During the first months of the pandemic, after years of solitary practice with individual spirits and flirting with both Orisha practices and Vodou, I decided it was time to tie the knot with an African Diasporic Religion. But which one?
Later I’ll reveal more about my personal commitment to immerse myself in (spoiler alert) Vodou, but for now I’ll give y’all a little background in African Diasporic Religion in general and the two particular streams I found myself choosing between. There’s a lot to digest here.
African Diasporic Religion refers to a group of spiritual traditions that have their roots in Africa, but evolved separately once their practitioners were displaced, usually through the Transatlantic Slave Trade. Enslaved Africans continued their religions in secret, with whatever resources were available— plants for medicines, materials for ritual objects, scarce downtime and privacy for ceremonies (which they were usually given more of on Catholic holidays), shared language— and by whatever means they could, usually by cloaking their deities in the trappings of Catholicism (the major colonial powers, Spain and France, were both catholic at that time) to avoid persecution. During the early part of the colonial period, they learned local herbalism and spiritual practices from the indigenous people wherever they were deposited.
There are probably as many African Diasporic Religions as there were African communities in the “New World.” Some that you may have heard of are Palo Mayombe, Louisiana Voodoo, Candomblé, and Shango. There are probably even ADRs outside the Americas. I am going to focus on what is commonly known as Santeria (but more often called Lucumi or La Regla de Ocha within communities), and on Haitian Vodou.
Vodou, by the way, is generally agreed upon as a respectful spelling of the Haitian tradition, as contrasted with using “voodoo” (which has been adopted by New Orleans for their historical ADR.) I have heard it pronounced a variety of ways by both practitioners and academics, but since you can’t hear me say it, we won’t go into that right now.
Each of the African Diasporic Religions was shaped by the particulars of the geography, the climate, the ethnic composition, the economy, and the politics of the colony it developed in.
For example, if the conditions of slavery in their particular colony allowed for families, these traditions were continued down family lineages. If the enslaved people in a colony mostly came from a particular part of Africa (an enormous, culturally and spiritually diverse continent), their continued tradition would maintain words, rituals, and deities particular to that area, while it continued to creolize or become mixed with indigenous and European cultural influences. This was more or less the case in Cuba, where the religion now known as Santeria developed. Most of the enslaved people there were Yoruba, from West Africa, and therefore practices, language, and songs from that area were maintained, while becoming more and more blended with Catholic influences.
If, on the other hand, the conditions in the colony were harsh enough to render the enslaved people disposable, killing them from hard work, injury, malnutrition and disease before they could reproduce, the colony responded by simply shipping in new waves of enslaved people as they died off. Because of this, the culture there became both more diverse in terms the areas of Africa it drew from, and more constantly refreshed with influences straight from the African continent. This seems like a rather Pollyanna, silver lining take on the brutality of these conditions. But it does point to the resilience and ingenuity of culture when faced with the worst.
This was the situation in the French colony of Saint Domingue (which was first the Spanish colony of Santo Domingo, on the island that the native Taino people called Ayiti, or “land of high mountains”). Because of the constant influx of new influences from different parts of Africa— Dahomey, Yorubaland, the Congo, and more— a much larger pool of spiritual technology arrived from Africa. Because of the brutality of the conditions, those spiritual tools took on that much more urgency. Because of the influence of Enlightenment ideas from France, the hypocrisy of slavery and racism became more obvious. And— ironically— because of the eagerness of the colony to acquire more and more forced labor to make more and more of a profit off of the sugar industry, the sheer number of enslaved people made revolution possible. This was the Haitian Revolution, which gave the land of Ayiti over to the now-free population in 1804. Under these conditions, Vodou was born. (The word Vodou comes from the Fon word “Vodun,” which means spirit.)
Both traditions share common elements. They both are, at the heart, monotheistic, with a remote All-Creator from which the entire universe emanates. This One God is often called Olodumare in Santeria, and Bondye (“Good God”) in Vodou. This being, however, is much too busy to trifle with the desires and needs of individual human beings.
Enter a group of grand, archetypal spiritual energies who act as intermediaries between humans and the Divine. In Santeria, and in Yoruba traditions, these beings are called the Orisha. Many are connected with specific geographical features that still exist in Yorubaland— the Ochun River in Nigeria, for example, is the birthplace of the splendid, sparkling, laughing Orisha of the same name.
In Vodou, the spiritual forces are called the Lwa. “Lwa” is a Kreyòl word that translates to Law, and in a sense, that is an accurate way to view these forces. They are laws of human nature. Motherhood, War, Sexuality, Death, Longing, and Wisdom all have a place within these archetypal Ultrahumans. The beings themselves, however, as not as simply defined as single abstract nouns. They are as complex as you or I, even more so. They won't be pinned down. How do we know? Because they come down and interact with us. But we'll talk more on that much later.
The Orisha and the Lwa are not the same beings, for the most part. Even those that can be historically traced to each other have transformed so much since the tradition split that it is questionable whether they can be called the same spirit. This opens up a can of worms about the nature of spirit that is too much to go into just yet. There are other Lwa that exist in Vodou that do NOT come from Africa, but emerged from the stress of the slave conditions in Saint Domingue and helped in the ensuing revolution. Still others come from parts of Africa from which Cuba did not receive enslaved people. I mention this because people from outside these traditions are often quick to assume that “equivalents” can be found, not only among African religions, but also in European ones like the Greek pantheon. To assume this can be reductive, although clearly across human communities the same archetypal energies will be encountered. Again, a bit too much to go into here, but suffice to say it’s only respectful to learn about spirits of a given tradition deeply within the context of that tradition, rather than being quick to draw superficial connections.
But that brings us to an important point. Although the two traditions don’t have the same pantheon, the fact that they both feature intermediaries between God and humanity created an interesting point of connection with Catholicism. The saints hold a similar role in receiving petitions from humans and passing them on to God. Therefore, it made sense for the people to map their spirits to Catholic saints, to use images of the Catholic saints as ritual objects through which their deities could be contacted. This allowed them to continue their religious traditions with their enslavers none the wiser, usually patting themselves on the back for how devoutly catholic their slaves were, and granting them more free time for worship.
Stay tuned for part two of this saga! I am running short on time, and I want to post this because done is better than perfect. Thank you for reading, and please feel free to contact me with any questions or requests!
As always, I am seeking Vodou community in Austin, so if you’re already part of it, I’d love to hear from you.
