I didn’t think I had
asked too much of Cameron. He was going to the kitchen anyway, and did he mind
bringing me some water when he came back? Nonetheless, at my request, Cameron
turned to me and said “What am I, your dad’s captive?”
The practice of
slavery was by no means a foreign concept on the shores of Africa when the
Western world asserted its right over land and human alike. In fact, “slave”
was a role in the caste system, as was “leatherworker” or “blacksmith.” It
afforded people not only protection and security, but a status within society.
Given the mutually beneficial (and consensual, I should add) relationship of
slaves and masters, it’s no wonder this system still exists. Which is why I
bring Cameron into the conversation.
Cameron knows things.
He can expound for hours on topics ranging from the economic and political
consequences of the Paraguayan war to the importance of feminist erotica to the
literary canon. (As singer/songwriter Jubal Faircloth has pointed out, “Cameron’s
read more books than you,” in a song by the same title.) It came as no
surprise, then, when Cameron delivered an impromptu lecture on the caste system
and slavery in his village once while lounging at the Dindifelo waterfall.
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| Cameron, in the midst of thinking something profound |
To begin with, it’s a
bit suspicious that he has a Jaxanke last name while living in a Pulaar
village. “They were just absorbed into Pulaar culture,” Cameron explained.
“There’s no ‘1 drop rule’ like there was in America. Pulaars didn’t have
leatherworkers, so they took Jaxanke leatherworkers as slaves.” (Having no
leatherworkers, they likewise had no word for it, and merely adopted the
Jaxanke word.)
So, following this
example, what does it mean for Cameron’s host father, a Pulaar with a Jaxanke
last name? “There’s no shame in it,” Cameron said, with gesticulations
characteristic of when he gets going on a good topic. “My dad makes tools for
free for his master and in return, his master gives him meat and performs
important ceremonies, like weddings, for him.”
But then, the
Portuguese got involved, followed by other European powers, and as the West is
wont to do, they upscaled the operation of slavery to a level bigger and meaner
than anyone had known before. Nowhere is the memory of this more alive (for a
price, and mainly for tourists) than on Gorée Island, off the coast of Dakar.
 |
| A windswept Goree |
It was a drizzly,
gray day as the ferry set off from Senegal’s capital, a testament to the dark
history that the island represents, where untold numbers of people passed
through the Maison des Esclaves on their way to Europe or the Americas. There,
in the back of the house, is a door opening directly out onto the water where
slaves were supposedly loaded directly onto the ships to be transported across
the Atlantic (la porte sans retour). (This, however, is unlikely, as rocks would prevent any ship, save a canoe,
from getting too close to shore. Nonetheless, this infamous door, framing an
image of Barack and Michelle during their recent visit to Senegal, as they gaze
across the sea to America, is forever etched into our collective unconscious.)
 |
| La porte sans retour |
The island was
originally uninhabited due to a lack of drinking water, which is why the Dutch
were given the esteemed privilege of naming the island. Now inhabited mostly by
those who cater to tourists, many of the residents live inside of the hill on the western side of the island, known as the
Castel. Aisha was one such resident, a boutique owner I met on the ferry ride
over. Later in the day, she found me, wandering and lost, and showed me the way
to the History Museum (which is paltry, to say the least – the best exhibit
comes from your imagination as you stand on the roof of the museum and gaze out
over the island). Along the way, Aisha greeted everyone by name, bouncing along
and singing a song she had heard at a soirée on the beach the night before.
“When you’re done here, come see my shop!” she sang out. “You promise?” And she
bounced away into the rain.
Before leaving for
Dakar, I had asked Cameron for any suggestions he might have on good questions
to ask a Gorée tour guide. He had a response, as I knew he would. “Ask them
what it says about Senegal that they grossly exaggerate Gorée’s role in the
slave trade.” I did not take Cameron’s advice. I decided to ignore his sarcastic
profundity, choosing instead to be swept up in the emotional experience I had
paid for.
To escape, for at
least a few moments of reprieve, from the rain, I sat in the cathedral, where
images of a white Jesus adorned the walls. Outside, across the Rue des
Bambaras, the call to prayer could be heard from the mosque. How historically
poignant, this infrastructure. The inhabitants of present day Senegal – mostly
Wolof – were explicitly forbidden by their faith from selling their Muslim
brothers and sisters into slavery, so in order to supply their Christian
clientele with human cargo, they had to draw from a different population. As
often happens, the good fortune of some is the bad fortune of others. The
Mandes (which include Bambaras, Malinkes, and Jaxankes, among others) were late
in converting to Islam. Selling and buying heathen souls seemed hardly to weigh
upon the moral brow of human commerce. And so it was that a large number of
slaves that passed through Gorée were of Mande origin. Each cobblestone along
the Rue des Bambaras lays down a line of poetry more haunting and heavy than
any I’ve read before.
At the end of the
day, we can’t change the past. But we can reflect on it. And we can go forward
into the future as better selves than we were before, doing good for our fellow
human beings. (Like bringing them a glass of water.)
