Voodoo in Haiti

by Alfred Métraux

  The pockets of the deceased are either torn or turned inside out, to make sure that he does not retain on his person any article which would give him power over members of his family. Care is also taken that he shall not go shod, in case the noise of his footsteps disturbs the living. The custom of burying people with the tools of their trade is still observed in certain regions but is far from being a general practice.

  THE WAKE

  The rél—the piercing cry which proclaims to neighbours that someone has given up the ghost—is no sooner heard than the news is passed from hut to hut and within a few hours the whole region has been informed. Friends and relations hasten to the side of the deceased to help him pass a happy last night on earth.

  A death watch is enjoyed, sincerely, like any other party, and young people, starved of distraction, welcome with joy the news that one is to be held.

  To attend a death watch is, furthermore, a mark of respect to the bereaved family which takes pride in the number of people who turn up to share its mourning. The home is invaded by the ‘watchers’ who first repair to a room in which the menfolk of the family are gathered. They commiserate with them; the relations return thanks for the time-honoured phrases, and seize the opportunity of mentioning the virtues of the deceased, of repeating his last words or recounting his last actions. The consolations offered to the family are the kind that counsel resignation and obedience to divine will. Since the reputation of the household depends on the welcome given to the watchers the women of the family, hard-pressed with their hospitable tasks, can only lend a distracted ear to the sympathy addressed to them. They busy themselves round the huge cauldrons, boiling water for coffee and ginger tea, and go from kitchens to arbour serving each according to his rank. From time to time the closest relations of the deceased—husband, wife, mother, sister or daughter—who a moment earlier had seemed unaffected by grief, break off whatever they may be doing and pour out a sudden heart-rending lamentation. This, preceded by a pathetic ‘way way’, takes the form of short sentences in which terms of endearment are mixed with reproaches or with allusions to some affecting memory. They end with the announcement of the dead person’s name followed by a prolonged ‘O’. For instance a woman bewailing her child will cry out ‘À la trâché ki rèd mézâmi’ (Ah, what agony in my entrails, my friends), comparing her present suffering to that of the child’s birth. Another, pretending to be angry or desperate, will say to the body of her husband: ‘Why did you desert us? Why did you go and do that? Just look at the state you left us in...’

  Such an outburst—the vocero—only lasts a few minutes and then comes suddenly to an end. The wailers wipe their eyes, return to whatever they were doing or to their interrupted conversations as though nothing had happened. But if some circumstance—the arrival of the coffin or of the corpse-washer or the appearance of some friend of the deceased—revives their sense of loss then once again, and with the same suddenness, they give tongue. When exhaustion or domestic chores oblige them to stop, then friends and relations take over from them, or ‘support’ them as the local expression has it. Formerly professional mourners came and helped out the female members of the family. If during a death-watch lamentations are thought to be lacking either in loudness or frequency, then it is held against the family and the deceased is pitied for having been so little loved and respected by his own kin. You hear for instance: ‘So and so? Oh, he had no family worthy of the name. If he had he would have been better mourned at his burial.’

  People who were deeply disliked by the deceased take care not to attend his funeral for fear of putting him into a rage which might be vented in the most terrible way. One woman who had suffered much at her husband’s hands forbade him, when she was dying, to come anywhere near her corpse. The man thinking propriety demanded his presence at the vigil paid no attention to her prohibition. Not only did he come but he brought with him a bottle of paraffin to feed one of the lamps which, on these occasions, burn all night. No one turned him away even though the stomach of the deceased began to inflate as soon as he came in.

  In the course of the evening one of the lamps was replenished—but it still refused to burn. Seven boxes of matches were expended on it—in vain. Only then was it noticed that the new paraffin had come out of the bottle brought by the husband. Quickly it was replaced by paraffin from someone else’s bottle: the lamp then lit without difficulty and burnt all night with extraordinary brightness for, I was told, the deceased herself had ‘looked after her light’. As to the intruder, confronted by general reprehension—he fled.

  Among the distractions which help to pass a peasant’s evening of mourning the most extraordinary is the sung reading of the Marseilles, a collection of poems the full title of which is as follows: Canticles of the Religious Soul, Said to Originate from Marseilles, Adapted to Common Tunes. Alongside verses which are as stupid as they are flat, it contains endless descriptions of Church mysteries, of the lives of the Saints and paraphrases of the Gospel. These insipid compositions are sung by professionals of the Marseilles who mouth them by feeble candlelight without understanding a word of what they read. Sometimes two singers intone alternately a few verses of a poem up to the moment when one of them ‘launches’ a refrain which is then taken up by every-one present.

  The tunes which form the basis of the Marseilles are of European origin and derive from Church music and the Cantilena, but rhythm and register are certainly in the African tradition. Voices are true and the whole effect would be tolerable if only the singers would not disdain unison and seek, each on his own, to obtain special vocal effects, thus achieving a veritable braying which, coupled with lamentations, noises of conversation and clapping of hands, results in a deafening din—and the more deafening, the better the funeral. Most adults play dominoes and a card-game called ‘three-seven’ or ‘wood on the nose’ on account of the penalty which the loser must pay: wear a piece of slit bamboo over his nose. Those who prefer the pleasures of conversation to playing games make high-spirited remarks, not even sparing the deceased. Witness a certain observation I heard: ‘Have you noticed how many women there are at this vigil? It’s because they found the dead man a good lover!’

  The young people organize all sorts of games on their own, called plézi (pleasure), which take on a ritualistic flavour by virtue of their being associated with the deceased. But if the dead person is very old and highly respected then the vigil does not include entertainment of any kind.

  THE BURIAL

  The deceased must leave his house before dawn—or else he will shortly be followed where he has gone by another member of his family. On crossing the threshold of the dead person’s house those who are carrying the coffin pause as though in doubt, then advance. They recoil like this three times. They stop long enough for the père-savane to bless the deceased, sing some hymns and mumble some prayers. Then they take the road to the cemetery deviously and at a run—trying all the time to disorientate the dead man by swift and subtle detours and changes of direction so that he may not find his way back to his house. The lowering of the body into the grave, presided over by the père-savane, is carried out according to Catholic ritual except that before the coffin is allowed to come to rest it is turned round one last time, as a final precaution. Anyone who has touched the coffin should wash his hands before going home with a brew made from médicinier leaves which are believed to have purifying properties.

  For a few days after the burial the family of the deceased lives under the perpetual threat of the dead man’s return. In spite of all the precautions taken he may yet haunt the living. He is regarded as being consumed with dread of his new loneliness and obsessed by a desire to come and fetch someone he was fond of. In this respect there is nothing more dangerous for children than the love of parents who cannot bear to leave them behind. That is why surviving children are protected by the marking on their forehead of an indigo cross, or by being given some garment of the deceased to wear round their necks—though this last is danger
ous as it may attract, instead of repel, the dead person. Little bags of garlic are said to have prophylactic powers against the return of the dead. A child who has lost its mother must kiss the corpse on the forehead and step over it. A lamp lit on the grave of a child prevents it from coming out to look for its brothers and sisters. A few days after a death, the Novena starts. It is called ‘last prayers’ and friends and relations are expected to attend. Every evening they gather in the house of the deceased where an altar is set up in a corner of a room. This altar is just an ordinary table covered with embroidered cloth and overhung by a canopy. On it are placed coloured pictures, crucifixes and flowers. Calabashes and plates of food for the deceased are laid out on the ground. These, on the ninth day, are thrown away close to the hut. Such offerings strike the only note of paganism in the ceremony which otherwise falls entirely within the competence of the père-savane. The latter says French and Latin prayers, following them with hymns which are taken up in chorus by all present. On the last evening the prayers become more solemn. They are interrupted by deafening manifestations of grief, cries of ‘way way’ from near relations, and by exhibitions of despair which verge on hysteria. The père-savane sings a Libera in the cemetery and a permanent cross is set up at the head of the grave.

  CEREMONIES CELEBRATED IN SANCTUARIES ON THE DEATH OF A CULT-GROUP MEMBER

  Just as a family must organize a vigil and observe a Novena on the death of one of its members, so a Voodoo ‘society’—which is the equivalent, within the Voodoo order, of a family—must carry out, on the death of one of its members or initiates, certain rites which correspond to the vigil, and celebrate the ceremony of ‘last prayers’.

  The only Voodoo death-watch at which I ever assisted took place at Lorgina’s when one of her hunsi died. The women of the cult-group, clothed in white, and wearing on their heads both headkerchief and straw hat, were seated round the peristyle facing Lorgina whose hair was bound up in a black turban. Her assistant, the hungan Tullius, clothed entirely in white, acted as choir-master. During a long opening spell the women directed by Tullius clapped their hands in a slow and simple rhythm without moving from their chairs or uttering a sound. Then in a sad monotone they sang refrains to the funeral songs which Tullius chanted. The sanctuary lights were all put out; only one lonely candle burned on the poteau-mitan. The sadness of the hymns, the darkness, the rapt silence of the congregation invested this display of mourning with a profound dignity which gave no inkling of the outbursts to come. One of the hunsi who had till then remained calm, suddenly leapt to her feet as though thrust up by a spring, and with mouth half open and rigid limbs, then collapsed on the ground in front of her companions. Hastily she was helped up—but a few seconds later another hunsi began to emit piercing cries, throwing her arms above her head. This was the release-signal for a scene of collective despair. The screams, the tears, the wild gesticulations reached their height when the choir-master launched a song about the death of a hunsi-kanzo. The women tried to sing through their sobbing, but tears stifled their voices. Only the men, despite the emotion which engulfed them, were able to continue. Little by little, calm was restored. The hunsi dried their tears and began singing again and clapping their hands as though nothing had happened. The ceremony finished as it began by handclapping which lasted for half an hour. For the rest of the night everyone stayed on in the sanctuary drinking coffee and talking cheerfully.

  The public death-watch may be a little different from the domestic variety but this is not the case with the ‘last prayers’ which are said every night.

  An altar is put up in exactly the same way as described above and a père-savane, paid by the mambo, officiates beside it for nine days.

  THE ‘CASSER-CANARl’ RITE

  The canari is a large earthenware jar which in the north of Haiti is formally broken at the end of funerals. This rite is unknown in the south. It was nonetheless included in the bulé-zin which the hungan Abraham celebrated in 1947 in honour of his reine-chanterelle Marie-Noël. The latter was a native of Gonaïves where casser-canari is practised. Abraham had decided that she should be honoured after the fashion of her own people. It is quite likely the rite may have been interpreted fairly freely by this hungan and that it did not correspond exactly to the traditional form, but an account of it here will serve to give an approximate idea.

  The ceremony began with the consecration of the jar. After a thorough washing with decoctions of medicinal plants this was filled with sacred food (bits of cassava, grilled maize and biscuit), cocks’ feathers and tobacco leaves. Its outer casing was sprinkled with rum and kola, while the hungan slowly shook his rattle over its mouth. It was then carried in procession and offered at the altars and at the sacred trees. From then on it became invested with a nanm—a mystical spirit or power. Maize was scattered on the stuff with which it was coated, and the whole was then given over to the greed of two cocks.

  Now the jar, placed near the altar, had been covered with a large upturned calabash. The hungan came and shook his rattle over it and struck the calabash with a stick. This was the signal for a group of hunsi, who had been issued with sticks, to use them on the calabash, beating it as though it were a drum. The choir sang:

  Kasé Kanari a (his)

  Papa Pyé Dâbala

  Kasé Kanari a

  Kasé Kanari mwê

  Ibo-lèlè

  Nâchô Ibo

  Kasé Kanari mwê

  Break the jar (his)

  Papa Pierre Damballah

  Break the jar

  Break my jar

  Ibo-lele (his)

  Ibo nation

  Break my jar.

  The jar splits and then breaks completely. When it is reduced to a pile of fragments, a halt is called to allow the hungan time to make a libation of rum and kola over the débris. Then the hammering of the sherds begins again, harder than ever:

  Hunsi kâso yo

  Gadé n’ alé

  Nu kité regrét

  Kòté nu kité kay-la

  Nâ mê lèsé yo fé

  Mari-Noël u alé

  Mari-Nëel kòté u kité loa-yo

  Sé nâ Giné u alé

  Hunsi kanzo

  See we are going

  Leaving behind regrets

  Where are you leaving this house

  In the hands of just anybody

  Marie-Noël you have gone

  Marie-Noël where have you left your loa

  It is to Guinea you are going.

  When the canari was reduced to a pile of dust, the hungan drew some crosses on it with ash and surrounded it with a circle of flour.

  When flames came out of the pots of the bulé-zin the hungan, taking up the remnants of the jar in a piece of white stuff, approached a ditch dug under the peristyle, and having cradled the parcel in his arms for a moment threw it into the bottom of the hole, where it was soon followed by all the food offerings and accessories used in the service. The hunsi sang in French:

  Have pity on his soul

  Pray for all the mambos

  Pray for all hunsi déssunin

  Mary, holy mother, merciful mother

  Pray for all hunsi

  Grant, Saint Philomène, Virgin and martyr

  Grant us mercy

  Her good angel

  Send to heaven

  Mary—have mercy.

  Three charges of powder were exploded on the edge of the ditch and a man armed with an iron bar came and smashed up all the pots which had been thrown in. At this the rhythm of the drums became quicker and more violent. The hunsi, seized with frenzy, quickly picked up all the bits and pieces which covered the ground as well as the cinders from the hearth and threw all into the ditch. Then singing and dancing in a veritable human chain, they pushed in the earth round the edge of the ditch with their feet, filling it in within a few minutes. A vèvè (symbol of the gods) was traced out on the site and the tail feathers of the sacrificed chickens were planted in the newly turned earth.

 
; In these rites can be recognized a corrupted form of the sihum—the ceremony which in Dahomey follows all funerals and which is characterized by special rhythms beaten out on calabashes. The tradition of the African sihum is preserved in certain sanctuaries but the ritual is only practised for a cult-group’s high dignitaries.

  THE FUNERAL ‘BULÈ-ZIN’

  A few days after last prayers the ceremony called ‘the burning of the pots’ (bulè-zin) has to be celebrated. It is, as we have seen, a complex ritual not specifically associated with death—in fact it can be adapted to any occasion and is much in use notably at the end of initiation. Fire occupies an important place in it; indeed, it could be regarded as providing the climax to the ceremony, the moment to which all the other rites tend—the movement when the pots, whose insides have been smeared with oil, all begin to blaze. The purifying powers attributed to flames would suffice to explain their ritualistic purpose in bulè-zin. This, nevertheless, is not their main function. They confer strength on whoever exposes himself to them and they invest the objects ‘fired’ with an increase of sacred energy.

  The word nanm, ‘soul’, is best translated as ‘energy’ or ‘effluvium’. One of my informants, wishing to describe to me the object of the ceremony, told me that a nanm was what the pots derived from the allegedly miraculous flames which sprang from them. According to others it was the loa themselves who got pleasure from being caressed by flames leaping out of the zin and who, in return, would give their servants new strength. The ceremony of bulè-zin is celebrated when sacrifice is made to the guardian spirits of a sanctuary, when a new sanctuary is inaugurated, at separation from the soul of one of the loa’s servants, when the dead are taken out of the water to convert them into protecting spirits and finally at memorial services.