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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781250083104 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/28/2015 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Sales rank: | 441,313 |
| File size: | 297 KB |
About the Author
Jesse Sage is an associate director of the American Anti-Slavery Group. Sage has appeared on NPR, BET, Pacifica Radio, and has spoken widely across the country. Fast Company recognized him as one of its "Fast 50" social innovators for his development of activist web-portal iAbolish.com.
Read an Excerpt
Enslaved
True Stories of Modern Day Slavery
By Jesse Sage, Liora Kasten
Palgrave Macmillan
Copyright © 2006 American Anti-Slavery GroupAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4039-7324-5
CHAPTER 1
THE JOURNEY OF AN ORPHAN
IN AND OUT OF BONDAGE FROM HAITI TO CONNECTICUT
Micheline Slattery
Micheline Slattery bears few outward signs of her ordeal. Her bubbly demeanor, elegant style, and fluent English betray little hint of a brutal childhood and young adulthood. Her trauma begins with the assassination of her father in Haiti and then lasts nearly two decades, including enslavement in both Haiti and a Connecticut suburb. The excerpt below reveals a young woman who—despite appearing tragically marked for abuse—is a survivor, determined to overcome.
The type of slavery Slattery experienced is referred to in Haiti as restavec—literally, "staying with." By some estimates, 250,000 young Haitian children today are restavecs, serving as domestic slaves for Haitian families. Although slavery is outlawed in Haiti, these young Haitians—sometimes even relatives of the slaveholders—are seen as expendable. They are forced to do the most menial work for no pay and often live in terrible conditions.
Haiti was historically a massive French slave colony; hundreds of thousands of Africans were transported to the Caribbean island to work on plantations. A slave rebellion in 1804 overthrew the rule of white slave owners. Yet, the restavec system soon emerged, as former slaves began holding young children as slaves. Today, Haitian children caught up in the restavec system are sometimes trafficked to the United States. Slattery's story is but one example.
I was born on July 13, 1977, in the coastal community of Jacmel in Haiti, the second child of privileged, mixed-race parents. I was less than a year old when my father was assassinated by the Tonton Macoute, a ruthless gang formed to enforce submission to the Duvalier presidency then seizing power. My parents were popular with the residents of Jacmel, and my father had a reputation for helping the people of Haiti, who desperately needed it. They were happy, as far as I know, but things changed.
After my father's death, my mother, my older brother Lewis, and I went into hiding on a farm we owned in Jacmel. The farm was our playground, and we grew up in relative happiness, unaware of the dark events motivating the move. Rice, corn, and coffee were grown for export, and stretching away from the house in all directions were fields worked by silent men who would arrive before we awoke and then vanish at sundown. Our life acquired a semblance of peace, but beneath the idyllic surface was hidden a volatile situation.
My mother never quite got over my father's death. She worked hard to keep the farm going, to keep her children fed. Sometimes, in those years following my father's murder, my mother would break down at the sink or in her bedroom, weeping for my father. Her room was next to mine, and I could hear her sobbing at night. Sometimes I would leave my room and go lie next to her without saying anything. I would put my little arms around her and she would take them and kiss them, and we'd fall asleep.
* * *
The morning my mother left me began like any other. My brother ran off to play with friends, and after spending the morning running around in the bushes near the house, I retreated inside. On the carpet in the living room, I'd spread a few dolls, and above me, at a small table in the corner, my mother hunched over some paperwork. Then the three men came. They wore old clothes, perhaps from the military, and bright red kerchiefs around their necks. Each wore an expensive gold watch and rings. As soon as my mother answered the door, I knew there was going to be trouble. She looked scared as she ushered them into a sitting room and sent the maid to make tea.
I was banished to the kitchen and didn't hear what was said. Fear began to take hold of me, unlike anything I had previously felt. It was a sick, cold feeling low in my stomach. My whole body seemed chilled by it. I kicked my little legs back and forth while cooks bustled over the stove, setting water to boil. They didn't look at me. Plain white walls, and the elaborate chrome workings of the oven, which took up one whole wall, held and lost my nervous gaze.
The teapot began to shriek just as my mother came into the kitchen, and she jumped. Without a word, she took my hand and led me out of the kitchen, through the elegantly decorated rooms, and out the back door. We passed mango trees, the orange grove, the small herb garden one of the cooks kept next to the shed. Soon we had skirted a corn field, the ground torn up but the furrows yet unseeded, and entered the brush. Dense jungle wrapped around us, its stillness belying the urgency of the woman pulling me along. She assured me I was going to an aunt's, but when we reached a lake, at the foot of a dark mountain, she left me there. She told me Lewis had been sent to a friend's house for the night.
"Stay put," she told me, her voice cracking. "Your aunt will come get you. Do not move. I'll see you soon, my darling." She kissed me quickly. Then she vanished through the undergrowth. That was the last time I saw my mother. She had recognized those men as agents of the Tonton Macoute, the same men who had killed my father. I can only assume she met the same fate.
I lay down in the dark grass. Water was vast on all sides, and above it the mountain, tall and verdant in the heavy air. Hours passed. The sun began to sink and the call of animals soon replaced the light. Their voices pierced the deep pitch of the forest. My own panic slowly grew. There was no sign of anyone, only the veiled step of nonhuman life in the darkness. A fear came to me that I was going to die, alone. I cried and called my mother's name into the jungle. I began to walk aimlessly, stumbling forward and back, tripping and falling on my face, desperate for my mother, but there was no answer. I needed a human voice. I began to climb the mountain. Thorns grasped at my clothes. The uncertain terrain caused me to lose my balance, hitting the ground more than once. My foot was bleeding. My shirt and pants were torn and soiled. I wandered blindly, going up, up, up.
After what seemed like hours, a deep male voice began to drift toward me from above. I ran toward it, crying for help. My fear of those strange men who terrorized my mother had disappeared in my need for reassurance. I broke out of the brush and into the arms of a large, dark-skinned, old man. He seemed to be another part of the mountain; his voice was deep and thick and rumbled out of him. But his eyes were kind in the light of his torch, and I was not afraid of him. I was crying at this point, and between sobs tried to tell him what happened. He let me carry on for a minute or so, and then called to someone behind him, who came out quickly into the light. She was an old woman, heavily wrinkled, but she moved quickly, and took charge of the situation immediately. His wife took me inside, cleaned my cuts, all the while asking me who I was and where my family was. After breakfast the next morning, we descended the mountain, the woman and I. The forest seemed less frightening with an adult by my side. I was brought to my aunt's house, across town in a poorer area of Jacmel.
* * *
My aunt and her family accepted me into their lives. But as soon as the kind woman on the hill departed, I was put to work. My aunt used me as the family maid. Though I was only five years old, I was given a long list of chores that kept me busy sunrise to sunset. I was to wake up at six every morning, in the cool of dawn. I would dress quickly and rush through the mist-hung jungle, half-asleep, to fill three one-gallon buckets at the lake five miles from our home. Four or five times in one day, I would make the journey. There were no roads or even footpaths. Snakes rested on vines or hid in the thick grass underfoot.
If ever the water supply ran low, I would be whipped without mercy by my aunt, who used flexible rods designed for the purpose. I still remember the pain. Once, though I forget my transgression, I was whipped so severely by my aunt that a gash opened on my back. My aunt went inside to the kitchen, sliced up a handful of lemons, added handfuls of salt, and rubbed them into the wounds. She did all this without apology or remorse of any kind. Whenever she would whip me, I would keep my mind blank, or try to. The pain, however, soon overwhelmed my thoughts. All I could do was pray that the next stroke would be the last.
My servitude was not restricted to fetching water. My day was so full that any hesitation would mean leaving things undone. After the other children went to school, I was to make their beds, clean the house, wash the dishes, and perform all the other tasks that kept the house running. To wash the clothes, I would stuff them into a great wicker basket, which I would balance on my head as I made my way to the lake, across the same path I carried water. The clothes weighed nearly as much as the water did. Along the way my neck would begin to cramp badly, but I did not stop to rest or slow down for fear of punishment. Still, this was probably my favorite part of the day. I was away from the abusive treatment of the house, and the work was easy enough, though my hands would be an angry red by the end. This was the only real time I had to think. I would miss my mother and my father, and sometimes I would tell myself that they were coming back.
My aunt and uncle, both practicing Voudou priests, reputedly made a deal with Damballah-wédo, the snake god, during the seasonal festivities one night. They requested great wealth and power and the ability to rise above the meager livelihood of the provincial farmer that was their lot. In return, they promised the spirit the life and soul of their youngest child, whose name was Marian. Marian was my age, a beautiful, light-skinned child. The phrasing of the ritual described the union between the spirit and the child as a "marriage," and she was expected to develop a strange, inexplicable illness that would quickly take her life. Her soul would then belong to the spirit, to do with as he pleased. Over the next few years, my aunt and uncle's farm began to grow and prosper. Soon, they were among the wealthiest farmers in Jacmel and became the acquaintances of a number of influential people in Port-au-Prince and elsewhere. Then one day Marian became sick. The spirit was taking his prize, as promised. My aunt and uncle now balked at their side of the bargain, horrified at the thought of losing their beautiful girl. They knew the spirit must be paid, but they thought perhaps a different soul could be substituted for that of their daughter.
They quickly turned to me. I was then about seven years old and an unwanted child in the household, more a slave than a family member. I made a perfect sacrifice. A propitious day was chosen for the invocation, and that morning I was given my first real bath since arriving at the house. They bathed me and dried me, and I wondered at how nice my skin looked when it wasn't smudged with dirt. They wrapped me in fine white linens and silk, and draped me in long, beaded jewelry. I was dressed as a traditional Haitian bride. I glanced at myself in the mirror after they were done and didn't recognize my own reflection. I thought they were finally starting to care for me, that all my hard work had been recognized. Finally, I thought, I have a family again.
My aunt and her husband, of course, mentioned nothing about what was to come that night. They kept me in the fancy clothes all day and excused me from chores. I was given a warm meal with everyone else at the table. I was ready to head off to bed that night when my uncle came in and took my arm. "You must come with us," he said, in a strange voice. I was confused; it was late at night, but I was too afraid that they might change their opinions of me. I followed him. We went outside, and my aunt joined us, with several others. They were dressed in the robes and animal skins of the Voudou rites. I started to get worried. We walked for miles through the dense darkness to reach the cave where the altar was located. No one spoke.
As we approached the cave I saw a dim, flickering light coming from inside. Low voices drifted towards me as I drew nearer. I tried to turn back, but six pairs of hands clamped down on me and dragged me forward. I entered. Bones littered the upraised earth where the altar stood, and lit candles on the altar and in small niches throughout the cave provided the only light. My aunt put on her horsehair headdress, and, taking a bone in each hand, began the slow, undulating rhythms that would call the spirit to overtake her, using her body as a medium through which the spirit would communicate. I was lifted onto the altar, where I stood, ringed by black candles. I remained silent, too petrified to cry. The chanting reached a crescendo, then all of a sudden stopped. My aunt was standing in the center of the room. It was exactly midnight.
The snake god had entered my aunt. Her movements ceased to be human. She sat down like an animal, and everyone quickly kneeled before her. My uncle spoke, saying "here, take this child." They began offering me to the spirit, pleading with it to take me instead of Marian, who had been promised. My aunt had remained motionless while they pleaded, but suddenly she looked up, and her eyes had a strange emptiness in them. She looked straight at me. Then, just as suddenly, the candles expired. The cave was plunged into darkness, except for one candle that burned near my aunt, illuminating her terrible countenance. She spoke, and her voice was masculine, but twisted, and filled with anger. "She is not one of us!" the spirit roared. "I cannot take her." I began to sob and jumped off the altar and ran from the cave. Her dead eyes, that terrible voice—I had to get away, farther and farther away. I could hear my uncle's frantic pleading in the background as I fled the cave. Even the spirits don't want me, even demons refuse to accept me, I thought. I fell asleep beneath a mango tree, too far from my aunt and uncle's house to make it back.
* * *
For a brief time that year, I was sent to work for my cousin, Therese, who moved to Portau-Prince, the capital. My aunt had been brutal, and my work for her was difficult, but my cousin was worse. Therese was about twenty-one, living as the mistress of a man she had met in the city. He kept an apartment for her and her nine siblings. I was expected to care for these ten people. My tasks were similar to those I performed in Jacmel: fetch water, do the dishes, keep the house clean, and also go food shopping and run errands. It was in Port-au-Prince that I learned how to do things like handle money and make my way through a city.
One evening, about a year after I arrived, Therese came home late. I heard her stumbling around, bumping into things. She was drunk, but at the time all I knew was that she was acting strange. She moved around downstairs for a while. Then she came into the room where I was lying, pretending to be asleep. She had removed her clothes. I saw the way her dark skin glistened in the moonlight coming in through the window, the thin veneer of sweat on her. The sour smell of alcohol floated into the room. She stumbled over to the bed, sat down, and shook me, but I no longer pretended to be asleep. She told me to touch her. I was frightened and refused. She became angry. She dragged me out of bed. "Do as you're told," she yelled. When I continued to resist her advances, she slapped me. Then she picked me up off the floor, carried me out of my room, and threw me down the stairs. My left shoulder was wrenched from its socket. Pain flared in my arm.
The next morning, Therese called the local healer. Even Port-au-Prince lacked modern medical facilities at this point, and the healer handled most of the injuries in the area. The healer, a very old man who seemed immortal to me, nodded solemnly and then beckoned me over. Without saying a word, his strong hands took hold of my body. One hand braced my back while the other lifted the left arm and snapped the shoulder back in with one movement. I screamed. With a nod to my cousin, he left the apartment.
The arm mended in time, but the next night, Therese came home intoxicated again, snuck into my room, and raped me.
When Therese heard I had told a neighbor, she grabbed a cooking knife off the counter, grabbed my arm, and pulled the blade across my cheek, cutting deep. As blood ran down my face, she threatened to do the same between my legs if I ever told anyone else what had happened the night before.
* * *
One day, when I was back at my aunt's house, while I was attending to my work at the river, God sent me a dream of a beautiful woman with creamy skin and long, flowing hair. She was coming to rescue me from this misery. I woke and rose, feeling at peace for the first time since I had fallen into the hands of my aunt.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Enslaved by Jesse Sage, Liora Kasten. Copyright © 2006 American Anti-Slavery Group. Excerpted by permission of Palgrave Macmillan.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgments vi
Foreword Gloria Steinem ix
Introduction: Behind the Stories: Modern Day Slavery in Context Jesse Sage Liora Kasten 1
The Journey of an Orphan: In and Out of Bondage from Haiti to Connecticut Micheline Slattery 11
Beyond Abeeda: Surviving Ten Years of Slavery in Sudan Abuk Bak 39
My Life as a Slave in America Jill Leighton 61
Trapped on the Balcony: A Tale of a Sri Lankan Held Hostage in Lebanon Beatrice Fernando 81
Laogai: Inside China's Forgotten Labor Camps Harry Wu 113
Out of Egypt: A Lifeline via Email for an Enslaved Au Pair in Cairo Selina Juma 143
Atop the Second Wave: Testimony from a Belarus Prison Sveta 163
Amazing Grace: A Slave Owner's Awakening in Mauritania Abdel Nasser Ould Yessa 177
Epilogue: Where You Come In Jesse Sage Liora Kasten 207
Contributors 215
Discussion Guide 217