Olodum
João Jorge Santos Rodrigues
I will speak of the history, the struggle, and the trajectory of Blacks in Brazil. I want to explain what black culture in Brazil is all about and it means to be black in Brazil. And I would like to describe the resistance and the struggle of black Brazilians in their attempt to construct a just, pluri-racial, multi-religious, and wealthy society.
The process of reafricanization in Brazil, especially in Bahia, has occupied an important role in raising the consciousness of a significant segment of the white population that needed to abandon the hypocritical position of following a Marxist position without ever having supported the full integration of Blacks and indigenous Brazilians into the future society they imagined. But reafricanization has had an even greater impact on the white, conservative, elite of the Brazilian right, which has seen its seemingly-eternal power of manipulation and misinformation shaken by a radical, tough, and implacable movement of black consciousness.
The stage for the contemporary reafricanization of Brazil could not have been located in any other city than Salvador, Bahia. Ten years after Salvador was founded in 1549 as the first capital of Brazil, the first quilombos [maroon societies] were already being formed by black Africans from Guinea, Mozambique, Angola, the Gold Coast. These quilombos early were called Pirajá, Monte Serrat, Boa Viagem, and Pernambués. From that time on, the history of Bahia has been marked by rebellions and conspiracies among African slaves, black Brazilians, mestizos, the Tupinambá population, and poor whites. The accumulation of these events differentiates Bahia from all other Brazilian states including São Paulo, Rio de Janeiro, Maranhão, and Pernambuco.
In Bahia a war of independence was fought which culminated on July 2, 1823, with the expulsion of the Portuguese colonial troops. While in São Paulo the Portuguese Emperor, Pedro I, declared Brazil's independence, in Bahia, black blood was shed, because slaves had been told that as soon as the Portuguese left, they would be free. The indigenous community was also told that as soon as the Portuguese invaders left, their land would be returned. Led by slave owners from the surrounding area, a liberation army entered the city of Salvador on July 1, 1823. On July 2, this army of blacks, slaves, Indians, and the disinherited occupied the municipal square of Salvador and proclaimed Brazil's true independence. At the same time, the Portuguese colonial armada, the largest that had been in the Americas until that time, was sailing out of the Bay of All Saints. It was an armada that had anchored in the Brazilian Northeast to keep it from being free. A year earlier, Rio and São Paulo had commemorated Brazil's independence with formal balls.
At that painful moment, the city of Salvador realized that the Bahian elites were not going to free the slaves or give land back to the Indians, but that they would have to continue fighting. The impact of having had guns in their hands, of hearing the concept of freedom for all, profoundly marked the black community in Salvador for the remainder of the nineteenth-century.
Twelve years later, in 1835, the infamous revolt of the Malês occurred. Dressed in blue and white clothes covered with Arabic inscriptions, Islamicized blacks, attacked the jails and attempted to establish an Islamic state in Bahia. The repression was for this insurrection was swift and cruel. Four blacks were executed at the Campo da Pólvora, and an absolute silence fell over their descendants. Blacks were subsequently prohibited from wearing rings and certain kinds of clothes. They were also not allowed to utter phrases that even remotely suggested that they were Muslim or Malê. The mere suspicion that someone might have had something to do with the rebellion was cause for arrest. The revolt failed because the followers of Candomblé feared that Islamic proselytism would destroy other African religious groups.
Something unusual happened on execution day. It was determined that the rebels would not be shot but hung because it was thought that bullets would not kill blacks. But not a single hangman could be found to execute the leaders of the revolt and someone was paid to shoot them. Despite the official proclamation of a great festivity on the day of the execution few people attended the execution. Official history has erased the names of Pacífico Licutã and Sanni but oral history ensured that their story would endure.
In light of the accumulation of such events, the reafricanization of Brazil, even with the prefix "re-", can be seen as positive, because it has allowed us to encounter our own history. In the twentieth-century, the persecution of Candomblé, of the afoxés, produced a new kind of black person in the city of Salvador: the fearful Black who would wear dark clothes (navy blue or brown) to diminish his blackess. Hair was cut as short as possible and no rings or bracelets were worn. Candomblé beads were hidden. He would not parade in Carnival groups that made reference to Africa. But despite its shortcomings, this generation of the 1930s, 40s, and 50s, studied hard and ecudated itself. In the 1960s there were at least five excellent black doctors in Salvador, two excellent black architects, and four excellent black judges. For this reason Salvador was called the land of the preto doutor (the black doctor).
Our parents from this generation transmitted something very important to us, despite their fear of being and acting black in a repressive society. They transmitted dignity, and they transmitted our history. They told us how the police used to invade black neighborhoods and order everyone into the streets dressed in their underwear to find out who was whom. They also told us how the authorities invaded the terreiros of Candomblé and took sacred instruments to the police station where they would be placed alongside guns that had been used to commit crimes. Our parents' generation, afraid to be black, miraculously passed along the oral tradition of our African heritage. They passed on respect for elders, the strength of culture, and the knowledge that wisdom could be in spoken as well as written form.
In the early 1960s, many of us had the idea that by studying we could be successful in Brazilian society. But the 1964 military coup destroyed that idea for the black community. The white opposition elite left the country in exile or because of the impossibility of continuing to live in Brazil. We stayed in Salvador, in Rio, in São Paulo, in São Luís, Maranhão, facing authoritarian regimes, facing the repression of ideas, facing educational inequalities. But we survived and culture became the road to follow. We could not go to the university, we could not join political parties, we could not do anything except reconstruct our black identity.
We went to Rio de Janeiro and discovered a carnival organization called Cacique de Ramos that became our reference point in the 1960s and inspired poor blacks and mestizos from various neighborhoods in Salvador to form their own blocos índios.
In 1969, in the neighborhood of Garcia, the group Cacique do Garcia was created. In 1970, the Apache do Tororó was formed, followed by thirteen large blocos índios whose participants were largely blacks and mestizos, the poor people in Salvador. These blocos índios took over the city's festival with hegemonic strength and Bahia's Carnival soon witnessed an escalation of violence. The press labeled these groups "inciters of violence." In 1972, Apache do Tororó's 5,000 members, inspired by the Apache nation, paraded through the streets with their wood tomahawks. That same year, a carnival group called Lá Vem Elas, formed by white women, registered a complaint with the police accusing members of Apache do Tororó with rape. The complaint was sufficient reason for 3,000 people to be arrested in a single night. Anyone wearing Apache costuming—white and red pants, a white and red headdress, or stripes of white face paint—was subject to arrest. Many members discarded their clothes to avoid arrest. From that moment on, the Apaches carried the stigma of violence.
Salvador's black community involved in the blocos índio wanted something more, something stronger and more intense. It no longer wanted to be identified with American Indians. In 1974, the bloco afro Ilê Aiyê was formed. The creation of Ilê Aiyê in the area of Liberdade known as Curuzu was a milestone of contemporary Brazilian negritude and the struggle against racism. Ilê Aiyê was formed with an exclusively black membership. Its blacks only policy was initially criticized as racist. But gradually Ilê Aiyê began conquering its own space and by 1977 it was one of the largest carnival organizations in Salvador. Then followed an aesthetic musical revolution within Bahian carnival when the afoxé Badauê began using a sound truck to amplify its songs of negritude and included women in leadership roles.
In this process some people stood out—Vovô, Apolônio, Moa—community leaders who acted as organic intellectuals uniting the community.
In the Liberdade and Engenho Velho de Brotas neighborhoods, black consciousness grew fervently. Books of African literature in Portuguese circulated from hand to hand like rare coins. The ideas of Amílcar Cabral, Samora Machel, and Agostinho Neto, the role of the MPLA, PAIGC, and FRELIMO were very important.
We went to an extreme viewpoint: whites are worthless, blacks are good. Africa is God, Europe is the Devil.
We created our own binary oppositions, helped a great deal by a Bahian intelligentsia that reinforced Nagô-centrism and intensified our limited vision. These intellectuals patted us on the back saying
"That's the path to follow, you must create a space for Blacks in carnival. During the rest of the year, we will talk, we will interpret, we will do research, and we will tell you what you should do. But during the three days of carnival you will make your presence felt in the streets. We will demonstrate that we are not racists, since you know exactly when and in which districts you should parade and what you should do during these three days. During the three days of Carnival we, the Bahian intellectuals, will not talk about Blacks on television, in the newspapers, or on radio, you yourselves will. But from Ash Wednesday on, you can leave the talking to us."
This process was useful because no one expected much and something strange occurred. In Pelourinho, the city's historical district, a group called Olodum was born. Olodum is a Yoruba word that means the moment of creation, of being in Orum, the supreme deity, conceived by other religions as God. It is a powerful force. Olodum was founded in 1979 by prostitutes, homosexuals, people associated with the jogo do bicho, dope smokers, bohemian lawyers, and intellectuals. The group was know by only a few during its initial years. During the 1983 carnival season Olodum did not even parade but underwent an internal reorganization. Under the leadership of a new directorship in 1983 Olodum began to take steps to avoid the past errors of Ilê Aiyê, Badauê, Apache, the Filhos do Gandhi, Candomblé terreiros, political party members, Protestant church members, and members of the Catholic church's Black Pastoral. And in so doing Olodum fulfilled an extremely important political role and wrote an important page in the history of Bahian music, culture and negritude.
The first thing we did was admit whites and mestizos as members. Olodum would be made up of blacks, whites, and mestizos. The second thing we did was to insert ourselves into the political struggle. We knew that participating in Candomblé was good, that being a black artist or cultural producer was good. But something was missing. Previous revolutions and rebellions had taught us that it is not enough to acknowledge the value of our blackness and to say that we were beautiful. Above all we had to be strong. We had to have institutionalized strength and Olodum would fulfill this organizational role.
In 1983, the black elites in Bahia associated with the wealthy black carnival organizations thought that Olodum would never amount to anything because it was made up of whores, queers, and thieves. At that time, I was a member of Ilê Aiyê, but I left Ilê Aiyê because I disagreed with the culturalist vision that was being implemented at the time. My sister was elected president of Olodum, and she called on me to help in the cultural area. That was ten years ago. At Olodum we followed a path that had two primary influences: 1) the North American black movement, the Black Panthers, the non-violence of Martin Luther King Jr., the verbal violence of Malcolm X; and 2) an extremely diverse African influence. We were never able to focus on only one part of Africa. We were unable to locate the mythical Africa we had imagined. We realized that we were from different places in Africa, and therefore we absorbed the ideas of Kwame Nkrumah, Sekou Toure, Amílcar Cabral, Agostinho Neto, Samora Machel, Cheikh Anta Diop, and Franz Fanon. It was our mission to take these ideas of these thinkers out of the classroom and lecture halls and to share them with people who had been beaten by the police many times.
One of Olodum's directors, Lazinho, had both arms broken by the police. We asked him what he would do with the ideas of Malcolm X. He responded that he would make a revolution. Another director, Carlos Cardoso, was shot twice by the state military police early one morning in 1990 while he was waiting for a taxi to take him to the airport. We asked him what he would do with the ideas of Mahatma Gandhi. He said, he would make a revolution. In January of this year, another of our directors, Gilmar, received two bullets from a military policeman. We asked him what he would do with the ideas of Kwame Nkrumah. He answered, he would make a revolution.
No matter how much we were attacked and assaulted, we harbored no pain or hatred; we didn't lament our past or cry about our situation. Through it all we have constructed and are still constructing a patrimony that has not been given to us by any politician. We have established our independence from the jogo do bicho and from drug traffickers. It has not been easy, because we have encountered many enemies, both black and white. Our work has been based on self-esteem, on telling our history through carnival music. This is the history of Africa and the African Diaspora. It is the history of humanity. Our work is based on principles of non-violence. No matter how much we are attacked, we respond only with the violence of ideas. Olodum's work is a form of non-violent guerrilla warfare. At all moments we are engaged in politics. At all moments we are articulating the taking of power. At all moments we are thinking about taking power in order to create the concrete conditions for us to share the wealth of a country that has gold, petroleum, cacau, coffee, sisal, plenty of land, plenty of water, and plenty of air.
Our primary international banner has been the struggle against apartheid. In this arena, Olodum's first priority was to talk about the release of Nelson Mandela. Now, with his release, our international priority is to talk about the war in Angola. Olodum also writes and performs music. The samba reggae was created by master Neguinho do Samba. But in addition to music, Olodum has a theater and dance company and operates the Olodum Creative School.
In the area of human rights we have fought against police violence in Bahia, especially in Maciel-Pelourinho neighborhood. The shootings I referred to earlier are related to this. The military police in Bahia hate us and attribute to us the extensive freedom of the black community to circulate in Maciel-Pelourinho, to smoke marijuana, and to use other drugs. But we were behind the current restoration of the historical center of Salvador. When everyone else wanted to forget Maciel-Pelourinho, we identified ourselves as a bloco afro from Maciel-Pelourinho. The state government has recently inaugurated the restoration of the historical center of the Pelourinho at a cost of $12 million dollars. This is the concrete result of the national and international action of Olodum. It is not a gift from the governor to the city. It is the result of pressure, a collection of past debts, on the level of civil rights, so that the taxes we paid would restore this historical patrimony of humanity.
Olodum is composed of seven executive directors, 17 administrative directors, 13 advisors; the band has 200 members, nine singers; and the organization has 3,100 associates. We correspond with institutions in Africa, Europe, the United States, and Japan. We produce our own records and have already made six records in Brazil, the latest of which is titled "A Música de Olodum."
And we publish 5,000 copies of our own biweekly newspaper, which provides information and the lyrics to our songs. We have also published a songbook, which was released during our festival. We have our own boutique, where we sell Olodum products such as hats and t-shirts.
Many people ask us why we do this. One thing we have learned from American blacks is that money circulates just once in the ghetto, whereas it circulates ten times in other districts. When we only spoke about culture and let others produce these things, our community continued to be poor. The struggle for culture has to bring wealth to the community. We may have beautiful music, but we cannot continue to be hungry, miserable and impoverished. So we wanted to develop a project that would absorb part of the unemployed labor force of our community. We wanted to expand out institution beyond its educational activities to include jobs. Olodum's boutique was created specifically for this reason. Our men and women now make products which are sold both nationally and internationally. We produce Olodum's shows in Brazil and abroad. The concrete result of reafricanization is that today we have considerable sums of money at our disposal.
But we are not Africans, we are Brazilians. As Brazilians, we have to provide an example. This is not an individual struggle and I am not the only person in Olodum. I am speaking by delegation. I would like to mention a few names: Nego, Cristina, Eusébio, Lazinho, Tom, and Petú. These are Olodum's executive directors. They are the personalities of Olodum. Master Neguinho do Samba, Rita, Dora, Zulu, Marcelo Gentil and a large number of people are collectively constructing an identity of concrete alternatives. In Olodum's headquarters there are almost 200 posters of the worldwide black struggle, but not a single photo of a director. We do not want to have a chest full of our own pictures or a house glorifying individual achievements. We want a house that breathes the life of a dynamic culture. We want the children who go there every day to have responsibility for their own future and to be proud of the fact that they are black.
I am proud to be black. I am proud to be a man. I am proud to be a human being. I am not going to say that Brazilian racism is worse than American racism, but you need to know that American racism is the father and mother of racism in other parts of the world. If Americans are not sensitized to the extent of creating cooperative networks to put an end to racism here and in other parts of the world, you will not have a future either. Because the poor people of the world will come here to try to work, and if they can't find a job, they will kill your children and grandchildren and take your house and car. That is what is happening today in many countries of Europe, in Brazil, and in South Africa. Racism is the great evil of the end of this century. It is no longer communism and it is not Aids. It is the fact that people and nations continue to attribute to themselves the right to say who is good, who is bad, who should work, who should not work, who has the right to have a house, food, and education.
NOTES
1The term "doutor" is used quite freely in Brazil for university-trained professionals. It is also a term of respect used frequently by working class people when addressing a male adult of the middle and upper classes—Ed.
2Blocos índios are Bahian carnival organizations that utilize Amerindian (primarily North American) symbolism—Ed.
3Vovô (Antonio Carlos dos Santos) and Apolônio (Apolônio de Jesus Filho) were leaders of the bloco afro Ilê Aiyê; Moa (Moa do Catendê) led the afoxe group Badauê—Ed.
4MPLA (Movemento Popular de Liberatação de Angola/Popular Liberation Movement of Angola); PAIGC (Partido Africano da Independência da Guiné e Cabo Verde/African Independence Party of Guinea and Cape Verde); FRELIMO (Frente de Libertação de Moçambique/Liberation Front of Mozambique)—Ed.
5As of February 1997 Olodum has completed ten recordings—Ed.
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