A BLACK SPARTACUS IN THE NORTHEAST OF BRAZIL

WHEN IT ALL HAPPENED... 

CANDOMBLÉ

Lisbon, en route to Rio de Janeiro, before the Portuguese Political Police get their hands on me...  I become good friends with Ricardo, a fair-skinned mulatto, considerably older than myself.  He is an economist with a good job at Banco do Brasil.  But he has never been promoted.  His white peers, who started at the same time as he did, are already on double the salary.  He tells me sarcastically, "My friend, I'm not white enough to be the boss but too white to mop the floors.  Or perhaps administration has a point - blacks always screw things up...right?"

His telling me this reminds me of The Masters and the Slaves by Gilberto Freyre.  Sociology? Or sentimental mush – now that's more like it!  The willingness of the Portuguese to fornicate with all women regardless of their colour - that's not racial democracy, it’s genital fury.  And don't give me all that Luso-tropical spiel to sweeten the pill...  A pat on the back “but know your place” enslaves much more efficiently than beatings, ferules, whips or shackles.  In 1884 the Berlin Conference was held to carve up Africa among the European powers, drawing borders with rulers, cutting nations in half.  The diplomats saw "tribes" as "things."  The English, French, Belgians and Germans really used blacks as “things.”  And with “things” no care is taken; you acquire them, use them and dispose of them when they are no longer of use.  The Portuguese, on the other hand, saw blacks as men, though inferior - me up here, you down there - you understand nigger?  A pat on the back, off you go and don't complain – he who does not work does not eat...  "Assimilated, second class Portuguese," is what Salazar calls them.  Freyre and Salazar have something in common.  Do you see why...?  I am from a country in which the church is a cornerstone of fascism.  What I like about Ricardo is his constant mockery of the Bible:

" Fodder, a wand, and burdens are for the ass; and bread, correction, and work for a servant,’ says the Bible, or its preachers.  My friend," he says, "the Bible is like a slave master...  ‘If only the blacke people taken from the thickets of their Æthiopia and brought to Brazil knew how indebted they were to God and the Holy Mother for what might appear to be exile, captivity and misfortune, yet is nothing less than a miracle, a great miracle!’  said a famous preacher.  The Bible has the voice of a slave driver, my friend.  Others say that ‘there is only one God and one mediator between God and man - Jesus Christ.’ They exorcise the orixás as if they were spirits from Hell and try to excommunicate their followers and believers.  The Bible has the ways of an inquisitor, my friend...  In the past only white priests were allowed to explain the Bible to blacks, and we know this explanation only too well.  I’m telling you my friend, the Bible has the bearing of a white man..."

"Of an oppressor!" I say.

"For us, my friend, oppressor and white are synonyms.”

"Ricardo,” I say, “In Portugal, an oppressor oppresses, whether he is black or white.”

I tell him about my friends in Lisbon, two of whom are black.   One, Agostinho Neto, a wise, courageous man, will later become the first president of Angola.  The other, Amilcar Cabral, is the epitome of militant elation.  He will not live to see the independence of his Guinea-Bissau; he will be murdered beforehand.  The most subversive thing, the most dangerous, the thing that most frightens oppressors, is defiant happiness; they always take great care to find it and stomp it out, just ask Samora Machel...

I know I’m cramming in knowledge acquired in successive eras, it’s just that I was - or am - or will be caught up in a time warp, where everything takes place in the present: what was, what is and what will be.

Richard points out a Banco do Brasil office clerk, Zé Pelintra, ebony black, a weak figure, lacklustre, timid, modest.  But when he is possessed by his orixá, Ogum, in Candomblé rites, he becomes dominating and belligerent.  I interrupt:

“Ogum is Saint George, isn’t he?

Ricardo becomes irritated. 

“At this altar, Ogum is Ogum, not Saint George; Iansã is Iansã, not Saint Barbara; Xangô is Xangô, not Saint Jerome, Oxalá is Oxalá, not Jesus Christ.  There is no confusion; it’s all authentic, not a carnival for the tourists.  It is not a sect - it’s the religion of the oppressed.  Understand, my friend?”

I understand, but I want to see it with my own eyes.  He hesitates.  Only blacks go to this temple.  And people would be suspicious of or even opposed to the presence of a white.  I don’t let the opportunity slip:

“Wait a minute, Ricardo.  What’s the story?  Is this racism in reverse?

He decides to take me.  It’s the night of November 19, this I remember.  They really do eye me with mistrust.  Some even snort and snarl in hostility.  There is a rhythmic beating of drums.  Babalorixás and Ialorixás, priests and priestesses chant canticles, alaluê, alaluá, and goodness knows what else in an African language or dialect.  Zé Pelintra slips into a trance, foams at the mouth, shudders and falls to the ground, writhing.  He gets up quickly and really has changed personality; his eyes even spark.  Saravá! Ogum has arrived.  Always commanding, counselling and protecting his followers, some of whom also go into a trance when touched by his hands.  Suddenly, he looks at me and points.

“You don’t believe, do you?”

I nod my head, but he insists.

“Seeing is believing, like St. Thomas, right?  You want a beer?”

“Wine if there is any.  I prefer red.”

“That’s the drink of Xangô, your orixá, by the looks.  Let’s call him...”

He comes closer to me, places his hands on my forehead.

I black out.

CANE FIELDS

Early morning at the Candomblé temple, the ground is scattered with wilted flowers.  Ogum has gone.  There is just Zé Pelintra, that weak figure, his timidity resurfaced.  Ricardo tells me that in spite of the fact that I’m white, Axé, the life force of God, revealed himself through me.  Xangô, the orixá of justice, possessed me.  Then Princess Aqualtune spoke through me, followed by her sons, Ganga Zumba and Gana Zona, and finally her grandson, Zumbi dos Palmares.  Today is the 20^th of November, the date on which Zumbi was executed.  Perhaps that is why...

If an orixá used me to reveal itself in this world, I, on the other hand, used it to see the other.  Ricardo tells me that this cannot happen, it is not possible, ever!  I shake my head.  Never?  But I see everything, everything, and how I see it!

I see the swaying sugar cane fields along the entire north-eastern coast of Brazil.  I see the slave ships weighing anchor in Recife, having set sail from the West Coast of Africa.  Is white always the colour of oppressors?  What about the African chieftains and rulers that sold other blacks - their prisoners - to the white slave traders?

Transported like cattle in the hold, I see Yorubas, Angolas, Benguelas, Kongos, Cabindans, Monjolos, Kilwans, Minas and so many others; men, women, even children being offloaded in Pernambuco.

I see Princess Aqualtune being sold at a slave auction.  I see her being taken to a plantation owner’s manor house.  She is given a bath and new clothes and will be trained to wait on the table.

I see her brothers and sisters and her people crammed into the slaves' quarters.  I see that they are woken with whips before sunrise, and driven to the cane fields where they begin cutting.  Some blacks are promoted to foremen and they also use whips.  Is white always the colour of oppressors?  I see the captives gathering and bundling up cane.  I see them carrying the bundles on their backs to the sugar mill.  I see the rollers, boiling house, furnaces, coppers, sheds and deposits, blacks toiling endlessly.  Much work, little food, they'll live another six or seven years at the most.

"Let them die!" says one slave-owner.  “In Africa there is no shortage of them.  The important thing is to produce!”

I see the demand for this sugar in the European markets.  I see an exhausted captive slacken the pace of his work.  A foreman (black, black...)  whips him across the back.  Another whacks him across the buttocks.  They rub salt into his wounds, live flesh.  This is the punishment for laziness; the pain will be forever branded in his memory.

I see a slave catcher (black, black...) hunting down a runaway slave on horseback, a rifle slung across his shoulder.  He lassoes him.  If he hadn't succeeded in this, he would have taken aim, shot him down.  He drags him back to the slave quarters, puts him in a cangue and fastens his hands to the sides. He gives him the whip and salt treatment.  A week later a white foreman removes the cangue and takes him off to the torture of the whipping post, where his ankles are tied, causing him to crouch or fall, and he is given a second round of whipping and salt.

PALMARES

In Pernambuco the slaves flee.

They do not give up in spite of the risk...  And they run, how they run, they don't stop running away.  Better death than that life.  I see a group of runaway slaves setting up camp in the Serra da Barriga; today on the map of the state of Alagoas.  This appears to be around the year 1600.  I see that some ten years later Princess Aqualtune also manages to escape to Serra da Barriga.  Time warp, spinning, spinning: and soon I see that by 1630 the population has reached 3 thousand.  This is when the Dutch invade the Northeast of Brazil.  The invasion disrupts the sugar production.  I see that the state of war between the Portuguese and the Dutch enables an increasing number of slaves to escape.  In 1670 there are already thirty thousand in this black republic who sought freedom of their own accord.  They call the quilombo Palmares, and there is, in fact, no shortage of palm trees there.  I see that the territory, about 200 kilometres from the coast, is a 200 kilometre wide strip, parallel to the coast, stretching from the left margin of the lower Rio São Francisco up to Cabo de Santo Agostinho.  I see that it also encompasses the Garanhuns plateau and, beyond the Serra da Barriga, the Cafuchi, Juçara, Pesqueira and Comonati Hills.  It is bathed by nine rivers.  I see that the forest and rough terrain make it difficult for the white soldiers to attack.  I see that the republic has several settlements.  The main one, founded by the first group of runaway slaves, is in the Serra da Barriga and is called Cerca do Macaco.  Two wide streets with 1,500 huts and some eight thousand inhabitants.  Amaro, another settlement, has a population of five thousand.  And there are others, such as Sucupira, Tabocas, Zumbi, Osenga, Acotirene, Danbrapanga, Sabalangá, Andalaquituche.  A network of 11 settlements in the Palmares quilombo.

I see that the forest provides almost everything the people need; fruits and palm leaves, which they use to cover their huts, and whose fibres are used in the production of mats, brooms, hats, baskets and fans.  There is also the palm nut from which they extract oil.  I see that they make clothes from the bark of certain trees and they produce coconut butter.  They plant corn, manioc, vegetables, beans and sugar cane.  And they trade their wares in small neighbouring towns, whose people are white or of mixed blood, but where the sugar cane monoculture is not predominant.  They thus have no need for slaves.  After all, a peaceful relationship between blacks and whites is always possible, which makes me remember Amilcar Cabral, Agostinho Neto and Samora Machel.  Bear with me, as I've already told you, it's a time warp, spinning, spinning...

I see that in Palmares the demands on production to feed thousands and the need for so many people to live together peacefully makes the people of Palmares organise the quilombo as if it were a small State.  There are laws regulating the life of the inhabitants and some are very tough.  Stealing, desertion and murder receive capital punishment.  I see that the most important decisions are taken at assemblies, in which all adults participate.  I note that the common language, in that Babel of so many tongues and dialects, is Portuguese or a mixture of Portuguese.  I know that the same will take place on the other side of the Atlantic and even in the Indian Ocean.  Authority is always accepted in Palmares.  Not suffered, nor contested, being born of the collective will.

Now I am in Olinda, spinning.  I know that beyond those hills there is a Promised Land for the blacks, it is the eternal dream of the captives in Pernambuco, so close to freedom...

“Palmares must be destroyed, and those runaway slaves brought back, sold or killed!” say the plantation owners and the Portuguese soldiers.  And they try, I see them trying to destroy the quilombo again and again, but they are always fought off.  The settlement of Cerca do Macaco alone is protected by three stockades, each of which is guarded by 200 men.  The defence of liberty is, without a doubt, the great organising force of the people of Palmares.

First the Portuguese are fought off, followed by the Dutch in 1644.  I see that the Dutch finally give up their siege on the quilombo.  They have other more pressing wars...

In 1654 the Portuguese drive the Dutch out of the Northeast of Brazil.  After 24 years of guerrilla warfare, life in the captaincy returns to normal, and so does sugar production.

“Now we must bring down Palmares!” I hear the plantation owners protesting and I see the Governor agreeing with their demand.

ZUMBI

Zumbi returns to Palmares.

I see that the young Zumbi is free to roam through the cultivated land of his home settlement, Cerca do Macaco.  I see that at the age of seven Portuguese soldiers catch him off guard and haul him off with other blacks to Porto Calvo.  I see the boy being offered to Father Antönio Melo.  The priest christens him Francisco and teaches him Portuguese and Latin.  He learns quickly and begins to help at mass.  He is considered a bright boy and a trustworthy captive, his watch slackens and he plots his escape.  I see that at the age of fifteen he finally flees the parish and returns to Palmares, to his own.

I see that in this same year, 1670, Ganga Zumba, son of Princess Aqualtune, Zumbi’s uncle, becomes leader of the quilombo.  After a bloody battle in 1675 the troop commanded by Sergeant-Major Manuel Lopes occupies a settlement with more than a thousand huts.  The blacks retreat.  I see that five months later the blacks counter-attack, there is fierce fighting and Manuel Lopes is obliged to retreat to Recife.

The leader of the guerrillas is Zumbi, already revered at only 20 years of age.  I push aside the souls in my path, find him, and say:

“Is that you, black Spartacus?

He eyes me suspiciously.  He has a seriousness that reminds me of Agostinho Neto.

“Who’s that?

“He was a rebel slave leader in ancient Rome.”

“What happened to him?”

“He fought to the end, was taken prisoner and executed.  He died on the cross.

“Better that than the one that Father Melo wanted to force on me...”

I protest:

“Why do you say that?  Especially you, who learned Latin and helped at mass...”

He grins and I recognise the smile of Amilcar Cabral.  It is all I need to get caught up in another time warp and I find myself suddenly in the mother church of Olinda.  The famous preacher Ricardo was referring to was, after all, Father António Vieira himself.  Preaching docility, he addresses the blacks gathered before him:

“If only the blacke people taken from the thickets of their Æthiopia and brought to Brazil knew how indebted they were to God and the Holy Mother for what might appear to be exile, captivity and misfortune, yet is nothing less than a miracle, a great miracle!”

Antonio Vieira then speaks of Korah, referring to Calvary.

“David reveals the identity of the workers of these laborious workshops in the title of the last psalm; they are the sons of Korah:  Pro torcularibus filiis Core.  There is no work, nor life in this world that better resembles the cross and the passion of Christ than yours on these plantations.”

And he concludes:

“Blessed are those of you who recognise the grace of your state, a great miracle of providence and divine mercy.”

GANGA ZUMBA

I see that in 1676 Fernão Carrilho commands the troops from the towns that want to see the end of Palmares.  He attacks the quilombo but fails!  He retreats to Recife, but does not give up.  The following year he attacks Cerca do Macaco.  Princess Aqualtune, her son, Ganga Zumba, and most of the runaway slaves manage to escape. Carrilho then heads for the settlement of Gana Zona, another of Aqualtune’s sons, but finds a pile of ashes and burnt land; the inhabitants set fire to it.  Among the ruins I see a chapel with Catholic saints.

“But what is this?” I ask myself.

Zumbi reappears, ever-smiling:

“From Africa to Brazil, orixás or saints, everyone chooses their own, it’s the only freedom the blacks have...”

He disappears.

Carrilho sets up camp in Sucupira and sends for reinforcement.  He plots quick strikes, kills many blacks, takes others prisoner, including Gana Zona and two of Ganga Zumba’s sons.  Thinking he has already destroyed Palmares, he returns to Recife and celebrates.  A few months later, however, the quilombo has been rebuilt.  The Governor, Pedro de Almeida, understands that it is very difficult to destroy the quilombo.  He is more interested in its submission than its destruction.  If he is able to establish peace, granting pardon and freedom to the runaway slaves, Palmares may become a new Portuguese stronghold, a new colonial villa.  He sends emissaries to take the proposal to Ganga Zumba, who meditates and broods over it before finally accepting.  Many black chiefs praise the prudence and wisdom of his decision.  In 1678 Ganga Zumba sends three of his sons and twelve other chiefs to Recife to settle the deal.  Ganga Zumba is given the honorary title of colonel. I see that to celebrate the occasion, a thanksgiving mass is held in the mother church of Olinda. 

But Zumbi explodes in disagreement, furious with his uncle:

“No black will be free while another is in captivity!”

Zumbi assembles the Young Guard of Palmares.

I follow Zumbi from one settlement to another.  I hear him asking each young person:

“Are you a free black?  And your father, your brothers, who suffer the whip and salt treatment, who suffer the torture of the cangue and whipping post?  And your mother and sisters, who are forced to spread their legs for the plantation owners and their sons.  Tell me, are you really a free black?”

In a few months the Young Guard of the quilombo is regimented and there is guerrilla warfare; fires in the cane fields all the way to the ports of Recife and Porto Calvo.  The only firearms and ammunition are those which the guerrillas wrest from their enemies.

I see that Pedro de Almeida frees Gana Zona and sends him to negotiate with Zumbi.  But the uncle is unable to convince his nephew.

I see that in Cerca do Macaco a young man poisons Ganga Zumba’s food, killing him.  The new unquestionable ruler of Palmares is now Zumbi.

Terrible battles.  I see that the Portuguese Ultramarine Board refers to Zumbi as “famous for his hostilities throughout the Captaincy of Pernambuco and the greatest scourge for the people of that region.” 

And I hear a dignitary calling him a “Negro of unique value, great spirit and rare steadfastness.”

I see that in 1686 there is a new Governor of Pernambuco, Souto Maior, and the war against Zumbi and Palmares is as bloody as ever.

I see that Souto Maior sends for Domingos Jorge Velho from the state of São Paulo who, with his troop of fierce soldiers, was capturing and killing the Piauí Indians.  I see that he is invited to take part in the war against Palmares in return for a fifth of the value of the blacks recaptured, plus land and pardon for any crimes committed by his men.  The government will provide weapons, ammunition and supplies.  I see that they sign an agreement in 1691.  I see a thousand men attacking Palmares and Zumbi and the Young Guard resist them at Cerca do Macaco. Domingos Jorge Velho retreats to Porto Calvo.

But I also see that the Governor sends Captain-Major Vieira de Mello to help Domingos Jorge Velho.  The soldiers try to break through the stockade twice between the 23^rd and 29^th of January of 1694, and are driven back twice.  Even women throw boiling water on the Portuguese soldiers from above.  But on February 6 bombard cannons arrive from Recife and, under heavy fire, manage to break through the settlement’s triple stockade.  The soldiers invade the citadel through this opening; there is face to face fighting, massacre, puddles of blood.  I see that Zumbi is shot twice but manages to escape.  The blacks pray:

“Zumbi won’t die, oia Zumbi! He can’t die, oia Zumbi! He is protected against evil, oia Zumbi!”

I see that in 1695, on the road from Penedo to Recife, an old quilombo dweller is captured.  He is promised his life if he tells them where Zumbi’s hideout is.  He agrees.  André Furtado de Mendonça leads the siege, succeeds, takes Zumbi prisoner and beheads him.  It is the 20^th of November, 1695.  His head is taken to Recife, the bells toll, and the day is declared a public holiday, a day of thanksgiving.

“Zumbi, Zumbi, oia Zumbi!  Oia Zumbi the saviour. Oia Zumbi!”

I see that the imprisoned blacks are all sold to faraway captaincies, nipping in the bud any hope of regenerating the quilombo.  The lands of Palmares are divided into lots and given to the victorious captains.

I see that in 1686 there is a new Governor of Pernambuco, Souto Maior, and the war against Zumbi and Palmares is as bloody as ever.

I see that Souto Maior sends for Domingos Jorge Velho from the state of São Paulo who, with his troop of fierce soldiers, was capturing and killing the Piauí Indians.  I see that he is invited to take part in the war against Palmares in return for a fifth of the value of the blacks recaptured, plus land and pardon for any crimes committed by his men.  The government will provide weapons, ammunition and supplies.  I see that they sign an agreement in 1691.  I see a thousand men attacking Palmares and Zumbi and the Young Guard resist them at Cerca do Macaco. Domingos Jorge Velho retreats to Porto Calvo.

But I also see that the Governor sends Captain-Major Vieira de Mello to help Domingos Jorge Velho.  The soldiers try to break through the stockade twice between the 23^rd and 29^th of January of 1694, and are driven back twice.  Even women throw boiling water on the Portuguese soldiers from above.  But on February 6 bombard cannons arrive from Recife and, under heavy fire, manage to break through the settlement’s triple stockade.  The soldiers invade the citadel through this opening; there is face to face fighting, massacre, puddles of blood.  I see that Zumbi is shot twice but manages to escape.  The blacks pray:

“Zumbi won’t die, oia Zumbi! He can’t die, oia Zumbi! He is protected against evil, oia Zumbi!”

I see that in 1695, on the road from Penedo to Recife, an old quilombo dweller is captured.  He is promised his life if he tells them where Zumbi’s hideout is.  He agrees.  André Furtado de Mendonça leads the siege, succeeds, takes Zumbi prisoner and beheads him.  It is the 20^th of November, 1695.  His head is taken to Recife, the bells toll, and the day is declared a public holiday, a day of thanksgiving.

“Zumbi, Zumbi, oia Zumbi!  Oia Zumbi the saviour. Oia Zumbi!”

I see that the imprisoned blacks are all sold to faraway captaincies, nipping in the bud any hope of regenerating the quilombo.  The lands of Palmares are divided into lots and given to the victorious captains.