Revisiting Tamerlan: The Case for a Borno Origin

Let us examine the case of a literate African named Tamerlan in Saint Domingue (Haiti) for evidence of another link between Haiti and Kanem-Borno. We have attempted an analysis of Tamerlan in a previous post. For those who don't remember, Tamerlan is mentioned in a book by Colonel Malenfant. In one anecdote, after mentioning Arabic amulets in Saint Domingue, he describes meeting Tamerlan, in 1791, a man who could read and write in his own language, as well as that of a type of "mulattoes" with long hair. Tamerlan wrote a prayer and the name of his language on a piece of paper for Malenfant, who later lost it.

At first he thought Tamerlan wrote something in Arabic, but he said no. So, there's some mystery about Tamerlan's writing. If we look at other clues in his story, however, it seems likely he wrote in ajami for his own language, possibly Kanembu or Kanuri. The writing of the long-haired mulattoes may have been the Tuareg Tifinagh, something he could have picked up from being an educated man of Borno who interacted with Tuaregs. Perhaps a mere coincidence, but Niebuhr's description of Borno uses the Kanuri word for Tuareg, and describes them as long-haired, suggesting Kanuri descriptions of Tuareg in the 18th century also linked them to long-hair. Additional clues suggest Tamerlan was from the interior of western Africa (it took more than 3 months for him to reach the coast after being taken captive). He also described himself as the teacher of a prince and as someone who produced books or texts. This would suggest a respected scholar or royal tutor, which would have been a common practice in Borno, as various mais aligned themselves with scholars and supported students. In West Africa, such a person would almost certainly be of a Muslim background and probably from a region with a long tradition of scholarship. Borno would fit the bill quite well.

He also describes the royal town as being a vast city, estimating it to have as many inhabitants as Port-au-Prince, the Cul-de-Sac plain, Arcahaie, and Leogane. Malenfant takes this to mean the city of Tamerlan had around 300,000 people, but a more reasonable estimate would be far less, as those areas of Saint Domingue probably didn't have a total population of 300,000 people in 1791. The towns would have been usually small, with a very large enslaved population in the Cul-de-Sac plain near Port-au-Prince (tens of thousands). But something on the scale of 100,000-200,000 would be more realistic, which could easily have been the case if Gazargamu had around 10,000 houses in the late 18th century. Either way, Tamerlan describes himself coming from the African interior, being literate in 2 writing systems (one possibly Tifinagh), and coming from a vast capital city ruled by a powerful king who would pay a fortune to have him back. We know in other incidences that Borno's rulers paid ransoms for the return of relatives or valuable persons, exemplified by Ali ibn. Umar and his nephew or as Nicholas Said reveals in his autobiography.

I don't know about you, but we could see Tamerlan being from Borno. While people from Borno were not very common in Saint Domingue, "Bernon" or "Beurnon" Africans were in Saint Domingue. Indeed, Descourtilz wrote about Borno based on discussions with "Beurnon" people in the colony, who told him how highly valued religious texts were in their homeland. In addition, Hausa captives were also there, so perhaps Tamerlan could have been from Katsina or Kano, or a tributary state of Borno. Yet the vast metropolis of his king sounds like Borno's capital. Of course, Malenfant remembers Tamerlan describing a well aligned city built of wood, where most of the houses were a single story. Gazargamu would have included brick and clay structures, but very likely a lot of wooden structures or "huts" as part of household compounds or the housing of the less fortunate. Perhaps Tamerlan was exaggerating how well-aligned the streets of the city were, as North African sources suggest Gazargamu had an irregular layout without proper "streets." Indeed, with the exception of the dendal and the street leading to the principal mosque, we find it hard to believe the city of Gazargamu was well aligned. 

With these caveats, we still think there's a good chance Tamerlan was indeed a native of Borno. Perhaps someone with a thorough education, who could understand Tuareg Tifinagh, and was respected and supported by the ruler of his state. While he could have been from other parts of West Africa, the fact that he claimed to be from a vast city in the African interior and comes from a society where scholarship, ajami writing, and books were highly valued, suggests a Borno origin. The enormous city he described may have been the Gazargamu said to have had 200,000 inhabitants. If so, Tamerlan's story of his origin can be additional evidence for the substantial urban civilization of Borno under the Sefuwa dynasty. In order to confirm this story, we would need to find a source that mentions a royal prince of Borno being killed in the attack that led to Tamerlan's enslavement, perhaps the very same cruel prince mentioned by Descourtilz? Alternatively, Tamerlan could have hailed from East Africa, perhaps Ethiopia or Sudan, but we consider that less likely due to the much higher numbers of West and Central Africans in Saint Domingue. 

The Devastation of the Indies: A Brief Account

Due to our ongoing interest in the history of the indigenous population of the Spanish Caribbean, and their legacy today, we have been endeavoring to read more of the 16th century Spanish source material. While de las Casas may have been poorly translated by Briffault in this text, we think the "gist" of de las Casas can still be useful here for understanding how the Spanish conquest of the mainland fed captives into Hispaniola, Cuba, and Puerto Rico for decades. Sure, de las Casas is unreliable on numbers and the often confusing translation misrepresents or complicates some of his accounts, but there are numerous references to the slave trade of indigenous populations across the region. Indeed, according to our author, several Indian slaves could be traded for a horse, pigs, or other items and then be used as laborers for gold mines, agriculture, or domestics in Hispaniola and Puerto Rico. 

Due to the text's emphasis on Spanish cruelty and the depopulation of the regions conquered by them, de las Casas refers to only 200 "Indian" survivors in Puerto Rico and Jamaica. Since his numbers are often imprecise or unreliable (claiming, for instance, that millions of Indians were sold in the slave trade by the time he was writing in the 1540s), and he repeats some of the same figures, we believe that it is likely that the "surviving" indigenous populations of Hispaniola and Cuba may have been much higher than 200. Particularly when one considers the large numbers of "Indians" brought to Hispaniola and Puerto Rico from the coast of Venezuela, Yucatan, Bahamas, and Florida, there must have been a large number of "Indians" who, at least for some time, maintained and "Indian" population in the Greater Antilles. Since genetic data suggests Puerto Ricans descend, in part, from pre-colonial Caribbean populations, and circum-Caribbean "Indian" populations were brought to the islands as captives, we think the genetic diversity of the Hispanic Caribbean's "Amerindian" component probably also reflects populations from northern South America, the Yucatan, Florida, and the Gulf of Paria. 

In short, de las Casas remains a powerful source on the demographic collapse of "Indies" caused by Spanish expansion and conquest. As for "Indian" survival in the Caribbean, he is weak on details, but testifies to the large-scale slave trade of indigenous populations across the hemisphere. While he turns "Indians" into reasonable beings with few flaws, constant victims of Spanish avariciousness and violence, he also describes how the separation of families, forced relocations, arduous labor regimes, and negative impact on food production must have contributed to the demographic collapse of the hemispheres. While those interested in indigenous survival in the Spanish Caribbean must take this into account, clearly not all "Indians" disappeared by the second half of the 16th century. 

Rambling on Duverneau Trouillot and Haitian Religion

Duverneau Trouillot's 1885 Esquisse ethnographique: Le vaudoun; Aperçu historique et évolutions provides one of the first and most detailed accounts of Haitian Vodou. As such, and despite the lack of clarity on the source of information used by Trouillot, his ethnographic account was a pioneering effort and one of the most detailed 19th century ethnographies. For instance, Trouillot provides one very detailed account of some of the major lwa, tracing their origins back to the Whydah, the "Ardres" kingdom of the "Arada" and the snake cult. The legendary snake of the widespread snake cult of Dahomey, "Ardres" and Whydah is Wedo in Haiti, but spelled by Trouillot as Houedo. Mention of Legba, Badagri, Loco, Agwe, and other well-known spirits appear in Trouillot's account. He also provides one of the earliest mentions of the "Cimbi" or Simbi spirit (although a short story by Alibée Féry used a Simbi spirit), not to mention the evolution of the term houngan, the importance of taboos, and the use of Catholic images. 

Of course, as a Haitian intellectual likely imbued with Positivism and the superiority of Western civilization, Trouillot saw Vodou as a religion in a state of decline. Vodou, according to him, existed more for entertainment and speculation, not as a serious practice. Alcohol and the cupidity of the papa-lois and mama-lois were the most powerful stimulants to the Vodou dance, in his day. Indeed, he even claims the religion no longer has dogma or rites! It is hard to take such a perspective seriously when Vodou exists to this day in Haiti and its diaspora, but Trouillot shares with Janvier a belief in presenting Haiti as evolving toward civilization, which entailed the decline of Vodou belief or practices. Thus, Trouillot can declare, "Ni les cérémonies actuellement en usage, ni l'olympe contemporain, ne rapellent le cult du passé, le vaudoun s'est francisé et tend à disparaître sous les pas redoublés de la civilisation chrétienne" (278). For Trouillot, Vodou would eventually wither away with the spread of education and civilization. 

But what is most enlightening in Trouillot's brief essay is the analysis of the priesthood of Vodou. According to Trouillot, houngans and caprelatas were ambulant, selling pwen, wanga, "science" and works. It was actually the papa or papa-loi, master of a particular society, who constituted the priesthood of the faith (although a papa could also serve as houngan). Yet, today, houngan is generally used for Vodou priests whereas papa-loi seems to have disappeared. One wonders if this process was tied to the changes in the structure of Vodou priesthood noted in Richman's Migration and Vodou, where social dislocations, proletarianization, and the rise of priests buying and selling their services gradually replaced some of the older societies led by papa-loi and family-based Vodou rituals. One cannot generalize too broadly from Trouillot's essay since it is not clear who his informants were, but one suspects it was people living in or near Port-au-Prince, possibly in the Cul-de-Sac plain. Informants from these areas may have already began a transition away from the older family-based lwa and towards the more commercial services and ceremonies which 20th century ethnographic accounts reported.

Of course, additional research is required to ascertain the accuracy of Trouillot's description of the Vodou priesthood. But it might have also shaped his negative description of Vodou if houngans and caprelatas were beginning to replace papa-lois or mama-lois, and the commercial aspect of the religion seemed more obvious. Perhaps the death of the bossales and people who were directly familiar with African rites by the late 1800s also struck the author as another cause for decline. Although he mentions special food offerings associated with Congos, Nagos, and Ibos, suggesting the persistence of Afrian "nations" by his era, Trouillot may have inferred a gradual decline as old rites and traditions adapted themselves to younger generations of Haitians. Unsurprisingly, he may have seen this as sign of a religion in decline, a faith losing its dogma and becoming the territory of charlatans who prey on the uneducated and ignorant. Moreover, the author's belief in inevitable progress also necessitated the eventual disappearance of such a religion. One wonders if, like Firmin and Comte, Trouillot saw in African "religion" an eventual leap to the positivist stage, which may have contributed to the depiction of Vodou as a religion in decline. 

Further Reading

Clorméus, Lewis Ampidu. Le Vodou Haïtien: Entre mythes et constructions Savantes. Paris: Riveneuve éditions, 2015.

Cibuco??

Sixteenth-century geographer Lopez de Velasco is one of the few accessible sources available on the mysterious "pueblo" of Cibuco by the town of Guadianilla. Although his  Geografía y descripción universal de las Indias was probably not completely accurate for the population and demographics of the Spanish Caribbean possessions, he was writing when the Cibuco settlement was, presumably, occupied by "indios." Unlike Salvador Brau, who wrote centuries later and did not always clearly provide his sources, Velasco claimed the residents of Cibuco were descendants of enslaved "Indios" brought to the island from other parts of the Americas. One can assume they were "Caribs" and Yucatecans, natives of the coast of Venezuela and probably mainland areas such as Florida and even Brazil. According to Brau's La colonizacion de Puerto Rico, Cibuco was established with 48 manumitted "Indios," suggesting a very small settlement. 

Besides these "Indios" who were presumably freed after the 1542 laws abolishing Indian enslavement (though it continued in Puerto Rico and Santo Domingo anyway), Lopez de Velasco also mentioned "algunos indios" in Arrecibo (Arecibo). Salvador Brau likewise mentioned "Indios" in Arecibo, describing them as workers on hatos who also caught turtles. The island of Mona still had "algunos indios" as well. Overall, Lopez de Velasco suggests that "Indios" were few in Puerto Rico, but this is possibly due to a large mestizo population and omission of other communities, like the "Indios" of the Quebrada de Dona Catalina, near San Juan. This community owned a "hacienda" for their conucos in the 1500s, and included people of African descent. In addition, Sued Badillo illustrated other examples, such as enslaved Indians held by the governor of the Puerto Rico in the 1560s. Samuel de Champlain wrote about "Indians" in San Juan in the late 1500s, too. Nevertheless, it is clear from Lopez de Velasco's work that Cuba had more Indian pueblos (9), and mentioned Indian families in Baracoa, Bayamo, Puerto del Principe, Santi-Spiritus, La Trinidad, and Guanabacoa. 

So, what happened to the mysterious "Cibuco," which may have been the only official Indian pueblo in Puerto Rico? Salvador Brau, in his Historia de Puerto Rico, argued that the population was resettled into the hills of the San German area. Anderson-Cordova, in Surviving Spanish Conquest wrote that the town was inhabited by Indians set free by Governor Vallejo and the settlement was already gone by 1582. Brau, again, claimed Cibuco was abandoned when destroyed by French corsairs, which is plausible. If the population of Cibuco simply moved into the hills of western Puerto Rico, perhaps they joined other undocumented groups of "Indians" and mestizos, since western Puerto Rico had a larger presence of "Indians" than San Juan, according to the de Lando "census" of 1530. 

Did they move into the hills that would later become La Indiera, only to be joined later by Mona "Indians" resettled into the region? If Abbad y Lasierra was correct, though writing in the late 1700s and not providing his sources, many of these "Indios" in the hills near San German and Anasco were actually descendants of indigenous Puerto Ricans who fled the Spanish to live in Mona, Monico, Vieques, and other islands, but later requested to return. Thus, if the "algunos indios" on Mona were resettled in the hills of western Puerto Rico sometime in the 1600s, perhaps they joined or communicated with descendants of indigenous Indians and enslaved "indios" in the region, not to mention the probably large number of mestizos and mixed-race people represented among the free peasantry in the island. This, however, still does not explain the reappearance of "Indios" in the censuses of the later decades of the 1700s, unless it was in part a response to attempts to seize their lands or labor, which Puerto Ricans of "Indian" descent mobilized against in part through claims of indigeneity? So many questions remain...

Borno and Haiti

 

While perusing the excellent Corpus of runaway slave ads for Saint Domingue, we came across what appears to be one of the few other sources to mention "Borno" Africans in Saint Domingue. Instead of spelling the name of their homeland in the same manner as Descourtilz (Beurnon), it was rendered as Bernon. The 1789 advertisement in Affiches américaines also mentions that one of the "Bernon" fled his owners in the company of 3 Hausa named Aly, Dominique and Aza. Scipion, the man of "Bernon" nation, was likely very familiar with Hausa people due to Borno's long history in northern Nigeria. Perhaps they also shared an Islamic background that may have helped them transcend "ethnic" differences and find some commonality with other enslaved African Muslims in Saint Domingue. The text likewise mentions another maroon, Christophe of the "Bernon" nation. He was stamped Pommier and belonged to a different owner. 

One cannot help but wonder if these "Bernon" captives and runaways were part of the same group of prisoners of war who were sold into slavery and ended up in the Rossignol Desdunes plantation. "Bernon" Africans seem to have been somewhat uncommon in Saint Domingue, and clearly the mai of Borno was unlikely to intercede and ask for the return of his subjects from across the Atlantic. As an empire mostly drawn into the trans-Saharan orbit, and primarily exporting other peoples as slaves rather than their own (with a few exceptions, according to Descourtilz), it is interesting to consider the connections of Haiti with the "Central Sudan" and Borno as another dimension of Borno's global presence. Althoughly surely small in number in Saint Domingue, it is possible the "Bernon" Africans joined alongside Hausa, Fulani, Mandingue, and others to recreate, in some form, their Islamic religion. It would be an interesting find if Haitian archival sources ever point to a Muslim community in Haiti after 1804, perhaps in the Artibonite region. 

Sued Badillo on the Theme of the Indigenous

Jalil Sued Badillo's essay, "The Theme of the Indigenous in the National Projects of the Hispanic Caribbean", published in Making Alternative Histories: The Practice of Archaeology and History in Non-Western Settings should be required reading for anyone and everyone interested in Taino revivalism, Puerto Rican cultural identity, the rise of the mixed-race Creole culture of the peasantry by the 17th century, and nationalism in the Spanish Caribbean setting. Sued Badillo makes a convincing case for the survival, persistence and cultural reproduction of indigenous Puerto Rican and Caribbean peoples well after the mid-1500s. But, over time, this social and cultural reproduction became something new that people of European and African origin also participated in, leading to the distinct Creole identities of Puerto Rico, Cuba, and the Dominican Republic. This, in turn, became a central theme for the construction of national identities, as the peasantry best represented the continuity with the indigenous past and the ""national" character. As illustrated in Sued Badillo's article, 19th century Puerto Rican nationalists called the jibaros of Borinquen the children of Agueybana.

For our interests, Sued Badillo's documentation of "Indian" communities after the middle of the 16th century was most important. It was not solely in Cuba, where "Indian" pueblos and barrios existed long after 1600. For instance, on Hispaniola, he mentions the "Indian" pueblo of Boya, an attempt by Hispaniola encomienda "Indians" to form another town, and the prominence of "Indians" and "mestizos" in western Hispaniola, where smuggling and contraband with other Europeans was common, leading to some mestizos and "mulatos" becoming wealthy. Indeed, this probably explains why Samuel de Champlain, writing in 1599, mentions "Indians" in Hispaniola who trade with the French. These "Indians" and mestizos who continued to trade with Europeans and develop their own contraband economy were also part of the creation of a new creole identity on Hispaniola as "Indians" and mestizos were joined by people of African descent that resisted the colonial government in Santo Domingo. One can see the rustic "monteros" of the 19th and 20th century Dominican Republic emerging from these forebears.

Moreover, something similar occurred in colonial Puerto Rico just as colonial officials were proclaiming the disappearance of "Indians" and mestizos. Some did so, as pointed out by Sued Badillo, to mask the fact that they continued to purchase and exploit enslaved "Indians" from other lands long after the New Laws of 1542. Such an honor appears to apply to the governor of Puerto Rico in the 1560s. Sued Badillo points out the persistence of "Indian" and mestizo communities such as the Quebrada de Dona Catalina, near San Juan. Other "Indians" and mestizos were scattered and pushed onto marginal lands and shifted into the piedmont overlooking the coastal area. These communities, joined by people of European and African origin, gradually increased in population, engaged in subsistence agriculture and commercial exchange for local and foreign markets, and continued to influence colonial society. 

Sued Badillo's analysis of the "Indians" of Mona is likewise enlightening, for it points to indigenous survival on an island which engaged in smuggling, food production (cassava) for other Spanish colonies, and their eventual relocation to the hills of San German and nearby regions sometime before 1685. Unfortunately, Sued Badillo does not explain or speculate on what happened to the "Indian" pueblo of Cibuco, but we are of the opinion that Mona "Indians" and the former residents of the 16th century Cibuco settlement must have both ended up in the region that would eventually be named La Indiera. Perhaps the reappearance of "Indians" on censuses in the late 18th century in the San German area is related to descendants of Cibuco, Mona, and "Indian" or mestizo laborers and convicts transported to Puerto Rico from Venezuela and Mexico in the late 1600s and 1700s, but the censuses do not provide adequate information to ascertain this. An alternative and equally speculative theory could be related to land control and access, as mestizos" and people who may have had distant "Indian" ancestry in western Puerto Rico tried to defend their property or local autonomy in the late 18th century and early 19th century. 

Overall, Sued Badillo's persuasive article demonstrates not only "Indian" survival" in the Spanish Caribbean, but significant "Indian" contributions to the rise of the "mestizo" creole culture. He does not seek to romanticize it, as it was not egalitarian and suffered from some of the same racial hierarchies and problems inherent to its colonial setting. Nor does Sued Badillo seek to exaggerate the population of "Indians" or mistakenly equate jibaros with "Indians" as some Taino revivalists argue. But the indigenous population and its racially mixed-progeny provided much of the basic structure of the nascent creole identity, even as officials denied the existence of "Indians" and even "mestizos" disappear. This perspective was adopted by historians who failed to see how the social and economic conditions of the Spanish Caribbean in the late 1500s and early 1600s favored "Indians" and mestizos through contraband trade, migration away from colonial towns, and a degree of autonomy that allowed for population growth. As for the fate of "mestizos" in the region, Schwartz's article suggests it is very likely that many mestizos became whites (or perhaps even "blancos de la tierra), while others were lumped into the "pardo" category in a process seen for much of Puerto Rico by Abbad y Lasierra in the 18th century. More works remains to be done on this process, as well as the experiences of "Indians" in La Indiera during the late 18th century. 

Works Cited

Castanha, Tony. The Myth of Indigenous Caribbean Extinction: Continuity and Reclamation in Borikén (Puerto Rico). New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011.

Peter R. Schmidt and Thomas C. Patterson --, et al. Making Alternative Histories: The Practice of Archaeology in Non-Western Settings. Santa Fe, N.M. : Seattle: School of American Research Press ; Distributed by the University of Washington Press, 1995.

Schwartz, Stuart B. “Spaniards, ‘Pardos’, and the Missing Mestizos: Identities and Racial Categories in the Early Hispanic Caribbean.” NWIG: New West Indian Guide / Nieuwe West-Indische Gids 71, no. 1/2 (1997): 5–19.

Haitian References to Indigenous Ancestry in the Dominican Republic

Although genetics is now confirming that most people in the Spanish Caribbean do indeed have indigenous ancestry from the native populations of the Caribbean and its surroundings, it is worthwhile to consider the various Haitian sources which have been saying the same thing about the Dominican people (and their ancestors) for over 200 years. While hardly new, it does shed light on some of the ethnic and racial dynamics that shaped Haitian perceptions of Dominicans, and the question of political union of Haiti and Spanish Santo Domingo under president Boyer. It may also serve as an additional "local" Caribbean source on the legacy of the indigenous Caribbean population in the Hispanic Caribbean. The following quotations are mostly drawn from Thomas Madiou, with a few from Beaubrun Ardouin, Emile Nau, and one from the Haitian government publication, Le Moniteur. Google Books and Gallica contain numerous works by the aforementioned 19th century Haitian historians, which should be consulted for additional information.

Here, Thomas Madiou references a local military commandant addressing the local population of San Juan de la Maguana, affirming indigenous ancestry among the contemporary population of the eastern half of the island. Not only did commandant Herrera draw on on the legacy of the cacique Henri, he claimed the indigenous population as ancestors. Such a speech indicates how "Dominicans" themselves were claiming aboriginal ancestry in the 19th century.

Here Beaubrun Ardouin references an address of Dessalines which explicitly refers to the population of the east as descendants of the Indian population of Hispaniola. Clearly, over 200 years ago, Haitians were already recognizing indigenous ancestry among Dominicans. In this case, it could be rhetorical in the sense of Dessalines and the indigenous army, unifying it politically under his rule to complete the avenging of the Americas. 

Emile Nau, a 19th century Haitian historian of the indigenous population of the island, mentions "Indian" traits among the people of the island. He specifies that it is used to describe women of mixed-blood in the east, and "ignes" in the west, who have features associated with "Amerindian" people. He admits that none of these people are "pure," but it shows how certain phenotypes were associated with "Indios" in the DR (and, to a lesser extent, Haiti). 

Here, in Le Moniteur, a Haitian refutes the claims of an American observer in the 1850s that the Dominican people are whites. Instead, the author argues that most of the population are "mulattoes" and blacks, and the "mulattoes" have indigenous ancestry. The Indians, according to this Haitian, have mixed principally with Africans. 

Thomas Madiou on the "Indian" village of Boya, where descendants of the indigenous population of the island were recognized as an Indian town by the Spanish for centuries. Madiou claims there were still "pure" Indiens there in the 1700s, but different sources suggest otherwise. Intriguingly, for the 19th century, Madiou clearly states that there are no more "pure" Indians in Boya or any other part of the island.

Here, Madiou interestingly states that the Dominicans always affirmed an indigenous origin. This, according to him, played a role in the eventual 1844 separation of the Dominican side of the island from Haitian unification. If true, this suggests that one of the reasons Dominicans may have resented Haitian rule was due to their indigenous heritage, which would have, perhaps, made them feel more legitimate in asserting their right to independence and autonomy. 

Here, while referencing Haitians traveling to Santiago and the valley of Vega Real. There, the inhabitants are more of a "mestizo" type and a "mulato" type, but a footnote on the same page references a higher proportion of "mestizos" in Seybe and Higuey, in the east of the island. 

Here, alluding to the 1844 separation, Madiou references an "Indian" sergeant named Jose del Carmen. This could be an allusion to Jose del Carmen Garcia, an uncle of Dominican historian Jose Gabriel Garcia.

In the first volume of Madiou's history of Haiti, he also mentions a fusion of Indian and Spanish "blood" among the population of the Spanish colony. This process occurred over time under the poor governance of the Spanish, but resulted in a population with "Indian" blood.

A Possible "Amerindian" Ancestor?

While researching Taino revivalism and read various sources on "Indian" survival and cultural legacies in the Caribbean after the conquest and demographic collapse, we came across a distant forebear who may have "indio" ancestry. It's impossible to say without confirmation from parochial books of San German and Añasco to recover his lineage, but other data suggest he was, in part, of "Indian" origin (as well as possibly African and/or European ancestry). Born ca. 1750 in Añasco to Martin Galarza and Ana Rivera, Antonio Galarza-Rivera ended up moving around to Toa Alta and, later on, San Lorenzo. According to historian and genealogist Luis Burset-Flores, he appeared in the list of soldiers in the militia list of San Lorenzo in 1811, a few times in the 1820s and possibly died in ca. 1840. Galarza-Rivera was indicated as "pardo" in the documents cited by Burset-Flores, and while residing in Toa Alta, served as a godfather to 2 pardos. 

Family Search is your best friend for genealogical and historical research.

Antonio Galarza-Rivera married twice. We are descendants of children of Galarza and his first wife, Lucia Alvarez. In fact, due to consanguinity and cousin marriages, we are descendants of Antonio Galarza-Rivera through two of our great-great-grandparents. One of them, had grandparents who were both descendants of Antonio Galarza-Rivera. Consanguinity was real, and connected us to Antonio Galarza Rivera through multiple lines. Our great-great-grandmother's grandfather and grandmother were grandchildren of Antonio Galarza-Rivera. Our great-great-grandfather's father was also, it seems, a grandchild of Antonio Galarza-Rivera. 

Antonio Galarza appears in this militia list for San Lorenzo uploaded to FamilySearch.

Where circumstantial evidence starts to suggest possible "Indian" ancestry through Antonio Galarza-Rivera is the racial classification of some of his descendants. For instance, a brother of our great-great-grandfather was listed as "mestizo" on his death certificate. Another grandchild of Galarza-Rivera was classified as "mestiza" on her death certificate. While racial labels for the thoroughly mixed-race Puerto Rican population are ambiguous, fluctuating, and often vary for people in the same family (people from the same family can be white, pardo, mulato, mestizo, raza de color), it is interesting to think of the possible "Indian" (and African) ancestry that all these people could have inherited through Antonio Galarza-Rivera (not to mention the various other "pardo" forebears these people have, going back to 17th century San Juan and its environs). 

A grandchild of Antonio Galarza-Rivera through his second wife, but her parents are listed as raza mestiza.

So, upon considering the "pardo" classification for Antonio Galarza-Rivera, as well as the "mestizo" categorization lumped upon some of his descendants, one begins to think Abbad y Lasierra was not off the mark when suggesting the high concentration of indigenous ancestry in the hills of Añasco and San German. Indeed, according to Abbad y Lasierra, the region was the last refuge for the indigenous population of the island. As he tells it, indigenous populations who fled to nearby islands in the 1500s to escape the repressive rule of Spain, later petitioned to return and were resettled in the areas of San German (especially today's Indiera) and Añasco. Brau, on the other hand, seems to think these "indios" were descendants of the "Indians" emancipated by Charles V, then settled in Cibuco. Somehow, the settlement or pueblo of Cibuco was abandoned and the "Indians" presumably moved into the hills of San German, establishing the nucleus of the future Indiera. There is some confusion about Cibuco and the origin of its "Indians." Juan Lopez de Velasco seems to think Cibuco was a pueblo founded for formerly enslaved "Indians" from other lands and not the indigenes of Puerto Rico. Despite this ambiguity, according to Abbad, it was not until much later these people (whether they were solely descendants of Tainos or descendants of Caribs and other Native peoples of the Americas brought to toil as slaves in the colony is not entirely clear) began to intermarry with people of African and European descent, in the 18th century.

Abbad on the origins of Añasco's "indios"

So, while is it hard to imagine the "indios" in the hills never intermarried with people of African and European origin before the 1700s, Abbad y Lasierra had the luxury of consulting the Church records and seeing for himself how so many of the "zambos" and "mulatos" and "mestizos" and even "whites" in Añasco by the late 18th century had "indio" ancestry. Clearly, there were "blancos de la tierra" in Puerto Rico, those who were socially accepted as "white" but who had "indio" and African ancestry. Furthermore, if Abbad y Lasierra is accurate, what happened in Añasco occurred throughout the island as whites married 'indios" and then blacks, mulatos, etc. This process must have begun early in the 16th century, when Europeans and Africans on the island experienced severe gender ratio imbalances and must have reproduced with indigenous and "Indian" women. 

Abbad y Lasierra in his Viaje a la América, describing the once high 'indio' population in the mountains of Añasco that has intermarried with blacks and whites.

Thus, when one takes into consideration the descriptions of Añasco by Abbad y Lasierra, and the continued existence of "indios" around San German in the late 1700s, one can surmise Antonio Galarza Rivera likely had "indio" forebears who were intermarrying with blacks and/or whites by the time Añasco was founded in 1700s. Perhaps Galarza Rivera was a "zambo" of some sort, and Abbad y Lasierra would have not counted him as "indio" due to racial mixture with other castas. Of course, without access to parish records of Añasco and San German, one cannot confirm this theory. But it seems probable given the other evidence and the testimony of Abbad y Lasierra. And if true, it does point to more recent "Indian" ancestry among contemporary Puerto Ricans and the process in which "indios" became pardos through interracial marriage and outmigration.

Bainet and Jacmel in the Early 1700s

1703 Census translated and transcribed by De Ville.

We here at the blog are very interested in the history of Bainet. Thus, we could not resist preserving a copy of De Ville's translation of a 1703 census for the Jacmel quarter, which included Bainet. Taken just five years after the Compagnie de Saint-Domingue established Jacmel in 1698, it shows how underpopulated that region of Saint Domingue was in the early 1700s. The only plantations appear to have been indigo, and the entire black population was around 107 individuals (3 were free). Unexpectedly, there was a large gender imbalance among the white population, with about 12 adult women and 30 adult males and 9 garcons carrying arms. 

The black population also had more adult males than females, but the difference wasn't as stark. Moreover, the underpopulated Jacmel quarter only had indigo plantations or farms, with only 7 of the listed households owning an indigoterie. Presumably the rest, the vast majority, grew subsistence crops or provided services to the Compagnie de Saint Domingue or the owners of the indigo plantations. Perhaps some of the less fortunate whites were formerly indentured laborers, brought by the Compagnie or an earlier entity, and were only beginning to establish themselves as habitants by 1703. 

Baptism of Jean Baptiste Cange in 1719

Bainet's presence in the list can be found in numerous names listed here, whose largely mixed-race descendants formed an important part of the area in the rest of the 18th century. For example, Sougrain, Robin, Cangé and possibly Moreau, Bonnefoy, and Lemaire were surnames used by various free people of color families in and around Bainet, Jacmel, and Grand-Goave for the rest of the century. Presumably, they are the descendants of the white colons already in the area in 1703, and the enslaved or free people of color who married or bore children by them and their descendants. Historians have often pointed out the prevalence of interracial marriages in Bainet during the early decades of the 1700s, particularly that of white men lacking property and propertied women of color. 

Baptism of Jeanne Butet in 1709, the woman we suspect was a sister of Marguerite Butet

For instance, one of the surnames we have been researching, Cangé, was associated with a very large number of people in the area who were descendants of a Jean Celin Cangé who married a free "mulatto" named Marguerite Butet (probably the daughter of Rene or Louis Marin Buttet). While we are still unsure of who the two adult Cangé listed in this 1703 census was, we believe the Cangé name was brought to the area by two brothers or cousins. The first baptismal record for a Cangé born in the area, Jean Baptiste Cangé, indicates his parents were Jean Cangé and Marguerite Courville. 

1728 baptism in Jacmel parish of Marie Jeanne, child of Jean Cange and Marguerite. Jeanne Butet was the godmother.

It seems possible that the Jean Cangé who married Marguerite and began having several children (Jean Baptiste, Louis Celin, Pierre, Marguerite, Marie Jeanne) was probably one of the children listed in the Cangé household in 1703. Perhaps his wife's surname was mistakenly written as Courville in 1719, but she seems to have used Butet in most records identifying her (unless Jean Celin remarried another Marguerite in the 1720s). She was also connected to a Jeanne Butet, fille naturelle of Rene Butet and a free black woman, who moved to Jacmel and married a Boursicot. Some of their descendants would marry, too, further solidifying the family and property ties between some of the Cangé and Boursicot in the Jacmel and Bainet parishes. 

Baptism of a child whose godmother was Marguerite Butet, still alive in 1776

Regardless of the ultimate origins of the Cangé name in Saint Domingue, the marriage of Marguerite Butet and Jean Cangé was advantageous for both. Marguerite, through her father and uncle, had ties to early planters and administrators in the colony. Marriage to Marguerite could have helped the Cangé politically and economically, eventually paving the way for them to establish a coffee plantation in Grand-Goave. Clearly, in 1703, the Cangé household did not own an indigo plantation and they only owned 2 female slaves and 3 horses. Strategic marriage with a woman of color whose family were landowners and serving in the administration of the colony must have been a step up for Jean Cangé and increased the status of his mixed-race progeny. His free people of color children and grandchildren usually married other free people of color, and established themselves as coffee planters and left behind many descendants. We believe that it is likely most people with the Cangé surname and roots in Bainet, Jacmel, and Grand-Goave are descendants of these people in some fashion, as well as the enslaved majority of the population in the colonial era. Unfortunately, it is far more difficult to trace our enslaved forebears, but that will obviously occupy much of our future research into Bainet's history during the 18th century. 

The Housing Lark

 Sam Selvon's brief novel The Housing Lark combines his typical comic sensibilities with a serious storyline about the struggle of West Indian migrants to find adequate housing in the racist London of the 1960s. Thematically, the story seems to combine the cynicism and disappointment of the later Moses novels with the humorous and episodic structure of Selvon's Trinidad novels or his famous work, The Lonely Londoners. Written in dialect and comprised of a ballad-like structure which heavily uses Trinidadian vernacular, calypso, and West Indian culture, history, and migrant experience, the novel's happy ending and promise of solidarity among West Indians in London hints at the rise of a "West Indian" identity among Caribbean migrants in the UK. Through their common experience of racialization, discrimination, and cultural differences with the English, one sees a powerful forging of a shared identity through "excursions," rum, Trinidadian and West Indian cuisine, chasing after "birds," and the central role of women in actually seeing to it that the "housing lark" succeeds. 

It's a novel for dreamers and reflects the sexist culture of the West Indian male characters like Battersby and Syl, but it's undeniably entertaining, witty, and hopeful. Who could resist laughing after reading the tale of Nobby and his English landlord giving him puppies he does not want? Or the ambiguous Syl, an Indian Trinidadian, who tries to pass as an East Indian to secure housing from a discriminatory landlord? After all, through the dream of Harry Banjo and the pragmatism of Jean, Matilda and Teena, they will find a house of their own. Thus, they will achieve a degree of security, space, and belonging in the "Mother Country" which rejects them. Sure, one can find elements of the pessimism of Selvon's later sequels to The Lonely Londoners, but there is a lot of optimism in this entertaining and immersive tale of 1960s Caribbean London. One wonders what transpired between the mid-1960s and the 1970s to cause Selvon's shift in tone and eventual relocation to Canada...

The Haitian People

Somehow we here at the blog have managed to read parts of Leyburn or follow the scholarship of social scientists and historians who are heavily influenced by Leyburn without actually completing his well-known The Haitian People. After finally reading the entire study, one cannot escape how dated it was and incorrect some of its conclusions and predictions were. While perhaps best known for its insistent focus on the theme of a caste nature of Haitian social structure, Leyburn's detailed social history of the 19th century and overview of economics, domestic affairs, politics, Creole, and religion is actually quite researched and occasionally insightful or useful.

However, Leyburn famously did not foresee the reappearance of non-elite noir presidents after Lescot's presidency. And he did not dedicate enough attention to the "middling" sector of Haitian society who were neither the masses (the peasantry) or the elite (educated, urban, wealthy, often light-skinned), the very sector who became so important to Haitian politics after 1946. Perhaps, like Beaulieu, we think Haiti was transitioning from the caste-like social order that may have prevailed in the 19th century (although with so many caveats that calling it caste is probably  misleading) to something else during and after the US Occupation. But fixating too heavily on the color question and lacking enough thorough research on regional and historical social mobility, the "middling" sector that gradually asserted itself in Haitian politics was unforeseen by Leyburn.

For us, Leyburn's view of the Haitian peasant as completely isolated and cut off from the rest of the world contributed to the weaknesses of his analysis. For instance, he ignores the existence and influence of foreigners from other parts of Caribbean and the rest of the world in Haitian towns and the countryside. By insisting on a false view of 19th century Haiti as cut off from the rest of the world, it becomes easier for him to conclude rural Haitians were always resistant to change, new ideas, and complexity. This view is further challeged by the thousands of Haitian migrants who labored in Cuba and the Dominican Republic, often returning with new ideas, consumer spending habits, and ideas of the world which challenged tradition and custom. Leyburn even lets US racial stereotypes of African Americans in the Jim Crow South shape his perception of Haitians, particularly in their alleged submissiveness and acceptance of their plight. This is odd since Leyburn reports contradictory data, such as the use of song and music for political and social critique of politicians. Not to mention Leyburn's omission of the political dimensions of peasant resistance in some caco and piquet movements, which evinces signs of political ideology, awareness, and independent organizing among the peasantry. 

It is a shame, since he was probably one of the least racist American social scientists to write about Haiti in the 1940s yet he could not escape his American background. This is ironic as he asserted US social scientists would be better than Haitian elite scholars for studying Haitian social structure. But in his conclusions on the "ambivalence" experienced by many of the elite, and implied in upwardly mobile Haitians, Leyburn seems to affirm Herskovits and the theory of socialized ambivalence. This may explain part of the reason for the persistence of "caste" in post-occupation Haiti as those of the elite and upwardly mobile remain internally divided, troubled, and disturbed by their contradictory status in the world and must maintain distance from the unlettered masses for psychological, social, and economic reasons. So, despite its flaws and limitations, The Haitian People makes for thought-provoking reading that also exemplifies the transnational aspects of American sociology's approach to race and the "Negro."

El montero

During a sojourn in Paris, Dominican intellectual Pedro Francisco Bonó wrote a short novel, El montero. This short novel, published in 1856, exalted the montero population of the countryside. In spite of its brevity, its detailed realism provides a window for the modern reader eager to envision the lives, habits, customs, landscape, cuisine, and entertainment of campesino populations of the Dominican Republic. As one of the earliest novels in the Dominican literary tradition, it's also an important text to consider in the larger development of the novel and possible trends within the larger Caribbean. For instance, comparisons with other precursors to the "peasant" novel in the Caribbean and Latin America may reveal parallels and continuities with other literatures. For this blog, one thinks of Ignace Nau's short story (or, novella) Isalina as the Haitian equivalent of an early "peasant novel" from the other side of Hispaniola. Nau even wrote a short story set in Los Llanos about monteros, which he defines as hunters of wild boar and cattle. While it is certainly likely and perhaps plausible that any similarities between the texts may derive from the mutual French literary influences on the two writers, it is tempting to consider possible influence from the 1830s Haitian Romantic conteurs on Bonó. 

El montero is a short novel centered on a family that subsists on conuco agriculture. They supplement their sustenance through hunting wild boars and cattle. The novel is particularly rich in detail on cultural and social habits of the Dominican countryside in the 19th century, including cuisine, bohío homes,  and romantic rivalry. Like the case of Isalina, a love triangle is the central cause of the drama, pitting two men against each other for a woman which leads to conflicts. Juan, a peon of Maria’s father who is in love with her, endeavors to kill Manuel because the latter will soon marry her. Long story short, Juan nearly succeeds in murdering Manuel. He later returns on the wedding day, killing Maria's father. The novel concludes with Juan’s death. Throughout the narrative, peasant customs such as the fandango, a site for many types of dances such as the guarapo or sarambo, appear in great detail. Bonó revels in the customs of the Dominican peasantry, showing their beauty and approach to life.

Unlike Manuel de Jesús Galván, whose later Enriquillo focused on the encounter of the Taino and the Spanish while elevating the latter's colonial legacy, Bonó’s novel is centered on the contemporary Dominican population, the predominantly mixed-race campesinos of the mountainous interior. And while he is largely silent on the "race" of the characters (except for a reference to the bronzed skin of Maria), it is clear these people are neither European nor Taino. They are, as in the case of the Haitian workers on the Digneron estate in Isalina, creoles. Moreover, an allusion is made to peasant resistance to the French in 1809, situating these monteros in the nationalist ethos as defenders of the patria. Bonó recycled this theme for En el cantón de Bermejo, where the montero is key to ousting the Spanish during the War of Restoration. Hence, the montero not only symbolizes the nation, but dies to protect it.

Yet Bonó avoids idealizing monteros. For example, some of their traditions represent a fundamental challenge to creating a modern nation-state. Alcohol, specifically consumption of aguardiente, is a vice that retards the progress of the countryside. Their taste for violence and squabbles also presents a problem. Case in point, the physical violence of Juan leads to the death of one person and attacks on Manuel and Maria. In short, their "natural" or "wild" habits have not yet been tamed by civilization.  The representatives of state authority likewise set negative examples for society, with the narrator referring to the titles of alcalde, comandante de armas, presidente, and congreso as a parodies in the Dominican Republic. Thus, the rural society of the free and idyllic montero is also one held back by their own traditions and the state, which mimics the political system of the civilized world but becomes a farce. Such attitudes can be found in Bonó's non-fiction essays as well, where he was critical of the role of the state in subverting the lifestyles of the peasantry while also critiquing peasant customs of communal labor like the convite or junta. The author's own interest in utopian socialism and later alternative ideas of progress put him at odds with positivism and dominant trends of Dominican liberalism, but this early novel might be more representative of how Dominican intellectuals wrestled with the dilemma of their largely rural population during the First Republic.

Due to the Dominican montero's similarities with the Haitian peasant, and a common heritage of marronage uniting the two populations, one cannot but think of the works of Ignace Nau and other Haitian authors of the 1830s. Indeed, Ignace Nau was undoubtedly a precursor of Haitian indigenist literature who incorporated Vodou, popular belief, the Creole language, and the history of the the Haitian Revolution into his works. These narratives are rooted in a form of cultural nationalism that sought to use Haiti's African, European, and indigenous pasts to develop a uniquely Haitian aesthetic. In Isalina, published in the 1830s, Nau did all of the aforementioned by bringing the reader to the world of rural Haiti, and their beliefs and customs. Their music, dances (calinda), belief in sorcery, proverbs, conflicts over women (the love triangle of Isalina, Jean-Julien, and Paul), and labor practices paint a vivid picture of the countryside on the Cul-de-Sac plain. While Isalina takes place on the Digneron sugar estate, the short tale hints at smallholder farmers who do not have to work at the mill (like Paul and Isalina, who "placer" at the conclusion of the story. 

Nau and his contemporaries also included the East (what is today the Dominican Republic) in their works, as the entire island was unified under Boyer. A nod to this can be found in the Spanish candles inside Galba's home, blessed by the Virgin of Higuey, where Haitian pilgrimage to the site was already underway by the 1830s. Nau's brother became a historian of the indigenous past of the island, finding commonality between the pre-colonial past and the independent, unified island of Haiti of his day. Nau's other works of fiction about the Haitian Revolution or rural life further cement this, including his Une anecdote set in the East, which takes the reader to Los Llanos, to the east of Santo Domingo, where uncouth monteros frighten the narrator, thinking them to be bandits. The Haitian narrator's description of the residents of the commune indicates a relatively underdeveloped state of agriculture but a thriving cattle industry where "wild" monteros exemplify some of the differences and commonalities between east and west rural populations. The rustic monteros are worthy of the narrator's son reading about their exploits, just as they were a worthy subject manner to Bonó. Like neighboring 19th century Romantic authors of Haiti, Dominican authors seemed to share the same anxieties and concerns about their respective national symbols.

Works Consulted

Bonó, Pedro F. El montero ; Epistolario. Santo Domingo, R.D.: Ediciones de la Fundación

Corripio, 2000.

Fischer, Sibylle. Modernity Disavowed: Haiti and the Cultures of Slavery in the Age of 

Revolution. Durham: Duke University Press, 2004.

Garcia, Francisco Antonio Avelino. “La interpretación de Bonó sobre la dominicanidad y la 

haitianidad.” CLIO 172 (2006): 197-222.

González, Raymundo. Bonó, un intelectual de los pobres, Santo Domingo, R.D.: Centro de Estudios Sociales P. Juan Montalvo, 1994.

Hoetink, H. The Dominican People, 1850-1900: Notes for a Historical Sociology. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1982

Edmond Paul

  

Sometimes, the internet will surprise you. This short video does a nice job explaining the thought of one of the most important minds of 19th century Haiti. Edmond Paul's influence lingers into the present day, and the more we read of his work, the easier it becomes to spot his influence in various schools of thought in Haiti. While David Nicholls has written perhaps the most extensively in English on Paul's writings on political economy, this video is a great addition, particularly as it avoids the problematic or controversial "mulatto legend" theory associated with Nicholls. 

While perusing some of Paul's essays, one sees even more clearly how he diverged from others in the Liberal Party, agreed with people like Delorme on some issues (such as the need for an elite to guide the nation and the masses, but more of a technocratic elite), and influenced people like Alix Lamaute, Jacques Stephen Alexis, Etienne Charlier, Christian Beaulieu, Jacques Roumain, and various others in the annals of Haitian economic and social thought. For instance, already in the 1860s, Paul called attention to the caste or caste-like nature of Haitian society and the need for educational reforms, industrialization, and state intervention in the economy to protect local industries and sectors. It is due to this caste system and the wide cultural and educational gap that incapable "black" rulers and "mulatto" elites could not come together to govern effectively. This caste-like approach and its understanding of the role of class and color in Haitian society had its problems, but one can see how later writers like Christian Beaulieu and Jacques Roumain struggled with the question of a transition from caste to class and the eventuality of a fairer, more egalitarian society (at least that was what socialists and Marxists ultimately wanted). 

Paul also defended the prohibition of foreigners to owning land in Haiti, a measure which demonstrates his wisdom in understanding the threats of foreign economic penetration of the Haitian economy. As he predicted in the 19th century, the Haitian cultivator, converted to a serf of foreign capital during and after the US Occupation, endured an even worse fate as a "rural proletariat," migrant laborer in Cuba or the Dominican Republic, or a life in the burgeoning slums of Port-au-Prince. Paul even foresaw the continued racial component to economic imperialism. Some of the measures favored by Paul were also clearly of some appeal to artisans, laborers, local industrialists of a nationalist bent, and proponents of economic and educational reform. Artisans, beginning as early as the 1870s in Port-au-Prince, petitioned the government for protectionist measures to protect and expand local industries and workshops, a measure which would be repeated in later decades by various organizations, journalists, government officials and, in the 20th century, labor unions. 

Thus, one wonders if Paul served as one of the conduits of Saint-Simonianism in Haiti. It may explain the Saint-Simonian and socialist aspects of La patrie et les conspirations, published in 1890, which appears to be written by someone of less formal education than Paul but influenced by Saint-Simonian emphasis on industry, production, and improving the economy to prevent toilers and artisans from engaging in political violence. Paul's influence can be seen even more obviously with Blanchet, Hudicourt, Charlier, the PSP, and Lamaute in the 20th century, with various representatives openly embracing more socialist or Marxist variants of Paul's dream of an industrial Haiti. 

The US Occupation of Haiti

We here at the blog have recently completed a re-read of Hans Schmidt's classic study of the US Occupation of Haiti, 1915-1934. While later studies have added a cultural dimension to American imperialism in the Caribbean republic, and others have centered Haiti and Haitian resistance to the military occupation, Schmidt's monograph remains a go-to study for understanding the conditions that precipitated, endured, and continued for the Black Republic.

 This study elucidates why the US was interested in securing financial and economic control of Haiti, inter-imperial rivalry in the Caribbean region, the context of racism and racial ideology, and the lack of development and long-term positive results of the American Occupation. Despite all the rhetoric of Wilson and subsequent US presidents, the military occupation never invested in practical and meaningful democratic or educational reforms. Of course, one reads Schmidt and gets the impression there was a degree of paternal protection of Haiti on the part of the Marine high commissioner, Russell, and attempts to minimize an invasion of US lataifundia agricultural enterprises, which never materialized anyway. 

It is interesting to see how Schmidt did not discuss land dispossessions and the impact of US companies like HASCO or sisal in the north as having the types of devastating consequences Haitians of the time and afterwards would describe. Although one could not omit the negative impact of corvee-styled forced labor used by the Marines against the Haitian peasantry, nor can one forget the rise of Haitian emigration to the plantations of the Dominican Republic and Cuba during the Occupation. However, we get the impression from Schmidt that the American rulers of Haiti really did want to limit the possible negative impact of US companies in the countryside. We here at the blog will have to return to the question of the Occupation's economic and social impact on the Haitian countryside. 

Lamaute and the Bourgeoisie Nationale

One of the important theorists and activists in the annals of the Haitian Left, Alix Lamaute was one of the victims of the massacre of both PUCH members and innocent bystanders ordered by dictator François Duvalier.  Besides Lamaute, several prominent Haitian Communists were also killed, including Brisson, The  attack on the village of Cazale was particularly brutal, as young Communists and locals were mercilessly slaughtered by Duvalierist forces eager to end Communist armed uprisings. By 1969, Duvalier was already president for life with apparent total rule. Nonetheless, by the late 1960s, the two main Haitian Marxist parties unified into the Parti unifié des communistes haïtiens, which would embrace revolutionary violence to overthrow Duvalier. Rebels arriving from Cuban bases or across the Dominican border made clear the degree to which left-wing rebels poised a threat to the regime, even if their influence in numbers was rather small. 

Nevertheless, some of the ideas expressed by intellectuals within the PUCH are worth remembering for what it reveals of the nature of Haitian Marxism and political thought. Lamaute, whose La bourgeoisie nationale: une entité controversée encapsulates some of the main streams of Marxist thought in Haiti during the 1960s, deserves attention today for the still disturbing question of the Haitian prospects of a national bourgeoisie that could work with proletariat forces and a Marxist vanguard to transform Haiti. Lamaute, whose thought owes much to Alexis, Ambroise, Rameau, Pierre-Charles and other Haitian historians, economists, and intellectuals on the Left, presents an overview on primitive accumulation in Haiti, the idea of the 19th century Liberal party as progressive and the Nationals as feudal, and the weakness of the Haitian bourgeoisie. 

Lukacs and Christian Beaulieu also make an appearance on the caste question, as the so-called feudal or semi-feudal nature of the Haitian economy prevents the emergence of a full class-based society in which the embryonic national bourgoisie can truly emerge. Caste-like features actually, according to Lamaute, hinder the development of class consciousness among the bourgeoisie. Thus, the caste-like nature of Haitian social structure of that era is linked to the semi-feudal economy of rural Haiti and the dependence of the Haitian bourgeoisie on US and foreign capital and machinery. Borrowing from Gramsci, Lamaute also describes the the mimetism of the Haitian dominant classes and the forms of alienation one might suspect earlier generations of Haitian intellectuals to refer to as cultural bovarysme. But like Beaulieu, Lamaute probably saw the supposed caste system as being weakened by increasing industrialization and urbanization in Haiti over the course of the 20th century, particularly after 1915.

The remainder of the text focuses on the prospects of a joint anti-imperialist front connecting the proletariat and local bourgeoisie. Arguing against Fanon, who saw the bourgeoisie as a still-born class in the struggles of Third World liberation, Lamaute instead sees the development of a local bourgeoisie, primarily oriented towards the internal market and directing industries using local industry and labor and products as aligning itself with the proletariat and popular masses in the name of nationalism. For Lamaute, the national bourgeoisie only needs to see how nationalism could strengthen their class position. For, a truly national bourgeoisie (instead of the existing comprador Haitian one) would and could fight for a number of economic and social reforms that would benefit the proletariat and masses (free press, state policies, etc.) as well as accentuate the coming class conflict between the proletariat and the bourgeoisie. This, to the Marxist teleological paradigm of Lamaute, would eventually usher in a socialist state with the proletariat and a vanguard of professional revolutionaries constantly pressuring the bourgeoisie to avoid too much collusion with imperialist powers.

In order to truly make sense of Lamaute's argument, however, one must see it as part of a trajectory of Haitian Marxist thought dating back to the 1940s and the Parti Socialiste Populaire. Like his 1940s forebears, Lamaute saw the peasantry, who comprised the majority of the Haitian population, as incapable of leading the path to socialism. Instead, Haiti must oppose imperialism and develop its bourgeoisie and proletariat, thereby strengthening class conflict and a shift in the mode of production to capitalism. Then, and only then, would a working-class revolution ultimately succeed. To Lamaute, who cited the example of the peasantry of Bolivia as a cautionary tale, the Haitian peasant will not come to a strict class consciousness and must be led by the proletariat in any alliance. Otherwise, the peasant will be used against the proletariat by the petit or moyenne bourgeoisie, as in Bolivia. In other words, the proletariat will make the revolution or there will be no revolution. But in order to reach that point, a truly national bourgeoisie must emerge that is not a comprador one, and which would heighten the class conflicts while further eroding the semi-feudal characteristics of the Haitian economy. 

One wonders if Lamaute, like Alexis, Roumain and other Haitian Marxists, may have adopted a somewhat anti-paysan perspective by viewing the religion of Vodou as encouraging fatalism. The complex question of the Haitian peasant in Haitian socialism, however, is beyond the immediate concerns of Lamaute's La bourgeoisie nationale. And after another half century, it is clear that the kind of national bourgeoisie called for by Lamaute did not emerge. If anything, an anti-national bourgeoisie strengthened itself under the rule of Baby Doc, and the question of the peasantry and democratic reforms would have to change. Nevertheless, Lamaute's treatise provides a window onto the thoughts and theoretical formulations that guided the young militants of the PEP, PPLN, and later PUCH in the turbulent 1960s and 1970s.