Tracing Comparisons: Afro-Descending Religions

November 21, 2016

It was a typical Monday night. My roommate and I were attempting to gather all of our friends to head up to Pedra do Sal for the weekly Roda de Samba. As we walked through Copacabana, we stopped our conversation short as I began to forget my words. On the street corner I noticed a plate beautifully arranged with farofa, goiabada, candles, and cigars, among other things. When I saw it I knew exactly what it was. My chest was heavy and my heart was full, just as they always are when I see anything that reminds me of home. I was instantly brought back to childhood memories of my mom forcing me to accompany her, as she left offerings for her (our) saints on the four streets surrounding our home. My breath fell short with excitement and, as we passed the corner, I couldn’t help but bow my head in respect and recognition.


Prior to arriving to Brazil, I wrote this in my journal, as I thought about my decision to go abroad:

“A struggle follows me as my friends and family question my choice to go south. Not for reasons of safety and comfort, but for fear of abandoning my culture and identity. ‘Do they serve mofongo in Rio?’ ‘Are there botanicas in Copacabana?’ I nod and reassure myself, drawing comparisons between the Brazilian Umbanda and my family's traditional Santeria. I memorize the Portuguese names for saints. I trace comparisons along the lines of the transatlantic passage.”

In reality, I had no idea what I was talking about. I could have only imagined what these comparisons would have looked like, and I had no notion of how these possible similarities would play out. The transatlantic slave trade, as well as the religious oppression that came hand in hand with colonialism, sparked the establishment of many Afro-descending religions in Latin America. These are typically characterized by their syncretic nature; often mixing African deities, indigenous practices, the Catholic faith and its figures, and even symbols of national identity, folklore, and history. Due to the heterogeneity of the black diaspora, these religions manifest themselves differently in various countries.

Brazil has Umbanda and Candomblé, two syncretic religions that have millions of followers. Candomblé, the oldest of the two, has been around since the sixteenth century and borrows from Bantu and Yoruba beliefs, while simultaneously drawing in elements of indigenous tradition and Roman Catholic faith. Umbanda, which took flight in the early twentieth century, is similar in its syncretic nature, but it is often distinguished by its heavy incorporation of Brazilian figures and folklore (i.e Preto Velho, Caboclos, etc). These religions are connected to the Afro-Caribbean Santeria by the orixas (orishas), a pantheon of African deities. Through them I was able to find commonality and affinity between my home country’s religious culture and that of Brazil during the six months that I have spent here.

I have come to learn that my desire to delve deep into these issue and learn more about Brazilian religious culture is simply an effort to preserve my family’s traditional practices. This past year I have gotten sick repeatedly, and in my daze of frequent hospital visits, too much medication, and deep frustration, I found myself wondering if my illnesses were all a result of a misstep in my faith. Have I angered the santos? Why has San Lazaro (Babalú-Obaluaiê) been unable to find me? My first day of work at the Museu da Maré was also the same day that I fell ill again. I found myself very emotional and frustrated, but I decided to continue on with my responsibilities. I remember walking through the space and stumbling across an exhibition named Tempo da Fé (Time of Faith). Behind a white curtain I found the pantheon of orishas, and once again my heart was full.

These experiences kept repeating themselves. It happened at the Ibeyi concert, when everyone sang along in unison, pronouncing every syllable of the Lucumí chants, which the musical group frequently includes in their songs. It happens every time I look across the street from my room to watch Copacabana beach, where Yemanjá patiently waits for the new year. It continues to happen every time I catch sight of a cultural reference to Oshun. It happens day to day when I see Brazil’s patron saint Our Lady of Aparecida and the Virgin of Charity of El Cobre. In all of this, I see my mom, I see my guardians, I see my lineage. But more than anything I see the other Brazil, a Brazil that fosters a beautiful cultural attachment to its ancestral powers.
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