AFRO-LATIN AMERICA
Rediscovering History
by Elsa Chanduvi and others

     From North America to Brazil and throughout the many islands of the Caribbean, the sound of drums--tambores, tumbas, cajones--is symbolic of the Afro-Latin culture that has its roots in the millions of African slaves brought to the region centuries ago.

     The drum is central to Afro-Latin music. Its sound and meaning join black communities throughout the region and are as much a symbol of resistance today as they were during the centuries of slavery.

     "Music is the fundamental force that unites the black population. It has given black people the ability to resist the impact of social systems that look on human beings as objects," Ecuadoran anthropologist Oscar Chala said.

     Religion, dance and music allowed blacks to resist social systems that treated them as mere merchandise and today discriminate against them.

     Resistance took the form of uprising and armed rebellions, as well as the formation of quilombos or palenques, communities of runaway or freed slaves.

     Benkos Bioho in Colombia; Zumbi in Brazil; Bayano in Panama; Ventura Sanchez in Cuba; Cudjoe and Nanny in Jamaica; Adresote in Venezuela; Yanga in Mexico; Nat Turner in the United States; Dessalines, Henry Christophe and Toussaint L'Ouverture in Haiti; and Francisco Congo in Peru: These black leaders' names are written with blood in the history of movements against the slavery established in the Americas by Europe's colonial powers.

     Black liberation and resistance movements joined the struggle for independence led by Jose de San Martin and Simon Bolivar, but are mostly ignored in official histories.

     Haiti was the first country to achieve independence, but only a few years before the bicentennial of its independence it is the poorest and most forgotten nation in the hemisphere.

     For what crime has Haiti been paying all these years? According to Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano, the international community never forgave Haiti for its long and humiliating war against French colonialism.

     "The history of harassment against Haiti, which has taken on historic dimensions today, is also the history of racism in western civilization," Galeano said.

     As the bicentennial approaches in 2004, former President Jean-Bertrand Aristide is calling on Haitians to preserve "their courage and dignity."

     "We are dying to save our respect the same way our fathers did when they were bought in Africa," Aristide said.

     As in Haiti, black women and men throughout Latin America are marginalized socially and economically.

     Black communities in the region are the poorest of the poor, according to a 1996 study by the Inter-American Development Bank. The report says 150 million people, or 31 percent of the region's 490 million people, are black or of mixed race.

     Brazil has the largest percentage of Afro-Latinos. It was the last country in the region to abolish slavery, in 1888.

     In Brazil, where official statistics say 42 percent of the population is black (other sources place the percentage as high as 60 percent), the quality of life of Afro-Brazilians is similar to that in the poorest African nations, according to a study published by the daily FOLHA DE SAO PAULO in June.

     The life expectancy for blacks and mulattos is 59 years, while for the rest of Brazilians it is 65 years.

     Racial discrimination is seen clearly in income distribution. While Brazil's monthly minimum wage is US$131, 30 percent of black workers live on only $112.

     The social and economic marginalization is even worse for Afro-Brazilian women. They earn half the salary of white women and one-third the salary of the Brazilian population in general. Eighty percent of black girls reach only fourth grade and 28.7 percent of Afro-Brazilian women are illiterate.

     Afro-Latin American women in general face worse discrimination than men. "Black women suffer from triple discrimination because they are women, poor and black," says Elida Rocha, president of the Honduran Association of Black Women.

     "Power is male, white, rich. We need to show that poverty is female and black, that exclusion is female and black, as illiteracy and violence are black and indigenous," Brazilian Sen. Benedita da Silva said during a meeting of Afro-Latin and Caribbean women last December in Costa Rica.

     "We need to push for a policy that makes us visible from the social, economic and political point of view, and which responds to the needs of black communities," she said.

     Visibility is the banner of Afro-Latin Americans who want their contributions to the region--and the discrimination they suffer--recognized.

     "Negating our history is part of the racism that justifies our present subordination," Peruvian sociologist Jose Carlos Luciano said.

     Afro-Latin organizations use an African proverb to demonstrate Luciano's claim: "As long as lions do not have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter."

     In this sense, black organizations maintain that recovering their history is fundamental to constructing a national identity in their countries.

     The struggle of Afro-Latin American groups aims to defend the equality of all people.

     "We reject any idea that says that because we have more melanin we are better or worse than anyone else," Luciano says.

     He says Latin America's blacks have a clear task for the future: "One of the severest consequences of racism is the inversion of history. This is what we have to change, give history its true meaning so people can find their identity."--Elsa Chanduvi Jana

     * * *

     PERU: INTERVIEW--JOSE CARLOS LUCIANO

     - Jose Carlos Luciano heads the Non-Discrimination Working Group of Peru's National Human Rights Coordinating Committee and is adviser to several Afro-Peruvian organizations.

     In this interview with LP's Elsa Chanduvi Jana, Luciano says, "Getting out of the color trap is one of the most important aspirations" for Peru's black population.

     HOW LARGE IS PERU'S BLACK POPULATION?

     At least 2 million of Peru's 23 million people are of African descent. Since colonial times, the majority of Peru's black population has lived along the coast, principally in Lima. Seventy-three percent of Afro-Peruvians live in the capital.

     WHERE ARE THE AFRICAN ROOTS OF PERU'S BLACK POPULATION?

     The majority of blacks in Peru were not brought over directly from Africa, because Peru was not on the colonial slave trade routes, which were on the Atlantic Ocean, and Spain was not directly involved in the slave trade.

     The majority of slaves were bought from British, Dutch or Portuguese traders after they were already in the Americas. Some black servants also accompanied the conquerors on their expeditions. In both cases, the slaves brought here had already been acculturated with western customs.

     So from the cultural perspective, there was not a segment of the population from Africa that influenced the entire black population. In Peru, there isn't what French anthropologist Roger Bastines calls an "African culture," but a black culture.

     WHAT INFLUENCE HAS THIS BLACK CULTURE HAD IN PERU?

     The first aspect is the demographic composition of the population and racial intermingling on the coast. The second element is participation in the urban-colonial economy. Blacks were involved in small-scale retail and worked on the haciendas that surrounded the city at the time. Their role in adding to Peru's cuisine is well-known.

     They played an important role in helping shape national culture. At the level of grassroots religiosity, for example, the procession of the Lord of Miracles (in October), is one of the most important in Latin America.

     HOW IS RACIAL DISCRIMINATION MANIFESTED TODAY IN PERU?

     The first form of discrimination is the poverty in which the black population lives. Afro-Peruvians have historically formed a significant part of the country's poorest sectors. This is one of the most profound forms of discrimination, because poverty blocks blacks from equal opportunities.

     The second form has to do with the way blacks are treated in society. The treatment of blacks is offensive, and, contrary to what people say, discrimination is not silent.

     Racism is evident in Peru. It is systematic and permanent. It goes from patronizing attitudes to outright discrimination: blacks are dirty, thieves, all the stereotypes.

     WHAT IS RACISM LIKE FOR BLACK WOMEN?

     Discrimination against black women is even more difficult because in addition to being black and poor, they suffer for being women. They are discriminated against not only by others, but also within the black community, because of black men's machismo. Black women are considered sex objects. They are considered good cooks or washerwomen, but there are only a few cases where their other abilities are recognized.

     The lack of opportunities and the negative image of the black woman obviously affect her dignity and self-esteem. Black women are unequal in a situation of inequality.

     DO AFRO-PERUVIAN ORGANIZATIONS FOCUS ON SELF-ESTEEM?

     Building self-esteem is one of the most fundamental tasks of black organizations. Self-esteem is an important part of regaining the awareness and dignity of black men and women.

     First, we are researching Peruvian history to rediscover the contribution of Afro-Peruvians, to let the black community and Peruvians in general know about it.

     Second, without the participation of black men and women in politics, it will take much longer to build our self-esteem. We are working on building leadership skills so Afro-Peruvians can play an active role in democratizing the country. We want to contribute to a sense of citizenship based on equality and not discrimination.

     Third, we are promoting community organizations as a way to build self-esteem. No one will solve the problems of Afro-Peruvians if black women and men are not in the forefront.

     ONE RESPONSE OF THE BLACK COMMUNITY TO DISCRIMINATION HAS BEEN BLANQUEO, LITERALLY "WHITENING." DO YOU ADDRESS THIS ISSUE?

     Racism, among other negative influences, provokes a loss of dignity, honor and self-respect. That's why one of our principal areas is related to identity, working with black men and women to recover their dignity.

     This is a paradoxical process because we want people to be proud to say, "Yes, I'm black," and then immediately see that the person is supreme, regardless of color or any external condition.

     The key for Afro-Peruvian organizations today is to get black men and women to talk in the first person, to use the word "I," and to demand the opportunities and rights that correspond to all people as Jose, Manuel, Luis, and not as the black Jose, the cholo Manuel or the gringo Luis.

     The message of Peru's black organizations is: We reject race, we reaffirm the person.

     It is a complex process in which you have to say: We have contributed this...but it isn't our color that allowed us to make this contribution. For blacks in Peru, getting out of the color trap is one of the most important aspirations.

     Until we restore the self-esteem and dignity of Afro-Peruvians and all Peruvians, this country will continue to be a Third World nation, not because we are poor, but because we have rejected our own name. The struggle is to create a pluralistic nation that recognizes the diversity of its people.--Elsa Chanduvi Jana

     * * *

     CARIBBEAN: POLITICAL POWER WITHOUT ECONOMIC GAIN

     - Elected Afro-Caribbean Leaders Rule 12 of the 14 English-Speaking Caribbean Nations, but This Has Not Meant Economic and Social Improvement for Their Black Constituents.

     Political independence and black leadership have not brought tangible economic benefits to the peoples of the Caribbean.

     In relatively affluent Barbados, which enjoys a per capita gross domestic product of US$6,230, wealth is concentrated in the hands of the minority white population. After 30 years of black leadership, blacks are still underrepresented in corporate boardrooms in Barbados.

     "The rich, who are primarily white, live in a high degree of isolation from the rest of society," University of the West Indies political scientist Neville Duncan says. He notes that whites have even segregated themselves by taking up elitist sports when blacks take an interest in traditional pastimes. Cricket and soccer are now dominated by blacks in Barbados while whites have taken up yachting and surfing. One Bridgetown nightclub even maintained a whites-only policy until it closed in the early 1990s.

     Of the region's 5.75 million English-speaking inhabitants, 70 percent trace their roots to Africa, and all of the 14 heads of English-speaking Caribbean nations are black. (The two non-blacks are Belizean Prime Minister Manuel Esquivel and Basdeo Panday, prime minister of Trinidad and Tobago.)

     Independence struggles were fueled by the belief that black political power would help elevate the economic position of black people. The abolition of slavery in the British Empire in 1833 failed to bring about a rise in social and economic standing for most blacks, argues Eric Williams, who led Trinidad and Tobago to independence in 1962.

     With the departure of the British, Williams and other independence leaders across the region promised they would eliminate corruption, give "jobs to the unemployed and land to the landless" and guarantee equality of opportunity for the descendants of slaves and indentured laborers.

     Although peoples of East Indian and African descent each account for approximately 40 percent of the population, Afro-Trinidadians ran the government from independence to 1995. Despite their political power, Trinidad's blacks still suffer from alarming levels of poverty. While black leaders concentrated on attaining political power, Indo-Trinidadians turned their attention to the business sector, which they continue to dominate.

     But Trinidad's new government is determined to make racial politics a thing of the past. Prime Minister Basdeo Panday, who is of East Indian descent, told London's FINANCIAL TIMES that "political parties now know that in order to win an election they must have support from the other racial groups and not just the one from which they have traditionally drawn support."

     In Guyana, the People's National Congress, first led by Forbes Burnham and then by Desmond Hoyte, held power from 1964 to 1992 with the support of most of Guyana's 37-percent-black population. A 1992 survey showed, however, that 43 percent of Afro-Guyanese lived below the poverty line of $340 annually, in comparison with 33.7 percent of Indo-Guyanese.

     At a recent panel discussion on the plight of the African Guyanese, University of Guyana Professor Clive Thomas noted that unemployment figures for blacks between 15 and 19 years old are particularly disturbing, with 44 percent unemployed compared to 36.1 percent of Indians in the same age group.

     In Jamaica despite numerous strong black icons like black consciousness leader Marcus Garvey and world-famous reggae star Bob Marley, the 77-percent-black majority lacks economic and social clout. Whites constitute only 1 percent of the population, yet there was considerable debate when Michael Manley retired in 1992 about whether his black successor, Percival Patterson, was up to the job.

     Jamaican sociologist Rex Nettleford, author of a study on identity, race and protest in Jamaica, notes that black Jamaicans still "in many cases have to work twice as hard because of the handicap of being years at the bottom of the social pyramid." Nettleford blames this "handicap" on a social structure created from the plantation system in which "things African, including African traits, have been devalued and primacy is still given to European values in the scheme of things."

     A study done by Canadian think tank Cowater International reveals the danger in black internalization of the "plantation complex." The group found that the invisibility of blacks in the media, accompanied by their economic disenfranchisement and racial discrimination, has given rise to "a self-effacing complex."

     As long as being black is linked to negative images of poverty, crime and ignorance, many blacks who attain political power will continue to ignore the needs of their underprivileged black constituents. Indeed, many black leaders are ashamed to identify themselves as black and instead stress their white roots. Until a stronger, prouder black identity is forged in the Caribbean, black power will fail to raise the social and economic standards of black peoples.--from Georgetown, Guyana, Mike James

     * * *

     NICARAGUA: CREOLE SPOKEN HERE

     Nilda Hooker got tired of seeing young Afro-Caribbean children drop out of school because instructors insisted on using "standard English" to teach their students.

     "They could not understand what was being spoken to them," Hooker complained. Looking for an alternative, in 1987 she started a bilingual education program for 40 children in Bluefields, the traditional black capital of Nicaragua's Caribbean coast.

     Hooker taught the kids in "Creole," the mother tongue of thousands of Nicaraguans with roots in Africa. Creole is spoken here and in dozens of small communities dotting the coast north and south of Bluefields. It is a language with roots in the early days of slavery, when the pidgin English used as a trade language in Africa was taken one step further by enslaved Africans from different tribal backgrounds who wanted to communicate with each other on the long trip to the Americas.

     Creole has continued to change and adapt. In recent years, linguists note, change has accelerated with the coming of cable and satellite television to remote villages. Yet Creole still combines words from both West African and European languages into a largely African grammatical structure.

     Although Afro-Caribbeans were long the majority here, Creole has been considered less valuable than "standard English," the primary teaching language of schools run by Moravian, Anglican and Catholic missionaries. Government schools teach mostly in Spanish.

     "If you can talk English like the British or the Americans you think you are better than those who speak Creole," said Sydney Francis, an Afro-Caribbean sociologist. "Parents want their kids to speak standard English or Spanish in order to advance socially."

     Francis grew up in Siuna, an ethnically mixed mining town north of Bluefields, and remembers mestizo kids calling him a "dog" because he couldn't speak as they did. "A friend of mine walked out of that classroom and never came back," Francis said.

     That's just what Hooker wanted to stop. And she has succeeded. Today she is principal of the Denmark School, where 18 teachers help 900 students learn in their native Creole through the eighth grade. "And my dropout rate is very, very, very low," she said proudly. Only six kids dropped out last year.

     It hasn't been easy for bilingual education to survive here. The school's name reflects financial realities: It is easier to obtain funding from Scandinavian countries than from Managua. The program also has faced opposition from parents. "Many parents think Creole is not the language of prestige. We were taught it was bad English or bastardized English," said Angelica Brown, a former regional director for bilingual education.

     Last year, Brown started a high school with instruction in Creole. "Kids graduating from the Denmark School were being discriminated against in the high schools here, so we decided to start our own high school," said Brown, who is the only black woman on the governing council of the South Atlantic Autonomous Region.

     The high school's curriculum places special emphasis on coastal history and black culture. "We're defining what education can be in a bilingual and bicultural region," Brown said. "How can we talk about unity and diversity if we don't know ourselves?"--from Bluefields, Paul Jeffrey

     * * *

     CULTURAL PRIDE, POLITICAL POWER

     Bridget Boudir remembers hearing as a little girl that she needed "to lift her color" by marrying someone with whiter skin. She not only did not heed the advice, she has started working with other Afro-Caribbean women to cultivate pride in their ethnic and cultural roots.

     A resident of Nicaragua's Caribbean coast, Boudir is one of more than 30 women who two years ago formed a black women's group in Bluefields. According to Angelica Brown, an educator who participates in the group, the women came together in order "to revive, preserve and promote our culture."

     Brown points out that Bluefields "is no longer the black community we were once proud of. We're being swallowed up by mestizos, and our culture is in danger. Since women play an important role in preserving culture, we decided to do something about it."

     "A lot of blacks don't see in themselves a product of the African diaspora," Brown said. "Some claim that since their surname is Scottish, that somehow changes the color of their skin. Yet whether we want to believe it or not, we're here because of slavery."

     The group also encourages black women to take a more prominent role in local politics. "Women are more than 50 percent of the population but we're missing from the key positions," Brown said. "So we're beginning to prepare black women for leadership, encourage them to go to the university, to study and to look for careers that the region needs."--Paul Jeffrey

     * * *

     CARIBBEAN COAST STILL FIGHTS FOR AUTONOMY

     When President Arnoldo Aleman paid his first official visit to the remote Caribbean coast of Nicaragua in early May, he was outraged by the flag flying over the central park of Bilwi, formerly Puerto Cabezas, the capital of the North Atlantic Autonomous Region.

     The flag, a modern adaptation of the ancient one that flew over the area when it was a British protectorate, had been raised in October in villages along the coast by Miskito indigenous leaders worried about Aleman's election as president. Their worry springs from memories of Nicaragua's last great Liberal Party president, Jose Santos Zelaya, who in 1894 "reincorporated" the semi-autonomous "Mosquito Reservation" into Nicaragua, humbly naming it the Department of Zelaya. Overnight, Spanish replaced English as the official language.

     Most coastal residents today see Zelaya' reincarnation as the beginning of the poverty and underdevelopment that have characterized the coast since the central government in Managua took control of their destiny.

     Although the Sandinista government finally agreed to autonomy for the region in 1987, advancement toward genuine regional control has been hampered by central government neglect and bickering among coastal leaders. When Aleman was elected last October, indigenous and Afro-Caribbean leaders in the region feared the new president would undo the limited progress they had made in almost a decade of autonomy.

     When Aleman ordered the flag flying over Bilwi to be lowered on May 4, he confirmed their suspicions. "We have to totally incorporate the Atlantic Coast," he told regional leaders the next day in Bluefields, the capital of the South Atlantic Autonomous Region.

     "It's difficult to get the central government to let go," responded Nilda Hooker, a bilingual educator and wife of the autonomous region's governor. "I don't know if it will ever happen. We are the richest region in the country but all our resources go to Managua."

     Rene Bello, the Bluefields director of the Council of Evangelical Churches, the largest nongovernmental organization in the region, said that arrogance and corruption in the central government have undercut regional control that autonomy was supposed to ensure. "One wealthy guy from Managua came here, with a signed order from a vice minister allowing him to cut and take away 4 million board feet of lumber. No coastal residents could ever get a permit like that," Bello said.

     Sydney Francis argues that blacks on the coast need to form a stronger alliance with indigenous coastal residents. "That is the only way we're going to overcome the growing numerical advantage of mestizos," the Bluefields sociologist said.

     Mestizos from the Pacific side of Nicaragua have flocked to the Bluefields area in the last three decades looking for land to farm. They have dramatically changed the demographics of this city, which used to be an all-black port where English and Creole were spoken everywhere. "We're a minority in our own land now," said Roberto Hodgson, a black rights activist.--Paul Jeffrey

     * * *

     CENTRAL AMERICA: LAND STRUGGLE TOPS AGENDA FOR BLACKS

     "Blacks in Central America have the same history and share the same problems," said Nidia Taylor, a black activist in Bluefields, Nicaragua. "If we can link together we can be stronger. Unity will make us strong."

     Such unity began to take form in 1995 when black representatives from Belize, Costa Rica, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua and Panama formed the Central American Black Organization (CABO), linking black communities with those of Garifunas, a mixed African-Caribbean race, along the Caribbean side of the isthmus. The group has identified defense of communal lands as its most urgent priority. Many traditional lands are threatened by resort developers.

     Along the northern coast of Honduras, the prime location of land belonging to Afro-Caribbean communities "has awakened the greed of ambitious capitalists and dirty politicians, along with military officers and drug traffickers," according to Tulio Gonzales, president of the Independent Center for the Development of Honduras.

     Celio Alvarez, a Garifuna activist from Honduras who was elected CABO's first president, traveled to the United States and several Caribbean countries last year to drum up support for the new group and to entice black businesspeople from abroad to invest in black-controlled development of the region's tourist potential.

     Such "co-investment," Gonzales said, would ensure that development benefits black communities and that "our women do not end up as just dancers and prostitutes" in the new tourist resorts.

     In the last two years, Honduran blacks and Garifunas have made major headway in counteracting what Alvarez calls the "invisibility" of African communities in the region. Hondurans of African descent held two major political marches on the capital last year.

     According to Rodolfo Pastor Fasquelle, head of the Honduran Culture and Sports Ministry, the new political protagonism of blacks has "overcome the caricature of dancers."

     President Carlos Roberto Reina may have wished that black participation was limited to dancing when he flew to Punta Gorda in the Bay Islands on April 12 to commemorate the bicentennial of the Garifunas' arrival in Central America.

     What would have been simply a festive ceremony in other times turned into a political embarrassment for Reina as Garifuna leaders publicly griped about his failure to deliver 20 communal land titles he had earlier promised would be handed over at the event. The land titles are considered key to defending Garifuna lands under assault by real estate developers. Reina claimed the titles had been held up in the National Agrarian Institute and would be forthcoming.

     "We Garifunas have contributed substantially to development, but we have not received the benefits. We are tired of so many promises," Gonzales said. "Racial discrimination is a reality. Although we have government representatives who listen to us, that is not sufficient."

     Increased political participation has also brought violence. Two Honduran Afro-Caribbean activists were assassinated in April and May, one in the Garifuna community of Triunfo de la Cruz and one in a black community on Roatan Island. Both were leaders in struggles to stop expropriation of communal land.

     Gonzales said such violence will not deter black communities from struggling for what they believe is rightfully theirs. "Nothing will stop us. We can't live in the air, and we can't live in the sea. We've got to have the land."--from Tegucigalpa, Paul Jeffrey

     * * *

     BRAZIL: WORSHIPPING WITHOUT FEAR

     - With Prejudice Against It Diminishing, Afro-Brazilian Religion Openly Claims Its Heritage.

     A growing number of black Brazilians are embracing and expressing the cultural and religious values inherited from their African ancestors, without fear of persecution of discrimination.

     One reason for this resurgence of Afro-Brazilian traditions is the Catholic Church's change of attitude. The church, which in the past helped foment prejudice against this African legacy, now approaches the topic with respect and seeks dialogue with Afro-Brazilian religions.

     Under more than 300 years of the European colonial system of slavery, Afro-Brazilian cultural and religious values were the object of persecution and discrimination. During this time, the Catholic majority cultivated fear of the manifestations of black culture and religion, even characterizing blacks as "demonic."

     Until recently, visiting terreiros, the places where umbanda and candomble are practiced, was considered suspect and subject to punishment, including police raids.

     Rev. Paulo Roberto Rodrigues, a black scholar of the African legacy, says this attitude of denial and camouflaging of Afro-Brazilian cultural and religious heritage began with the trade that brought slaves from Africa to work in Brazilian mines and on sugar and coffee plantations at the end of the 16th century.

     During this process, Rodrigues says, the diverse cultural and religious expressions of the blacks forcibly taken from Africa were repressed.

     "The slaves taken to Brazil from northern Africa had a religiosity similar to the monotheism of the Semites and Arabic peoples," Rodrigues says. "Slaves from eastern Africa held sacred the forces of nature, as in the case of Iemanja, who represents fertility as expressed in the force of the sea."

     With their own religion repressed by the Portuguese colonizers, the slaves sought other ways to maintain their African heritage. This gave rise to what many specialists call "religious syncretism," but Rodrigues prefers to call "reinvention" or "recreation" of black traditions.

     In syncretism, the devotion to Catholic saints permitted by the colonizers was reinterpreted by blacks and associated with their own gods or orixas. Thus, Iemanja corresponds to the Virgin Mary, while Iansa (the "lady of storms") corresponds to St. Barbara and Nana to St. Ann.

     During the colonial period, some voices in the Catholic Church protested the inhuman living conditions to which African slaves were subjected. At the same time, however, these Catholics preached submission and patience to blacks. Fr. Antonio Vieira compared blacks to Christ in 1633, because they suffered similarly.

     "Vieira told the blacks, 'We recommend patience, with the promise of the glorious salvation of life God made to the martyrs,'" historian Ronaldo Vainfas says in the article GOD AGAINST PALMARES, which appears in LIBERTY IN DANGER, a book about the quilombos, communities formed by blacks who were freed or rebelled and escaped from their owners in the 17th century.

     To Vainfas, the religion that preached "patience" to slaves contributed greatly to the colonizers' campaign against the quilombos, which at the time were synonymous with rebellion.

     Rodrigues says the period of intense repression and prejudice against Afro-Brazilian religion continued until the 1940s and 1950s, when Brazil entered an intense period of industrialization and urbanization. That was a time of "religious duplicity" for many Brazilians, who frequented both Catholic churches and the candomble or umbanda terreiros.

     "Catholicism's great strength in rural areas was diluted when urbanization began, giving rise to religious dualism," Rodrigues says.

     The 1970s and 1980s ushered in a new moment in the history of black religion in Brazil, Rodrigues says. This period coincided with democratization of the country and a strengthening within the Catholic Church of the ecclesial base communities, inspired by liberation theology.

     The Catholic Church began to take a more respectful approach, seeking dialogue with religions of African origin.

     The great initiative that marked and practically officialized the Catholic Church's change of position was the observance, in 1988, of the 100th anniversary of the abolition of slavery, as part of the bishops' annual Lenten campaign.

     At the same time, Rodrigues says, there was growth in the neo-Pentecostal movements, whose beliefs strengthened the search for an Afro-Brazilian identity.

     "These groups emphasize the question of the devil, and the blacks reject having their traditions seen as a work of the devil. So they began to be more open about their convictions," he says.

     Candomble also offers black women a level of participation they rarely experience in Christian worship. Most terreiros are headed by a mae do santo or "saint mother," who directs the ceremony's rhythmic drumming and repetitive dancing and interprets the possession of the dancers by certain orixas. While women have often been passive observers in Christian worship, candomble gives them an active role.

     The 9th Inter-Church Conference of Base Communities, to be held July 15 to 19 in Sao Luis in Maranhao, will mark another step forward in the Catholic Church's acceptance and understanding of black religion and culture.

     Conference topics will include the relationship between ecclesial base communities and Afro-Brazilian religions. For Rodrigues and the group Black Pastoral Agents, it undoubtedly will be another step toward solidifying the church's openness to dialogue with cultural and religious traditions of African origin, and contribute to strengthening the black cause in Brazil.--from Sao Paulo, Jose Pedro S. Martins

     * * *

     CUBA: A WOMAN'S LIFE, A NATION'S TIMES

     - A Black Woman's Memoir Describes Her Struggle Against the Limitations Imposed by Her Race and Sex.

     An elderly black woman from Santiago de Cuba could be among the most famous women at the century's end, if predictions of the jury for the 1997 Casa de las Americas prize come true.

     A memoir entitled REYITA, SENCILLAMENTE...(SIMPLY REYITA...) was such a strong competitor for the award that the jury decided to announce it was a finalist and recommend that it be published. Reyita did not win, but the book made news because the jury of the Casa prize had never before recognized a runner-up.

     The person who created this furor is Maria de los Reyes Castillo Bueno, known as "Reyita," whose life passes in review with joy and tears in the 200 pages written by her daughter, Daisy Rubiera Castilla.

     The 95-year-old Reyita, grandchild of slaves and born out of wedlock, had eight children of her own and raised or cared for 21 others at various times in her life.

     Rubiera Castilla's occupation as a historian is evident in the way she captures 20th-century Cuba and entwines Reyita's life, vivid memories and colorful language with the events of the period.

     "REYITA is a work that goes beyond the testimony of one woman, a black woman," said jury member Abdeslam Azougarh, a Moroccan expert on the literature of Miguel Barnet, author of the well-known BIOGRAFIA DE UN CIMARRON.

     Barnet's work, which was translated as THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A RUNAWAY SLAVE, began a trend for the "testimonial novel," which recounts a person's life in his or her own words.

     "I think REYITA is the logical continuation of the Cimarron, who is a 19th-century figure. Reyita says what he did not say and could not say. Moreover, she says it from the perspective of a black woman, which is very important," Azougarh said.

     He added, "The book goes beyond a strictly testimonial interpretation. It can be read many ways. It puts an end to many preconceived ideas and stereotypes. It is a vital book that must be published."

     Miguel Barnet was pleased by the possibility of publication for REYITA. "It would be marvelous if there could be a continuation for CIMARRON," he said.

     Jury member Carlos Morales, a Costa Rican journalist and writer, said, "REYITA stood out as a prizewinner from the first page. At the end, we were faced with the fact that there was another extraordinary work (RITA MONTANER, TESTIMONY OF AN EPOCH OF CUBAN ART, by Ramon Fajardo), and we had to choose one. That is why we decided to recognize REYITA the way we did."

     Morales added, "It is going to be a best-seller in this country and beyond, because our African ancestry has universal value, not just for the Caribbean islands but for the continental Caribbean. REYITA...has a sure future. It is well-written. It will sell. It makes one proud to be in contact with such a brave, heroic woman. It is a strong book that will do well in Cuba or anywhere."

     REYITA melds the times with the spirit of a woman who grows beyond her poverty and the situation to which a woman of her race is normally relegated.

     Her life sums up the rebelliousness, determination, audacity and perseverance with which many women of this century have confronted social conventions. Her life is not unique. What makes it exceptional is the convergence in her life of the challenges faced by many women and the way she confronted them courageously on her own.

     Reyita recounts personal details, her sense of ethics and the discovery of her sexuality, as well as her experience of classism and discrimination against prostitution, always with a true understanding of the human condition.

     She chooses to take, rather than be taken by, a man as a partner and as a means to other ends, to surpass the social, historical and cultural limits imposed by her sex, skin color and poverty. She married a white man so her children would suffer less.

     Throughout her tale, Reyita conveys a sense of solidarity and her lifelong calling to lift spirits and raise hopes.

     With this work, Daisy Rubiera Castillo enters the ranks of those who promote the genre of testimonial novel, writers for whom the essence of contemporary historical interpretation lies in the richness of oral tradition.

     "Strictly respecting the truth without fictionalizing, overcoming the desire to modestly cover up intimate feelings, which sometimes hurts to confess, I managed to open myself up and pour out my soul, staying both within and outside the story to retell Reyita's testimony," the author said.

     "The repayment has been enormous: this recognition, and that which I received when I read my mother the draft and she said, 'How lovely--the story of my life, told by me and written by you!'"

     This book and a video shown at the last Festival of New Latin American Film in Havana are part of a project by communicators determined to rediscover and reappraise the history of women who have been excluded from history.--from Havana, Mirta Rodriguez Calderon

     * * *

     COLOMBIA: WORLD ENCROACHES ON CHOCO CULTURE

     - Escaped Slaves Forged an Isolated Paradise on the Colombian Coast, but the Modern World Now Threatens Their Culture and Traditions.

     It is easy to mistake the tiny fishing villages scattered along the Pacific coast in Choco, northwest Colombia, for pre-colonial west African settlements. Wooden houses perch on stilts above the river and fishermen paddle one-person dugouts, slivers of bark on a vast ocean.

     Many of Colombia's Afro-Latinos, whose ancestors were shipped from Africa as slaves in the 17th and 18th centuries, have been more or less incorporated into mainstream society. But those who escaped bondage sought refuge in the country's most isolated region.

     Choco is one of the wettest places on earth, with average rainfall exceeding 10 meters a year. Its jungle-fringed coastline is separated from the rest of Colombia by hundreds of kilometers of impenetrable rain forest and a range of 5,000-meter mountain peaks. The nearest road link is to the Pacific port of Buenaventura, 240 kms south by small motorboat. Until several airstrips opened 20 years ago, descendants of escaped slaves lived untouched by the modern world.

     Largely because of its geographical isolation, there has been virtually no economic investment along the Choco coast. Grand plans have been declared to build a road through the jungle and develop a massive port in the region, but Colombia has neither the technology nor the financial clout to take on such a costly project. It was not until the early 1990s that a skeletal electricity network was installed in the area.

     Meanwhile, villagers continue to live as they have for centuries, relying on subsistence farming and fishing.

     Even the Catholic Church has struggled to make its presence felt. Conventional marriages are increasingly common, but polygamy still plays an important role in social structure along the Choco coast. Many men have more than one partner, sometimes under the same roof.

     Polygamy is often assumed to have been brought from Africa, but British anthropologist Peter Wade, who has written extensively on the Choco, sees the practice as natural in a society with few economic resources, where communal relationships beyond the family unit are necessary for survival.

     The church has grudgingly accepted the coexistence of Christian worship with African rituals and deities. Catholic saints are revered, but only with their orisha counterparts, who are called on to possess participants in ceremonies involving rousing, drum-based music, drinking, dancing and games. Condemned as irreverent by the church, these practices are essential in African rites to melt "the ice of the dead" and free the spirits to move among the living.

     The people of the Pacific fishing villages also maintain a rich tradition of secular music and dance. Latin rhythms have been introduced to the area's bars along with beer and Coca-Cola, but groups still gather on the black sand beaches at night, drawn by sounds of homemade drums, percussion and flutes.

     The call-and-response chanting that wafts across the sand has its roots in the cabildos de negros of colonial times, when slaves were allowed to meet to dance, play music, and celebrate their African roots. When cabildos were outlawed by plantation owners, they came to symbolize resistance to oppression, an aspect still inherent in cabildos today.

     Many people of the Choco coast still revel in their isolation and freedom from the "ills" of the modern world. Even among the young, talk of road links and greater integration is met with suspicion and fear that the disadvantages of such development would outweigh the positive aspects.

     Nevertheless, this unique and isolated culture is fragile and threatened. Along with the relatively recent appearance of electricity, TV and telephones, air travel has heralded the arrival of tourists. The spectacular scenery and wildlife of the region draws an increasing influx of visitors, hotels and restaurants, and haphazard development has concentrated more on tourists' needs than those of local people.

     African cultures often have proved resilient to sweeping change, incorporating new influences into their traditional lifestyles and beliefs. But whether mainstream Colombian culture will enrich or slowly engulf the tiny population on the Pacific coast will depend on carefully managed development and protection that Choco has yet to see.--from Bogota, Jeremy Lennard

     * * *

     URUGUAY: GETTING BACK TO CANDOMBE'S ROOTS

     Music in Uruguay means candombe. But while its origins are in Africa, the modern versions of candombe-jazz, candombe-rock, candombe-beat bear little resemblance to the music brought to the country during slavery.

     Candombe means "belonging to black people" in Kimundu, a branch of the Bantu language. The main instrument is the drum.

     The history of candombe, like the history of blacks in Uruguay, is much different from that of the country's neighbors, particularly Brazil.

     In the "leather nation," as Uruguay was called because of its cattle, efforts to develop coffee, sugar or tobacco plantations were abandoned early in favor of ranching. As a result, the European settlers there did not rely heavily on slave labor.

     During the colonial period, slaves from what are now Benin and Nigeria were brought mainly to Montevideo, the capital, as domestic workers, but their numbers were few. Because of this there was no religious syncretism or other clandestine forms of cultural resistance. The slaves' music was not enriched by the veiled protests commonly found in Afro-Brazilian music.

     Isolated like the blacks themselves, candombe was heard mainly during Carnaval. The music was preserved by comparsas, black music and dance troupes similar to Brazil's samba schools, that perform candombe in parades.

     Afro-Uruguayan traditions slipped into obscurity until the early decades of this century, when they were resurrected in painting and music. They also were important in the development of dances, including the tango, according to historians.

     Candombe grew in popularity during the turbulent 1960s and 1970s, when it became an expression of resistance of authoritarianism. It is associated with the demonstrations of the early 1980s that forced the military to return power to civilians.

     Afro-Uruguayan activists, however, say the modern forms of candombe are a kind of racism. The musicians who popularized the sounds were mainly white.

     "It is easy to sing to black people but not let them participate in the song," says Fernando Nunez, a drum maker and expert on candombe.

     Black organizations such as Mundo Afro say it is important to return to the roots of candombe so Afro-Uruguayans can recover their heritage.

     About 180,000 of Uruguay's 3 million people are of African origin.--from Montevideo, Samuel Blixen