Voodoo in Haiti

by Alfred Métraux

  The number of funeral bulè-zin held varies according to the rank of the dead person. A hunsi is entitled to one bulè-zin, a hungan to three, the last being celebrated one year and one day after his death. The number of pots burned for an ordinary servant is seven, for a hungan or mambo twenty-one.

  MOURNING

  The wearing of mourning is, like burial, a duty to the deceased from which no one is exempt, not even very young children. But the dead are not narrow-minded: they are prepared to wait several years for a hard-up family to buy black clothes; though as soon as they suspect evasion, then—in a dream—they warn the direct heir of their displeasure. It would be as dangerous to disregard such a prompting as it would be to snap your fingers in the face of a loa. The dead, too, have the power of bringing down a ‘punishment’ on the head of a guilty relative. This can take the form of illness or persistent bad luck. Where someone finds it impossible to wear mourning for his parents, then his children must do so for him so they may not become the butt of the offended dead. Inherited mourning takes precedence over personal mourning. Although delay in discharging duties as a mourner may indicate secret antipathies and old grudges, mourning is not a matter of sentiment. Its real nature was well described to me by a peasant woman: ‘It is by wearing mourning,’ she told me, ‘that we rid ourselves of the souls of the deceased; if we didn’t mourn the dead would “seize” us and try everything to work us harm. Whoever neglects his father or mother in this respect is taking a big risk.’ As for the loa they expect nothing from people burdened with mourning—for which tact they are sometimes thanked with offerings and sacrifice.

  Parents do not wear mourning for their children: custom requires that black should only be worn for people older than oneself. Black clothes are blessed by a père-savane and should not he washed but brushed, for they are on the same footing as the ‘devotional clothing’ which is worn to expiate a sin.

  CEMETERIES AND TOMBS

  Each la-cour (complex of huts occupied by an extended family) has its own cemetery in which are buried all members of that kinship group—this word being used in the widest sense—to include relations by marriage, concubines, and een sometimes close friends. These cemeteries are dominated by enormous crosses which, in the eyes of Voodooists, represent Baron-Samedi.

  The peasants set great store by being put to rest beside the members of their own family and this is the reason why they make great personal sacrifices to bring back to their own cemetery the bodies of kinsmen who die far away. Ground occupied by a family cemetery is jointly owned and cannot be transferred. When a family is obliged to sell its land, the deed of sale will often stipulate that the cemetery must remain in the family’s possession, likewise the right to use it for the burial of their dead.

  To build a fine vault for a relation is a compelling duty which can be disregarded only at risk of incurring supernatural punishment. Peasants take pride in erecting for their dead monuments which are as sumptuous as their purse permits, and many will deprive themselves of basic necessities over a period of years to realize this ambition.

  To whitewash tombs when weather has made them look faded, and also now and again to weed them, is a mark of affectionate devotion to the dead and a way to their goodwill. Such duties are incumbent on all relatives though each branch of a family has a particular responsibility to its own dead. Heads of family have the additional responsibility of caring for the tombs of the distant ancestors.

  THE FATE OF THE SOUL AFTER DEATH

  No coherence is to be found in the vague and contradictory notions of life after death which at present hold sway. Although everyone carries within him two souls, the gros-and the ti-bon-ange, each of which has a different fate, in practice the distinction is often forgotten. A dead person is spoken of as though he had survived himself in the form of a disembodied soul.

  From discussions which I had with peasants of Marbial—about life beyond the grave—it transpired that the ti-bon-ange does not leave the earth until the ninth day after death—that is to say after ‘last prayers’. He it is who presents himself before God and accounts for the sins committed by the person who was in his charge. As to the ‘big good angel’ (gros-bon-ange), he appears to be the same thing as a ghost. Only very reluctantly will he leave the places he frequented and he lingers in the house where he died.

  A dead person will only harass the living if they neglect him, if they omit to wear mourning, if they fail to withdraw the loa from his head and finally if they show themselves dilatory in giving him a worthy burial-place. He shows himself in dreams and explains his disappointment; on those who pay no attention he calls down a ‘chastisement’. Whoever dies as a result of a spirit’s vengeance comes back to tell his relations the cause of his death and to warn them to discharge their obligations lest they too be harried by the divine wrath of the spirit. Near cemeteries and in lonely places there is risk of meeting zombi (which must not be confused with flesh-and-blood zombi): these are the wandering souls of people who perished as a result of an accident and who are condemned to haunt the earth for as long as God had meant them to live. The same fate is reserved for nubile women who died as virgins. This belief is apparently related to a custom which I heard people talk about in a rather vague way: it would seem that in certain regions—from fear of the terrible ordeal which await virgins in the afterlife—the woman who washes a virgin’s corpse is asked to deflower the body before burying it. This is the price which must be paid if she is to escape being raped by such unsavoury’ loa as Baron-Samedi or other members of the Guédé family.

  Catholic beliefs about the after-life are of little concern to Voodooists, even to those who profess to be practising Catholics. Voodoo adepts are, on the other hand, most careful about the period spent by the dead man (some say—by his ‘good angel’) at the bottom of a river or lake. For it is the fate of all who have practised Voodoo to spend at least a year and a day in a stream of water. At the end of a few years they experience a desire to get out. They warn their relations that the moment has come to take them out of the water: they are getting cold, they say, and long for the warmth of the sun and of the flames of the bulé-zin. This nostalgia for the earth is such that if the relative to whom they appeal turns a deaf ear to their entreaty, then he is quickly plagued with an illness from which he can only recover by celebrating the required ceremony. The weté mò nâ dlo (extraction of the dead who are in water) is a long, costly, ritualistic operation and therefore several families come to an understanding with a hungan or a mambo who will then organize a collective ceremony on behalf of a whole list of dead. For it is not merely a question of catching the souls floating in the water, but also of transferring them to a sanctuary where they turn into guardian loa.

  The ceremony of the weté mò nâ dlo which I shall now describe took place in 1948 at Lorgina’s. It was watched by Mlle Yvonne Oddon and Madame Odette Mennesson-Rigaud who were kind enough to let me have their notes.

  For some time Lorgina had been receiving messages from beyond the grave sent to her by members of her family and by former members of her humfo society. From month to month she had put off the fulfilment of her duties—either for lack of money or simply out of laziness. She might even have delayed longer had she not suddenly begun to feel ill. She grew weaker daily and wasted away under people’s very eyes. She was too experienced a mambo not to know the reason: the dead, growing impatient, had ‘seized’ her. One night after a ceremony in honour of her guardian spirit, Agirualinsu, she felt a violent pain. She knew then that her vacillation must end and accordingly made up her mind to celebrate the weté mò nâ dlo without delay.

  She obtained sixteen pitchers (govi) and the same number of ‘cooling-pitchers’ which are shaped slightly differently (and have no other use than to refresh spirits newly risen from water). Along with her assistants she passed a whole day ‘cross-signing’ these vessels—that is to say marking them all with sacred signs. This done, the pitchers were dressed in white cloth. Branches of mombin w
ere attached to them in such a way as to overhang the openings. Shoots of aizan were added to this decoration. Throughout these preparations the hunsi, clothed in white, sang and danced in the peristyle.

  A tent (bila), made of white sheets, was put up under a tree outside the sanctuary. It was carefully shut but it was nevertheless possible to make out, inside it, a large cylindrical receptacle.{83} This, we later found out, was a metal cistern across which a plank had been put, to support a ‘perpetual lamp’, that is to say a wick floating in a pool of oil.

  The ceremony began towards nine o’clock in the evening. Many loa had in turn been greeted with song and dance when Lorgina made her appearance dressed as befitted the solemnity of the occasion.

  The hunsi laid out mats on the ground and covered them with sheets. Pillows were then added and under them vèvè were traced out by an assistant. The hunsi, singing and dancing, disappeared into the sanctuary. A few minutes later a noise was heard in the humfo. Commotion in the crowd indicated the arrival of a procession.

  First came the standard-bearers grouped round a personage who was leading a lamb. The lamb’s back was covered with white linen and round its head was a handkerchief. Next came one of the mambo’s acolytes, waving a white pigeon. Some hunsi were carrying an armchair decorated with shawls and curtains on which had been placed pitchers for the souls of grand hungan; others followed on, dancing, with pitchers on their heads. These turned, retraced their steps, staggered, ‘tipsified’ by the loa. As they arrived at the tent they were sent off to lie down side by side on the mats, having first placed their pitchers beside the pillows. They were then covered with sheets so completely that the outline of their bodies could be distinguished only vaguely.

  They would not stop chattering underneath the sheets so the mambo gave them a good scolding. Meanwhile in the peristyle several groups continued singing and dancing. The mambo’s acolyte, Tullius, came and crouched down beside the hunsi, in front of the armchair. He was wearing a pink scarf and a blue and white headkerchief. The mambo was seated right up against the tent with her back to the congregation and her head resting on the canvas. Tullius recited an ‘Our Father’ and held his pigeon for a moment underneath the sheet. He then said some more Catholic prayers including an Ave Maria, a Credo and a series of litanies in honour of a number of saints. True to custom, the audience took up the refrain. Finally Lorgina shook her little bell and had the electric light put out. Another mambo took her rattle and kept it going for the rest of the ceremony. Finally Lorgina, putting her head through the tent opening, invoked the loa, ‘maît’-tîte des morts’, asking them to help her in her enterprise. Soon a deep, hoarse voice could be clearly heard: it was Papa Loco, come to assure her of his co-operation and to ask for news. Then Lorgina went into the tent. One of the assistants intoned a psalm in which were listed the names of the dead who were to be taken out of the water:

  Hé, âhé, hé, âhé hé hé hé!

  Ti-mun-lâ yo, m’pralé wété

  Ti mun là-yo là dlo

  Hé, âhé, hé, âhé hé hé hé

  These children I’m going to take out

  These children out of the water.

  A mild gurgling was heard and then wretched lamentations. The accompanying words were hard to make out, though the voice of Lorgina asking questions could be heard above all else.

  Then there were fresh groans and complaints. Lorgina ordered one of the pitchers to be opened. The first dead person to reply was a hungan called Romain who had died some years ago. His voice was very hoarse; it was a kind of mumble accompanied by a scraping noise in his windpipe—unintelligible except to Lorgina who interpreted it. She announced that his soul would be placed in a pitcher, whereupon there came the noises which characterize this stage of the proceedings.

  Lorgina went on to do the same for other dead people whose utterances were equally obscure. One of the women in the congregation recognized the voice of her mother, burst into tears and began crying out ‘Aie Maman’ and, in answer to a certain question ‘Yes Mother, he is there.’

  As the dead ‘appeared’ under the tent they sought information about their relatives. The latter hastened to satisfy their curiosity: ‘Yes,’ they cried, ‘so and so is here,’ or ‘No, he has moved to another district.’ A godfather reproached his godson for failing in charity towards him: ‘You said you loved me—but that didn’t prevent you leaving me to die in hospital alone.’ ‘Let us forget about it,’ replied the god-child. ‘What is past is past.’

  Among the dead who hurried into the water cistern was an old woman, mother of twins who were in the congregation. When Lorgina told them their mother was present they began to sob so hard they could scarcely answer the questions put to them. Suddenly an agonized voice was heard asking ‘Maman—you don’t call me—you’ve forgotten me.’ This was a sister of the twins. Probably Lorgina had forgotten she existed; she made the dead person say: ‘No my child I have not forgotten you.’ Then she added: ‘Look—you—sister Ramirène, your mother wants you to bring Dédé to Lorgina who will treat her. Do you hear, child; you’re in Lorgina’s hands.’ The latter then asked what song she should ‘send’ her, in other words what was the maît’-tête of the deceased.

  Another dead person appeared but although Lorgina announced him under various nick-names he was not recognized until she described him as a homosexual (masisi). He spoke to a hungan who had once been his friend and who answered him straight away. The next dead person on the list had also been a notorious pederast. He even reproached a hungan about a certain incident which took place ‘behind the airfield’. The laughter which exploded from all sides showed clearly that the public needed no introduction to this affair. The hungan took it all very seriously and his voice sounded tearful as he sobbed and mumbled in concert with the deceased.

  Next came the turn of an old grandmother who chattered away without pause. Having inquired after her family she asked in a rather aggrieved tone what had been done with her cooking-pot and the clothes she had left. People told her, with a touch of impatience, that the clothes had been given away and the cooking-pot, through long use, had finally developed a hole.

  When sixteen dead had been taken from the water Lorgina wanted to wind things up for that evening: but the last ‘dead’ interceded on behalf of a certain ‘Mazoutte who,’ said he, ‘is standing behind me.’ Lorgina pointed out that she had no more pitchers available. Among the congregation indignant voices could be heard: the deceased, people cried, ‘was a big Negro’—who couldn’t possibly be kept waiting. Since he had turned up, then he must be taken; it was he who had had Guédé Jean-Simon Brutus in his head. Lorgina was accused of injustice. She got very angry and came out of the tent abusing those who were creating the disturbance. A riot almost broke out. But once the lights had been put on calm was quickly restored. Volunteers were called for to carry the armchair up to the pitchers. Others removed the sheets from the hunsi and helped them to their feet. They formed up in a row and came forward with the pitchers on their heads, staggering as though affected by vertigo, or hopping on one foot. Having done a dance round the poteau-mitan they flooded into the sanctuary to put the pitchers on the altars to the various gods.

  The burning of the pots (zin) ceremony was celebrated a few days later. The pitchers were solemnly carried under the peristyle and passed across the flames which rose from the inside of the zin. With the same pomp as before the hunsi, in procession, returned them to their places on the altars. The forty-first day after their withdrawal from the water the dead contained in the pitchers receive food offerings which they share out among the faithful. From then on they are treated as tutelary spirits, a kind of minor loa, who look after their relations and who, in return for the sacrifices offered them, attend to the prayers of their kith and kin and respond to their appeals for advice or protection.

  OFFERINGS TO THE DEAD

  The religious ceremonies called manger-morts include offerings to the dead of food cooked without salt and prepared ent
irely by men. Cooks who help the dead of another family run the risk of offending their own dead; hence they insist on a wage sufficient to pay for their appeasement by sacrifice. The Guinea dead—that is to say African ancestors—get a special stew containing beef, pigs’ trotters, maize and scarlet beans.

  When a meal is served to the dead, a table covered with food is put in a room which is then shut off for a few hours to give them time to feast themselves at leisure. After prayers and appeals addressed to the ancestors and the unknown dead who have died by steel, fire or water, the père-savane or the head of the family knocks three times on the door and goes in. He brings out a calabash full of various foodstuffs which he distributes among the children of the household, having first offered it to the four points of the compass, just as in the marassa ceremony. The children hurl themselves on to the swill and fight for it noisily. Another calabash is placed at a crossroads for Legba. The dead having received their share, the living sit down to table and enjoy a banquet. The manger-mort ends with dances, particularly the banda, done in honour of the Guédé and mentioned in a previous chapter.

  In the north of Haiti the fête of the dead forms part of the big services which families celebrate in honour of their gods. The ritual followed in such cases is known to us through the pages which R. P. Peters{84} devoted to the subject and which I will here briefly summarize.

  When people wish to honour a dead person in some other house than that in which he died, his soul must first be fetched. A ‘reader’ (lecteur), that is to say a père-savane, is entrusted with this task. He goes to the room where the deceased died and puts in it a receptacle containing the favourite dishes of the deceased and beside it a bowl covered with a white cloth. Then he waits. Finally the deceased comes in the form of an insect, a leaf or a little bit of straw which falls on the cloth. The père-savane quickly picks it up and takes it to wherever the ceremony is due to take place. Four go to meet him with a sheet which they make into a canopy for his head. Walking backwards the père-savane goes to the altar and puts the cloth on it.