The Vortex Family

Desiring to read some Haitian fiction before plunging into science fiction and other topics, I came across the English translation of Jean Metellus's The Vortex Family. Translated by Michael Richardson, the text comes off as very poetic and oblique, with the occasional UK slang or expressions. The text's lack of exposition and shifting, poetic nature in its several short chapters or snippets can be occasionally beautiful and lyrical, despite its depressing themes of exile and political corruption in Haiti. Loosely based on the tumultuous falls of Estime, Magloire and Fignole, the novel focuses on the various descendants of Solon Vortex who, due to their response or involvement with politics, are forced into exile. The Vortex, descendants of Africans and Indians, are of the 'middling' sector in Haitian society that came to power in the post-1946 years, encompassing doctors, military professionals, university lecturers, teachers, chemists, and Catholic clergy.

The novel felt particularly strong when covering the fall of Estime (and Edgard Vortex), detailing the various social classes in conflict that made it seem almost inevitable that a coup would occur. The same process recurs with the fictionalized versions of Magloire and Fignole, demonstrating how Haiti's political chaos of the immediate pre-Duvalier years paved the way for the full terrors of Duvalierism. Some of the literary symbolism of the novel is also quite convincing, particularly the cockfight in Saltrou between a Dominican and a Haitian with a conclusion showing just how powerless the victor becomes. Olga, the matriarch of the Vortex family, is also worth mention. As the last descendant of an "Indian" family tracing its origins back to the Arawaks, Olga is the only character in modern Haitian fiction that I can think of who is "Amerindian." Whether or not the author actually believed there were Haitian descendants of the indigenous population who also inherited aspects of their culture is beyond my knowledge, but it is an interesting example of the Native heritage of Haiti as a living tradition, albeit still en route to extinction despite Olga's seven children. The indigenous past of the island seems to be invoked to tie together the African antecedence of Solon and the Arawak heritage of his wife to proffer the Vortex clan as the rightful heirs of Haitian autonomy. 

Despite its interesting, fictionalized interpretation of Haiti before the even more horrendous days of Duvalier, the novel's lack of exposition can, at times, make for a thinly-plotted novel. Out of nowhere, characters are suddenly targeted by the military as dissidents without any real explanation or plot development. Some passages are actually a little confusing when this occurs. But the novel makes up for its thinness with passages of rare beauty and longing for a better Haiti. Despite its shortcomings, it helps us understand the social and economic conditions that led to the Duvalier dictatorship through the lives of people who, willingly or unwillingly, found themselves engulfed in the political conflicts, coups, and civil unrest of an era of great promise.

Brief Thoughts on "Taino DNA" and Caribbean Indigeneity

While perusing old papers and documents in various Google Drive accounts, I came across an old essay on Taino revivalism in Puerto Rico. This has inspired me to revisit some of my past interests in the precolonial Caribbean, as well as the legacy of the indigenous inhabitants. Needless to say, I find a continued interest in the alleged "Taino" DNA in contemporary Puerto Ricans, which the above video contributes to. None of this is new at all. A quick perusal of travel accounts, traditions, and histories of Puerto Rico often allude to the "Indian" inheritance among the Puerto Rican population. Whether or not it was really traceable to the Taino was unknown, since Europeans imported "Amerindian" captives from other parts of the Americas to their Caribbean colonies. But, it was often alleged that the Puerto Rican jibaro possessed Indian blood, by everyone from Schoelcher to Salvador Brau. 

Of course, given the demographics of the early colonial Spanish Caribbean, it is no surprise that many of the current populations in Puerto Rico are descendants of European males, Indian women, and Africans who formed the nucleus of the colonial populations in the 16th century. Indeed, I suspect my Hispanic Caribbean roots to consist of a mixture of African, European and probable Indian ancestry through a family lineage that has been in the Caribbean for several centuries (I must confess, I lost interest in the 1700s, but they were likely established in Puerto Rico since the 1600s or 1500s). However, recent advances in analysis of pre-Columbian Puerto Rican remains do suggest there is some continuity between the earlier indigenes of Puerto Rico and populations living there today. Moreover, one should suspect many aspects of rural life in the Caribbean today resemble or inherited aspects of indigenous agricultural practices, particularly since they were the ones who likely showed Europeans and Africans the ropes in adapting to Caribbean environments. Who knows, it is even possible that some of the folklore of the region has inherited bits and pieces of our Amerindian past, although I am unsure how one could ever prove it.

So, why do groups like neo-Taino organizations endeavor to revive the indigenous past or legacy when it was so quickly incorporated into new colonial identities forged by European colonialism and enslavement of Africans? In my past ramblings on this subject, I linked it to a theory of indigeneity as performance, indigeneity and sovereignty, and re-racialization of genetic science on the part of gene fetishists. An example of the first is a National Indigenous Festival of Jayuya, in which a beauty pageant consists of contestants dressing themselves up in ways that allegedly resemble those of the indigenous population. Needless to say, contestants believed to look like the Tainos were favored, and the whole charade links Taino-ness to the performance of stereotyped traits. Neo-Taino groups have also attempted to perform indigeneity through the reinvention of rituals, clothing styles, and language to counter narratives of Taino extinction. The performance of a "Taino" identity is, through the aforementioned practices and rituals, legitimated as an expression of group identity, even if they lack any degree of historical veracity. However, if identity truly is just performance, then one can understand and even recognize indigenous performativity on the part of some Puerto Ricans as being as legitimate as the official, tri-racial discourse of Puerto Rican national identity (which, needless to say, is also problematic and creates it own demons of racial inequality).

It also comes into play as an expression of sovereignty. Indeed, since the 19th century, writers of the Spanish Caribbean have utilized the indigenous past for expressions of their own nationalism. Invoking the caciques of the past, or the brutality of the Spanish conquest, could serve the greater cause of independence and nation-making for the diverse, subjugated colonial populations of Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Dominican Republic. Attempts in the 20th and 21st century to revive outright Taino identities can also serve this purpose of sovereignty and self-rule for Puerto Ricans living under US rule on the island or in economically and racially marginalized spaces in the US mainland. Indeed, assertions of indigeneity lend weight to Puerto Rican demands for reparations, independence, and alternatives to the official historical narrative. Unsurprisingly, the historical record will always contain its errors or blank spaces, but indigenous revivalism forces society to remember the silencing of indigenous lives after European conquest, reasserting the rights of subaltern voices and their descendants. Even if some of the proponents of indigenous revivalism commit themselves to gene fetishism and reinscribing "race" to understanding DNA, they are hardly alone for using genes or "race" to determine membership or status of indigenous communities. 

To conclude the aforementioned thoughts, the question of indigenous identity and, increasingly, the use of science and DNA to justify said claims, are more interesting for the motivations rather than outright rejection or refusal. Although some of the attempted revivals and historical scholarship are inherently problematic and, in some cases, questionable or false, indigeneity remains a dynamic concept. It cannot be simply stuck in the past with the expectation of "racial" homogeneity over time and a specific place or land attached to it. Identities are too flexible and permeable to allow for such an understanding, past or present. In truth, the pre-colonial peoples of the Caribbean were too diverse and mobile to allow for such a simplistic view. Further, it clearly resonates with groups living in colonial conditions today, just as it did for 19th century independence movements. Perhaps the idea of indigeneity in Haiti is of applicable interest here. In the Haitian case, the leaders of the revolutionary army invoked indigeneity, too, calling their army an indigenous one. Later Haitian writers picked up the theme again, invoking Haitianness as "indigenous." For Dessalines and subsequent Haitians, Haiti avenged the "Amerindian" inhabitants of the island and claimed the space for themselves as a sovereign state, directly linking indigeneity with sovereignty. For the most part, Haitians do not claim direct ancestry from the Taino, but we too have a complex relationship of our own with the idea of indigeneity and anti-colonialism. Perhaps that's the best definition of indigeneity we can arrive at for the Caribbean, one that is mobile, diverse, and opposed to colonialism.

Alibée Féry's Short Stories

Although he seems to be a key writer of fiction in Haiti between Ignace Nau in the 1830s and the later short stories and novels produced from 1890-1915, it is difficult to find much information about Alibée Féry's literary writings. As a contemporary of Nau and the 1830s romanticists, Féry's short stories, published in Essais littéraires in 1876, seem to resemble the short stories of Nau and others published in journals like L'Union. Indeed, their brevity makes one think some of them were originally published in newspapers, presumably aimed at a similar audience as the works of of Nau and other anonymous contributors to Haitian journals. Intriguingly, Féry's collected works includes a glossary of Creole terms, suggesting he might have been addressing a non-Haitian audience to some undetermined extent.

Nonetheless, Féry avoids the lodyans style and deserves the distinction of being the first Haitian writer to compose a Bouqui et Malice tale, presumably based on oral tradition. Indeed, Féry's nouvelles often have a fairy-tale structure and bareness with minimal detail, supernatural events and creatures, and miraculous events. Indeed, with the exception of the Bouqui and Malice trickster tale, which is almost more focused on the fathers of the two figures, each story involves magical events, spirits, anthropomorphized animals, curses, or monsters. In that respect, Féry seems more interested in the "superstition" and folklore of the Haitian countryside than historic tales of Ignace Nau. 

Although it is probably misguided, it is interesting to think about Féry's tales as a precursor of sorts to early works of Black speculative fiction. Indeed, the number of ouangas, zombies, simbi spirits, monsters, and magical characters populating these short stories, often fragments, really, contain a wholly speculative character where the impossible and the implausible are everyday occurrences. For instance, a "ouangataire" curses a woman who chooses another man instead of him. His curse is passed on to her child, who turns out to be a serpent that eventually devours the ouangataire. Hidden messages in dreams assist our characters, as well as a friendly simbi spirit who transforms Monrose into an eel and takes him to his wondrous underwater palace in the river. Or, in the case of the beast without equal, angels bring an enchanted sword to an unnamed hero who must slay a monster. 

While one must admit the use of magic and elements of fantasy in Nau's Isalina, the tales of Féry are completely immersed in that world of zombies, charms, angels, monsters, and aid from the supernatural. Most have a happy ending as many fairy tales do, while the trickster tale ends with Petit Malice and his father playing a joke on the buffoonish Guiannacou and Bouqui. Each tale also imparts something of the values and beliefs of the Haitian people, from a positive perspective. One wonders how Féry actually felt about Vodou and "superstition" in his political life (and what of the connection between Romanticism and the irrational), but in the fairy-tales and snippets of of the fantastic here, a moral can always be found. One wonders how the nouvelles of Brun, Marcelin, Hibbert, and others in the late 19th century and early 20th century continue or deviate from this pattern. Finally, one wonders to what extent the Bouqui and Petit Malice tale of Féry has shaped the canon of Bouqui and Malice tales in the oral and written tradition.

Taino Creation Myth

 

This short video brings to life one of the Taino creation stories reported in an account of the Indians of Hispaniola written by Fray Ramón Pané. The written account, based on his experiences on the island in the 1490s, is obviously much closer to the source material. Yet, it has its problems, too. Pané's cultural bias, disdain for Taino religion and healers, language barriers, and passion for converting what he saw as heatens produces a plethora of problems. Still, anyone who wants to reconstruct the culture, beliefs, and practices of the indigenous population of Hispaniola must use these sources in some form. His account has undoubtedly influenced the above video segment retelling the origin of the sea with beautiful artwork.

Muslims in Saint Domingue

Despite some of the strong assertions by scholars of a prominent role played by enslaved Muslims in Saint Domingue, most sources do appear not support that narrative. Two scholars in particular, Diouf and Gomez, promote unsubstantiated or speculative claims of prominent leaders among the slave rebels being Muslim. A Haitian blogger, Salnave, has dedicated several articles to disproving the thesis, albeit adding some of his own speculations in certain cases. So, what do the sources actually reveal about the presence of Muslims among the enslaved in Saint Domingue? And of what import does it come to bear on the history of slavery and Haiti? And how has the narrative of Islamic influences in the Haitian Revolution contributed to or hindered our understanding of it?

First, the sources can be uncertain or vague, and it is wrong-headed to attribute a Muslim identity to an African based on the name or assigned "nation." Our nearly encyclopedic source of information about the colony, Moreau de Saint-Méry, mentioned that many of the enslaved West Africans coming from the regions of the Senegal River to Sierra Leone were Muslims, but they mix Islam with idolatry. These aforementioned "nations" of Africans consisted of the Senegalese, Wolof, Poulards, Bambaras, Quiambas, Mandingues, Bissagots, and Soso, groups whose islamization, in some cases, postdates Haitian independence. In addition to some Islamic influences among captives from that region of West Africa, he claimed there were some Muslims from other areas of West Africa who mixed some Islamic practices with their idolatry (these "nations" coming from the lands from Cap Apollonie to the Gold Coast and Galba). However, Moreau de Saint-Méry's proves himself somewhat unreliable because he claims one of the few ways to tell if some West Africans were Muslim is if they were circumcised. He appears to think circumcision in Africa is linked to Islam, so one must question his claims of Islamic practices and influences upon the enslaved population. But his assertions of a Muslim presence among some of these groups is supported by Charlevoix, whose history of Saint Domingue mentions some Senegal Muslims in the colony.

Moreover, he also reveals himself to be a questionable witness because he claims the "Congo" included some with Islamic practices. The presence of Islam in West Central Africa during the 18th century was likely minimal, far less influential there than West Africa. Unless some of the captives came from areas of what are now eastern Congo, the Central African Republic, or Chad, their exposure to Islam was probably non-existent. Furthermore, many of the aforementioned "nations" who may have been Muslim or exposed to Islam, were largely practicing "traditional" religions until the 19th and 20th centuries (the Bambara come to mind). It is certainly possible that some of the previously mentioned West African "nations" included Muslims, as well as the Hausa, Yoruba, and Nupe, and additional captives from southeastern Africa. Indeed, there is also a remote chance of Muslim captives arriving in the colony from the Swahili Coast, Madagascar or India, though very unlikely. However, without more sources, assuming a significant Muslim presence among the enslaved population of Saint Domingue is speculative.

Another source used by Diouf and Gomez, Colonel Malenfant, attests to the presence of some literate Muslims in the colony. During the Haitian Revolution, slave rebels sometimes wore amulets with Arabic writing, a practice that was also common among non-Muslim groups in West Africa. Malenfant also describes an encounter with a literate African, named Tamerlan, who claimed to have come from a kingdom where writing and the production of books was common. Gomez deduced that Tamerlan was likely from a Muslim kingdom in West Africa, and the example of writing he produced for Malenfant, a long prayer of twenty lines written in a script Malenfant could not recognize, may have been ajami. Nonetheless, based on Malenfant's account of Tamerlan's literacy (one in a script associated with "long-haired mulattoes," perhaps the Tuareg or another population in the Sahel), Tamerlan assured him it was not Arabic. But, if it was ajami writing, however, one would think Tamerlan could have explained that to Malenfant? 

But, other details of Tamerlan's life before captivity do suggest a possible Muslim background. In addition to his role as a priest, instructor to a prince and maker of books or manuscripts, or so he claimed, he revealed to Malenfant that his hometown possessed 300,000 inhabitants. This is probably a reference to the total population the surrounding area of the capital city, not the royal capital itself. Intriguingly, the former capital city of the Bornu kingdom was, according to Dixon Denham, 200,000, before its fall during the early 19th century. It is likely that the majority of the structures in the city were constructed with wood or straw, like other cities of West Africa. Is there a chance Tamerlan was from the Kingdom of Bornu? He also said that he had not seen whites in his city, but the aforementioned long-haired mulattoes, probably a reference to the Tuareg or Berbers. He probably would have met other "whites" from Arab populations connected to Bornu via trans-Saharan networks, so uncertainty lingers. When he was captured, it took more than 3 months for him to reach the coast, where whites loaded the captives onto slave ships. This suggests he was from deep in the interior of what was most likely West Africa. The city of his king was built in wood, mostly of single-story homes. If true, then Tamerlan came from a very large city ruled by a powerful king. It is possible Tamerlan exaggerated some of these details to give an image of greater grandeur to his African past, but he clearly longed to return. According to Malenfant, he was one of the "few" Africans who wised to return to the continent, which suggests he probably enjoyed a position of great status. In consideration of all of the above, it is possible Tamerlan was indeed a Muslim from West Africa, but Malenfant's account is shrouded in hazy memory and doubt to prove it. Either way, Malenfant's memory of Tamerlan was linked to accounts of Muslim slaves in Saint Domingue.

Our next, and perhaps best source on Muslims in Saint Domingue, may corroborate a Muslim origin of Tamerlan. Etienne Michel Descourtilz, while at the Rossignol-Desdunes habitation in the Artibonite, collected details and accounts of the various African "nations" he encountered in Saint Domingue. For most, there is no mention of Islam. "Nations" which may have contained Islamic practitioners were not mentioned as Muslim. For instance, the Mozambiques are classified as Catholic and "Vaudoux" adherents, suggesting that most of the captives from southeastern Africa were not Muslim. There could have been a few who were, either from Mozambique, Tanzania, or Madagascar, but without sources it remains speculation. If anything, Descourtilz's experiences with Africans in Artibonite and Saint Domingue attests to the limited presence of Muslims among the enslaved, as the vast majority are mentioned with any reference to Islam.

Yet, Descourtilz does provide the best direct evidence of practicing Muslims in Saint Domingue. His two groups are the Phylani (Fulani), the Islamized among the Poulard of West Africa, and the "Beurno." His account of the former compares them to the Jews, although he describes their god as being Allah. The Phylani lived a nomadic lifestyle in Africa, stressed filial piety, and referred to their priest as "alpha." The Phylani group's religious holidays, abstention from pork, and prayers clearly demonstrate Islamic practices. Their priest or alpha was also literate, like Tamerlan. Besides the Phylani Muslim community in the colony, who were probably a very tiny one, Descourtilz wrote about the "Beurno" and their kingdom in Africa with some detail. According to Descourtilz, some slaves from "Beurno" toiled on the Rossignold-Desdunes plantation, thereby giving him multiple chances to speak with and observe the customs of "Beurno" Africans. 

"Beurno" is undoubtedly a reference to Bornu, a long-established kingdom in West Africa with roots in ancient Kanem. Their kings had converted to Islam several centuries before, and many of its subjects appear to have converted to Islam long before the Fulani jihads of the 1800s. Evidence of the Islamic influence upon the "Bornu" Africans can be found in what Descourtilz described as their strict submission of women to men, and gender separation of married women and men. According to Descourtilz, the religion of the Bornu resembled that of the Phylani, and they shared in their abstention from pork (they only consumed meat blessed by their alpha, or priest). Literacy was also present among the Bornu, who can read, write, transmit the code of their divine law. Descourtilz even described their custom of writing on wooden planks, a custom still seen in parts of Muslim West Africa. The religious texts produced in Bornu were highly valued, and many were willing to pay dearly or sell their livestock to purchase said texts. In short, the "Beurno" described by Descourtilz were, in at least some cases, devout Muslims whose social practices were influenced by Islam. The description of the king of "Beurno" and the prevalence of the slave trade also confirms the Bornu identification, although the specific "Beurno" captives met by Descourtilz were the defeated in a battle with rivals of Bornu.

So, via Descourtilz, we have direct accounts of at least two Islamized groups in Saint Domingue. It is unclear what their total numbers were, but a group of the "Beurno" were working at the Rossignol-Desdunes plantation. For the Phylani Muslims, their numbers were likely small, too. Descourtilz does not offer much in terms of understanding the influence of these two groups on other slaves, and their small numbers and distinct religion may have encouraged them to look inward and try to preserve some of their customs and practices. If they were like African Muslims in other parts of the Caribbean, they may have been able to survive as a small community for a few generations. But, if evidence from Trinidad and elsewhere is relevant to Saint Domingue and Haiti, one would think most of the Muslims in Saint Domingue vanished after a few generations or merged into the general population, possibly converting to Catholicism or joining Vodou adherents. I have yet to come across any sources attesting to Muslim communities after independence, and claims of Muslim Mandingue in Balan are likely exaggerated. 

 To conclude, one must admit the idea of an Islamic contribution to the making of Haiti clearly resonates with some of the African Diaspora. To me, it seems to be a reflection of inaccurate histories of Islam in Africa, black nationalist romances of Islam as "our religion" and, in some cases, an outdated civilizationist and vindicationist discourse used by some Haitian intellectuals to elevate the status of some of our forebears. Clearly, Price-Mars and Jean Fouchard thought very highly of the famous kingdoms and empires of the medieval Western Sudan. Some, like Fouchard, attribute literacy and refinement to these people through their contact with Arabs and Islam. Thus, they can foment a counter-narrative that suggests our African ancestors were not all illiterate peoples removed from the most important aspects of civilization. Of course, one would hope proponents of the Islamic theory distance themselves from that paradigm, but there is still a remnant of it in the way some scholars describe the esteem enslaved Muslims received from their masters. Undoubtedly it lives on through the legacy of Edward Blyden and 20th century Black Muslim movements. Regardless, we are stuck at the impasse described in Reed's Mumbo Jumbo, with Islam, Vodun, and "Atenism" as competing forces. 

Ultimately, the benefit of this revisionist scholarship, for what it's worth, is that it does shed light and add nuance to our understanding of the various peoples in Saint Domingue. It helps piece together who the forced migrants were, what their values may have been, and the kinds of societies from which they sprang. Indeed, Descourtilz's essay on the African "nations" of Saint Domingue was intimately linked to a history of Africa. Malenfant recognized the great use captives like Tamerlan could have for the European exploration of the African continent. Consequently, studying the origins of the African populations of Saint Domingue is also a study of the history of Africa. But until new evidence emerges, the tale of Islam in Saint Domingue will be one of a small minority who have contributed to the mosaic of Africa that is Haiti. The blog of Salnave has already demonstrated how limited the Islamic presence was and its role in the Haitian Revolution, but there will always be room for new interpretations and conclusions about the birth of Haiti.

Bibliography 

Charlevoix, Pierre-François-Xavier de, and Jean Baptiste Le Pers. Histoire de l'isle espagnole ou de S. Domingue: ecrite particulierement sur des memoires manuscrits du p. Jean-Baptiste le Pers, Jesuite, missionnaire à Saint Domingue, & sur les pieces originales, qui se conservent au Dépôt de la marine. Amsterdam: F. L'Honoré, 1733.

Denham, Dixon, Hugh Clapperton, and Walter Oudney. Travels and Discoveries in Northern and Central Africa: In 1822, 1823, and 1824. London: J. Murray, 1831.

Descourtilz, Michel Étienne. Voyages d'un naturaliste, et ses observations faites sur les trois regnes de la Nature, dans plusieurs ports de mer francais, en Espagne, au continent d'Amerique septentrionale, a Saint-Yago de Cuba, et a Saint Domingue, ou l'Auteur devenu le prisonnier de 40,000 Noirs revoltes, et par suite mis en liberte par une colonne de l'armee frangais, donne des details circonstancies sur l'expedition du general Leclerc, 3 vols. Paris: Dufart, 1809.

Diouf, Sylviane A. Servants of Allah: African Muslims Enslaved in the Americas. New York: New York University Press, 1998. 

Geggus, David. "The French Slave Trade: An Overview." The William and Mary Quarterly 58, no. 1 (2001): 119-38. Accessed October 3, 2020. doi:10.2307/2674421.

Gomez, Michael A. Black Crescent: The Experience and Legacy of African Muslims in the Americas. Cambridge ; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005. 

Khan, Aisha. "Islam, Vodou, and the Making of the Afro-Atlantic." NWIG: New West Indian Guide / Nieuwe West-Indische Gids 86, no. 1/2 (2012): 29-54. Accessed October 5, 2020. http://www.jstor.org/stable/41850693.

Malenfant, Col. Des colonies, et particulièrement de celle de Saint-Dominique: mémoire historique et politique, ou l'on trouvera, 1o un exposé impartial des causes et un précis historique des guerres civiles qui ont rendu cette dernière colonie indépendante, 2o des considérations sur l'importance de la rattacher à la métropole et sur les moyens de le renter avec succès, d'y ramener une paix durable, d'en rétablir et accroître la prospérité. Paris: Audibert, (C.-F. Patris), 1814.

Moreau de Saint-Méry, Méderic Louis Élie. Description topographique, physique, civile, politique et historique de la partie françoise de l'isle Saint-Domingue. 3 vols. Philadelphia:  1797.

Salnave, Rodney. "Saint Domingue's islamized were submissive". September 29, 2020 ; Updated Sept. 30, 2020. [online] URL : https://bwakayiman.blogspot.com/2020/09/Saint-Domingues-submissive-islamized.html ; Retrieved on October 1, 2020.

The Mystery of Tamerlan's Writing

 

The case of Tamerlan, an enslaved African living in Boucassin, Saint Domingue on the eve of the Haitian Revolution, has sparked interest and debate about the presence of Islam among captives in the French colony. A few revisionist scholars assume Tamerlan was a Muslim because of his name and the account of him left to posterity by Colonel Malenfant, who managed a plantation. His position ensured he had easy access to diverse captive population. Nonetheless, based on Malenfant's account of Tamerlan's literacy in two non-Arabic African languages (one associated with "long-haired mulattoes," perhaps the Tuareg), historians know a few details of Tamerlan's life before captivity. Unfortunately, Malenfant lost the examples of writing Tamerlan gave him, and, writing decades after this encounter, could not recall in detail the appearance of Tamerlan's script. He knew it was a long prayer, based on what Tamerlan told him. And Tamerlan assured him it was not Arabic, although some scholars speculate it could have been an example of Ajami writing (adapting the Arabic script to write local West African languages). This has not stopped some scholars (Gomez, Diouf) from asserting a Muslim identity for Tamerlan or concluding his writing was Arabic or an adaptation of Arabic script). But if Tamerlan was indeed using an adapted Arabic script, wouldn't he have been able to communicate that to Malenfant?

However, a Haitian blogger and historian who opposes the lazy historical reasoning of revisionist scholars who thrust a Muslim identity upon Tamerlan, has demonstrated quite clearly how unlikely it was Tamerlan was Muslim or wrote in Arabic or even Ajami. Using Malenfant, he demonstrates quite clearly that the Frenchman would have probably known if Tamerlan was a Muslim based on their rarity and the knowledge of other slaveholders familiar with Muslim slaves. He also, in a series of blog posts, demonstrates how one cannot assume a Muslim identity based on the names of Africans. Names of Arabic or Islamic origin appeared in the colony from European sources, and were sometimes assigned to Africans from non-Islamic parts of the continent (like Central African "Congos). Consequently, the name of Tamerlan and the fact that did not identify his writing as Arabic suggest he probably wasn't a Muslim. If true, however, who was Tamerlan and what was the script he used?

The aforementioned blog posits an intriguing theory. Salnave's article suggests an attractive theory linking Tamerlan to the Bambara kingdom of Segu. It is plausible that Tamerlan had been an instructor to a prince of Segu, and maybe, although there is no evidence for it, was using a proto-N'ko script. Supposedly, at least one Segu leader spent time in Timbuktu centers of learning, and it is not surprising that some West African peoples were familiar with Arabic, Tuareg tifinagh, and Ajami. However, all established theories of the N'ko writing system point to a 20th century origin. If it is true Tamerlan wrote in N'ko, or another Bambara or Mande script (like Vai, which appears to have been invented in the 1830s in Liberia), then researchers or scholars should, hopefully, encounter it in Segu, Timbuktu, or other towns and villages in West Africa where manuscripts were found (assuming they exist and were not destroyed). 

Ajami manuscripts and texts have been located, but Salnave has demonstrated somewhat convincingly that it probably was not Ajami writing, at least based on how Malenfant vaguely recalls it. But if it is not Ajami, does it point to a proto-N'ko or pre-Vai Mande-speakers script? The Vai peoples probably had some form of contact or trade with Mande-speakers further north (not to mention the Americo-Liberians, and the Cherokee among them), so maybe the Vai script in some form or another may have ties to an older system of writing from the Bambara or other groups in Mali? If so, what were the conditions of writing and literacy for non-Muslim West Africans in the 18th century? If most West African writings in local languages, that we know of, have been Ajami and tied to Islamic cultures or scholars, shouldn't there be evidence for non-Islamic manuscripts and book production, besides the Vai syllabary?

What else can one possibly surmise from Malenfant's brief account of Tamerlan? In addition to be an instructor to a prince and maker of books or manuscripts, or so he claims, he told Malenfant that the city from which he came had 300,000 inhabitants.  When he was captured, it took more than 3 months for him to reach the coast, where whites loaded the captives onto slave ships. This suggests he was from deep in the interior or what was most likely West Africa. The city of his king was built in wood, mostly of single-story homes. Salnave speculates that this could be a description of Segu, which Mungo Park estimated to have 30,000 inhabitants and mostly built in clay. If any of this is accurate, then Tamerlan came from a very large city ruled by a powerful king. Segu would fit the bill, although other large urban centres in West Africa did exist in the 18th century (although none would have contained 300,000 people, unless you count the surrounding countryside?). It is possible Tamerlan exaggerated some of these details to give an image of greater grandeur to his African past, but he clearly longed to return home. According to Malenfant, he was one of the "few" Africans who wised to return to the continent, which suggests he probably enjoyed a position of great status. 

Unfortunately, Malenfant's account is too brief and vague to fill in the dots, but it is clear that Tamerlan came from a part of Africa with a history of writing, manuscript production, and large urban centers. One of the forms of writing he was familiar with was possibly the tifinagh of the Tuareg, which was often used for poems, short correspondence, funerary inscriptions. Considering all these factors, one can understand why some historians assume Tamerlan was a Muslim and possibly wrote his prayer in Ajami. With the exception of parts of West Africa, North Africa, Ethiopia and the Horn, and the Swahili Coast, writing systems in Africa with a history of manuscript production were quite limited. One can surmise from Malenfant that Tamerlan was not from North Africa or the Swahili Coast (where a tradition of ajami writing also exists). It is possible but unlikely that he was from Ethiopia or the Horn of Africa. If he was from Ethiopia, who were the long-haired mulattoes he described to Malenfant (fairer-skinned Habasha who maybe wrote in Ge'ez or Amharic)? Where was this large city he described? Gondar? Surely, if Tamerlan was from Ethiopia, it is possible he was a Christian and described the castles of stone in Gondar? And last, but worthy of consideration, was Tamerlan literate in a Central African language, like Kikongo? But that would have likely been composed in a Portuguese-inspired Western script that Malenfant should have recognized.

So, what can one say about the mystery of Tamerlan and his lost text? It seems he was not a Muslim, and presumably did not write Arabic or in Ajami. He was probably from West Africa, which is what Malenfant seems to believe when he later mentions how useful someone like Tamerlan would have been as a guide or navigator to explorers like Mungo Park. If one of the writing systems he was familiar with was tifinagh, then he was probably from the West African Sahel or savanna regions. Salnave's theory of a Segu origin is plausible, although he could have been from other parts of that eco-region. Since the origin of N'ko is most likely traced to the 20th century, although maybe inspired by earlier Ajami writing, Tamerlan's mysterious script could point to an older script that may have existed among Bambara, Mandinka, or other West African peoples. It is possible that he was promoting a system of writing akin to the Vai syllabary, and books were made on paper imported via the trans-Saharan or other trade networks. The chances of an Ethiopian or East African origin of Tamerlan appear unlikely, although some East Africans were sold into slavery in the Caribbean. One cannot completely deny the possibility that Tamerlan was indeed writing in Ajami, but surely he could have explained that to Malenfant when the latter asked if he was writing in Arabic. The mystery endures, at least until one finds documents written in African languages or Arabic from Saint Domingue. Malenfant mentions amulets with Arabic inscriptions used by some of the rebel slaves, but that does not prove they were Muslim (except that some literate Muslims were involved in their production). 

Bibliography

 

Rodney Salnave. "Tamerlan wasn't muslim". February 26, 2017 ; Updated Sept. 25, 2020. [online] URL: http://bwakayiman.blogspot.ca/2017/02/tamerlan-wasnt-muslim.html ; Retrieved on 10/1/2020.