Tag: Colombia

What Francia Márquez Reminded Me About Black Women’s Activism

Almost two years ago, I wrote an article about how newly elected Colombian vice president Francia Márquez would be great news for human rights. Yesterday, I was honored and delighted to be in the room as she addressed a group of Afro-descendant land and territory defenders from across Latin America and the Caribbean; and I was nothing short of impressed.

To be completely honest, the article I wrote two years ago was quite diplomatic. I was writing it for publication on my employer’s website, so I had to keep it cute. I praised her resume of work and her previous accolades, I connected her issues to the ones we worked on, and I kept it pushing. If anything, I just wanted to mark the history books with a subtle, don’t say I never said anything.

But what I felt at the time and didn’t say, and what I felt yesterday in her presence, is that regardless of the restrictions of executive office, Francia Márquez is the type of dark-skinned, Black woman, get shit done (dare I say radical), grassroots activist that gives white supremacist systems a run for their money.  

Last week, I was telling a friend how excited I was that I might get a chance to meet Colombia’s first Black woman vice president. My friend, unfamiliar with Colombian politics, replied, “oh, she’s like our Kamala.” “Absolutely not!” I explained, “She was never a prosecutor, she came from grassroots movements, she actually cares about her people.” Francia Márquez is not the type of Black woman that makes representation seem nominal or visual only, Francia Marquez is in the league with the likes of Fannie Lou Hamer and Lélia Gonzalez, with Tarana Burke and Marielle Franco.

Since taking office, Francia has been pioneering the region by making diplomatic connections with African countries. And she’s been very clear about the fact that she’s doing it because Black people in Colombia, and throughout the diaspora, need to shake off their white supremacist, colonialism-imposed negative views of Africa and start getting to know where they come from. She is the reason Colombia is opening embassies across the Continent. She’s also done a great deal to push forward reparations work in Colombia. But here I go again with her resume.

What struck me most listening to Francia Márquez yesterday was actually not her speech at all, it was her introductory acknowledgements. The very first words of her remarks were “Saludos a todos, todas y todes.” For those who don’t speak Spanish, while this translates to “greetings to all,” it is not a simple “to all,” rather it is proactively and purposefully gender inclusive. In spirit, it’s “greetings to the gentlemen, the ladies, and the theys.” She continued to acknowledge the “people of import” in the room: the organizers of the event, the Black defenders who were the attendees, etc. But before moving on to her speech, she purposefully and specifically acknowledged “LGBTQ people, people with disabilities, and Roma people,” all groups too often invisibilized in Colombia.

You see, there’s this really special thing that Black women human rights defenders like Francia always do that sets them apart from the rest: when they move up, they bring others up with them. Kimberlé Crenshaw coined the term intersectionality referring to Black women, referring to the specific exclusions we face because of the combination of our race and gender. And if there’s one thing living life at such a prominent intersection will teach you, it’s not to forget others. Black women human rights defenders don’t just fight for ourselves, we fight for everybody. We have a keen understanding that none of us are free until we are all free, and that freedom starts with the freedom of the most marginalized among us.

Francia Márquez isn’t perfect, and her administration surely isn’t either. But there is a magic that emanates from the place where her identity, her authentic dedication, and her willingness to utilize the power of her office converge. I think we can all learn a little something from that and use it to push liberation forward.

Signed,

N.A.

Lumbalú – The African Dream

“Here, we don’t believe in the American dream, we want the African dream.” These words, proclaimed against the backdrop of a mural depicting the Lumbalú death ritual, were the first that met my ears when I arrived in San Basilio de Palenque. Last weekend, I was privileged to take a tour of the historic town, hosted by the Black-owned company Experience Real Cartagena.

Colombia’s Caribbean coast is full of palenques, towns established by Black people who escaped slavery in Cartagena and made homes in the hills so as to be fortified from any Spanish offences which attempted to find and recapture their inhabitants. San Basilio de Palenque, established by Benkos Viohó of Guinea in 1603, was the first of these towns in all of the Americas.

Our guides taught us an array of cultural gems, like Viohó’s creation of a sort of underground railroad helping enslaved people escape Cartagena and set up life in San Basilio, and women’s use of traditional braiding styles to draw maps to freedom. They also spoke highly of their recent legal successes in gaining the State’s official recognition of their autonomous government and administrative mechanisms. Our guides commended Vice President Francia Márquez, the first Black woman to hold her position, for her work in creating diplomatic ties between Colombia and various African countries which have led to educational and language exchanges. They boasted of successful Palenquero musicians who have used their craft to teach the world about their culture.

The Palenquero history of escaping slavery and freedom fighting, as well as some of there more recent legal and diplomatic accomplishments are very similar to those in other parts of the Americas. But there was one recurring trope in the Palenquero stories that struck me as unique: the fervor and tangibility with which the Palenquero people continue to honor their African heritage, particlularly through the Lumbalú death ritual.

Lumbalú, a branch of Santería, is the ancestral religion practiced in San Basilio de Palenque. As part of the death rituals, when someone dies in San Basilio de Palenque, as the casket is carried to the grave, it is followed by women who sing the names of their African countries of ancestry. This is done to lead the deceased person’s spirit back home to the Continent.

As someone who spends the vast majority of my personal and professional life learning about the African diaspora, it’s easy to focus on what’s missing rather than what’s present. I often come across the evidences of the successes of white supremacy and colonialism, usually manifested as popular societal beliefs or stereotypes which denigrate African cultures, religions, and aesthetics. Even on the Continent we see girls getting sent home from school for wearing their afros, native languages becoming scarcer by the generation, and traditional religions being rebuked as evil.

Against this reality, San Basilio de Palenque was a breath of fresh air. As I was guided around the town, the refrain of the day was: here, in San Basilio de Palenque, there is an African dream; through our music and our art, and even in death, we are African and we long to go home.

Over the past several years, I’ve made efforts, inconsistent as they may be, to explore my precolonial history, learn my language, and discover the cosmological beliefs of my ancestors. A feat that is much easier for first-generation me than for a people more than 400 years removed from their ancestral home. Yet, in San Basilio de Palenque, their heritage spills from their lips in the Palenquero language (a hybrid of Spanish and Bantu dialects), is written all over their walls in beautiful murals, and is proclaimed in dance to the visitors they receive from all over the world.

After a day spent in San Basilio de Palenque, I too have renewed hope in the African Dream.

Signed,

N.A.