Cult of the Ancestors

To maintain anonymity and discretion, this post will use pseudonyms. I refrain from using many details and specific names. Let's start off with a few key terms to ensure a smooth reading experience. 

Egungun- this is the type of ancestral entity being worshipped at the ceremony I describe. It refers to a particular style of Yoruba masking, and the cult in Bahia directly descends from those from the ancient Oyó Kingdom in present-day Nigeria. The oldest Egungun cults are on an island in the Bay of All Saints, called Itaparica.

Babá - literally means "Father" in Yoruba. Participants bless the ancestor and call it by this name.

Ojé - This is the title given to the men initiated into the egungun cult. Exclusively men engage directly with these ancestors and prepare them for the ritual.

Barracão - The central ritual space. In this particular terreiro, it was set up like an open stage. If you need more definitions, visit the "What is Candomblé?" page to your right ;)

After making some key friends and contacts last week, I was invited to a ceremony I had never attended before, a "party" for the egunguns. I was extremely interested, as it is a cult that exclusively initiates men, although women hold central positions, in addition to their roles at their own terreiros. This particular terreiro is different from others, in that it serves exclusively the egunguns and not the orixás, although the two are associated with each other in particular ways I don't fully understand yet. People affiliated with this terreiro work together to celebrate and keep alive ancestral ties to Africa, which are shared among three central families. This cult aggregates members of several terreiros and family networks in Salvador, descending from the oldest and most “African” terreiros, with references and liturgical links to the Egungun cults of Itaparica, which are said to have been founded by African men in the 1820-1850s during the last decades of the legal slave trade.

I drove my new friend Sara, who is the granddaughter of the late founder of the terreiro. Her grandfather is recognized as an influential Candomblé priest, scholar and artist in Brazil and internationally. Sara showed me around the whole terreiro and introduced me to nearly everyone we saw. She was very kind and generous, as was everybody I met. Over and over again Sara introduced me by saying, “she’s American, and it’s her first time seeing the Egungun!”. In response, people gave me a sweet smile and a look of excitement with a hint of trepidation, exclaiming, “Welcome! Make yourself comfortable”.  Sara was very willing to explain details about her family. I met her sisters, sisters-in-law, aunts, nephews, great-nephews, and during the ceremony, her mother, who has an important position at the terreiro. She explained to me that her grandfather had the title of alapani - or the supreme priest of the eguns in all of Brazil. He was the most direct reference for the Yoruba ancestors in Brazil, and since his death a few years ago nobody has taken that position or assumed the role of priest at the terreiro.

We arrived early, and there was a Babá (ancestral spirit) walking around the terreiro before the party started. Sara encouraged us to stay out of it’s way. At first I didn’t get a very good look, but the entity was covered head to toe in a thick, all-encompassing fabric; I had never seen anything quite like it. I waited for a while inside the barracão with Sara's friend, who was difficult to talk to. I asked a few questions, but she was much more reserved. While we were waiting I observed the children running around, chasing each other and playing. Women were finishing decorating and placing the final touches before the ceremony. Everybody helped out to take care of the many children and babies around, everybody was trustworthy, everybody an aunt or an uncle. 

When it was time to find our spot on the women’s side of the audience (men and women were divided by the aisle), we were made aware of the hierarchy of seats among the female observers. I was absorbed in the middle of the women and had a hard time observing or understanding the men’s side. We found a spot in the fourth row, making sure to sit in a plastic seat that didn’t have any title marked on the back. Slowly older women, now adorned in ritual clothing and many jewels (earrings, bracelets and the contos - orixá necklaces) began occupying the first rows of chairs. A chorus of younger filhas-de-santo came together on the far right of the audience, loudly chatting and later starting the chants. Several babies and young children were sitting on laps, passed around, sometimes making silly noises and talking in their own way to the Babás. Sara sat next to me and made small talk with all of her friends and relatives throughout the ceremony. For me, it was a privileged position to be in. Alone, or even with my husband, there’s no way I could have entered into this highly intimate and familial space without a personal invite from a member of the terreiro. 

The same spirit that was wandering around earlier began the festa. We all stood up and I got a better glimpse of it— it was mostly blue with many symbolic decorations and elaborate embroideries. I was very impressed with the craft and finishing- it was clearly a royal garment created and treated with great care. The entity was covered from head to hand to toe in very thick fabric (perhaps velvet?), which appeared like a seamless but intricate piece with many separate parts including gloves, a full mask, shoes and outer flaps all woven into one. I wondered how hot it must be in there, but pressed myself to remember that a possessed person doesn’t feel or worry about those things the same way I might. I was curious to know who was inside there and how he (I assume, since it’s a man’s cult), prepares himself for such a bodily incorporation. This entity was much different than the many orixá possessions I’ve seen. The person receiving the spirit is entirely absent (in being fully concealed), and seemingly insignificant. The Babá also spoke and communicated in a way I’d never seen orixás do before. Each ancestor had a particular jeito (way about it), and a specific style of speaking. The first grunted in a very low tone, in short but relatively constant spurts. I couldn’t understand individual syllables, let alone words (despite some familiarity with Yoruba). To me it was a bunch of distant mumbling, yet people all around me were responding when their title was called. Periodically a different type of spirit would appear at the entrance to the barracão. They were two large, square figures that seemed like mischievous trouble-makers, running around the barracão, chasing the ojés and flirtatiously lingering at the doorways, threatening but never actually entering. At one point one of them played the flute, which we could only hear from a distance. At another I swear one of them appeared in the tree, camouflaged by the brown and green fabric. I had never heard about or seen spirits quite like them before, and was baffled, yet entertained by their playfulness.

The men’s cult was markedly different from the other cults I have witnessed for orixás. The men circled the barracão with thin, long wooden sticks in their hands, sometimes chasing and sometimes being chased by the Babás. I couldn’t count how many men there were, but at least 20 and from all ages— from 6-8 year old children all the way up to elderly, but still physically capable men of 60-70 years. That day a few men, including Sara’s nephew, were being initiated into the egungun cult. They kneeled in front of the Babá as a sort of judgement day (or in this case, night). Sara told me that each person has a particular name, associated with their position given to them by the ancestors. The affiliated family members knew to pay attention and respond with blessings for the ancestor when called. From what I could tell, there seemed to be more women called up to speak to the ancestor, as the men have more frequent contact and communication with it. As far as I know, the women only engage with the egungun in this ceremonial setting. Sometimes the Babá would request that the person come on stage, in the center of the barracão and kneel before it, in order to hear a personal message. At times the ancestor thanked the person for preparing or doing something in a pleasing way. Other times, the ancestor seemed irritated and people were extremely nervous to approach it. At several moments the ancestor became extremely animated, jumping and spinning, even cornering some of the new initiates. It seemed like a provocation, a test. The ojés attempted to control the Babá, slowing it down and encircling it with their wooden sticks. The older ojés appeared more secure in their abilities to subdue the spirit, the younger ones were timid and fearful. Each ancestor had a different object in its hands, one had a sharp, shorter wooden stick, another (associated with Xangô), had a small wooden ax. At certain moments the spirit lunged towards the men, and chased them with the sharp objects, hitting some of the men if they weren't quick enough. All we heard were their fast stomps and yelps. I often heard people talking about the possibility of the men “apanhar”, or to receive a beating. The verb in Portuguese is often used to describe when somebody is caught, put in their place, humiliated, or physically beaten. 

The whole ceremony felt like an encounter and conversation with the ancestors, a sort of check-in to make sure everybody is okay with one another.  In one instance, everybody stood up and jumped. In another, we all laughed rhythmically. People spoke Yoruba to the entity in a way I’d never seen conversationally before. I had always read and heard (from academic sources) that Yoruba was not spoken in Brazil anymore, but used only in chants and rituals. Although this was a specifically ritual context, it was clear that people knew a lot of Yoruba and had much experience speaking with the ancestral spirits in this language. The men taking care of the spirit appeared to be the most fluent, or at least the most vocal. From the cult they have the closest contact, and from what I gathered, comprehension of the egungun, though I don’t want to assume that the older women, the mothers-of-the-saint, don’t have the same skills in communication (though they are excluded from the cult, suggesting a certain distance from the fundamentos, the secret knowledge only shared among the initiated men).

After the more agitated and demanding ancestors left, one associated with the orixá Oxum arrived. She was calmer and sweeter than the previous ones. This is consistent with Oxum’s personality, which is sensual and caring, if not vain. The egungun associated with Oxum danced for a while and called up people who seemed to be her mediums. She held flowers in her hand and gave the bouquet to an elegant young woman, who I later found out is part of one of the three central families. Towards the end of the festa, the older mães and other women helped pour water from a decorated cauldron to the audience. Sara told me that the water is purifying, and especially good for the uterus. There were probably 50 women waiting for little yellow plastic cups of ritual water, and not patiently. Sara kept complaining that the men were getting more water, “and they don’t even have uteruses!”. Finally I got a rather full cup (lucky me), and it tasted herbal and refreshing in an unrecognizable way. By that point we had been sitting and observing for 2-3 hours, and I think we were all grateful for some liquid. Once everybody got water (there was enough for everybody), one of the older women passed out a few little gifts to privileged members —jewels from Oxum (simple bracelets, earrings, etc). Sara explained to me that the festa on the 2nd day (in a cycle of 3 festas for the egunguns) always features this moment with Oxum, because the egungun is a highly revered Mãe de santo, a worshiped ancestor of one of the main families and a central reference for the terreiro. It is Sara's great grandmother. 

After the ceremony ended everybody mingled and waited for food and drink. We saw one of the ojé’s pass with a case of champagne, and Sara exclaimed, “Oooh you came on the right day!”. The ojés popped the champagne ceremoniously and everybody who wanted one got a plastic champagne glass. We toasted and took a celebratory picture. It felt like a family reunion. This terreiro is remarkable because it actively maintains relationships with the ancestors, which are known, celebrated and worshipped by continuing generations. I know of few communities that keep this sort of memory alive, and can pin-point with such specificity family ties, both spiritual and biological. I don’t doubt they exist, and I know there are several more in Bahia, and that this is one of the central purposes of candomblé —to keep community and family ties in the face of great violence and forced separation from the legacy of the Atlantic Slave Trade. But I had never quite felt the profundity and witnessed the efficacy of such a practice. Hearing Sara talk about her family confirmed how deep history is preserved through ritual practice. She herself descends from one of the African women who founded the first known and still functioning terreiro in Salvador. I couldn’t help but feel jealous of their extended family and genealogical wisdom, which at least for that particular evening felt joyful and unified. It made being so far from my biological family particularly painful that evening. However, I felt comfort in knowing that others can sustain such meaningful relationships with loved ones for centuries, across oceans, in much more trying conditions, and that I was privileged enough to witness their persistence.

Mothers of the saint

To start, if you need some help remembering or keeping up with the Portuguese/Yoruba terms, visit the "What is Candomblé?" page, where I've added some key definitions.

If getting to the last terreiro was a challenge, arriving at this lesser known terreiro in a popular neighborhood (Brotas) of Salvador was much greater. The terreiro was registered in the most recent study of 2007, so we had an address, but google maps couldn't possibly offer proper directions to navigate the steep (I emphasize STEEP) hills and back streets, which after getting lost a few times, proved to be full of small terreiros. A personal friend of mine, a pai-de-santo at another terreiro, invited me to attend his "mother's" house, where he would wear his "Exu". This means that he was initiated by the leader of this terreiro (his "mother") and would return to receive his spirit, Exu. This invite seemed like an important opportunity, as so far I have focused on gaining greater access and proximity to terreiros that have not yet been written about or researched in great detail.

My husband and I nearly gave up about three times on the way, as it seemed that every street we went down happened to be the wrong one. I kept giving the name of the terreiro when asking help from passer-bys, but nobody recognized the name in Yoruba. Finally somebody at a bar asked, "Is it the party for Xangô?", and  I thought, "close enough...", so she gave us some directions that I could generally follow, though only by going the wrong way down a one-day street. Ayrá, the orixá celebrated that evening, is similar to Xangô and often considered to be the same, as they have similar traits, adornments and clothing. After pissing off a truck coming head on, we descended a steep hill, which on a rainy night was particularly worrisome. At the bottom of the hill we saw a bunch of parked cars and heard some drumming and guessed it was the Candomblé party. I was getting a bit anxious with nowhere to park, stuck on a steep hill in the rain, and had to take a moment to breathe and calm down. With nowhere to park the car and uncertain if we had finally arrived in the right place, I looked at my husband and asked if he just wanted to go home and forget about it. He was ambivalent about coming at all and was willing to give up, but concluded that we had gone this far, so mine as well go all the way. I knew that once we got inside the barracão, everything would be alright. So we continued down the hill and asked the samba men, who we discovered were not affiliated with any terreiro, if there was a Candomblé party nearby and if we could park there. They confirmed that yes, down the alley there was a terriero, and directed me to park in front of a bunch of abandoned, rusted cars. I barely had room to get out of my car and had to step through a puddle next to a pile of garbage and slide around the car to get out. 

So we walked down some more steps into a small favela, and saw people dressed in white waiting outside a large house--a sure sign of a terreiro. I asked anyway, and with permission I entered to find a bathroom-- after driving around for an hour trying to find the place, I had to pee. The terreiro was small, but beautiful. I walked down a corridor alongside a line of different colored painted altars for different orixás--there were dead animal skins pinned on the walls, surely those sacrificed for the orixás. I entered the back room to find the bathroom, always asking for permission, and saw some of the behind the scenes. People appeared taken aback by my presence, especially the leading ogã, the man who coordinates the party, like a bouncer. Nobody said anything but I sensed that not many foreigners or anthropologists get down the hills and alleys to this particular terreiro. 
 
The ceremony did not start promptly, so my husband and I waited outside for a while alongside other party-goers. We stood next to a group of young people. We seemed to belong to a similar generation and what in Bahia is called the "alternative" cultural group (especially my husband, since he grew up in Bahia, but I've spent five years on and off and entered these circles). One woman with facial piercings and a turban offered me a bit of chocolate, which is my favorite treat, and I interpreted her offering as camaraderie. The adjacent friend group was commenting that they similarly got lost on the way, though by foot, and we were all grateful to have arrived, waiting rather awkwardly for the ceremony to start. The rain brought us inside the ritual space (barracão), where we found seats along the wall. I squeezed in next to one of the young women, hoping to make friends as we were hip to hip in front of a window, leaning against the open shudder. The spirit enters through the open windows and doors, which have straw above them, meant to mark their entrance with a gust of wind as they enter the room to take over the medium's bodies. I felt in a vulnerable and exposed position, though somehow protected by my husband on the right and my close companion on the left. 

There was a different feeling at this party than others. Generally the crowd was older, the vibe familiar and intimate. The male and female observers were not separated; instead everybody sat around the edges of the rectangular room, with opposite sides facing each other. There was a small concrete circle as part of the floor, marking the ritual center of the room. Once again, every ritual participant touched the ground and then their head. Some laid down and put their head on the middle of the circle. To begin, everybody in the ritual greeted one another in a hierarchical fashion. Some simply offer both their hands open below the revered person, others lay all the way on the ground. Many lined up to lay down in front of the mãe-de-santo (mother of the saint). I noticed that on the other side of the window, the woman who offered me chocolate was being honored by several people in the ceremony, including my pai-de-santo friend. She must be an important person in Candomblé, I thought, even though her age and style did not indicate the same status as the other older women affiliated with the mãe-de-santo. 

One of the things that most surprised me about this terreiro was the use of trumpets. I had never before seen brass instruments incorporated into Candomblé ritual music. Alongside the three drummers, two men also played the trumpet at key moments during the ceremony. The horns signaled the official beginning of the ceremony, and later when each spirit arrived in people's bodies, they blasted loudly in celebration and indication of the spirit's entrance. There was a large, recent photograph of the mãe-de-santo herself in the room. The terreiro was founded in 1976, and she seemed to be about 75 years old, suggesting that she may have been the sole leader of the terreiro since it's founding (she may have started the house herself around 36 years of age). There was another even older woman who was leading many of the activities, especially the songs and managing the order of orixás throughout the ceremony. 

With this older generation of African-descended women in the heart of Salvador's popular neighborhoods, I felt that I had fallen into a quintessential "City of Women" scene. There were three women seated at the front of the room calling the shots, giving orders with an ease only acquired after decades of spiritual labor, creating "filhos de santo" (children, sons and daughters of the saint), initiating new people, making offerings and organizing ceremonies, not to mention the day-to-day work of taking care of a terreiro, which I have yet to fully grasp in my research experience thus far. I believe it was scenes such as these, in houses such as these, lead by generations of black women, that brought Ruth Landes to her conclusions of "matriarchy". It is truly a situation not found in many places throughout the racist Americas, and a phenomenon worth exploring and sharing, though perhaps in different terms and with a broader comparative lens. I noticed that in general there were more women involved in the ritual than men. One by one spirits arrived and people became possessed. In total about 7 women were possessed and 4 men. As the spirits were arriving, one of the women who earlier was sitting on the steps waiting for the ceremony to start, got up from her seat and motioned to an ogã at the terreiro, with desperate eyes pleading to leave the room. Before the man could fully secure her body, her eyes upturned, her legs went limp and she fell heavy to the ground right in front of me. I was a bit in shock and unsure as to the proper way help, so I let more experienced people take care of her. A group of four people dragged her back to her seat and tried to calm her down. She came back into consciousness shortly after, and after stabilizing and gaining strength in her legs, got up to leave the barracão. A few people exchanged glances, but most stayed focus on the true spirits of the party, adorned in the middle of the room. 

After the arrival of the last and most important spirit, Ayrá, in the body of one of the older women, everybody except for Oyá left the barracão to be dressed. To end the party Exu (played by my pai-de-santo friend) and Ayrá entered the room. We were given fragrant white flowers to throw on the spirits as they circled and danced for a good while. A very well-dressed ogã entered alongside Ayrá with a white suite, white gloves and a white satin sash decorated with the words "Ogã de Xangô". He was the official guardian of Ayrá for the evening and had special status. Shortly after the "equede of Xangô" entered the dancing circle with a similarly special sash. 

During a cigarette break, my husband spoke to the woman who offered me chocolate and received blessings from people in the ritual. He took the liberty of talking to her about my research (something I was hesitant about exposing initially), and she revealed that she herself was a mãe-de-santo, the youngest women I've yet to see in this position. Her friend said that my research topic was "polemic", and she questioned what the older women might think about my investigation and intentions. Despite the hesitations, curiosity won over and she gave my husband her phone number to get in touch. The next day I messaged her and she promptly responded, saying we should get together to discuss my research, offering, "I think I can help you..."

These ceremonies are aptly called "parties", because although they are carefully planned ritual events, in many ways they are similar to any other type of party. People arrive well-dressed, in a particular style determined for the occasion. Many women come wearing make-up and high-heels, men with ironed shirts and combed hair. Even though I was told that taking pictures is taboo, many people do take them, with nice cameras or with their phones, and then post the pictures on facebook the following day, tagging friends and showing off their attendance and the beauty of the party. Beverages are served at strategic moments, and food at the very end when people make small talk. There's not nearly as much socializing going on as I had expected, and especially little flirting or romantic interactions. But I've noticed that particularly my process of going to the ceremonies reminds me of going to other parties. I have to get up the energy and courage to go into an unfamiliar place and present myself to many new people. I worry that my clothes will fit in. I have to find directions and figure out transportation. I lament having to try to find the bathroom in a strange place. As a researcher, I know I should talk myself and my research up to get some digits. It's kind of silly, and I'm kind of nervous, as my biggest preoccupation is being respectful and following the rules, which is tricky because I don't know them all. All in all, this party was a particularly successful one, because, with my husband's help, I got a few people's number and feel like I might get a "second date". 

I'm being cheeky, but I have some good leads and made some good contacts to move forward, and we'll see where they take me. Notice that I did not use names or specifications in this post, as the terreiro is not public in the same way as the previous one, and without permission I'll remain anonymous. For now I'm getting to know as many different houses as possible before I commit to any one research site.

Note: I track the roles of men and women based on the recognizable traits associated with each gender in a widely accepted binary system in Brazil and practiced in paricular ways within the religious system of Candomblé. I do not mean to project or define anybody's gender, but rather evaluate the way they present themselves and occupy particular roles, sometimes related to and determined by their gender identity. 

And so it begins

After over a month of settling in and getting through the crazy amount of paperwork and government bureaucracy to register and get married to a Brazilian, I am now ready to dive into my research (but don't think our bureaucratic nightmares are anywhere near over! I could write many long and frustrated blog posts about my experience at the Federal Police, Consulates and notaries...). 

Last Wednesday I went to my first Candomble "party" (festa) of the season, officially marking the beginning of my Ph.D. fieldwork as a Fulbright-Hays DDRA scholar. I was fortunate to have my newly-wed husband accompany me to the party (having a male escort is always helpful in Brazil). We went by car up and around the curvy hills of Salvador, getting lost a few times along the way, making u-turns down dark back streets, missing speed bumps and flying over them, going the wrong way down one-way and dead end streets, screeching the brakes and wheels of our compact Honda Fit. Our road adventures through Bahia have been like that since I got my car over a month ago. It requires some time to understand the rules of the road here and the complicated caminhos, or ways to get around. Google Maps can provide a general orientation, but doesn’t have the precision or know-it-all to navigate seamlessly the streets of Salvador da Bahia.

After a short, but somewhat chaotic ride to the terreiro we arrived and were greeted by a police car with flashing colored lights and a large spotlight at the entrance of Ilê Oxumare, signaling the party for the two female gods to be honored that evening, Oyá and Obá. Both are considered strong warrior figures. Obá is associated with rough fresh waters and is considered stronger than many male orixás. Oyá, also known as Iansã, is the goddess of lightning and big storms. She is mother to many other important deities. Yoruba myths are similar to those of the Greek Gods, with complicated familial relationships, love spats and incest. There are many iterations of Yoruba legends, depending on the particular tradition and historical practice of each terreiro (religious site/house). 

Women in white dresses and turbans were descending down the hill to the terreiro, where many cars were parked outside. I found a parking spot on a curvy hill, where I paralleled parked uphill with fair precision. We entered with no greeting or questioning. These public Candomble parties are surprisingly open and unassuming. There are few rules or judgments; everyone who shows respect for the orixas may enter and observe. Nobody asks who you are or why you’re there. Many people, young and old, show off their varieties of tattoos and piercings. It’s the perfect space for an anthropologist to enter and anonymously observe at the beginning of the research process. Because of the loud drums and the captivating ceremony, few people talk. Most interactions are visual; everybody checks each other out in subtle ways, though most of the time all eyes are on those in the center of the barracão (large ceremonial house), accompanying the ritual and anxiously awaiting the arrival of the orixás, when they descend into select mediums as a form of spirit possession.

To start three male ogãs began playing the drums. One was a young boy, around 12 years old, another a much older man. The main drummer, perhaps in his 20s, lead the beginning of the ceremony. He wore a bright red hat, the color for Oyá, and began all of the chanting in Yoruba. The songs were the typical call and answer style in Yoruba, or rather a Brazilian version of Yoruba sometimes mixed with Portuguese. At the University of Michigan I took a a semester of Yoruba with a Nigerian professor, but unfortunately I was able to pick up very little at the ceremony. I need to practice the way Yoruba is used and pronounced in the Candomblés of Brazil, which is a very different variety. Most of the other observers around me knew the proper response to the chants and participated in small ways, like bending down to touch the ground and then the top of the head, just like the mediums were doing in the center of the room—a way to prepare the space for the orixá to descend through the medium’s heads. Most of the observers at the party are also practitioners of Candomblé at other terrieros. They come to big, historically famous houses such as Ilê Oxumarê to witness the extravagance and beauty of the party and to honor the particular orixa celebrated that evening. 

About 20-25 women entered following the initial drumming. They formed a large circle around a central altar for Oyá and lightly danced in a circle for about thirty minutes, chanting with the ogãs, preparing for the impeding possession. The space was intricately decorated with hanging ornaments and straw on the doors and windows to welcome the orixas and encourage them to enter the ritual center. Each iao (bride of the god, member of the cult) went to the front door and kissed the ground, then returned to the dancing circle. About five men were on the outside of the circle, sometimes seated, and always observing the mediums. After 45 minutes to an hour of light dancing and preparation for the orixa, the leading priest entered alongside about 7 older women, presumably the leading ekedis. They appeared to be the oldest, most experienced and respected “secretaries” of the priest. The priest (pai de santo) made a short speech in which he welcomed everybody to the party and made a few remarks to honor Oyá and Obá in that particular house that evening.

During the next song one of the mediums keeled over and began screaming. Most everyone began yelping and clapping because the first spirit had arrived. One by one several people became possessed and the ekedis (the women who accompany the possessed, but do not become possessed themselves) cared for them, changing their turbans and adjusting their clothing, leading them to the front door and back. The crowd became very animated with the arrival of spirits and the drumming intensified. At one point a man in the audience fell in trance, which is a common, but grave offense, as he could jeopardize the carefully planned ritual. 

The room was very hot and at times overwhelming, with so many sounds, sights and sensations. My husband and I needed a break, so we went to a nearby bar and ordered a cheap beer and water. Quickly my husband overheard that the woman at the next table was a priestess (mãe-de-santo) from a nearby city. One of the older, drunk men in front of the bar declared that he was the brother of the priest at Oxumarê. After a group of young people sat down at a nearby table, the priest's “brother"quickly began making comments about viados in Candomblé. The term “viado” is a derogatory term for a male who supposedly receives penetration during sex. The term is often used as an insult and a stand-in for anything negative. Perhaps responding to the presence of what he considered gay men at the bar, the priest's “brother” loudly asserted that he is a “real man” in contrast to  the viados or the "effeminate" men who receive deities during possession. A woman was trying to defend her friends, claiming that the "brother" was discriminating and that such discrimination is a crime. The drunk man didn’t seem interested in stopping, so the whole table went away and back to the party. That interaction showed me how common these aggressions are, and how sexuality is a frequent topic in discussions of Candomblé. The "brother" of the Candomblé priest, who did not participate in the ceremony, based his gender expectations on a Brazilian ideal of masculinity, which Candomblé subverts. The contrast between the gender and sexual expressions cultivated in the terreiro during the ritual and those persecuted at the bar was stark. Despite being a few meters away, the bar was occupied by heterosexual, drunk macho men and police.  Perhaps the terreiro provides a temporary reprieve from such prejudices and potentially violent aggressions (a theory offered by previous researchers on this topic). 

On the subject of gender and sexuality, the priestess at the next table claimed that only men can be ogãs (drummers), but conceded that there have been “polemic” cases where a zapatona (term referring to what in English may be described as a “butch lesbian”) played the drums, reflecting recent changes in Candomblé. This idea about the corruption of Candomblé from its pure and proper ritual form is an old discourse, similar to other religious practices that value tradition and are skeptical of changes and innovations. This particular priestess affirmed that although a zapatona may be homosexual, she is still a woman, and therefore it’s not appropriate for her to play the drums. In "proper" Candomblé practice, women are ekedis and men are ogãs. Those who receive the spirit and dance (rodantes) may be either male or female, as this role is determined by the orixás and the particular relationship with the medium, regardless of gender or sexual orientation. Despite the freedom of sexual expression in the terreiros and the non-binary nature of the orixás (something I'll write about later), few people seem to question the division of both ritual and social roles on the basis of what they consider to be a physically identifiable, biological sexual identity of men and women. 

Towards the end of our time at the ceremony, the "true" Oyá arrived in what seemed to be an unconvential form. I wasn’t present to witness the following, though my husband told me the sequence of events. About two hours in people outside were commenting that “the real Iansã hasn’t arrived yet”, despite the fact that many mediums were possessed by various orixás in the barracão. I wasn’t sure how to identify the “real Iansã”, or the most important and honored medium for the evening, but apparently she arrived late and from far away. People from the bar saw a possessed woman coming down the hill, accompanied by a woman helping her walk and leading her towards the towards the terreiro. Her body was contorted and her eyes upturned. My husband said he got the chills seeing her. Apparently she was a member of the terreiro, though she didn’t attend the ceremony. Perhaps there was some sort of conflict—the reason for her absence in the ritual is unclear— but Oyá’s force, provoked by the ritual, was so strong that it reached her in her own house, where she fell into the saint (became possessed by the spirit). She was lead into the back of the terreiro to be prepared to enter the ritual as “the real Iansã”. After witnessing this event, one policeman at the bar commented (a pair of them were drinking along with the bar owners), “Candomblé is like a wifi signal, once the drums start the network connects at a distance!”. 

The terreiro posted some photos of the party on their facebook page. I will take the liberty of sharing some of them, since observers aren't allowed to take photos at the party, and the terreiro makes them available publicly (who doesn't like to share photos on facebook after a good party?). Enjoy! And please feel free to leave any comments or questions-- I'll update this blog as I get further into my research, or as interesting topics come to mind. There's plenty to observe and contemplate here in Bahia, and I'm looking forward to having over a year to do it. 

The following photos are available at Oxumarês facebook page.

Pai de santo second to the left and the ekedis. The background portrait is of the current pai de santo of Ilê Oxumarê. 

Women dancing in the circle to begin the ceremony around the altar for Oyá in the barracão.

Here is a direct link to a video taken during the ceremony. 

7-1?

The World Cup in Brazil 2014

I’m sure nearly everybody watching the semifinal game between Germany and Brazil on July 8, 2014 experienced a similar feeling of shock and awe about midway through the first half. We could analyze forever why and how this happened and still not really understand or believe it. As somebody who experienced the excitement and disappointment throughout the past week, I’d like to share my take on Brazilian’s engagement with the World Cup, before and after this horrendous match.

I arrived in Salvador, Bahia on July 3, 2014. My plane was completely full, the Miami airport was decorated with FIFA paraphernalia, kids were juggling soccer balls in the gates. We were all going to arrive in Brazil right in time for the quarterfinals. Brazil had just beaten Chile in overtime with penalty kicks, and was still fairly strong in the competition. Everywhere I turned there were Brazilian flags, uniforms, green and yellow decorations, FIFA stickers and plaques. There was no escaping the World Cup—nearly everybody was wearing, representing, or talking about it in some way or another.

Despite these displays of excitement, I wondered how this compared to other World Cups, independent of Brazil being the host country. Because I’m from the U.S., I don’t have a frame of reference for ostentatious national pride in international soccer competitions. What do I know, maybe people put Brazilian flags on their cars, outside their houses and businesses for every World Cup and root for their teams just as intensely, whether in South Africa, Europe or in their own country? Because unless you’re directly in contact with a host city, a game, or in close proximity to a stadium, it appears to me that being Brazilian doesn’t privilege you at all for this World Cup (after the semifinal game it is actually just embarrassing...). The only way main difference I see is the incredible media coverage of the events and public responses to them. Every time you turn on the television somebody is commenting upon a game, a player, a host city, a protest, a party, etc. The commentators and programs are nonstop, serving as a way of rallying the country around soccer and their national team (especially around the martyr Neymar—but I’ll get to that later). This is especially necessary after the incredible resistance to FIFA and the Federal Government’s management of public funds to pull of this World Cup.

Despite the protests from July 2013 during the Confederations Cup and June 2014 in anticipation for the beginning of the World Cup, once the games began it most people, militant activists or not, stopped their screaming and fighting, bought some beer, put on a jersey, called up some friends or went down to the local bar and cheered for their team. (A study done by “Globo”, the conservative media monopoly in Brazil, said that something like 70% of Brazilians supported the World Cup after it began, compared to around 40% before it started).  I don’t mean to suggest that protests were not real or valid, they absolutely were. And it's important to note that the Federal Government declared that anybody protesting during the World Cup would receive 30 years in jail, an order that can only come from a near-dictatorial state. But as commentator John Oliver pointed out on his political show, football is like organized religion. You can hate and love FIFA at the same time for doing what's necessary to pull off such a spectacular event-- uniting the best players in the world and administrating it all despite local complications, regional differences, and logistical nightmares. However, in order to do so they'll crush anything in their path.  

The quarterfinal match Brazil x Columbia was on a Friday afternoon, and spirits were high. I went to the “FIFA Fan Fest” at the Barra Lighthouse in Salvador to check out the scene. It’s basically a huge stage and screen set up by FIFA in strategic spots around major cities to encourage collective viewing and partying. They had a full line up of local musical celebrities, and security at the entrance with FIFA’s own police force checking for weapons to ensure the viewers’ safety. It was an impressive operation, and certainly a festive one. It seems from the games and the celebrations that Brazil successfully attracted a huge tourist presence. And why not? Brazil has so much to offer to tourists, first of all its incredible nonstop seductive party hard attitude, not to mention its beautiful beaches, delicious food and natural wonders. I’m almost certain nothing productive has gotten done throughout this World Cup season to really advance Brazil in any way. I only hope some people made good money off the tourists. Though even if some did, it’s nothing near a majority.

I stayed at the Fan Fest just for a portion of the Germany x France game, knowing that it would get ridiculously crazy and crowded during the Brazil game. I went to a friend’s house with good food, drinks and company to watch the game, which was great fun and a very positive atmosphere. With a quick goal in the first half, we all felt good about Brazil’s chances to continue on. We cheered and hugged and danced for each goal, opened beers and passed drinks merrily.

Until Tiago Silva, the Brazilian team’s captain, got his second yellow card and at the bottom of the screen appeared a notice that he wouldn’t appear in the next game. I don’t think we quite understood the severity of that absence until the 7-1 loss, especially since this small blip was vastly overshadowed by Neymar’s upcoming injury.

So... in my opinion, Neymar had been flopping and getting fouled all over the place the entire competition. He hasn’t been playing his best, nor has the entire Brazilian team. All in all, I think Brazilians and their sympathizers have been pretty disappointed despite their wins. So much so that I (and probably others) have started to come up with conspiracy theories about the outcome of games to appease and please which parties. Conspiracies aside, Neymar’s injury had some very critical effects and outcome for the Brazilian team, and its supporters...

When Neymar went down, I wasn’t surprised or particularly worried. He seemed to always put on a painful show to sell the foul. Of course the medical team would come out right away for their best player and take him off the field in a stretcher –just in case. When he didn’t come back in the game I just figured it was because they were obviously winning and it was better for him to recuperate. I honestly couldn’t imagine that he would be so injured as to not return for the rest of the World Cup.

When the Globo announcers stated with great remorse that Neymar would not be returning, we were all shocked and I think deep down knew that Brazil was screwed for the next game. Neymar has become Brazil’s soccer superstar, scoring the most goals and dancing around nearly any defender with grace. He has been the face of commercials, figurines, and the most sold jersey. Even before he went down I noticed that nearly everybody was wearing #10 with Neymar Jr. to celebrate their favorite player.

With this tragedy, the media went wild. I can’t tell you how many times I saw the clip of him getting hit in the back and falling on the ground, his leg twitching and his face wailing with pain. It was as if that moment were the biggest tragedy and the most relevant event of the century, to be discussed nonstop. We heard from his doctor, clips and updates from his treatment, animated replays and diagrams of his injury. Neymar produced videos for the “Brazilian people” to rally them for the semifinal game. Globo published polls and opinions from people optimistic about the team’s future. There were multiple interviews with the head coach to determine the new line up, the new strategy without Neymar and the team’s captain. We were told to play the game “for Neymar”, to honor his absence with a win that would put Brazil in the final match at the Rio de Janeiro stadium Maracanã.

These 3 days of media overload successfully brainwashed viewers into believing that the Brazilian team had a chance to win the semifinal game. We got ready for the game same way as the quarterfinals –elaborate costumes with Brazil’s colors, flags, businesses closing at noon on a Tuesday, friends and family gathering to watch the game, bars and FIFA Fan Fest filling up in anticipation with excited, drunk supporters. During the warm up Tiago Silva, the captain, roamed in and out of field in his street clothes, there to support his team and encourage them through the game. During Brazil’s national anthem David Luiz and Cesar (the golie) held Neymar’s jersey in solidarity. People were crying with pride and cheering with all their heart.

It’s with this all this build up that we, Brazilians and their supporters, experienced the greatest deception with a 5-0 first half and a 7-1 final score. After the 3^rd goal I knew it was over, but couldn’t imagine how bad it could get. It was as if the team had gaping holes that the German players could just poke through with no problem, and Cesar couldn’t stop a single shot from entering the goal. After the 5^th goal it became clear the score could be astronomically, embarrassingly high—a blowout of proportions never before witnessed in World Cup history.

How could this happen in the host country? Hadn’t Dilma and the Federal Government successfully bought out the refs or other teams to ensure peace and contentment for the Brazilian people, after they had dealt with the terrible consequences of building stadiums, redirecting resources, and nearly bankrupting local funds to put on the World Cup for a foreign audience? And if they didn’t, why did the global media manipulate us into thinking that, without Neymar and Tiago Silva, the Brazilian team even had a chance? Maybe, just maybe, it’s related to the fact that Globo –the media monopoly in Brazil—is against Dilma and her party PT, maybe they wanted Brazilians to be so disappointed and upset with the outcome of the World Cup they will surely vote Dilma out during the upcoming October elections... Or maybe Germany is just an incredibly strong team and will easily beat Argentina for the title? Maybe Neymar is really hurt and can’t play, maybe he needs to recuperate despite the fact he’s now walking no problem and after the media ploy, has become a bigger star and more important Brazilian figure than ever...

I could go on about my ideas of conspiracy, because it’s hard for me to imagine that these turn of events were, in some way, without planning. There is too much money exchanging big hands. But all of that aside, this is where we’re at with Brazil in the World Cup. I am shocked and nervous that the Brazilian team has to play for 3^rd place this coming Saturday. I only hope this time the team and the coach realize the gravity of their situation and revise their game plan to at least put on a respectful loss for 4^th place. Who knows, maybe they’ll surprise us. Maybe with their captain Tiago Silva back in the mix, a few substitutions, and a more realistic attitude they’ll pull of a win for 3^rd place. In any case, that semifinal game will surely go down in soccer history as the biggest upset and embarrassment for any host country—or probably any country at all.

Yesterday everybody was talking about the game as if it were a bad dream. Most were just laughing in deception, as if to throw their hands up in the air and say, “Look at our joke of a country!” Supposedly the “country of football” Brazil is now an international embarrassment, what do they have now? With heads in between their legs, remorsefully heading home, getting back to work, and simply pushing through it like the innumerous other challenges of being Brazilian because despite it all, “a vida continua”. Life goes on...

And now I root for Argentina. VIVA AMÉRICA LÁTINA!!!

Are you ready for the World Cup?

I know everybody is talking about Brazil at the moment, so I thought I'd give an update as the World Cup approaches this coming month. I will arrive in Bahia on July 3 and be there for the quarter, semi and final rounds. I'm looking forward to getting a better sense of how people respond to the games and the event as they happen. For now, I can only write about what I see and understand from a distance regarding the anticipation of and preparation for the 2014 FIFA World Cup.

The bottom line is that, it's not going well. Massive protests to government spending and mismanagement have swelled especially in São Paulo, Brasília, Rio de Janeiro and other cities throughout the country. A recent study showed that only 22% of Brazilians will even root for their national team (a statistic I have a very hard time believing). This public mural has gone viral as the simple message presents a Brazil unwilling to face its true problems of poverty, income inequality, and access to resources while graciously preparing for foreign media and visitors.

Mural by Paulo Ito

On Tuesday groups of indigenous peoples and their supporters protested outside of the newly constructed arena in Brasília, a stadium that cost $1.2 billion (USD) of federal spending. The protestors were met with tear gas, rubber bullets, and violent police repression. This looks a lot like the response to protests last year during the Confederations Cup, but the iconography of this protest and the symbolic messages of oppressed peoples uniting against government corruption are particularly striking.

Image source

Not to mention the incredibly violent military invasions of favelas in attempts to restructure and "sanitize" the city of Rio de Janeiro. I still don't understand the breakdown of all the different types of police units, but clearly the municipal and federal governments are in on displacing thousands of families from their prime real estate homes, as quickly as possible. Because favelas are squatter communities, they have precarious land rights, and are often the first to be displaced as disempowered communities. The urgency put on by the strict timetables of FIFA and the disorganization of infrastructural development throughout Brazil has left many families in vulnerable situations. They are being violently forced out of the way in order to construct new highways, hotels and parking lots to receive international tourists and teams.

Meanwhile in the United States I'm seeing various corporate manifestations of Brazil's comoditized image. I walk into an athletic store and see a Nike ad using Brazil's soccer repute to sell cleats. On ESPN I see a commercial of young Afro-Brazilian women walking through colorful favelas to promote tourism and a gritty yet sexy Brazil. Drunken partiers wear Brazil's national t-shirts at Bay to Breakers, flags are sold as accessories at Forever 21. iTunes sells the official album of the World Cup, with shockingly few Brazilian artists featured. I think these and numerous other examples point to the obvious question of who wins and who loses from such international sporting events (hint: the U.S. soccer team is not the only loser).

Politically, this all looks incredibly bad for Dilma and PT (the leading Worker's Party) in the upcoming federal elections in October. When former president Lula agreed to host both the 2014 World Cup and the 2016 Olympics in Brazil, undoubtedly he envisioned celebrations and success that would bolster his party's credibility and notoriety. The opposite could not be more true. In a truly multi-party political system such as Brazil, I would not be surprised if an alternative candidate rose in opposition to Dilma in the wake of this mismanaged World Cup fiasco. That being said, I do not claim to have great political expertise or foresight in this matter.

Despite all of this mess, I'm still rooting for Brazil and am almost certain they will win the World Cup by merit or otherwise... If they don't, I can only image the anger and mobilization that might follow such failure and disappointment. It will be an interesting summer.



Want to read more?

http://www.slate.com/blogs/the_spot/2014/05/20/paulo_ito_world_cup_a_brazilian_street_artist_has_created_the_world_cup.html

http://revolution-news.com/armed-state-uniforms-wage-open-war-brazils-poor-largest-favela-occupied-2-kids-killed-37-arrested-en-mass/

http://www.slate.com/blogs/behold/2014/04/16/marc_ohrem_leclef_olympic_favela_documents_the_brazil_s_slum_residents_being.html

http://www.democracynow.org/2014/5/22/brazils_dance_with_the_devil_dave

Leaving Bahia (for now)

This year+ experience in Brazil has been extremely rewarding and important for me to revise and rethink previous notions I had regarding Brazilian academia and how to transit within it. Not only did I lack a theoretical foundation (which I will continue to build at the University of Michgan) but also practical experience as a “gringa” within this field. I had considered the power dynamics between myself as a researcher and my subjects, but not necessarily between my academic colleagues.

Throughout my classes at CEAO and research I have become a bit baffled by the concept of Feminist Anthropology, especially in Brazil. It appears to me that nobody knows exactly what it means, yet many are chasing after it, trying to find some sort of militant discussion of gender, of women, of sexuality in order to get past common sense notions of separation and difference between the “sexes”. Yet in this field I’ve encountered politics typical of any site of power and competition for career success that do not necessarily value the production of knowledge or consensus as linked to any sort of social movement/basis.

My relationship with fellow students however has been generally positive. I found it was easiest to connect with people from my own positioning (despite my foreign nationality), my own generation and I feel we have a common interest in treating each other with kindness and respect, to help one another in producing the best work possible. I am optimistic in this respect, and have faith in the possibilities for change as we grow and seek common goals to direct academia towards living subjects and think about the consequences of representation within an educated and diverse society.

As for my ethnography, I am still in the process of preparation. My M.A. project will stick closer to historical research utilizing letters and photos that explain Landes’ fieldwork experience in Brazil, and then place her legacy within the context of Brazilian anthropology. I believe this to be a feasible task, and will expand the project further as I develop my Ph.D. research, which as of now will probably include ethnography of gender and sexuality in Afro-American religions such as candomblé.

I’ve created significant relationships within the candomblé community, not as strictly informants, but academic students themselves, friends of friends, and new acquaintances.  However, the religion itself presents many difficulties as a field of study. I believe it to be extremely important to understand the history of academia within terreiros and how they have negotiated relationships with the public over the past century. Not only are these power dynamics important to consider, but the actual functioning of the spiritual forces within candomblé present different obstacles and considerations. It’s absolutely necessary to understand how the people in the religion interpret your presence and your possible place within their cosmology as a foreigner, as a researcher. This exercise is much more delicate and at times abstract, requiring sensitivity and time to consider various perspectives in relation to your specific research objectives. Having the luxury of time (about 15 months) has allowed me to dive into these methodological questions with the intention of creating and executing a worthwhile project in the near future.

As of now, I’m off to begin my Ph.D. at the University of Michigan in a joint History and Anthropology program with advisor Paul C. Johnson. I’ll return to Bahia from May – August 2014 to finish up my M.A. research and plan on continuing with this blog whenever relevant.

Oh, I’ve also been published in Portuguese, if you’re interested take a look http://www.prp.ueg.br/revista/index.php/revistahistoria/article/view/1585 .  It’s a translated and revised version of my undergraduate History thesis regarding the relationship between Edison Carneiro and Ruth Landes.

Thank you to my readers, and please keep in touch!

Grande abraço,

ajamie@umich.edu