico seems to bear such a clear or plausible indigenous origin. 

Cuban Espiritismo

 

Who would have thought that there are videos of a Cuban Espiritismo ritual said to have Taino or indigenous influences online? This cordon ritual in which participants form a circle and chant, sing, etc. supposedly has strong indigenous influences in eastern Cuba. These indigenous traces are not immediately apparent yet it seems like that an indigenous and an African fusion of sorts occurred here. 

Isis

Although it has been a few years since we have read Apuleius, we found Religion for Breakfast's video on the spread of the cult of Isis in the Roman Empire to be fascinating. And though not mentioned here, the cult of Isis was also important in Kush. To what extent was the cult of Isis and the glimpses of it available in Apuleius's novel representative for Isis worship in Kush or Meroe?

Aubin and Haitian Vodou

Eugene Aubin's En Haïti; planteurs d'autrefois, nègres d'aujourd'hui is quite valuable for its portrayal of Haitian Vodou of the early 20th century. Although Aubin's experience at hounfort and with Vodou priests and priestesses was closer to those in the plains and other regions near Port-au-Prince, his observations and conversations with Vodouisants provide some interesting insights on the religion. This is so in spite of Aubin's view of Vodou as a resurgence of African superstition. Regardless of Aubin's own biases, there's a useful account of the various lwa here and some of their attributes. For instance, the association of Saugo with lightning (probably Shango), or characteristics of Ogou, Loko, Legba, Agwe, Dambala, and other lwa appear in Aubin's travelogue. Furthermore, practices of pilgrimage in Vodou and Catholic elements with the use of prayers, chromolithographs of saints, and the fusion of Vodou and Catholic features in centers of Marian devotion were already deeply established. 

One valuable revelation from Aubin's account is the still strong distinction between papaloi and houngan. The houngan, according to Aubin, was still more akin to a sorcerer or the modern bocor. That said, Vodou was still, when Aubin traveled through Haiti, based in the family. The head of the family was the one who led the group in the service to ancestors, particularly through the manger-ignames ceremonies. Nonetheless, the greater wealth in the plains and the rise of papaloi whose services were purchased (for hundreds of gourdes, depending on the service) from clients drawn from Port-au-Prince and the countryside attests to the development of temples, extended networks, and more elaborate hounfort featuring a combination of various rites (Arada, Congo, etc). Clearly, by this date, the papaloi-houngan distinction was losing some of its significance.

One finds this development in Aubin's discussion of some of the prominent papaloi and manbo he met or heard of in Haiti. For instance, Romulus Jacques, or Aisse, a reputable Vodou priest from la Petite Plaine near the capital, came from a family of Vodou priests, was a renowned papaloi who followed the Arada rite. Serving Dambala, Agwe, Ogou Badagry, and Loco, his temple had an inscription referring to Roi d'Engole. So, there was some hint of "Congo" connections from his temple. Moreover, Aubin found old coins at Aisse's temple left for the lwa, which included coinage from the late 18th century as well as Haitian currency from the presidency of Boyer. This amazing mix of coinage from over a century ago could be an indicator of the age of the hounfort. If so, Aisse's temple may have begun with someone in his family from the beginning of Haitian independence.

Another renowned Vodou priest, Manbo Zera Vieux, was also consulted in Port-au-Prince and in L'eau de Cazeau. She was married to a military man who was the son of Cadeau Bois, the head of a hounfort on the road to Petionville.  Aurelien Bernard, another respected papaloi, was based at du Mornay-Laboule. Both of his parents were Vodou priests and he observed both the Guinee and Congo rites, each rite with a separate section. Part of his Congo ritual practices involved pacquet Congos and the use of Catholic chromolithographs. Besides these, a manbo named Tela from the Bellot family of habitation Le Francois was also well-known. Her father was a houngan and the family held 2 temples, one dedicated to the Arada rites and Dambala and another for Congo and Nago rites. Clearly, by this time, Vodou prominent religious leaders held sufficient knowledge of a number of rites of Central African and West African origins. These aforementioned leaders came from families of manbos and papalois, yet notice how, per Aubin, their services were sought by a far-ranging clientele and their services could cost hundreds of gourdes. 

As part of the growing specialization of Vodou religion, Aubin additionally noted some of the other politically connected papalois. One, a Durolien of Croix-des-Missions, was the papaloi of President Hyppolite. Ti-Plaisir of Mariani, or Plaisimond, was another Vodou leader with significant economic resources and political connections. Indeed, a picture of his houmfort is featured in Aubin's book. It's painted exterior and the wealth of its leader must have made it a more impressive temple than smaller temples or family-centered cult spaces in the hills. Indeed, Ti-Plaisir's service in honor of Agwe included a large procession with hounsis and others. This type of elaborate service with drapeau, societies and titles, hefty fees for services, and political connections at the Presidential Palace attest to the high status of Ti-Plaisir. Indeed, Ti-Plaisir was considered by Milo Rigaud to be one of the famous papaloi, fictionalizing his life for a character in his novel thinly based on Haiti under Borno. 

Religion and Politics in Haiti

A collection of 2 essays by Harold Courlander and Remy Bastien, published as Religion and Politics in Haiti in 1966, presents an interesting moment in the study of Vodou and politics. Written at a time of economic malaise and authoritarian rule by Papa Doc, both Courlander and Bastien present Vodou in a provocative fashion. To Courlander, whose studies of Haiti always struck us as superficial, Vodou is not to be blamed for the woes of Haiti. Indeed, Vodou was actually something that represented a complete worldview and ethos for the Haitian masses. Due to the extreme poverty and precariousness of life for the Haitian peasant, Vodou offered something lacking in Catholicism and it continued to play such a pivotal role due to ongoing governmental neglect, incompetence, and exploitation. 

Bastien, a Haitian, offered a more extreme position. Indeed, Bastien went as far as accusing the Haitian ethnological movement of a trahison des clercs. Instead of dedicating themselves to the betterment of their illiterate brothers trapped in backwards, regressive living conditions and a magico-religious worldview disconnected from modernity, the Haitian intellectual sought to make Vodou (and folklore) the pillar of Haitian identity and authenticity. According to Bastien, these Haitian intellectuals, followers of the school of Price-Mars, lacked the brakes necessary to stop their extremism. So, unlike the situation in sub-Saharan Africa, the Haitian ethnologists took things too far and neglected their ultimate responsibility of ameliorating conditions for the Haitian peasantry. 

Of course, Bastien's brief essay is excessive itself, especially in light of the writings of Haitian ethnologists like Price-Mars which directly concerned social inequality and the failure of Haiti's elite. However, one can also see the justness of Bastien's critique at a time when Vodou had become another institution corrupted or controlled by Francois Duvalier. By 1966, at least in Bastien's eyes, Vodou had become part of the oppressive panoply of Duvalierism's toolbox of administration. Furthermore, Vodou was incompatible with the types of modern change, education, healthcare, and poverty eradication that Bastien believed was necessary. No houngan would sponsor or support these aforementioned reforms since their achievement would, in Bastien's perspective, defeat the purpose of the houngan's existence in the first place. This characterization of the houngan is unfair, or at least lacking the evidence for such a broad generalization. Nonetheless, the Haitian religion was, by then, a product of long-term marginalization and growing impoverishment of the Haitian. Consequently, Vodou reflected those regressive conditions of living and would be threatened by progressive changes in the Haitian countryside. Indeed, the Vodou of 1966 or even 1915 was far from the conditions of 1791. Instead of fetishizing folklore and Vodou, Haiti's intellectuals should have devoted themselves more passionately to the question of bringing the peasantry into the 20th century. 

Fables and Rites of the Incas

The translation of Cristobal de Molina's Account of the Fables and Rites of the Incas provides more interesting information on Inca rites and religious practices. Based on the testimony of elders in Cuzco, who recalled the customs of the empire in its later years, were interviewed by de Molina, who was a priest in Cuzco and master of the Quechua language. Of course, an immediate problem arises with this work. While he may have been fluent in the Quechua language, the fact that he was a priest and his main informants only represented the elite, does suggest that some omissions and bias likely influenced this short account of Inca religion and rites. Nonetheless, de Molina's expertise in indigenous languages and the fact that his description of, for example, rites like the initiation of young adult males can be corroborated elsewhere make him a reliable source.

For our purposes, however, the main interest in de Molina's description of Inca religion is some of the connections we see with other parts of South America, including Amazonian areas. Like other accounts of origin myths, one sees parallels with other Amerindian peoples through archetypes, such as origins in a a cave (Tambotoco at Pacaritambo). Like the Taino origin myths recorded by Pane, some people were also turned into stone. In addition, during the puma skin dance, Incas inserted gold into the heads of dead pumas that were worn. This brings to mind our past fanciful notion of a possible South American connection with the gold encrusted mouths of duhos from pre-Hispanic Hispaniola. The author, de Molina, also refers to healing practices and ritual fasts, something we have already noticed may have connections with other South American shamanistic practices and medicinal practices. Furthermore, the Inca ritual calendar and its link to imperial expansion may be illustrative of similar spread of cemis in the precolonial Antilles, at least in areas where some caciques were able to dominate several others. Naturally, the Inca state, for more expansive and centralized, developed this to a much greater extent. Indeed, the Capacocha sacrifices, which took place across and empire and were recorded with quipus, undoubtedly reflected the greater centralization of power and ritual in the Andes. 

Last but certainly not least, de Molina's brief description of the Taqui Onqoy millenarian movement warrants attention. Although he erroneously connected it with the last bastion of Inca resistance at Vilcabamba, the movement appears to have arisen independently. Moreover, it represented a shift in the tradition of the huacas, who now possessed Indians and urged them to fight and eradicate the Spanish. While in some ways a restorationist movement that threatened the colonial system, this novelty of spirit possession by the huacas raises several interesting questions. Was it due to the radical shift and demographic collapse caused by colonialism? Or, perhaps, was the belief in spirit possession by the huacas also influenced by European and African beliefs? This seems unlikely, but something we would like to pursue.  

Voodoo and Politics in Haiti

Papa Legba

Michel Laguerre's Voodoo and Politics in Haiti is one of the more interesting studies of the intersection of Haitian Vodou and politics that warrants a follow up, perhaps with greater historical detail and a chapter on Vodou and politics in the 21st century. Beginning with the colonial era and the role of Vodou in sustaining and providing a meeting ground for enslaved people to interact and plot the eventual liberation of the colony, Laguerre argues persuasively for the importance of colonial-era Vodou (or Vodous, given the great religious diversity of African captives in the 18th century). The rest of the book consists of chapters exploring marronage, secret societies, pilgrimage to Saut D'Eau in its folk Catholic and Vodou dimensions, the Duvalierisation of Vodou, and the necessity for the Haitian government to commission a study into Vodou and provide some of the basic protections to the populace so that secret societies are less necessary. 

As a reflection of the religious and spiritual values of the Africans, and something understood by colonial authorities as a threat to the security of Saint Domingue, Vodou, and the related phenomenon of marronage (but one wonders if the Bahoruco maroons really did interact with Indians if, by the time of large-scale French slave trading to the island, there were probably not indigenes around outside of the Creolized, Spanish-speaking colony's population), are presented as revolutionary. Due to the limited Christian evangelization in the colony and the huge demographic transformation as Saint Domingue became a slave colony with blacks vastly outnumbering the French, Vodou and marronage became even greater threats to the established order. The connection to maroons is also made explicit by the detailed use of archival and other written sources that attest to the frequency of religious leaders as heads of maroon bands. Likewise, the Vodou or religious leaders were significant among the slaves on the estates, too. By continuing to preserve and practice values that were in opposition to those of the French and providing a space for slaves and maroons of different backgrounds to congregate, it is no surprise that Vodou leaders were also vital during the Haitian Revolution itself. 

The period after Haitian independence, however, does not receive the same kind of detail. While mention of the occasional persecution of Vodou practices by various Haitian governments appears in the text, the full history of the relationship between the state and the "Voodoo church" is not explored. Undoubtedly, Vodou and some of its priests were consulted by different heads of state and other politicians skillfully exploited or observed Vodou practices for popular appeal and control. For instance, President Salomon is cited as an example of a Haitian president who consulted a Vodou priestess and was a believer. Others made donations to temples and even before Duvalier, surely endeavored to tap into the network of Vodou temples. But the necessity of presenting Haiti as a civilized state to the rest of the world, anti-Vodou crusades of the Catholic Church, and the Western cultural orientation of Haiti's elite (both black and mulatto) ensured that the state either ignored, persecuted or never officially recognized Vodou as a religion. Surely, the full history of how Vodou was an influence on the Haitian state before Duvalier remains an importance question, particularly for administrations of leaders such as Soulouque, Antoine Simon, Salomon, Nord Alexis, Hyppolite, and others. Vodou was also very much a part of the ongoing resistance of the masses to abusive or exploitative authorities through the piquet uprisings (those black anarchists, to paraphrase one source) and the caco resistance to the US Occupation. 

Unsurprisingly, the masses continued to consult their Vodou leaders and further developed the related secret societies, such as the Bizango (named after the Bissagot). Secret societies such as the Bizango operated like a government, providing a measure of security and protection to members against rival Vodou communities or even defending the land and property of peasants in their jurisdiction from avaricious elites or the civil authorities. Amazingly, secret societies like Bizango even issued passports for their members and adopted or adapted titles that display the political history of Haiti. Although the actions and operations of secret societies, which were an outgrowth of colonial-era maroon communities and Vodou, sometimes pursued actions that a modern state would not approve of, Laguerre adopts a reasonable approach that sees their presence as ongoing and necessary in a Haiti without a central government capable of providing the same degree of security to its membership. 

Where Laguerre's study exceptionally shines is the chapters on Saut D'Eau and the "Voodoo church" under the Duvalier dictatorship. Saut D'Eau, first developing as a pilgrimage site due to Fortune Morose seeing the Virgin Mary near today's Ville-Bonheur, was clearly linked to the Soulouque administration's search for a new pilgrimage site and further legitimation for his coronation. Furthermore, the separation of the Dominican Republic made Haitian pilgrimage to Higuey more difficult. Thus, the convenience of developing a pilgrimage site within Haiti itself and one that could be adroitly exploited by Soulouque to justify declaring himself emperor made it more likely for Saut D'Eau to become an important territory in Haiti's spiritual map. In addition, Soulouque, who earlier tried to use apparitions of the Virgin in Port-au-Prince, may have been influenced by the type of popular devotion to the Virgin Mary that was already evident in the band of Romaine the Prophetess as well as Frere Joseph among the piquets. These two religious leaders, one from the era of the Haitian Revolution and the other part of the piquets, both drew upon the Virgin Mary for spiritual succor and justification of their causes. Laguerre does not go into any detail here, but this suggests that the cult of the Virgin Mary was already of some significance in Haitian popular Catholicism and folk belief. Soulouque, by seeking to align himself with it, was able to exploit popular beliefs derived from Catholicism as well as Vodou practices.

Laguerre's real contribution of a detailed overview of pilgrimage at Saut 'Deau is revealing. Damballah, Ayida Wedo, and the Virgin Mary share the space in a characteristically Haitian fashion. The "Voodooists" collect donations, give alms, congregate at the sites associated with Damballah and Ayida Wedo, and will even pay for masses. Other pilgrims focus on the Catholic Church, attending services, giving alms, visiting the area near the tree the Virgin first appeared at, fulfilling vows, and asking for the intercession of Mary. The Catholics and Vodouizan both believe the site is holy and seek miracles, cures, or use the pilgrimage as an opportunity for building community, relationships, or aiding the less fortunate. Residents of Saut D'Eau benefit from the pilgrims renting homes and buying local goods. The gamblers, prostitutes and mendicants congregate in the area to make money, too. Pilgrims coming for spiritual reasons also benefit, or believe they do. Those coming from the same village or town travel together, strengthening bonds and representing friends and family at Saut D'Eau. Ultimately, the pilgrimage tradition affirms the status quo and has been used by Haitian leaders, who send donations, to sustain popular legitimacy. Nonetheless, Saut D'Eau's history and the cult of the Virgin Mary in Haiti can have an anti-establishment dimension.

The other gem in Laguerre's study is the chapter on Vodou and the Duvalier regime. While the Duvaliers, especially Francois, is often remembered as an ethnologist and someone who exploited Vodou for political purposes, Laguerre's explanation of how the regime actually accomplished that is revelatory. Instead of viewing Vodou as completely decentralized, Laguerre argues that it is better to understand Vodou temples as networks. These networks come in different forms, but basically point the prominence of houngans or manbos of central temples which also possess satellites. The satellite temples may not always follow the leadership and guidance of central ones, but they usually do because the central temple may have been led by priests who trained the satellite temple priests. A shrewd politician who understands this could, therefore, increase their political power by focusing on exploiting the priests of central temples. These central temple leaders then, as macoutes, beneficiaries of Duvalier's government, and spies, could greatly increase the likelihood of Duvalier winning more votes or neutralizing centers of opposition. 

The Vodou priests who went along with this process were allowed to continue their practices (although some allegedly incorporated Francois Duvalier himself as a lwa) and, as Tonton Macoutes, protect their own temple network from others while also exploiting their position for status and power. This role of the Vodou priest as a broker, especially in electoral politics, made identifying, coopting, or enforcing the cooperation of central temples a key pillar in the Duvalier regime's rise and longevity. Thus, even though Duvalier himself may have not been a practitioner of Vodou and never gave the "Voodoo church" official status, he (or those in his administration) knew how to "Duvalierize" Vodou as one of the major institutions of the country. Like the Catholic Church and other institutions, the Duvalier dictatorship exploited their understanding of Vodou and Haitian social structure to weaken or eliminate sources of opposition in all corners. It was not his mystical power per se that made this happen, although Duvalier undoubtedly understood how to use that for political ends, that was the basis for Vodou's politicization. Understanding how Duvalier excelled at this to a greater extent than past Haitian political regimes is one of the key elements of the dictatorship. Surely, as admitted by Laguerre, Francois Duvalier's sour relations with the Catholic Church and the ideological currents underpinning noirist and ethnological schools of thought provided a context for this. But how did this process work in rural Haiti, where Laguerre's direct evidence is slighter than that of Port-au-Prince?

Revisiting Sufi Mystics of the Niger Desert

Due to a rekindled interest in the history of Sufism in Kanem and Borno, we decided to revisit H.T. Norris's Sufi Mystics of the Niger Desert. Largely consisting of a translation of the Qudwa (at least part of it likely written in the late 17th century or certainly before the 1800s) with commentary and additional contextual information on Sidi Mahmud al-Baghdadi and the question of Sufism in the region of Air, the study is of great potential importance for understanding how Sufism functioned in the Sahel and Central Sudan. While Sufism in, say, Kanem-Borno, was undoubtedly of greater antiquity than the appearance of Sidi Mahmud in the Air region in the first half of the 16th century, various sources connect the Mahmudiyya with later Islamic scholars, holymen, and mystics in the Central Sudan. For instance, Shehu Uthman dan Fodio, was initiated into Sufism with a silsila that linked to Sidi Mahmud. In addition, Uthman dan Fodio lived for some time in Agadez and was undeniably exposed to those who followed in or were influenced by the "Way" of Sidi Mahmud. Furthermore, Muhammad Bello, whose writings on Air and Mahmud al-Baghdadi bear an uncanny resemblance to the Qudwa, also revered the memory of this Sufi mystic. Moreover, North African sources similarly attest to the far-ranging contacts and influences of the Mahmudiyya and Air Sufism. Shaykh Ahmad al-Yamani, a native of the modern Sudan, visited Air after spending time in Kalumbardo, a Sufi settlement in Borno. According to al-Yamani, who reported on Kalumbardo and the Mahmudiyya in Morocco, reputation of Sufis like Shaykh Ahmad al-Sadiq b. al-Shaykh Uwayis al-Lamtuni was of the highest standing. 

What is particularly useful for our interests, with regard to the Mahmudiyya, is their possible influence on or shared characteristics with Kalumbardo. While Norris suggests Sidi Mahmud had links to Anatolia and the Muslim East in his approach to Sufism, the Qudwa mentions, with some detail, the practices of dhikr, wird, khalwa, discipline, fasting, ritual ablutions, meditation and group prayer and states of ecstasty achieved by members via prayer. Mahmud did not reject fiqh, either, since he saw the need for both fiqh and gnostic, mystical knowledge. However, his pursuit of ma'rifa and importance of his status as a sharif may have been more unique traits of his particular moment, perhaps including the prohibition on taking the lives of animals during retreats, too. According to the Qudwa, the sultan of Agades had Sidi Mahmud executed after jealous jurists convinced him that the Sufi leader posed a threat to his throne. Only after the fact did the Agades Sultan, Ahmad b. Tilzay, discover that Mahmud truly was an ascetic Sufi and sharif. The tale of his martyrdom has not been corroborated by other sources, although writing by Ahmad Baba from the early 1600s suggests that the Mahmudiyya were heretical mytics who believed that the only "Way" was through their own, rejecting some of the main tenets of the Islamic faith.

The Koyam Sufis and ascetics, descendants of the Kalumbardo community dispersed after a Tuareg attack eradicated Shaykh Abdallah al-Burnawi's community, represent an interesting tradition of Islamic mysticism in the Central Sudan. According to Norris, their prayer rituals resemble those of the Mahmudiyya. Moreover, evidence from the Nashr al-Mathani points to contacts between Kalumbardo and the Air mystics. Further, some of the early followers of Sidi Mahmud were Hausa and Fulani, and Tuareg were also known at Kalumbardo. To what extent the Kalumbardo community of Abdallah al-Burnawi was directly linked to the first settlement associated with a Tuareg, al-Jarmiyu, and a Fulani, Waldede, is muddled in Muhammad Bello's account. However, the earlier Kalumbardo community was destroyed by Umar b. Idris of Borno, who had al-Jarmiyu executed while Waldede fled to Bagirmi. If the community led by Shaykh Abdallah al-Burnawi was following similar Sufi practices yet met favor with Ali b. Umar of Borno, then the asceticism and mysticism of the second Kalumbardo community was perhaps similar to that practiced in Air by the Mahmudiyya. 

What is truly amazing then is the vast network of Sufism and its political impact in the Central Sudan. For example, the founder of the Wadai sultanate, said to have studied in Borno and Baghirmi, may have been influenced by Kalumbardo through the Bagirmi center of Bidderi, which included Fulani with ties to the early Kalumbardo settlement suppressed by Umar b. Idris. Shehu al-Kanemi was also said to have had ties to the Koyam, the descendants of the Kalumbardo community led by Abdallah al-Burnawi. Likewise, subsequent Koyam shaykhs, descendants of Abdallah al-Burnawi, were also connected with the Sayfawa dynasty and protecting the frontier of Borno. Of course, ongoing links to Air and Hausaland were also ongoing, providing a possible additional influence on the spread of Sufism in the Hausa kingdoms. While the origins of Sufism in Kanem-Borno surely predate the 16th and 17th centuries, the Mahmudiyya provide a window into how one community may have functioned for centuries in the area. Remarkably, the descendants of Abdallah al-Burnawi persisted into the 20th century, proving themselves to be long-lasting and effective at forging a long-lasting relationship with the Sayfawa. 

Gods of the Andes

Sabine Hyland's translation of an important text by Blas Valera is very interesting for those interested in the Inca past. Blas Valera, a mestizo Jesuit, was a fervent believer in the study and use of indigenous languages to effectively serve and convert indigenous communities in Peru. Unfortunately, he perhaps went too far in the eyes of the Jesuit leadership and other religious orders. According to Hyland's introductory essay, Blas Valera was comparable to missionaries like Roberto Mobili, endorsing inculturation as the best path for converting people from different cultures. While this is not immediately apparent in this text, which mostly translates Relación de las costumbres antiguas de los naturales del Pirú. Essentially, Valera's pro-Indian views and his sympathetic portrayal of aspects of indigenous religion and spirituality were too heretical and eventually led to his incarceration and later removal to Spain. Sadly, much of his great manuscript on the history of Peru was lost during an English attack against Cadiz. But our old friend El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, also a mestizo, found fragments of Valera's text and incorporated his data into the Los comentarios reales. 

The connection with El Inca Garcilaso is where Valera's influence seems especially profound. Although El Inca was from the old Cuzco elite via his mother's family, and could draw on oral history gathered through these relatives, Blas Valera had traveled across the colony and was able to gather information and observations from a variety of communities. Like El Inca, he was also a fluent speaker of Quechua but was able to use his linguistic skills to work among more indigenous communities. After reading the brief text translated here by Hyland, it becomes immediately apparent that much of the framework adopted by El Inca Garcilaso was based on Valera. Like Valera, he stressed the absence of human sacrifice in Inca religion and praised the strict laws and benevolent justice of the Inca imperial system. Moreover, Garcilaso also saw aspects of Christianity in Inca belief, almost portraying the indigenous religion as establishing the path for the true religion of Christianity brought by the conquest. This can be seen in the way Garcilaso stressed the sun cult as the main religion of the Inca, which was heavily supported and/or imposed across the Empire. One can see elements of a similar admiration of Andean religious beliefs in Blas Valera, who, despite the various superstitions and idolatries of the natives, also found admirable qualities such as the practice of making confessions and the various convents for nuns, or aclla. Of course, the two authors differed on the case of Atahuallpa, with Valera praising him and El Inca seeing him as an illegitimate, violent ruler who eradicated many elites in Cuzco.

The main importance of Blas Valera, besides his detailed account of Andean religious beliefs as he saw in the late 16th century, was his careful use of khipus and oral traditions to construct a history of the Inca. Indeed, unlike El Inca Garcilaso, Valera referenced various khipu and specialists in their interpretation for data on religious and political history. Naturally, this meant khipu could be used to record more than numerical data for censuses or supplies. Indeed, Valera references them for the history of religious practices as well as the history of political rulers. Khipu, to him, were as valid as other sources of information, like written accounts in European languages or oral traditions as reported to him by indigenous people. Why, for instance, El Inca Garcilaso only saw khipu as useful for recording numerical data and occasionally as mnemonic devices for speeches, may have been based on the different experiences of the two mestizos. Furthermore, Garcilaso left Peru while still relatively young and admitted to not inquiring into certain customs whereas Valera spent more time in Peru. This must also have been a source for Valera on some of the events that transpired during the Incan imperial period as well as pre-Inca rulers. These khipu were able to record, for example, the disputation of Amaro Toco, an amauta from the era of Inca rule. They were also references for information on the history of the convents for virgins. If only Valera's magnum opus was not lost, perhaps there could be even more information on how khipu were used to record historical and biographical data.