Caribbean Workers and Capitalist Geography: An interview with Marion Werner

Geographer Marion Werner’s Global Displacements: The Making of Uneven Development in the Caribbean is among the most important, and easily the most innovative, work of political economy to emerge on the Caribbean region over the past decades. Issued by the excellent Antipode Book Series, the imprint of Antipode: A Radical Journal of Geography, Global Displacements is a rigorous and trenchantly argued examination of the impact of the global organization of capitalist accumulation and exploitation on the life and labor of Haitian and Dominican people. Focusing on the garment industry, Werner looks at the circulation of capital and labor under neoliberalism, paying close attention to questions of geography, race, and gender. A critical, Caribbeanist intervention into geographic and political-economic research, Global Displacements will stand as a classic work of Caribbean studies.

Werner is Associate Professor of Geography at the University at Buffalo, SUNY. Her research is located at the nexus of critical development studies, feminist theory, and political economy with a focus on Latin America and the Caribbean. In addition to writing Global Displacements, Werner is a co-editor of The Doreen Massey Reader, and she has published articles in Geoforum, Geography Compass, New West Indian Guide, Economic Geography, Gender, Place, and Culture, ACME: An International E-Journal for Critical Geographers, Environment and Planning A, Social and Cultural Geography, and Antipode.

Werner is currently working on projects related to the international integration of national food systems via global trade and multinational regulation, including a study of rice farmers in the Dominican Republic and a project on the changing geographies of agricultural labor related to generic pesticide trade and production. 

THE PUBLIC ARCHIVE: With its granular focus on workers from Santiago de los Caballeros in the Cibao region of the Dominican Republic and the Haitian border town of Ouanaminthe, the lives and labor of Caribbean people are at the center of Global Displacements. Can you speak in general terms of who these people are and what issues they face in Caribbean labor markets structured and unstructured – and gendered – by global capitalism? Additionally, what are the kind of methodological issues you encountered in your research and writing?

First, thank you for these thoughtful questions, which have sat with me for many months. The current economic shutdown brought about by the COVID-19 crisis has led me to reflect on my work with unemployed garment workers, now well over a decade ago. Press coverage today casts the clash between use value, i.e., the needs, wants and desires for a meaningful, healthful existence, and capitalist value, i.e., surplus producing circulation, as a devil’s bargain between minimizing mass death (a.k.a. “flattening the curve”) and saving “the economy.” While ultimately reaffirming this profane tradeoff, government responses nonetheless reveal the various shades of capitalist regulation in practice: European countries and Canada to some extent have socialized payrolls; in the United States where I live, in contrast, people are thrown out of work, swelling the unemployment rolls to more than 33 million (as of May 14, 2020), and excluding tax-paying undocumented workers from even this benefit. Despite these distinctions, all of these high-income economies share the same position with respect to the millions of workers laboring in the transnational supply and services chains that provision their markets under the besieged, but very much entrenched, corporate globalization model.  From media outlets, readers get snapshots of contractors from Mexico to Bangladesh left unpaid and thousands of workers left jobless. But we should not be surprised by cash-rich corporations leaving suppliers and their workers stranded. As Genevieve LeBaron, a sociologist of labor in the UK, wrote: “it’s exactly what supply chains are set up to do” (on Twitter, April 15).

My book, Global Displacements, sought to illuminate tectonic shifts in the global economy brought about by neoliberal reforms through the lens of Caribbean garment workers’ experiences. The book was the culmination of more than a decade of work, initially outside academia, with garment workers in Central America and the Dominican Republic, spending many evenings and weekends in their homes listening to their stories, aspirations and disappointments. During that time, I observed a complex circulation of labor and capital that was equal parts common and devastating: workers cycled in and out of factories at a rhythm determined both by workers’ needs, desires and frustrations as well as permissive labor regulations and abusive management practices.  Punctuating this workplace turnover were the factories themselves, which also circulated in and out of different trade zones and neighborhoods to dodge taxes and obligations such as severance pay or a union organizing drive; factories also moved in and out of countries and sub-national regions to take advantage of new global trade rules put in place for their advantage. The ultimate commodity fetish under this model of global capitalism is that the garments (or iphones, strawberries, and any other global supply chain product) keep on coming despite these multi-scale displacements. The supply chain side of the current COVID-19 crisis reveals these displacements and their ethical dimensions most starkly, in food supply chains especially, which I’ll come back to in your last question.

Upon entering graduate school, I returned to the Dominican Republic to learn how workers navigate this instability.  During my research, around 80,000 garment jobs and dozens of factories shifted from the Dominican Republic to Asia or to lower-wage countries like Haiti as new trade rules favoring capital’s mobility took effect under the World Trade Organization. I spent a lot of time in the northern city of Santiago de los Caballeros, a center of garment production made up of mostly Dominican-owned factories. I was committed to a ‘multi-sited’ approach to my research. This meant not only following people and processes to other places, like the Haitian-Dominican border, but also considering the perspectives of people differently positioned in garment work. To that end, I interviewed managers, owners, engineers, development experts, food vendors and transport operators. But the bulk of my time was spent with retrenched garment workers as they figured out the next steps to support their livelihoods. At the heart of that process was their decision whether or not to migrate back to their campos, or rural hometowns, or to move abroad to New York, Spain, Panama, or elsewhere. Making these choices within structural constraints, women and men navigated urban and rural spaces in different ways to find not simply jobs or money, but positions of social worth. Their strategies were, of course, shaped by gender and the particular anti-Black racism that shapes working class people’s experiences in the Cibao. I really wanted to push the discussion beyond narrow economistic understandings towards a deeper appreciation of people’s expectations and desires in the context of capitalist displacements. For example, I dwell on the ways that workers themselves shape this geography of displacements through seemingly mundane occurrences, such as a worker ingratiating himself to his supervisor in order to get fired (and thus to qualify for severance pay) before the factory where he works closes up; or workers enduring serious cash and food shortages in the city in order to avoid the social stigma of returning to hometowns empty-handed. 

The very inequalities at the heart of my project – consumer/producer, North/South – also permeated my research. Both my social position (a white, ciswoman from Canada) and the multi-sited nature of the project posed ethical dilemmas.  These dilemmas have no easy solution and they remain salient in shaping and determining how, why and with whom I do research in the Caribbean, including PhD students, long-term collaborators in geography in Santo Domingo, and more recently, farmers and peasant movements. 

You’re a geographer. For those of us not in the field, can you explain what analytical tools the field brings to the study of Caribbean political-economic history? You write that you are attempting to produce “a relational geography of uneven development that foregrounds the ways in which places are iteratively forged in relation to one another” – but can you unpack this phrase for non-geographers, explaining how critical questions of space and place help us understand the different histories of Haiti and the Dominican Republic?

There has long been an impasse in development studies that sees, on the one hand, the realization of place-based modernization (deeply tied to Cold War ideology and its legacies), and, on the other, the stance that the wealth of some people and places is premised upon transfers from other people and places (i.e., Marxist core/periphery models). Critical geography has been particularly good at thinking through uneven development in historical and spatial terms to bolster and refine this second “dependency” position. Scholars like Doreen Massey, for example, long-explored core/periphery dynamics at different scales and considered how they were historically reproduced and challenged, and how they created ethical and moral connections between places. I found arguments by Massey and others to be compelling as the changes in the geographies of capitalism over the last half-century are no longer adequately described by presuming a rigid, static global North/South divide. What about China? Brazil? And what about the Dominican Republic and Haiti? But Anglo-Geography’s enduring Anglo-North-centrism was a limitation here. My work brings perspectives from Caribbean Studies more centrally into Geography, which has tended to ignore the Caribbean as a location that produces theory, instead reducing it to a site for empirical research (most recently through debilitating lenses of climate hazard and risk).  Scholars in (a broadly construed) Caribbean studies, including classic work by Sidney Mintz, Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Fernando Ortíz, and Sylvia Wynter, as well as work by Fernando Coronil, Michaeline Crichlow and Katherine McKittrick (a geographer and key thinker of Black geographies), have long grappled with the uneven legacies of colonialism and how these play out in and through spatial difference. 

What then is a “relational geography of uneven development”? In short, I see it as the fractalization of core-periphery relations. We see that place-based inequality has only intensified as the dominant, ideological indicators of progress like average GDP per capita growth propel a general myth of development and failure. Obviously, Haiti and the Dominican Republic are extreme examples, but throughout Latin America, the abandonment of the already-problematic notion of national development has led to more intensely uneven and unequal inter- and intra-country differences: between northern and southern Mexico, northern and southern Brazil, and within smaller polities as well. As I show with the Cibao and the Haitian-Dominican border, these inequalities are long-standing, rooted in racialized histories of colonial capitalism; and, of course, they are not static. The border, for example, as a site of profit-making based on the profound inequalities between the Dominican Republic and Haiti is a relatively recent construction even if its conditions of possibility are formed over at least two centuries, as demonstrated by the work of historians like Robin Derby, Richard Turits, and Suzy Castor. In part, I see my book updating and building on that of two critical Caribbean geographers in the 1980s – Georges Anglades (who tragically died in the 2010 Haitian earthquake) and Rafael Emilio Yunén – to show the historical and geographical dynamics that produced Hispaniola through uneven development.   

In Caribbean studies, the plantation, or – “The Plantation” – has loomed larger over the field, with authors describing it as a social and cultural institution and not merely a political-economic machine. However, you write of the “global factory.” What is the global factory, and does it share a historical or historiographical continuity with The Plantation?

Let me answer first directly and then pan out based on critical political economy generally. In the book, I argue that the “global factory” is both meaning and material: it is both a site of exploitation through outsourcing and investment, and a set of assumptions about the path of development from agrarian to industrial to service economies. By focusing on the very instability of these factories as the model and not the exception, the book wants to make plain the social institutions and cultural forms that underlie Caribbean development, not as a false promise or failure, but rather as a set of enduring relations that are navigated and transformed as much from above as from below. This approach is deeply indebted to Caribbean studies of the plantation/smallholder complex, as part of critical agrarian studies more broadly. In the classic literature (I am thinking especially of Fernando Ortiz’ Cuban Counterpointand Michel-Rolph Trouillot’s Haiti: State against Nation), scholars have long demonstrated the salience of colonial social relations around land, race, and labor as what Stuart Hall called “active structuring principles of the present.” The “global factory” then is not the sign of modernity but the latest iteration of those relations. 

Let me expand on this point by touching briefly on current debates in critical political economy. Implicit in the book, but more salient to current debates, The Plantation (as a more rigid structure) together with The Mine are at the fore of contemporary debates on our rapacious, capitalist age and resulting climate crisis. The general idea, as discussed by scholars such as Jason Moore, Donna Haraway, Sylvia Wynter and others is that the enduring binary of modernity that assigns value in hierarchical fashion to European Man versus a nature/racialized/feminized Other is central to the ongoing reproduction of capitalism. This reproduction is achieved not principally through the exploitation of labor, but rather through the degradation of land and the dispossession of people’s livelihoods and knowledge. This general approach is further developed in Indigenous studies, where scholars like Glen Coulthard and others demonstrate clearly that “proletarianization” (disciplining people into waged labor) is a narrow modus operandiof colonial capitalism, primarily reserved for Euro-descent men. Dispossession, not the inculcation of the liberal market subject, is the principal relationship of White settler colonialism to racialized Others. The ‘global factory,’ then, is better understood through this lens of coloniality, of dispossession and precarious labor as the modal condition for the world’s majority under colonial capitalism, rather than as a(n) (always already failed) transition to liberal subjectivity. 

This shift in the parameters of understanding colonial capitalism has much to learn from the long-standing work in Caribbean studies on cultural forms, autonomy, thriving and livelihood well beyond liberal models of “agency.” I want to mention a relevant example from Geography that contributes to this literature: Clyde Woods now classic account of regional formation in the Mississippi Delta calledDevelopment Arrested. Woods draws together plantation criticism and geographical work on uneven development in order to examine how the regional elite of the Delta, or what he calls the plantation bloc, reproduces its power over more than two hundred years. The genius of Woods account is his formulation of what he calls the Blues epistemology, a reservoir of indigenous knowledge and a mode of making community and surviving the sheer violence of the plantation bloc. With all of their important differences, contributions from Caribbean studies, Indigenous studies, Black geographies, and Black feminist studies offer grounded, critical accounts to think about the politics of colonial capitalism in ways that upend liberal structure/agency debates and center subaltern knowledges and theory. 

How does the notion of “coloniality” allow us to understand the organization of race, difference, and the value of labor along the Haitian-Dominican border?

The border is, of course, shaped by the divergent colonial histories of what are now these two nation-states, but it is periodically upended and reformed by particular events, hatched and planned elsewhere. The event that immediately comes to most people’s minds, of course, is the 1937 massacre under Trujillo. I lived in Ouanaminthe for about three months and made multiple trips there over a year while doing my study. I spent considerable time in the trade zone factories, but I benefited most from the perspectives of local intellectuals who had experienced the town’s unstable fortunes under episodic political upheavals and economic changes. I was really struck by how Ouanaminthe residents positioned the emerging trade zones within a particular history of development punctuated most strongly by the US embargo of Haiti from 1991-1994 after the ouster of Aristide. The embargo effectively reoriented the country’s provision of fuel through the town and led to massive, poorly planned migration and growth that not only upended social hierarchies, but also frayed the social infrastructure.  While the trade zone appeared to crystallize a rigid gender and race-cum-national hierarchy between Dominicans and Haitians, my fieldwork highlighted the other hierarchies at work, including the dynamics between the migrant workers who had come to Ouanaminthe from elsewhere during the embargo period, and the local residents who were clinging on to their social status in the midst of all of this change. The politics of value at the border then are of course dependent on abstracting embodied, historical difference into rigid categories assigned capitalist value. For the garment supply chains, this means Haitian workers doing feminized assembly work (i.e., coded as “unskilled” and thus employing mostly women and young people), supervisors bused in from Santiago, Dominican and Korean factory owners reaping a portion of the surplus, and North American brands ultimately seizing the largest share while determining the conditions and terms of the work. Through the notion of coloniality, and by delving into the particular regional history of the border, however, we see that these hierarchies of value are historically contingent and must be reproduced in order to achieve their apparent stability. Why does that matter? Because we tend to take “cheap labor” for granted, rather than to really interrogate what makes labor cheap, and thus, what has to happen to change that relationship.

Your current research is on questions of food systems and sovereignty in the Caribbean, with a focus on the Dominican Republic’s rice economy. Can you say something about your approach to these questions and your initial findings? What are the political-economic stakes in this research for the DR and the wider Caribbean? 

Neoliberal reforms in the 1980s took aim at national food systems, dismantling traditional state supports and forcing open domestic markets. For the Caribbean, domestic food systems have been radically restructured as a result, but the outcomes have been remarkably uneven.  Sovereignty questions in the Caribbean are at the heart of political debates and the question of food sovereignty is circulating very differently across the region. The contemporary notion as advanced by international groups, especially La Via Campesina (LVC), reflects demands by peasants and small farmers for bottom-up control of food systems. Both the Dominican Republic and Haiti have active peasant groups, members of LVC and advocates for the movement. My work has focused on how the sovereignty question is transformed by the state in the Dominican Republic with a focus on rice. I came to the question through various channels. One was the global food price crisis of 2007-2008 that precipitated wrenching hunger in Haiti and ultimately the resignation of the Prime Minister due to popular indignation. Meanwhile, in the Dominican Republic, rice production expanded and has since met 100 percent of domestic demand. How come the Dominican Republic has a relatively robust rice economy while Haiti’s has been so drastically dismantled? In part, the answer lies in the enduring legacies of anti-Blackness and coloniality. These legacies were strongly shaped by late Cold War politics. In my work, I have focused in particular on the legacies of land reform and the uneven implementation of neoliberal policies plus the exploitation of Haitian labor in the Dominican Republic from the 1970s to the present. The Dominican Republic in fact has institutionalized a version of food sovereignty, but it is hardly a progressive one. In the first instance, it relies upon thousands of poorly paid, migrant Haitian farmworkers. Yet, thousands of smallholder rice producers and their families are sustained by the country’s state-supported rice economy. And, under neoliberal trade agreements, that support is supposed to be dismantled.

The COVID-19 crisis is the latest shock to an already precarious food system organized through corporate-controlled supply chains. Throughout Latin America and the Caribbean, we are seeing some countries re-investing in domestic food production and questioning the reliance on global markets for basic needs. I am exploring what this means for small farmers, for farmworkers and for households. Ultimately, the possibility for a new food politics built around a progressive notion of food sovereignty is at stake. The current crisis offers some opportunities but also real dangers. Either way, now more than ever, the case for shortening food supply chains, investing in domestic production and curbing corporate control in Caribbean agriculture is stronger than ever.

***

Past interviews by The Public Archive can be found here.

Image: C. Hammond, “Inside Caracol, 2017,” via The Haiti Support Group.

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Revolutions and Revisions: An Interview with Charles Forsdick and Christian Høgsbjerg

In Toussaint Louverture: A Black Jacobin in the Age of Revolutions (Pluto) Charles Forsdick and Christian Høgsbjerg have produced what is arguably the most important biography of Louverture since CLR James’ magisterial Black Jacobins was first published in 1938. Kicking against the contemporary anti-Black and anti-radical revisionism that downplays the historical importance of the revolution while dismissing the significance of Louverture himself, Forsdick and Hogsbjerg’s short monograph is urgent, timely, and strikingly well-written. They have also created a sort of supplement to the book, editing The Black Jacobins Reader (Duke), an excellent collection of essays, commentaries, and primary source material that provides additional context and critique for the writing, production, and circulations of James’ classic history.  

Charles Forsdick is James Barrow Professor of French at the University of Liverpool and the author Victor Segalen and the Aesthetics of Diversity (Oxford University Press, 2000), Travel in Twentieth-Century French and Francophone Cultures (Oxford University Press, 2005), among other works, and he has published widely on colonial history and postcolonial literature, travel writing, and Haiti, the Haitian Revolution, and the representations of Toussaint Louverture. Christian Hogsbjerg is a Lecturer in Critical History and Politics at the University of Brighton. He is the author of C.L.R. James in Imperial Britain (Duke, 2014) and Chris Braithwaite: Mariner, Renegade, and Castaway (On Our Own Authority!,  2017), as well as numerous essays and articles. Hogsbjerg’s research interests focus on Caribbean history, the black presence in imperial Britain, the black experience of the British Empire, and CLR James. 

The Public Archive: Why Toussaint Louverture – and why now? And what led you both to historical projects on Black radicalism?

CH: When we are thinking of the origins or roots of contemporary movements like #BlackLivesMatter, the Haitian Revolution represents a foundational, inspirational moment but one of also wider world-historical impact and importance – “the only successful slave revolt in history,” as George Padmore first put it – and so as the most outstanding leader to emerge during that revolutionary upheaval Toussaint Louverture will always retain relevance and iconic significance.   From 1793, when Toussaint dropped his name Breda and became “Louverture” and began calling for universal “general liberty” he began to define freedom in more radical terms than anyone else.  As he put it at one point when critiquing liberal French republicans of the time –“we will obtain another freedom, different from the one you tyrants want to impose on us.” Fundamentally, Toussaint stressed that freedom was not a gift or something that could be bestowed from above, by tyrants – but it was something that had to be fought for and taken from below by the masses themselves. 

There is a quote from James Baldwin in the superb 2016 film I Am Not Your Negro, directed by Haitian director Raoul Peck, “When any white man in the world says “Give me liberty or give me death,” the entire white world applauds. When a black man says exactly the same thing, word for word, he is judged a criminal and treated like one and everything possible is done to make an example of this bad nigger so there won’t be any more like him.”  History is a little bit more complex than that, but Baldwin has a point.  For fighting for liberty in colonial Saint-Domingue, Toussaint Louverture was judged a criminal by Napoleon, captured, deported and left in an isolated prison in the Fort de Joux near the French Alps, where he died in 1803.  We were privileged to be able to reproduce David Rudder’s calypso “Haiti” (1988) in The Black Jacobins Reader, and the opening of that speaks eloquently to Baldwin’s point:

Toussaint was a mighty man
And to make matters worse he was black
Black and back in the days when black men knew
Their place was in the back

Yet the intriguing complexities of Louverture – the sense he was a tragic hero who lost his way and before his capture by the French became in a sense the representative of an emerging new black ruling class in Haiti, need teasing out and exploring as well – and this can also help us to better understand the wider revolutionary process underway historically – and also help illuminate some of the subsequent fates of anti-colonial leaders of nationalist revolutions in the twentieth century.

My interest in historical projects on Black radicalism in part came from the anti-racist and anti-fascist activism that I was involved with, campaigning against the fascist British National Party while an undergraduate and post-graduate student in Leeds in the late 1990s and 2000s, as well as anti-war and anti-imperialist activism around the Stop the War movement at the time of Bush and Blair’s neo-colonial “war on terror.” My reading of C.L.R. James and The Black Jacobinsopened up this rich hidden history of Caribbean revolt and black British resistance that seemed an immense and timely “resource of hope” amidst the horror of things like the Iraq war and occupation – and also James’s Marxist approach was a timely antidote to contemporary prevailing intellectual fashions then underway in cultural history. I then began my doctoral work on C.L.R. James’s time in 1930s Britain at the University of York in 2004, building on a MA dissertation on the same topic at the same institution back in 2002, and this only further reinforced my sense that there was still so much work to be done in the fields of resistance among the enslaved and colonized across the Caribbean as well with respect to the history of black British radicalism.

Having the honour of editing James’s play Toussaint Louverture: The story of the only successful slave revolt in historyfor its first ever publication in 2013 with Duke University Press as part of their C.L.R. James Archives series drew me into reading further about revolutionary history in Haiti. (The play is currently being adapted into a graphic novel by Nic Watts and Sakina Karimjee with Verso). When Pluto got in touch about writing a popular biography of Toussaint for their “Revolutionary Lives” series it seemed an obvious project for Charles and myself to undertake alongside our editing of The Black Jacobins Reader, not least because Charles and myself had already collaborated to co-write an essay together recovering the story of Sergei Eisenstein’s doomed attempt to make a film about the Haitian Revolution starring Paul Robeson. I think we both had a sense that there had not been a decent easily accessible political biography of Toussaint Louverture for a while, at least not in English, one that took him seriously as a great anti-imperialist fighter who could still inspire radicals today, and which could register and take account of the new research and writing in Haitian revolutionary studies that has emerged since James’s great work.

CF: Christian and I came to these projects from different perspectives – but serendipitously our trajectories converged and we were able to collaborate on the article about Eisenstein for History Workshop Journal, the Black Jacobins Readerand finally the biography of Louverture in Pluto’s “Revolutionary Lives” series. I had read C.L.R. James’s history of the Haitian Revolution long before I would develop a research interest in French colonial history and the so-called “French Caribbean.” I came back to the topic in 1998, in the year of the 150thanniversary of the abolition of slavery in the French colonial empire. I grew increasingly frustrated that the state-endorsed commemorative practices followed a predictable pattern (we would see the same in Britain in 2007, the year of the so-called “Wilberfest”), foregrounding abolition as a legislative, philanthropic process (embodied in French in figures such as Victor Scholecher) and downplaying, even denying the agency of the enslaved. James outlines the process in The Black Jacobins: “Sad though it may be, that is the way that humanity progresses. The anniversary orators and the historians supply the prose-poetry and the flowers.” Edouard Glissant described the 1998 celebrations in France along similar lines as a “Franco-French affair” – and this extended to the treatment of Toussaint Louverture, presented in that year’s events (when a plaque to him was unveiled in the Paris Pantheon) as a French Republican general and not as the Haitian freedom fighter who led a struggle against France, Britain and Spain that would lead to emancipation not only from the shackles of enslavement but also from those of colonial oppression. That process of domestication and gallicization fits into a longstanding assimilation of Louverture into more self-congratulatory narratives of French republicanism (there were even plans to Pantheonize him in 1989) – narratives that tend to deny the shortcomings of the French Revolution when it comes to questions of ethnicity (colleagues with whom I have collaborated in the ACHAC public history group call this “fracture colonial”) and also fail to acknowledge the singularity of the Haitian Revolution in its quest for universal emancipation.

In the late 1990s, when I was working on Edouard Glissant’s work in the context of ongoing research on exoticism and diversity (I’m currently editing a collection of translations of his later writings for Liverpool University Press), I knew he had written a little-studied radio play on the Haitian Revolution in the late 1950s, subsequently published as Monsieur Toussaint. It is a remarkable piece of theatre, in which the dying Louverture, imprisoned by Bonaparte at the Fort de Jouxin the Jura, relives his past with his cell haunted by figures from Haitian history. For Glissant, this was a key work, the first clear articulation of what he would call a ‘prophetic vision of the past’, and an attempt to reflect in terms of spatial performance (the initial radio play became a stage version) on pan-Caribbean solidarity – it’s important to note that the first version of Monsieur Toussaintwas written in 1959, the year that Glissant established, with Paul Niger, the Front Antillo-Guyanais pour l’Autonomie, as a result of which Charles de Gaulle prevented him from leaving France to return to the Caribbean until 1965. The play is a radical work in that it demonstrates how Louverture – even if, as its title suggests, he had been stripped by Napoleon of the trappings of his rank and returned to anonymity – transcended the confines of his prison cell to ensure that the incendiary nature of the Revolution continued. In a conference paper in 1998, I read Glissant’s work in relation to James’s 1936 drama – for which I then had to rely not on Christian’s 2013 edition with Duke University Press but on what is actually a version of the 1967 rewriting included in Errol Hill’s 1976 edition of eight Caribbean plays, A Times and a Season.

Drafts of the forthcoming graphic novel version of C.L.R. James’s play Toussaint Louverture, adapted and illustrated by Nic Watts and Sakina Karimjee (reproduced here courtesy of Nic Watts and Sakina Karimjee).

This initial work led me to focus on cross-cultural representations of Louverture more generally, a project that took on encyclopedic proportions as I realized how the revolutionary has been instrumentalized in so many different contexts in the two centuries following his death. The corpus I assembled included novels, poetry and plays; it extended to the visual arts and cinema; it now encompasses comics and video games – there is even now a Toussaint Louverture liqueur, and his image is emblazoned on barbecue aprons and mugs.  This proliferation of representations suggested to me a translatability, even an acceptability to Louverture that we do not associated with Jean-Jacques Dessalines, the revolutionary leader and liberator whose standing has always been greater in Haiti itself than elsewhere – and it was that translatability that led me to ask a series of questions about Louverture’s revolutionary legacies. Does the reproducibility of his image suggest that, like that of Che, his incendiary impact will slowly be exhausted in a process of neo-liberal appropriation, or are there flashpoints – like James’s engagement with Haiti in the 1930s – when those revolutionary afterlives are aligned with contemporary struggles and reignited? The context of #BlackLivesMatter, Rhodes Must Fall and other international activist movements aimed at challenging Afriphobia whilst demanding reparations suggest that this might be a particular moment in which Louverture frees himself again from the chains of more limiting, conservative representations. Our collaboration needs, I think, to be read in that context.

Your biography of Louverture has two major points of historiographical engagement. The first is with James’ classic study; the second with what you call a “conservative revisionism” that has offered some serious critiques of not only James’ work, but also of certain interpretations of Toussaint Louverture and the project of the Haitian Revolution. Two questions emerge from these engagements. First, in what ways did The Black Jacobinsboth open up and delimit your own attempts to tackle Louverture’s life? Second, what is the nature and origins of this conservative revisionism and how have you responded to it?

CH: We felt it was important to defend and restate the main underlying thesis of The Black Jacobins, including the way in which the French and Haitian Revolutions were intrinsically intertwined throughout, and James’s analysis of Toussaint Louverture in particular as a “black Jacobin.”  We had a sense that there would be few other scholars attempting to do such a thing, for doing so meant swimming against the stream of two dominant strands of thought in academia which not only reject such an approach theoretically but also in many ways felt emboldened by some of the new research that has come to light about the Haitian Revolution since James wrote his pathbreaking work back in 1938. Firstly, rightly, there has a growing attention to the African roots and dynamics of the Haitian Revolution among historians – but accompanying this has been a sense among many that we should avoid too much of an allegedly “Eurocentric” focus on the impact of the Enlightenment and the ideas of the French Revolution, which James is said to have overstated at the expense of a recognition of the “African” ideologies of both kingship and also that of vodou  – the latter a strong theme in Madison Smartt Bell’s 2007 biography of Toussaint Louverture. Yet the very title of James’s work – BlackJacobins – shows James was arguably well aware of the importance of the “Africanness” of the revolution in terms of ideologies of kingship and so on, and also of vodou as a revolutionary ideology – “the medium of the conspiracy” he called it in his work.  One strength of James’s work was his clear grasp that one of the most important processes during the revolution was that over the course of the struggle old ideas of “kingship” began to give way to a new discourse of “liberty and equality,” and these ideals became embodied as a powerful material force in the black revolutionary slave army under Toussaint’s leadership. The ideals of The Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen in 1789 and the National Convention’s abolition decree of 1794 fired Louverture’s rhetoric when addressing his own fighters. On 18 May 1797, in an Address to soldiers for the universal destruction of slavery,” for example, Louverture declared: “Let the sacred flame of liberty that we have won lead all our acts … Let us go forth to plant the tree of liberty, breaking the chains of our brothers still held captive under the shameful yoke of slavery.  Let us bring them under the compass of our rights, the imprescriptible and inalienable rights of free men.  [Let us overcome] the barriers that separate nations, and unite the human species into a single brotherhood.”

Secondly, there have always been attempts to downplay Toussaint’s political radicalism – perhaps he was a ”black Girondin” rather than a “black Jacobin” for example – but there has been a more recent conservative revisionist turn in historiography, epitomized for us by the recent otherwise quite impressive biography of Toussaint Louverture by Philippe Girard.  For Girard, it is time to drop the idea that “Louverture was the idealistic herald of slave emancipation” and “the forefather of an independent Haiti.”  Rather, as Girard tells us, “above all, he was a pragmatist … [concerned above all with] personal ambition … his craving for social status was a constant. Educating himself, seeing to his children’s future, making money, gaining and retaining power, and achieving recognition as a great man: he never wavered from the pursuit of these ends. He was a social climber and a self-made man…”

Our work fundamentally challenges Girard’s argument here.  Though new sources have come to light since James wrote, for example revealing Toussaint’s status as a slave-owner in pre-revolutionary Saint Domingue, he was not – and never claimed to be – a revolutionary until the revolution erupted in the last dozen years of his life. As a black person living in a non-revolutionary situation in a barbaric slave society most of his life, where black people could be killed on a whim by white people as a matter of course, with little (if any) chance of any legal or other repercussions, sheer survival and existencerepresented in itself a form of resistance. Girard himself relates one incident relating to Toussaint that happened while walking back from the Mass one day with his prayer book:  “According to the story, which he shared ten years later, ‘a white man broke my head with a wooden stick while telling me ‘do you not know that a negro should not read?’”  Louverture prudently begged for forgiveness and slipped away, a decision that likely saved his life.  But he kept his blood-soaked vest as a reminder and neither forgot nor forgave. Running into the same man years later, after the outbreak of the slave revolt, he killed him on the spot.”

Drafts of the forthcoming graphic novel version of C.L.R. James’s play Toussaint Louverture, adapted and illustrated by Nic Watts and Sakina Karimjee (reproduced here courtesy of Nic Watts and Sakina Karimjee).

Moreover, once the Haitian Revolution began in 1791, as we argue it is surely a little odd to maintain that Louverture was “above all” a “pragmatist” concerned with “personal ambition,” “social status” and “making money.”  Such a person, it might be suggested, would be an unlikely person repeatedly to risk life and limb by putting themselves on the frontline of a black slave army fighting under the banner of “Liberty or death” – and indeed, would be the least likely person to be able to inspire others to follow him into battle under such a slogan. If Louverture had wanted money and status above all, there were surely safer ways to try and secure them, even once the revolt had begun.  Indeed, rather than seeing Louverture essentially as a “self-made man,” we would re-iterate the point made by James, who stressed that on a fundamental level “it was the revolution that made Toussaint.”

Incidentally, Philippe Girard in his review of our work in the New West Indian Guidefor some reason avoids engaging with the substantive critique of his work that we make, instead accusing us of “ideological bias,” arguing “historians normally comb archives and then follow the sources wherever they may take them. Forsdick and Høgsbjerg proceed the other way around, beginning with a wish ‘to reassert the incendiary political implication of [Louverture’s] life, actions, and revolutionary political thought’…” Quite how one is supposed to start historical work researching the leader of the greatest slave revolt in world history without having any pre-existing “ideological” preconceptions is unclear, and indeed James in The Black Jacobinsdismissed the kind of ultra-empiricist approach apparently favoured by Girard as a completely inappropriate method when writing revolutionary history. As James put it, historians who try to be “fair to both sides” in a revolution tend to miss not only “the creative actions and ideas of the revolutionary forces” but even “the clash of an irresistible conflict, of suddenly emergent forces pursuing unsuspected aims” which overtly reactionary historians can sometimes give a clearer sense of.

CF: Unlike Christian, who is a historian, I have always come to James as a student of France and as someone who has emerged from a British tradition of “French Studies.” According to a sort of methodological nationalism, my disciplinary background is one that has often had a mimetic relationship to intellectual traditions in France, often failing to question either the ethnolinguistic assumptions of much French thought or the ethnocentric emphases of revolutionary historiography. My more recent work – notably on Pierre Nora’s Lieux de mémoire– has attempted to reveal colonial blind spots and contribute to the decolonization of French intellectual histories. For me, the experience of reading James’s Black Jacobinswas inevitably central to this work – and I suspect his uneven reception in France, at least until recent years when scholars such as Matthieu Renaulthave made the importance of his work so much more accessible, reflects the highly disruptive nature of his thesis. It overturns so many assumptions in France, not least those that for many years reduced the Haitian Revolution to a poor tropical imitation of its more serious French counterpart, some exotic sideshow to the events in Paris. The visibility of Haiti and its Revolution still remains limited in France, and knowledge of the country – past and present – has until recent years been surprisingly partial. James reminds us that at certain points in the 1790s, the centre of gravity of revolutionary struggle was focused in Saint-Domingue; he demonstrates that the Haitian revolutionaries were able to imagine possible futures – not least relating to universal emancipation – that were, in the terms deployed by Michel-Rolph Trouillot – “unthinkable” for their French counterparts. Building on these reflections, we can suggest that the tensions between universalism and ethnic diversity with which France still grapples are rooted in the historic failure to acknowledge Haiti and its Revolution –  a failure cemented by the massive debt imposed on the country in 1825 in return for recognition of its independence, a debt that was only paid off in 1946 and that led in part to the chronic underdevelopment of independent Haiti.

In relation to your specific question about conservative revisionism in the area of revolutionary historiography, this needs to be read in a much wider frame of re-figurings of Louverture. Historical characters associated with legend inevitably lend themselves to a greater malleability. This was as true in the interwar period, when James was researching The Black Jacobins, as it has been more recently. Let’s not forget that James’s version of the Haitian revolutionary is just one of a number that emerged in the 1930s. We tend to retain the more progressive ones of these – Césaire’s anti-racist rendering of Louverture in his Cahier d’un retour au pays natal; Jacob Lawrence’s pictorial interpretation, in the context of the Harlem Renaissance, in the 42 panels of his remarkable Life of Toussaint L’Ouverture, now at the Amistad Research Center in New Orleans – and then conveniently forget others, most notably the reading of Louverture as a ruthlessly ambitious dictator in Die Revolution von Saint Domingue(1930), by the Nazi historian Erwin Rusch. More recent readings of Louverture that deny his revolutionary ambition and claim that he was committed to protecting a status quo (and his own interests within that status quo) may be associated with a long-standing French historiographic tradition in this area. Pierre Pluchon’s Toussaint Louverture: Un révolutionnaire noir de l’Ancien Régime (1989) argued, for instance, as its subtitle suggests, that Louverture was an Old Regime revolutionary, seeking to replace white with black rule in an attempt to maintain colonial order.

In your introduction to The Black Jacobins Reader you argue that The Black Jacobinsis “much more than a book” and you describe it as part of a “text-network” made up of a series of “translations without an original.” What do you mean by this – and what are the texts (and contexts) that produced The Black Jacobins? How does this enhance our understandings or interpretation of The Black Jacobins?

CF: The idea of the “text-network” made up of a series of “translations without an original” is one we borrow from Susan Gillman’s highly suggestive study of The Black Jacobinsincluded in an excellent collection of essays edited by Peter Hulme and others, Surveying the American Tropics. Gilman in turn adopts the concept from the classicist Dan Selden. In a 2010 article in Ancient Narrative, Selden had challenged the ways in which studies of the “ancient novel” tend to privilege an understanding of single-authored texts to detriment of reading works as evidence of a “multiplicity of different versions, in a wide variety of different languages, retailored to fit a host of different cultural contexts.” A figure we might use to understand such forms of production and dissemination is that of the rhizome, central to Caribbean thought as a result of its adoption by Edouard Glissant in Poétique de la Relationand other writings. We suggest in the Readerthat to read The Black Jacobinsrhizomatically has major implications for the ways in which we understand the text and its impact. On the one hand, it allows us to undermine any cult of authorship: despite the distinctive nature of his writing, James’s writing of his work was openly dialogic, the result of conversations with a range of interlocutors including, for instance, Haitian diplomat Auguste Nemours and James’s compatriot Eric Williams; at the same time, the text includes fragments from a plethora of sources, published and manuscript – we still need a comprehensive critical edition of The Black Jacobins, identifying in detail the material on which James drew and the differences between editions.

The answer to your question is provided as a result in large part by Rachel Douglas’s The Making of the Black Jacobins(Duke University Press, 2019), a meticulous study of the ways in which James engaged with the history of the Haitian Revolution across six decades of his life. These rewritings stretch from the first mention of Toussaint Louverture in his 1931 article in The Beacon, written even before he had left Trinidad, critiquing the pseudoscientific racism of Sidney Harland, to a series of articles, lectures and other engagements in his later years. In a literal sense, The Black Jacobins– drama or history – is a profoundly unstable text, and this not only because of the multiple versions that exist, with, as David Scott has demonstrated, often very different emphases. Already, within James’s own writing practice, we see evidence of transgeneric translation, as a narrative that began life as a play is transformed into a history (in which traces of Shakespearean tragedy of course persist). But his engagement with Haiti spills beyond these works. Anyone who explores James’s wider oeuvreor who visits his archives at UWI St-Augustine, Columbia University or elsewhere will be struck by the recurrence of references to Haiti, in articles, lectures, book reviews, prefaces, correspondence. The Haitian Revolution was a result catalytic to James’s thought at the beginning of his career, during the initial six-year period in Europe that Christian studies so well in his C.L.R. James in Imperial Britain(2014), but continued to play an important role in his thinking for the rest of his life – a process within which there is a clear evolution in attitudes to the meanings of the Revolution and crucially to the agency of various actors within it.

Reading The Black Jacobinsas a “text-network” also means reflecting on the role of translation in its production and dissemination. There is the hidden work of translation by James himself as sources in languages other than English (primarily French) were processed and assimilated as a result of his original research; as we explain in the introduction to the Reader(and as Rachel Douglas explores in more detail in The Making of the Black Jacobins), the book itself has also been translated into multiple languages (we include translations back into English of the prefaces to the French, Italian and Cuban versions, written by Pierre Naville, John Bracey and Madison Smartt Bell respectively), all of which have contributed to the afterlives not only of The Black Jacobinsitself, but also of the Haitian Revolution more generally.

Also let’s not forget transmedial translations, a particularly good example of which is Lubaina Himid’s engagement with Haiti via her reading of C.L.R. James in 1980s Britain (this is studied in detail in the recent Liverpool University Press book, Inside the invisible: Memorialising Slavery and Freedom in the Life and Works of Lubaina Himid). In Himid’s work, I’m particularly interested in Toussaint L’Ouverture, a mixed media portrait of the revolutionary leader from 1987 recently acquired by the Middlesbrough Institute of Modern Art. It uses a collage of words from contemporary newspaper headlines – “RACIST”, “TORTURE”, “ABUSE” – to underline the contrast between the promise of universal emancipation won by the Haitian Revolution and the persistence of inequalities relating to race and ethnicity in the modern world. “The news wouldn’t be news,” Himid wrote in the piece, “if you had heard of Toussaint L’Ouverture.”      In short, reading the book not as a static, single volume but as a “text-network” helps us understand how it functions and inspires as a classic of revolutionary historiography.

CH: Reflecting on the writing of The Black Jacobinsin 1980, C.L.R. James noted “my West Indian experiences and my study of Marxism had made me see what had eluded many previous writers, that it was the slaves who had made the revolution.”It is critically important to understand something of the interwar period – historically, politically, culturally – to make sense of the writing of The Black Jacobins, whether James’s experiences of the 1919 mass strike in colonial Trinidad and the subsequent growth of the Trinidad Workingmen’s Association as a mass nationalist organization, through to his campaigning for “West Indian Self-Government” and wider Pan-African liberation while in Britain in the 1930s, his reading of Trotsky’s History of the Russian Revolutionin Nelson, Lancashire, while supporting a mass strike of cotton workers in 1932, through to his witnessing mass demonstrations and strikes against fascism while researching the Haitian Revolution in Paris in 1934, his building of solidarity with the Ethiopian people at the time of Mussolini’s war in 1935, and with the Spanish Revolution in 1936 and the Caribbean Labour Rebellions of the late 1930s – with much of the researchundertaken while Haiti itself was under US military occupation. Stuart Hall– to whom The Black Jacobins Reader is dedicated – once well described how “what is riveting … is the way in which the historical work and the foregrounded political events are part of a kind of seamless web … they reinforce one another.” It is important to recall that James was writing in the aftermath of the Russian Revolution – and like many black colonial subjects he was greatly inspired by that process – and the wider revolutionary movements that shook Europe in this period – outlined in James’s own work World Revolution, 1917-1936– meant that ideas of “revolution” and the importance of revolutionary history, questions of revolutionary theory, organization, strategy and tactics and so on had an urgency and relevance then that that they have not had subsequently.  James as a “black Bolshevik” identified as strongly with the Russian Revolution as the “black Jacobin” Toussaint Louverture did with the French Revolution, and James’s sense of the degeneration that had accompanied the rise of Stalin by the 1930s gave him an insight into how the degeneration of the French Revolution with the rise of Napoleon in a fundamental sense had betrayed the hopes of Haitian revolutionaries.   As Charles has already mentioned, the way the work then gets revised by James over the course of his life amid the changing contexts and the breakthrough of decolonization is something explored well by Rachel Douglas in her new work, The Making of The Black Jacobins.

You also make the point that although it sometimes feels as if The Black Jacobins has dominated the historiography of the Haitian Revolution since it was first published in 1938, the reality was and is somewhat more complicated. How so?

CH:The Black Jacobinsin the first edition was an expensive hardback, and so was either passed hand to hand by activists (there is a fantastic story of James trying to ensure Louis Armstrong’s copy of the work was passed on to Martin Luther King in 1957 for example) or perhaps read in a university library.   In that sense, while figures such as the Jamaican Pan-Africanist Amy Ashwood Garvey could hail it in 1940 as “the most revolutionary book on Toussaint L’Ouverture,” it could be ignored by most of the wider Western historiography of the Haitian Revolution – just as the first edition of Eric Williams’s Capitalism and Slaveryin 1944 was more or less ignored by British historians.  This said, it was read and did begin to make it into the footnotes of some of the more radical historians, including Eric Hobsbawm’s work The Age of Revolution, and including in Haiti itself thanks to the 1949 French translation by Pierre Naville.  It was not really however until the rising Civil Rights Movement in the US meant there was a market suddenly for a Vintage paperback edition in 1963 that helped the work shape the thinking of a new generation of both activists and scholars during the 1960s and 1970s, just as Capitalism and Slaverybegan to be taken more seriously by the wider historical establishment in Britain with the 1964 edition of that work – slowly both books became more and more impossible for even bourgeois scholars to ignore any longer.

CF: This is an important question. The Black Jacobins now has all the trapping of a classic: a popular Penguin edition (prefaced by James Walvin, and recently selected by The Left Book Club as its choice in January 2020); the multiple translations I’ve referred to already; now an academic “reader” devoted to it… But let’s not forget that the first edition of the book risked disappearing from view and had a relatively limited impact. 1938 was, in retrospect, not the best moment for The Black Jacobinsto appear, in part because imminent global conflict would deflect (temporarily at least) from the pressing debates about anti-colonialism to which James was responding and contributing, in part because its publication coincided with James’s departure for the USA. It might also be argued also that the first edition was premature in terms of its contribution to debates about postcolonialism and neo-colonialism, phenomena with which Haiti engaged – as Nick Nesbitt has so eloquently suggested – 150 years before they would become hallmarks of the ideology and praxis of the second half of the twentieth century.

Until the second edition of The Black Jacobinsappeared in 1963, the book was an underground, more confidential form of intervention. It was a new generation of readers from the Caribbean – George Lamming in particular, Walter Rodney as well – who encouraged James to revisit and republish his work, which appeared in the new Vintage edition to which Christian has alluded, with the postface “From Toussaint Louverture to Fidel Castro” situating it in a new context of contemporary political struggle. Despite James’s own focus on the Caribbean at that time, The Black Jacobinsthen spoke to a range of movements, local and global, that transcended the Caribbean: Black Power, anti-apartheid, tricontentinentalism; but it also served as a point of reference for an emerging group of historians – David Geggus, for instance, whose PhD produced in York in the 1970s remains the definitive account of the largely disavowed place of British troops in the Haitian Revolution – committed to granting Haiti the place it merits in accounts of what Hobsbawm called the “age of revolution.” In a bibliography that is still expanding of lives of Louverture or histories of the Revolution (I eagerly await Sudhir Hazareesingh’s Black Spartacus: The Epic Life of Toussaint Louverture, for instance, due to appear in the Autumn, as well as the graphic novel of James’s play currently being drawn by Nic Watts and Sakina Karimjee), James’s account has retained its central role – it remains the initial text that I recommend to students wishing to understand the place of Haiti in world history. Additional archival sources have been uncovered, new theses explored, but no other account competes with James’s for its breadth and incisiveness of analysis and for the ways in which it captures the persistently incendiary meanings of the Revolution for those seeking to imagine what David Scott has called possible postcolonial futures.

Another question on circulation. How was The Black Jacobins taken up in the Caribbean and Africa?

CH: This is a fascinating question, and one that surely requires more research  – I once came across a reference to “Toussaint Louverture clubs” in existence in colonial Trinidad in 1938, but my sense is that these were short-lived middle class literary societies and it seems unconnected to James or his work.  George Padmore worked to ensure The Black Jacobins was known among anti-colonial activists in colonial Africa and the Caribbean, writing a widely republished review praising the work and aimed to send a few copies to Pan-Africanist contacts in West Africa – perhaps the most notable reader of the work to emerge out of this milieu would have been Kwame Nkrumah.  Intriguingly there was a copy of the French edition in the library of Frantz Fanon.  James himself testifies to the impact of the work in apartheid South Africa among students, while Thabo Mbeki once stated that after he read The Black Jacobins, he knew that apartheid would ultimately be defeated.  Many radical intellectuals and writers of the 1960s and 1970s aside from Mbeki engaged with it deeply – whether one is talking about Walter Rodney, George Lamming, Stokely Carmichael, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o or the circle of young black Caribbean radicals in the C.L.R. James Study Circle in Montreal, Canada that David Austinhas written about.  James’s 1967 revised playThe Black Jacobins was produced and staged in Nigeria of course, and the circumstances of this have been discussed extensively by Rachel Douglas.

CF: Yes, this is a question that interested us greatly while we were preparing The Black Jacobins Reader– and we both concluded that considerably more research is required. We were grateful to Matthew Smith for his chapter on Haiti in British West Indian thought before The Black Jacobinswas published. It is clear that afterits publication, James’s book has predominated. Christian mentions the presence of Les Jacobins noirsin Fanon’s library – and I’m particularly interested in this Francophone postcolonial engagement. Césaire clearly knew James’s work and cites it in passing in his Toussaint Louverture:La Révolution française et le problème colonial(just as James would cite the Cahier d’un retour au pays natalin the 1963 postface to The Black Jacobins). The two men met in Cuba at the Havana Cultural Congress of 1968 – Andrew Salkey memorably describes the encounter in his Havana Journaland James devotes a fragment to Césaire in his unpublished autobiography. Another dimension of this story is the reception of The Black Jacobinsin Haiti itself. We have tantalizing glimpses of James’s interactions with Haitian historians, notably Etienne Charlier, author of the classic Marxist history of the Revolution in Aperçu sur la formation historique de la nation haïtienne, and Jean Fouchard, for the English translation of whose Les Marrons de la Liberté (The Haitian Maroons: Liberty or Death) James wrote a preface in 1981, the year after Fouchard’s death. It is unclear whether James ever travelled to Haiti – it seems unlikely – but he definitely had plans for a visit in the 1950s when he also alluded to a possible Haitian translation of his work. I’m not one for counterfactual history, but it is striking to speculate on the impact that translation might have had had it appeared in Duvalier’s Haiti.

What is the theoretical, and perhaps methodological, importance of The Black Jacobinsto debates concerning the history of capitalism and slavery?

CH: Stuart Hall once wrote that James in The Black Jacobinswas the first to centre Atlantic slavery in world history – so in this sense the importance of James’s work to these debates is self-evident.  Certainly, James’s short discussion on the economic roots of British parliamentary abolitionism formed the essential outline of Eric Williams’s more famous and lengthy contribution in this field – as Williams himself acknowledged, though in my opinion James’s grasp of the modernity of colonial slavery and the slave ships and plantations thanks to his underlying theoretical grasp of the uneven and combined nature of capitalist development meant his analysis of the exact relationship between capitalism and slavery is more sophisticated than that of Williams in many respects.  Personally I have also been struck by James’s pioneering class analysis of the enslaved themselves – part proto-proletariat, part proto-peasantry while also recognizing that in many ways they were also part proto-consumers, long before slavery scholars coined these terms.  More broadly, James was the first to stress the importance of the Haitian Revolution to the wider transition from feudalism to capitalism in terms of Marxist historiography, and so the work formed the central part of his wider lifelong intellectual contribution which was, as he saw it, to explain the relationship of black people to “Western Civilisation.”

CF: Yes, the genesis of The Black Jacobinsand Capitalism and Slavery(or at least the thesis on which it was based) are so closely intertwined that James once claimed he and Williams co-authored parts of each text. James was, however, one of the first to see the plantation as an early expression of the logic of capitalism, a testing ground for the nineteenth-century developments of the industrial revolution. Thanks to the work of the Legacies of British Slave-ownership project, we now have a much clearer evidence base to track how slavery and capitalism would be subsequently linked. But at a more fundamental level, James shows how the dehumanization of enslavement transformed the enslaved into capital. The first chapter of The Black Jacobinsremains one of the most searing statements of this historical reality, but the text also shows an interest in the economic underpinnings of the Revolution – in Louverture’s pragmatism (his re-imposition of the plantation can be seen as a form of state capitalism) but also in the alternatives of agrarian self-sufficiency and devolved ownership proposed by Louverture’s nephew Moïse. James’s growing interest in Moïse (and in Louverture’s decision to execute him) predominates in his later engagements with Haitian revolutionary historiography, as Rachel Douglas demonstrates in her analyses of the 1967 dramatic rendering of The Black Jacobins – and reflects his growing commitment to a history from below that moves away from over-privileging of the heroes, from what Maryse Condé dismissed as “conventional reactionary bric à brac.” There, for James, economic history meets Shakespearean tragedy as it is clear that the failure to grasp the implications of ignoring Moïse’s alternative model reveals Louverture’s fatal flaw.

You suggest that James was aware of the methodological and archival limitations of The Black Jacobins, especially concerning the focus on Louverture. Can you say more about this – about James’ own critiques, and about how other writers have extended or revised James biographical-historical method?

CH: James as a good historian was of course always aware that new sources would emerge in archives which would necessitate the revision of this or that specific aspect of his argument, but he also felt – rightly in my opinion – that the foundations of his argument would be in a sense “imperishable.” I would therefore not want to draw the kind of strict demarcation between the 1938 version and the 1963 revised version of the text that for example David Scott has done in his fascinating work, Conscripts of Modernity.  My sense is that within The Black Jacobinsthere is of course the romantic focus on anticolonial revolt which gives it is epic quality as a work of historical literature – but Scott in Conscripts of Modernityis mistaken to place James’s focus on tragedy as only coming through in the later 1963 edition, with the additional paragraphs in the closing chapter.   When James wrote his play Toussaint Louverturein 1934, he portrayed Toussaint as a tragic hero of colonial enlightenment, and there is an important sense in which James discusses the Haitian Revolution as a bourgeois revolution, though this line of argument is muted somewhat – no doubt James wanted to inspire those fighting for colonial liberation, not depress them.  Some of James’s later critiques of The Black Jacobinsin some senses are about his own slight political move away from the classical Marxist framework which made it such an outstanding work of “total history,” towards the more popular “history from below” approaches which for example inspired James’s student Carolyn Fick in her own important work, The Making of Haiti: The Saint-Domingue Revolution from below.  Yet though James once suggested that he might rewrite The Black Jacobinsas The Black Sans culottesif he was going to start all over again, the fact he did not ever re-write or re-title later editions of the work suggests to me he always retained at least some of his old Leninist instincts about the importance of revolutionary leadership for successful revolutionary struggles into his old age.

CF: Your question is central to the progressive rewriting in which James engaged. I agree with Christian that that process was both organic and dialogic, and does not include any of the sudden volte-faces that some accounts of this engagement sometimes imply. The Black Jacobinsis rooted in the intensive archival work that James conducted in Paris, often between cricket seasons when his work as a journalist was in abeyance. But he continued to rethink these sources and to reassess his interpretation of them. Already in the 1950s, in his correspondence with Etienne Charlier, the possibility of a history of the Revolution “from below” was clear, and this became particularly apparent in the later 1960s when James revisited his dramatic version of The Black Jacobins. He articulated these shifts in the series of 1971 lectures at the Institute of the Black World in Atlanta, in particular in the one entitled “How I would rewrite The Black Jacobins,” in which he states that Louverture might ultimately be granted little more than a walk-on part in a new version of the book. James was inspired here by the new historiography of the French Revolution – in particular the work of Lefevre and Soboul, the second of whom presented the sans-culottes as a social class, a proto-proletariat who played a key role– and stated that he would seek to focus more on the “2,000 leaders to be taken away” about whom Leclerc warned Napoleon following the arrest of Louverture. The IBW lectures were published for the first time in Small Axein 2000, and in an excellent afterword, Anthony Bogues suggests that they allow us to “think withand then beyondJames” – I take this as meaning that the lectures allow us not only to understand the organic development of James’s thought, but also to locate The Black Jacobinsin relation to a range of other interpreters of the Haitian Revolution – Carolyn Fick, John Thornton, Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Laurent Dubois, Matthew Smith, Johnhenry Gonzalez– who are in dialogue with James, who complement and on occasion challenge his work.

Can you say something about the editorial process behind The Black Jacobins Reader? What are the origins of the project and what guided your decisions about how to frame it, what to include and not include?

CH: The Black Jacobins Readeremerged out of a one day London Socialist Historians Groupconference I co-organised back in 2008, to mark the 70thanniversary of the work – the fact the book only appeared in late 2017, just before the 80thanniversary, tells you something about the lengthy gestation period and editorial process involved in putting this together.  I think as editors we wanted a mix of classic original material relating to the book that had never been published in English before (the gem I think here being the transcript of James’s 1970 radio interview about the work with Studs Terkel, which we discovered relatively late on), a range of new scholarship relating to the book, some of which we had from the conference, some of which we solicitated afterwards, and then some more personal contributions by leading activists and scholars of the Haitian Revolution testifying to the works importance and impact.   Selma James played a very helpful role here, soliciting the contributions from the two imprisoned Black Panthers, Mumia Abu-Jamal and Russell Maroon Shoatz on our behalf.  We were constrained by length – it is some 400 pages – from including much more, though we remain thankful to the editors of Duke for giving us the space and length we needed to include everything we did.

CF: Christian knew of my work on the re-figurings of Toussaint Louverture and I was pleased when he invited me to collaborate on bringing together the Reader. The 2008 London conference was a lively, highly significant event, bringing together – as is customarily the case with workshops and conferences devoted to James – academics and activists. The reader captures some of its commitment to bridging the artificiality of that divide. We were keen to fill a gap in the existing literature by producing a volume entirely devoted to The Black Jacobins– previous volumes, such as C.L.R. James:  His Intellectual Legacies edited by Selwyn Cudjoe and William Cain,had dedicated sections to the book, but we felt that more sustained attention was required. Christian has described the balance we sought between first-hand accounts of the influence of James’s work and more conventional academic studies; to these we added our detailed introduction, on the genesis and afterlives of The Black Jacobins, and various appendices (a section we might have expanded had we had more flexibility). Our aim was to bring together contributions into a book that could be used equally by students, scholars and activists. We wanted to show that The Black Jacobinsis a living document, one whose meanings continue to evolve. And we were profoundly aware of the company we were keeping in the C.L.R. James Archives series published by Duke University Press, a collection dedicated to presenting to a contemporary audience, in its breadth and diversity, the work of one of the great intellectual figures of the twentieth-century.

You dedicate Toussaint Louverture to Robert A. Hill and Janet Alder and Hill provides an introduction to The Black Jacobins Reader.What role has Hill played in the development of both projects? And Alder?

CH: Robert A. Hill has been a very important mentor to me personally in terms of C.L.R. James scholarship, and this together with his editorial expertise and outstanding record of scholarship on the African diaspora and Pan-Africanism in particular were absolutely invaluable when it came to all the editorial work I have done with the Duke University Press C.L.R. James Archives series, from theToussaint Louvertureplay through to World Revolution. ForThe Black Jacobins Reader, for example, originally Charles and myself had envisaged including as many as possible original reviews the 1938 edition received in full – it was Robert A. Hill who understood this would make the book too big in size – I think the phrase he used was “over-egging the cake” or something – and so we then decided to cut this section out and just include extracts from some of the reviews in our introduction – a decision that we came to see made very good sense.    It was an honour for us to carry his foreword to The Black Jacobins Readergiven his profound understanding of the work – and the fact he gave us the honour of co-editing such a work as The Black Jacobins Readermade it only right that we acknowledged him when we came to write Toussaint Louverture: A Black Jacobin in the Age of Revolutions. 

Janet Alder’s brother Christopher – a black former paratrooper – was killed while in police custody in Hull in 1998 – the same year I started University as an undergraduate and so I have seen Janettirelessly and courageously campaign for justice for her brother for over twenty yearsin the face of enormous pressures.  Her indefatigability here as a campaigner for “Black Lives Matter” long before the hashtag was born for me stands as reminiscent of that shown by the Haitian revolutionaries, and so in that sense I felt the dedication to her was most appropriate.  The fact that much of her campaigning has taken place in the city to which William Wilberforce was once the MP only further highlights some of the continuities between the racism born of colonial slavery and the racism which continues to kill in the present day.

CF: I echo Christian’s gratitude to Robert A. Hill, who provided patient, wise counsel throughout our preparation of the Readerand was a great supporter of our collaborative work. As literary executor of the C.L.R. James estate and eyewitness of much of the context to The Black Jacobinsthat interested us, he never let his personal investment in the project impede our own ambitions for the volume, and it seemed only natural that we would subsequently dedicate the Louverture biography to him. The parallel dedication to Janet Alder was a mark of our respect for her indefatigable commitment to uncovering the truth about her brother’s unlawful killing, despite the harassment to which she has been subject herself. Colonial slavery, for whose abolition Louverture fought, has clear contemporary afterlives, and we were keen to link historical and contemporary struggles in this way.

You invoke the Kreyòl saying tou moun se moun (“everyone is a human being”) in your discussion of the politics of race and citizenship in Haiti after 1804. What does this expression mean in the context of 1804 and what are the lessons that that phrase – and Haiti, in the immediate aftermath of independence – offer us now? Importantly, you also appear to suggest a sort of historical redemption of Jean-Jacques Dessalines.

CF:Tout moun se moun – “every person is a human being” – was a refrain common in Haiti from the moment of independence. A radically egalitarian principle suggesting that all lives matter and that everyone has the right to dignity, it was more recently adopted as the title of Aristide’s 1992 autobiography, written just before he was ousted from power for the first time the previous year. The idea of universal emancipation fed into the aspirations underpinning Haitian sovereignty and were enshrined in Dessalines’s 1804 constitution. In Haiti, Louverture is known as the “Precursor,” Dessalines as the “Liberator” – and it is Dessalines who was tasked with consolidating the gains of the Revolution and defending them against multiple threats. Post-independence, Haiti has struggled to defend this principle, often in the face of external interventions such as the US occupation of 1915-34 or the damaging impact of the UN stabilization mission (known as MINUSTAH) following Aristide’s second ousting, with the introduction of cholera and accusations of other human rights abuses. At the same time, the totalitarian, despotic excesses of the Duvalier regime reveal how the principle has been equally challenged by internal forces. The often-repeated observation that Haiti is the “poorest country in the Western hemisphere” perpetuates a sense of dependency. What we regularly ignore is what Haiti can teach the rest of the world, not least how we are dependent on it for the vision of a universal emancipation that the American and French Revolutions could not even imagine, of a radical equality that threatened the logic of slavery and colonialism as much as it now threatens that of neo-liberal capitalism.

One reservation I’ve always had in working on Toussaint Louverture is that focus on his life, achievements and afterlives is often to the detriment of the attention that Dessalines himself merits. Louverture is somehow acceptable and translatable in ways that his former lieutenant (and, as Gabriel Debien and subsequently Jacques de Cauna and Philippe Girard have suggested, someone who had been enslaved by Louverture’s son-in-law) still is not. In that sense, we may create analogies between the two Haitian Revolutionaries and other pairs of radicals, notably MLK and Malcolm X. I have often stated in my writing and teaching that there are over 200 biopics of Napoleon and none of Toussaint Louverture. We need to remember, however, that there are dozens of biographies of Louverture but as far as I’m aware none of Dessalines in English (and very few in French, with most of these published in Haiti, by authors including Timoléon C. Brutus and Gérard M. Laurent, meaning they have limited distribution). This despite the fact that in Haiti it is Dessalines who is a lwain the vodou pantheon, that the national anthem is known as the Dessalinienne… Dubroca produced a scurrilous biography of Dessalines in 1804, which was translated into English, German and Spanish (his equally defamatory life of Louverture was also popular at the time). Subsequent representations – even by African American authors – have tended to perpetuate the stereotype of Dessalines as a fierce and brutal figure. Julia Gaffield, who edited an excellent collection of essays on Dessalines’ 1804 constitution (a copy of which she uncovered while doing doctoral research in the National Archives in Kew) is currently working on a manuscript entitled Jean-Jacques Dessalines: Freedom or Death, due to appear with Yale University Press, and has also made available online as the “Dessalines Reader,”a valuable collection of archival materials relating to her subject. There is a pressing need also for a political biography of Dessalines, one that avoids the excesses of past hagiography or demonization, and can be seen as part of wider project of reparative history of race and resistance.

Header image: George Debaptiste, Toussaint L’Overture (c. 1870) Source: Library of Congress.

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Archive of Audio Recordings of Haitian Poets & Writers at the Library of Congress

Dating back to 1943, The Archive of Hispanic Literature on Tape at the Library of Congress contains nearly seven-hundred recordings of poets and prose writers participating in sessions at the Library’s Recording Laboratory and at other locations around Spain and Latin America. It also contains seven recordings of Haitian writers. We provide links to those seven recordings below. 

René Bélance reads seventeen poems from his collected volumes: Luminaires, Epaule d’ombre, and Survivances. Recorded January 15, 1953, in Port-au-Prince.

Poet Raphaël Berrou reading from his work. Recorded January, 1980 at Port-au-Prince Radio.

Poet Marie-Thérèse Colimon Hall reading from her work. Recorded January 4, 1980, Port-au-Prince Radio.

Poet Dieudonné Fardin reads from Deblozailles, Collier la Rossée, Laetilis, Lyre Declassée, Imaginar l’imaginaire, Port-de-Paix multicolore, Les grandes orgues, Mon poème de chair, Fraternité, grande blessure, and Lettres du Fontamara. Recorded Jan. 24, 1980, Port-au-Prince Radio.

Dominique Hippolyte reading his verse. Recorded January 7, 1953, Port-au-Prince.

Poet Jean Libose reading from his work. Recorded June 30, 1982, in the Library of Congress Recording Laboratory, Studio B, Washington, D.C.

Poet and writer Philippe Thoby-Marcelin reads fifteen poems from his collected volumes: Lago-Lago; La négresse adolescente; Le jour, la nuit; Dialogue avec la femme endormie; and A fonds perdu. In addition, he reads two unpublished poems: “Pour bercir un delit d’intention” “La servant au grand coeur.” Recorded April 16, 1970, and April 22, 1971, in the Library of Congress Recording Laboratory, Studio B, Washington, D.C.

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Siy ak sentom maladi grip kowonaviris 2019

Source: Pwoteksyon sivil

@Pwoteksyonsivil

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“The lass days of KB and CowPastor Vandal”

[The following letter of protest from the late Kamau Brathwaite was circulating in 2005. It is at once a heartfelt plea for his own plot of land in Barbados and a tragically visionary comment on the future of the Caribbean’s ecology].

Pl circulate this ATTACH (ihope it will open!) as
widely as possible as a contribution to Caribbean
democracy, the freedom future of the artist, and a
statement about a dying Caribbean environment <Kamau>


Please circulate as wade as possible – let it wide in the water
Kamau Brathwaite [ mailto:kb5@—-.edu ]kb5@—-.edu + CowPastor, Wilcox
Lands, Christ Church, Barbados
see also Hambone 17 (2004), 126-173

15 Mar 05/(!!) The Ides of March (!!)/CP 2:43am

The lass days of KB and CowPastor Vandal: My Emmerton 2005

Dear AndreaNation and all Caribbean artists intellectuals cultural workers
& environmentalists w/in the sound of Marina

I sharing a letter i juss write to a wo at OUP <not inc in this new lett>
who deals w/permissions payments to authors who want to quote yr work etc.
This wo and me – we don’t kno each other – share a wonderful sense of
weather and the environment and at the end of my business w/her this
midnight, I describe and refer to (un)developments in my life i thot you
shd kno

w/the dust choking me from the destruction so that I can hardly eat – the
water that we drink returning to like its limestone white residual – and
have these DS(3s) and Beverley has already had to go the doc w/a dreadful
cough of corridor –

I’ve tried – in vain – to get an appointment w/the PS of the Housing &
Lands – a man i long respec & kno. . . and a letter of premonition &
desperation I senn in to yr NATION tho promise publication. . . has nvr in
fact appeared. . . I try contact Liz Thompson who when she was in NYC
sometime ago at an X/hibition of BaJam Wo artists, at which we share both
spoke, said yes i shd send her the details of my evident concern. Nuffen
of course followed from that. . . I tried lifelines to Dame Billie and Mia
– nuffen there neetha. And I note that whenever you respond to me on this,
you ask a whole series of Qs about ‘what am I doing’ – as if I doin
nothin!!

All I can in the end do – w/out community support – is set afire to
myself, as I’ve said before, on this very namsetoura pasture become the
criminal. and I don’t really want to do dat, because my spirit flies so
high – so many dreamstories and ideas seem to flow & flow – altho of
course who’s to kno if they gods not punishing mwe But I don’t think so,
or lets say I arrogant enuff to think that I don’t think so – which of
course is whe the danger lies. . .

I write to you now as I write earlier to that stranger. but w/the
difference that I have faith that as a wo of soul, there is something I
sure you can do,  if is nothing more than persuade one of yr colleagues
who’s still free and fearless – is there any such? – to come out to CP and
see whats happening. . . is there no voices in BaJam that can raise can
rise? It will be a shame if i hear people saying AFTER I GONE – that Kamau
use to talk about these things and no one lissen not a soul do a ting.
trapped – SURELY NOT FOR EVER – in our Mental Slavery

The plight of one person. the flight of one sparrow . is worth more than
all the kingdooms of this world. But very frew people can live this

What I saying is that my micro case here, is the macro case of us all. The
little done unto mwe, is the burden down upon us all upon us all

All night long, the trucks trundle & boom. Two mornings ago, to destroy
more duncks trees, so they cd swathe more space for the tractors, they set
fire to the slope under Thyme Bottom. if the Fire Beegrade didn’t come,
that fire might have swept down into our yard and run all the way down
west to Parish Lands. It was a clear day and a high wind

The destruction of CowPasture to put in an unnecessary and unethical road
– when there are two perfectly good xisting road in this quadrant – for
some new unxplained access to the airport, involves –

(1)   the death of the three dozen cows and flocks of blackbelly sheep
that use to ruminate CowPasture

(2)   the loss of rumination marks the end of peace & serengetti beauty
here and marks the arrival of vandalism. Abandoned houses further pillage,
and w/the blood up, even the duncks trees on the pasture under pressure –
their limbs & branches torn down this harmattan for their plunder, not
picked picked picked between the thorns, as happily traditional

(3)   the loss of pasture – here and all over Barbados and all over the
CARICOM Caribbean = also the closing down of the last sugar production in
St Kitts, and the verge of ditto in Barabados

(4)   the loss of pasture – here and all over the island and all over the
CARICOM Caribbean = the decline of cricket. Sir Viv and Gary S come from
BayLands not from roundabouts, hotels and clogged up death-mark highways

(5)   the road here is unethical because of this and because it is an
offence not only to the people who choose to live here, who are/were so
fortunate to live here to love here – and dispossessed of pristine coral;
thru no fault of their own, but via a willful remote control decision by
Authorities too arrogant & high & mighty to discuss plans that involve all
our futures fortunes w/us ‘out here’, who are still seen – MENTAL
PLANTATION MENTAL SLAVERY – as chattel anti-heroes have no voice – cannot
afford to be admitted to out voice

(6)   even as I write this, therefore, destruction going on – this old
plantation well, the little Lake (or Pond) of Thorns  – the natural water
catchment for this area – filled in and flattened – hence future floods.
And near the well, a fledgling BEARDED FIG-TREE (shrine of ancient African
& Amerindian spirits) its cinnamon beards just showing. a dear endangered
species. cruelly unethically soon to gone .  i cd go on an gone . like all
the people of Thyme Bottom already gone gone gone. . .

(7)   at 3 pm today, tractors break thru the last line of bush & duncks
between them and our house my yard. A noise as of bombing and a great
cloud of dust – FALOUJA – and now there’s nothing left between ourselves
and them – the slave well nxt, the bearded fig- tree nxt – today if not
tomorrow. My eyes are full of grit and helpless scars, as if I am the last
person in the world the lost poet, really, in the world. Rosina say this
morning I shd write it down. But write it down for who for what. . .

I walked out there towards the cloud of dust – the grit – my tears – and
my heart as if rebelled inside me, fit to burst w/grief & loss &
helplessness & pain

(8)   I had also hoped, when we found this place, to found my nation here
– my maroon town, resistance palenque. Bring in my archives from their
shattered world – shattered in Jamaica since the Gilbert Hurricane of 1988
– an archive stretching back now almost 100 years and covering from Bay
Street/Browns Beach/Harrson College days, thru Cambridge, Ghana, SL, 30
years at Mona, the Caribbean Artists Movement (London), Bim, BBC Caribbean
Voices, Savacou, Carifestas, paintings, sculpture (inc early postcolonial
W Af, early Rastafari), Colly, Timmy Callender, Broodhagen, jazz records,
tape recordings from almost ancient Ghana, from nearly every Caribbean
voice of say or song

      and all this a lament – the loss & dislocation of so much of this in
Gilbert (see SHAR.
      see Carolivia Herron’s ‘SAVING THE WORD’  hear ARK – these are our
documents
      for our last our lost millennium – and still more loss from worm and
Ivan (2004) and a
      terrible break-in (5 March 05) – VANDALL INVASION of our hopes and
consciousness

(9) The dream the vision was to in-gather the scatta archives (Ja & NYC)
here, try heal them and from this wound of miracle, set up a BUSSA CENTRE
for us all – enough peace & space & beauty surpassing any other in the
world – in a small sacred bless – to build a place to live to love, a
place for the LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA, a conference room, performance
outdoor places, chalets for writers, artists – that kind of possible dream
– because we had the dream we had the space we had the means – destroyed
by my own Govt – w/out DISCUSSION – and digging us down and STRANGLING the
holy past & constellation flute & future of this place – the egrets gone
because the cattle gone. the woo doves mourn. I itch from deconstruction
cement dust

I cannot even die here now. no strength to even burn myself upon this
pasture as I want to do. As I still may. Because my love, whe else is
there to go, to try to build again at 75? tho I not beggin for your
sympathy – tho that good too – I askin you to LISSEN . one mo Emmerton.
xcep unlike the Mighty Gabby song which sing & say far more than any prose
I prose can say, me na give up. me nvva will accept unrighteousness, If
this was SandlyLane wd we be treated so? again today the tractors wheel an
thump. I can’t accept to so unfairly go <Kb5>

p/s I’m being told that all this is too late – that time & the tide has
pass me by – not enuff effort too late! if that be so, let me then at
least hope that you will allow at least my faint words – faintly heard now
on the pasture – be at least a verbal memorial to mark the graveyard of
this place

Edward Kamau Brathwaite, May 11, 1930, Bridgetown, Barbados — February 4, 2020, Cow Pasture, Barbados.

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Port-au-Prince, Haiti, 04:53:10 PM, January 12, 2010

Evelne AlcideSeisme (Earthquake), 2010. Museum of International Folk Art/Museum of New Mexico. Click links for more information; click image for larger version.

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A Decade of Radical Black Reading

Soon after The Public Archive launched in 2010, we began featuring reading lists that, for the most part, appeared under the banner “Radical Black Reading.” To mark nearly a decade’s worth of publication, we’ve culled a number of entries from the lists, focussing on work that in our view deserves more attention while offering some direction for the decade to come.

  • Edited by Sokari Ekine and Hakima Abbas and published by Fahamu Books and Pambazuka Press, the Queer Africa Reader, emerged out of a defining moment in African history: The 2010 charges for “gross indecency and unnatural acts” pressed against Tiwonge Chimbalanga, a Malawaian transgender woman, and Steven Monjeza, her male partner. The charges served to bring the muted discussions among queer African activists, intellectuals, and artists out into the public while spurring Ekine’s and Abbas’ editorial labors. The result is nothing short of path breaking. Combining forty-two essays, testimonies, statements, and stories by lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and intersex contributors from across the continent, the Queer Africa Readerchallenges the idea of Africa as the “homophobic continent” while providing an urgent, engaging, and eloquent account of both the diversity of African LGBTI experience, and of the polyvalent strategies of African queer survival, resistance, and liberation.
  • Two publications out of Chicago – a city whose successful grassroots push for reparationsfor the victims of police torture bequeath us with an inspired hope — distill the possibilities and potential of the work of radical publishing alongside local movements for social justice. Melina Fries’ The Red Summer Self-Guided Walking Tour: Chicagois a spare and disturbing but ultimately enlightening cartography of the history of racist violence in Chicago, in particular the violence of the summer of 1919. Chiraq and its Meaning(s), edited by educator and activist Miriame Kaba and the youth justice organization Project Nia, is a moving and sharply poignant compilation of statements documenting how young Chicagoans view and interpret their city and its largely negative representations. Both books were issued in elegant Risograph editions by independent publisher Half Letter Press, an imprint of Temporary Services; both offer a welcome alternative to the banality and market-driven backwardness of mainstream, corporate media while speaking to the critical importance of community control over representation. (Meanwhile, The 2015 Baltimore Uprising: A Teen Epistolary – a compilation of tweets from Baltimore youth beginning the day of Freddie Gray’s death – is a smart, raw, and eloquent statement from a group too often derided, as “thugs.”)
  • The state is at the center of a number of recent monographs that have examined questions of democracy, dictatorship and neo-colonialism in contemporary Haiti. Justin Podur’s Haiti’s New Dictatorship: The Coup, The Earthquake and the UN Occupation(Pluto) scrutinizes the ways in which the international community has choked Haiti’s sovereignty since the 2004 coup while promoting a supposedly benign international occupation of the country. Jeb Sprague’s thoroughly-researched Paramilitarism and the Assault on Democracy in Haiti(Monthly Review) examines the growth of right-wing paramilitaries and their role, supported by money and political muscle from the United States and the Dominican Republic, in subverting Haitian grassroots democratic movements. In the 2005 book Canada in Haiti: Waging War on the Poor Majority(Fernwood), Yves Engler and Anthony Fenton, shed light on Great White North’s role in the overthrow of democracy in the Black Republic; a section of Yves Engler’s latest, The Ugly Canadian: Stephen Harper’s Foreign Policy(Fernwood) pillories Canada’s post-earthquake callousness.
  • In the exceptionalEslanda: The Large Unconventional Life of Mrs Paul Robeson(Yale), historian Barbara Ranbsy has brought Elsanda Goode Robeson out from the shadows of her often-over shadowed husband. Eslanda Robeson was tirelessly committed to women’s liberation, anti-racism, and anti-colonialism. She was also a journalist and an anthropologist who trained with Bronislaw Malinowski and wrote the neglected monograph African Journey in 1941. Rambsy recounts Robeson’s intellectual and political career – including her unflinching testimonybefore the House Un-American Activities Committee – while reconstructing the complex contours of her longstanding and unconventional relationship with Mr. Robeson. It’s an engaging history of Black politics – and of Black love. 
  • In Fear of a Black Nation: Race, Sex, and Security in Sixties Montreal, David Austin recovers the critical role played by Montreal as a nexus for Black Power and Caribbean left activism and takes the Canadian state to task for its attempt to undermine Black politics while marginalizing Black Canadian citizenship. Austin, among the foremost chroniclers of West Indian and pan-African political and intellectual histories, argues that Montreal in the late sixties was defined by a public hysteria generated by white fears of Black sexuality, which were used to justify a repressive state of security. Fear of a Black Nationbuilds on two previous works by Austin: A View for Freedom, an oral history of the St. Vincents-born, Montreal-based cricketer and organizer Alphonso Theodore “Alfie” Roberts, and You Don’t Play with Revolution, an edited collection of CLR James’ Montreal lectures and talks. Together, Austin’s “Montreal trilogy” is necessary reading for understanding the history of Black Montreal – and the history of the African diaspora writ large.
  • Part academic treatise, part personal memoir, Carol Boyce Davies’ genre-breaking and boundary-bending Caribbean Spaces: Escapes from the Twilight Zoneis theoretically grounded in the foundational geography and geomorphology of the Antilles. Yet if the archipelagic impulse towards flux, fragmentation, and fluidity has oftentimes led to a silly, apolitical academicism, Davis knows exactly where she comes from – and exactly where she’s at. Recounting a lifetime of migrations from Trinidad to Ibadan and Brooklyn to Brazil, Caribbean Spacesheralds a commitment to Black freedom – both at home and abroad – with insurgent style and righteous grace.
  • Kingston, Jamaica’s Ian Randle Publishers has just released three readers dedicated to Caribbean thought. The first two, Caribbean Political Thought: The Colonial State to Caribbean Internationalismsand Caribbean Political Thought: Theories of the Post-Colonial Statewere edited by political philosopher Aaron Kamugisha of the University of the West Indies, Cave Hill. The Colonial State to Caribbean Internationalismsoffers a simply astounding compilation of five-hundred-years worth of manifestos, constitutional excerpts, and speeches – from Jean-Jacques Dessalines famous “Liberty or Death” proclamation to the interventions of Sylvia Wynter, with contributions from Aime and Suzanne Cesaire, Antenor Firmin, George Padmore, Marcus Garvey, Frantz Fanon and others along the way. It includes the 1912 program of Cuba’s Partido Independiente de Color and Dantes Bellegarde’s 1930 appeal to the League of Nations on the threat of the United States to world peace. Theories of the Post-Colonial Statecomes as a continuation of the first volume and focuses on the post-World War II examination of Caribbean political life after independence and decolonization. Kamugisha assembles a jaw-dropping collection of theorists and intellectuals including Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Norman Girvan, Eudine Barriteau, Patricia Mohammed, Stuart Hall, and Edouard Glissant, to name but a representative few. The third volume, Caribbean Cultural Thought, was co-edited with Yanique Hume, a critic and dance who also teaches at UWI Cave Hill, and contains the formative interventions on Caribbean aesthetics, sexuality and gender, cultural identity, nationalism, and social change, and religion and spirituality.Dedicated to the peoples of Haiti, Jamaica, and Trinidad – and to the region’s thinkers and theorists – together, these readers are indispensible guides to the intellectual history of the region. On their publication, Kamugisha gave thanks “to the ancestors for Caribbean thought in pursuit of freedom.”
  • Arguably the most important book on Reconstruction since W.E.B. DuBois’ Black Reconstruction, Nell Irvin Painter’s Exodusters: Black Migration to Kansas after Reconstruction recounts in harrowing detail the forms of state violence – lynching, terrorism, bulldozing – meted out on Blacks in the US that spurred the late nineteenth century flight from the South. A forensic accounting of white supremacist violence, Exodusters is also a moving history of Black autonomy as Painter describes attempts to found free Black communities in Kansas, and recounts African American hopes of return to Africa.
  • Thanks and praise are due to Black Classic Press for reissuing Garvey and Garveyism, Amy Jacques Garvey’s remarkable biography of her husband, the Jamaican pan-Africanist Marcus Mosiah Garvey. Originally self-published in Kingston, Jamaica in 1963, Garvey and Garveyism is among the most lucid and inspired accounts of the rise and fall of the man and movement. But it is much more than a straightforward history of a “great man” of Black nationalism. Garvey and Garveyism is also the testimony of a woman who, in failing health and with diminishing resources, shouldered the everyday logistical burdens of the single greatest Black political organization in history while upholding its long-term legacy. As such Garvey and Garveyism is a heart-wrenching and bittersweet story of pan-African love and struggle.
  • Kwakwakaʼwakw writer, artist, and activist Gord Hill’s 500 Years of Indigenous Resistanceoffers a compressed, incendiary, introductory account of the incessant history of Native resistance to colonialism in the Americas. Beginning in 1492, Hill’s history also provides the deep historical background to background to the ongoing struggles for indigenous sovereignty against settler colonialism represented byIdle No More, NoDAPL and MMIWG. Also see The Winter We Danced: Voices From the Past, the Future, and the Idle No More Movementedited by The Kino-nda-niimi Collective, the late Métis writer Howard Adams’, Prison of Grass: Canada from a Native Point of Viewand Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz, An Indigenous People’s History of the United States.
  • We don’t think Butch Lee and Red Rover use the terms “neoliberalism” or “racial capitalism” but in many ways, Night-Vision: Illuminating War and Class on the Neo Colonial Terrain, is a vertigo-inducing critique of both. Lee and Rover historcize the rise of imperial- and corporation-friendly multiculturalism, seeing its emergence in the radical push back against the movements for decolonization and Black and Third World sovereignty. They also map the landscapes of the new modes of global, neocolonial capital accumulation, identifying, in the process, its historical subject. “Our primary question,” they write, “is who is the modern proletariat and what role does it play as a class? The answer is simple: it is primarily women, children, and alien labor. Those who are colonized.”

The Public Archive’s prior readings lists: Radical Black Reading: 2011201220132014. 2018. Reading Haiti: 20112012. 2013. Radical Black Cities: 20122015Reading Against Fascism.

Image: Joanna Banks seated in front of her collection, ca. 1990s (photograph by Harold Darwin, Anacostia Community Museum)

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The Point is to Change the World: Andaiye, 1942-2019

Andaiye, born Sandra Williams, was a Guyanese social, political, and gender rights activist. She was an early member of the executive of the Working People’s Alliance (WPA) in Guyana, alongside Walter Rodney, among others, and served as Coordinator and Editor, International Secretary and Women’s Secretary, until 2000. A founding member of the women’s development organization Red Thread in Guyana in 1986, Andaiye was also an executive member of the Caribbean Association for Feminist Research and Action (CAFRA). She worked with the Women and Development Unit of the University of the West Indies (WAND) from 1987 to 1992, and from 1987 to 1996 with CARICOM,where she was a resource person preparatory to the 1995 World Conference on Women held in Beijing. Other groups with which she worked include the Global Women’s Strike (GWS), the Women’s International Network for Wages for Caring Work, and Women Against Violence Everywhere (WAVE).

Karen de Souza and Alissa Trotz have created an incredible website dedicated to Andaiye’s life and work. The Point is to Change the World, an anthology of Andaiye’s selected writing, edited by Trotz, is forthcoming in 2020 from Pluto Press. Below we provide links to a number of tributes to and interviews with Andaiye as well as her editorial “An Open Letter to Young People,” originally published as a Women’s Eye View column in the Stabroek News in 1997, and reprinted in Alyssa Trotz’s In the Diaspora column in the same journal just after Andaiye’s death.

Andaiye, An Open Letter to Young People, Stabroek News (June 2019)

Tributes

Andaiye: An Extraordinary Woman, Stabroek News (June, 2019).

Hundreds bid farewell to women’s activist Andaiye, Guyana Times, (June, 2019).

Andaiye celebrated in moving farewell, Guyana Chronicle (June 2019).

Trinidad and Tobago Tributes to Andaiye, Trinidad and Tobago Newsday (June 2019).

39 years since Walter Rodney fell; Andaiye, Walter Rodney’s colleague has rejoined the ancestors, Pambazuka (June, 2019).

Andaiye, Caribbean Radicalism, and a Black Woman’s Critical Imprint, Association of Black Women Historians (October, 2019)

Interviews

She Who Returned Home: The Narrative of an Afro-Guyanese Activist, Meridians 5 no. 1 (2004). [$$$]

Counting Women’s Caring Work: An Interview with Andaiye, Small Axe, 15 (2004).

Red Thread’s Research: An Interview with Andaiye. Caribbean Review of Gender Studies, no. 7 (2013).

Andaiye: 11 September 1942, Georgetown, British Guiana — 31 May 2019, Georgetown, Guyana.


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