The African Traditional And Diasporic Religions Thread (Santeria, IFA, 21 Divisions, Sanse + etc)

[Yehuda]

Dance, water and prayers: Celebrating the goddess Yemoja

Each year, the Yoruba people in Nigeria offer thanks to Yemoja, goddess of the river and mother of all other Yoruba gods. It is an important way for them to remember and celebrate their traditional roots and beliefs.

One of the Bata drummers during the procession to the river [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

By Femi Amogunla | 6 Dec 2020
Ibadan, Oyo State, Nigeria – During the annual festival to celebrate Yemoja, the goddess of the river, the day begins with music, dance and prayers. There are 400 gods – called òrìsà in the Yoruba language – each representing a force of nature. Yemoja is considered the mother of them all, such is the importance of water to life.

Yemoja devotees dance in front of the temple at Popo Ibode Yemoja, Ibadan [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

These days, most Nigerians belong to one of the two main religions, Christianity and Islam, while traditional religions, much derided during colonial times, have fallen by the wayside in many places.

But in Ibadan, where faith in all orisa – the Yoruba gods – remains joyful and strong, celebrations of the old religion continue. The 17-day-long Yemoja festival in October is as old as the Yoruba people. It has been celebrated since “time immemorial”, according to the priestess, Ifawemimo Omitonade.

October 31 is the grand finale of the Yemoja Festival in Ibadan, when different groups of orisa devotees dance to the rhythm of thrumming drums in front of the Yemoja Temple.

Inside sits Ogunleki, a 400-year-old statue of Yemoja, a woman breastfeeding a baby, 3 feet (about 1 metre) high. Devotees, young and old, sing Yoruba songs, giving thanks to the òrìsà for keeping them healthy since the previous year, and for allowing them to see another festival.

A Yemoja worshipper kneels in front of Ogunleki, a more than 400-year-old artistic portrayal of Yemoja [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

They also sing songs of prayers, trusting that they will return the following year more prosperous, and later they will proceed to the river to make their offerings and more prayers.

Chief Akinola Olaosun – ‘the river is inhabited by spirits’

Inside the temple, Chief Akinola Olaosun prepares the items to be presented to Yemoja at the river. Chief Akinola is also known as “Aare Adimula fun Odo Babalawo Ilu Ibadan”, which translates as “President of the young herbalists of Ibadan”.

Chief Akinola Olaosun during the preparation of Yemoja’s food at the temple [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

In front of him, next to the statue of Ogunleki, is an array of calabashes – large, melon-like fruit which have been hollowed out – into which he drops sacred items as offerings to the goddess. Among these are dried kola nuts into which people have spoken words of prayer to Yemoja.

After these preparations are complete at the temple, prayers are said by Chief Egbelade Omikunmi, who is the Baale Yemoja – the chief priest to Yemoja – his hands outstretched to the devotees, who respond with “Ase”, the Yoruba ending to a prayer. Then the procession to the river begins.

Baale Yemoja of Ibadan land prays for the celebrants at in front of Yemoja’s temple [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

Accompanied by music, women dressed in white carry calabashes on their heads. In each calabash, there are different items – corn and beans cooked together, yam porridge and fruits – prepared for the òrìsà. Attendees follow the procession of arugba – the calabash carriers. Their destination: the nearby river. Their purpose: propitiation and prayers to Yemoja.

Chief Akinola Olaosun takes one of the calabashes containing food to Baale Yemoja for propitiation [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

“The river is inhabited by spirits that we converse with,” says Chief Akinola. “We also make pledges to them yearly. So, during the festival, we redeem our pledges by giving them what is due to them.” By so doing, he explains, devotees express their gratitude for the past year and pray for a better year ahead.

Some of the attendees and devotees offer prayers to the deity as the propitiation continues in the river [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

Because of initial fears about the spread of COVID-19 and this year’s unrest over police brutality in Nigeria, the crowd at the festival is more modest than it might have been, but more than 300 have come along nonetheless.

Ifawemimo Omitonade – Priestess

“It is good to know that people actually came and demonstrated their faith in our mother,” says Ifawemimo Omitonade, the priestess to Yemoja. As for the chief priest, the priestess is chosen by worshippers who have “consulted” with the orisa, Yemoji, through divination and prayer. Once a person has been chosen for this rank, they undergo a nine-day initiation process of rigorous self-examination to bring them closer to their chosen orisa, known as ita. Once chosen, a priest or priestess keeps his or her title for life.

Iyalorisa Omitonade uses ‘Aja’, an instrument used in invoking Yemoja’s spirit, during the propitiation process [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

Iyalorisa Omitonade guides one of the calabash carriers during a procession to the river [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

Ifawemimo, who is in her 30s, is one of those devotees dedicated to keeping the old traditions alive in this part of Nigeria. She shares the beauty of the traditional religion on social media.

Friends of the Yemoja priestess who came to celebrate with her pose for a picture just before the procession to the river [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

“People are always of the opinion that traditionalists are fetishists … and other kinds of negativity,” she laments. She is glad, however, that young people are developing an interest in traditional religions and are demystifying them.

When the prayers at the river, at the end of the celebration, are over, Ifawemimo takes some of the water from the river in a bucket and sprinkles it on her fellow devotees. In addition to the sprinkling, some of the devotees collect some of the river water in bottles. This sacred water is considered medicinal – mixed with the water people drink or added to a bath to heal ailments.

Omintonade sprinkles water from the river on some of the attendees after the propitiation. ‘This is some form of rejuvenation and blessings from the Orisha,’ she says [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

“The water is for rejuvenation and blessings from Yemoja,” Ifawemimo explains.

Foluke Akinyemi – ‘a most beautiful inheritance’

Yoruba culture enthusiast Foluke Akinyemi, who hosts the local Yoruba radio talk show, Awa Ewe which means “We, the Youth”, has come along to this year’s festival. She has been invited by Omitonade who she met through social media. Raised a Christian, she says the festival is an opportunity to reconnect with her Yoruba roots by worshipping the deities her ancestors prayed to.

‘I am happy I am part of this year’s festival … I will continue to let other this the beauty in this tradition,’ says Foluke, a culture enthusiast and radio host [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

“Yoruba culture is the most beautiful inheritance,” she says. “I personally value the role Yemoja plays in the Yoruba pantheon and mythical histories. At this year’s festival, I feel connected, I feel fulfilled. I am so glad to get to know more about orisa worship and I will continue to make people see that too,” she says.

 

[Yehuda]

Efunleye Orisatarada – carrier of calabashes

Women play an integral part in the worship of Yemoja, from preparing the offerings and carrying the calabashes, to carrying out duties as priestesses.

One of the calabash carriers, Efuleye collects food to be taken to the river from the fire minutes before the procession begins [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

This year, Efunleye is part of the arugba, a special group of women selected by worshippers through prayer and consultation with Yemoja herself to carry the calabashes to the river.

Efuleye Orisatara on her way to the river with the calabash containing the food for the Orisha [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

“All the women carrying the calabashes have designated roles, given to them by Yemoja,” she explains.

“She says specifically what she wants each person to carry. If you carry what you have not been called for, the person will become unfortunate.”

The calabashes used in carrying the food of the deity. Yemoja chooses whoever she wants to carry the calabash each new year [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

The selection may be different the following year. “By next year, the orisa may say ‘I want a completely new set of people to champion my celebration this year or she may decide that these people continue’.”

Toluwani ‘Omisegun’ Johnson – new initiate

Each year, new initiates undertake religious rites.

Johnson Omisegun, one of the new initiates, says she ‘feels comfortable,’ in her newfound religion [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

For the final day of the festival, the new initiates cut their hair short and wear special beads. For Toluwani Johnson it is a very special event.

“I first got to know about Yemoja through my mother, after we moved from Lagos to Ibadan. After some years, I decided to take things further by getting initiated fully. That is why this particular festival is special to me. That is what is responsible for my haircut and these beads I wear,” she explains.

She points to the three-layered, choker-like, blue-and-red collection of beads around her neck. “Once it is a month from now, I will cut one of the layers off; two months, the second one goes off and then the third one.” At that point, Toluwani will be entitled to wear the transparent, long, white beads worn by Yemoja devotees.

Toluwani now has a new name – Omisegun, which means “water conquers” – and says she considers that Yemoja is her personal orisa.

Toluwani Johnson alongside other new initiates on their way to the river [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

Jelili Atiku – ‘as the fish eat, the water rejoices’

Atiku Jelili, a Yemoja devotee, says ‘civilisation has made us lose some of our core values and traditions’ [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

The procession comes to an end with the presentation of the contents of the calabashes to Yemoja at the river. One by one, the items are opened and put into the river: a yam is cut into smaller pieces; the head of a pigeon is cut off and left to be carried off by the water; the yam porridge is emptied into the river.

One of the devotees of the Orisha takes tubers of yam to Baale of Yemoja during the propitiation process in the water [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

Baale Yemoja alongside other devotees cut the new yam into sizeable portion before offering them to the deity [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

A pigeon, offered to Yemoja as sacrifice, slowly gets taken away by the river [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

Baale Yemoja alongside other devotees prepares to offer porridge, one of Yemoja’s preferred delicacies, to her [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

“People have a lot of misconceptions about what we take to Yemoja,” says Jelili, one of the devotees in the gathering at the river. “They are basically things that fish eat: honey, soft corn, and other things. Once the fish begin to eat, the water where they live begins to rejoice, as seen in its movement.

“The breeze from the river is cooling and whoever has anything to ask of Yeye [another name for Yemoja] goes ahead to ask. If by the next year you do not have answers to such requests, please check yourself and ask yourself why.”

Chief Egbelade Omikunmi – Baale Yemoja, chief priest

Chief Egbelade Omikunmi, “Baale Yemoja” – or Chief Priest to the orisa – also serves as the leader of all traditional Yoruba worshippers in Oyo state. After the singing and dancing at the temple – before the devotees go to the river – he prays for everyone, his hands stretched forward.

After the procession to the river, Chief Egbelade is assisted by other male devotees. He sits by the water and communes with Yemoja. One by one, he drops the offerings from the calabashes into the river. As he does, murmured prayers rise from the watching crowd, many hands pointing towards the river.

Baale Yemoja waits for the next batch of offerings to be brought by one of Yemoja’s devotees [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

Year in, year out, the festival proceedings have remained the same, says Chief Egbelade.

“People come with different prayers. Last year, if someone came with a prayer and had their wish granted, the next year, they will come with more friends. Whenever prayers are answered, more people will come,” he says.

Some of the attendees look from the bridge into the water below as the propitiation process continues [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

Chief Egbelade says he has no fears that the practice of worshipping Yemoja will die out just yet.

Dance, water and prayers: Celebrating the goddess Yemoja

 

[$cam-U-Well_Jack$on]

Bump.

 

[Jimmy from Linkedin]

What do you all think about entheogens and ATRs? Outside of hearing about the dream root that Xhosa's use I hadn't really been all that informed about them. There is one plant, Datura, that follows me wherever I go. I had been reading about it because of this occurence, oddly enough I learned about it from these very forums. Turns out that it is used in initiation ceremonies for boys in West Afrika.

In everything I have read people just talk about it as libations libations libations. It very disappointing to see that no one talked about facilitated use of these plants.

what do you all know about these plants and fungi? Can you share some information with me?

 

[Takerstani]

Friends of the Yemoja priestess who came to celebrate with her pose for a picture just before the procession to the river [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]
Omintonade sprinkles water from the river on some of the attendees after the propitiation. ‘This is some form of rejuvenation and blessings from the Orisha,’ she says [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]
‘I am happy I am part of this year’s festival … I will continue to let other this the beauty in this tradition,’ says Foluke, a culture enthusiast and radio host [Femi Amogunla/Al Jazeera]

I see IG's Munoyedi Freda Athena O' (@pinkrubbiez) on Instagram • 226 photos and videos on the end in blue. She's on point. Her Youtube videos are informative. I believe she's Yoruba/Igbo, and practice Odinani (Igbo traditional spirituality/religion).

 

[Yehuda]

The routine of Zé Diabo, one of Brazil's last Candomblé blacksmiths

Zé Diabo, 73, works in the production of tools for Candomblé and Umbanda, in Salvador
Image: Rafael Martins/UOL

By Nelson Oliveira and Rafael Martins
In collaboration with TAB, from Salvador
January 06, 2021 04:01

Zé Diabo has been working for the saints for 60 years. He does not know how much longer he will live this life, but he warns: "When I die, it is over. The day I go, it is over". Blacksmith José Adário dos Santos, 73, is one of the few producers of Candomblé and Umbanda liturgical tools left.

His workshop, located in the Arches of Ladeira da Conceição da Praia, in Salvador's historic center, is a reference for houses, initiates, afoxés and Candomblé sympathizers from all over the country. In his workshop, the elder creates, on demand, sacred objects for rituals of Eshu, Ogun, Oshosi, Oshunmare, Osanyin and Obaluaiye, all Orisha that can only be worshipped with utensils made of iron.

Tools play a central role in Candomblé. Each Orisha is assigned a set of fetishes that serve the formation of its settlement, a kind of altar that mediates between the divinity and a person — the Orun, the spiritual world, and the Aiye, the physical world. These arrangements are used in the initiation of children of the saints and in rites of passage.

Because of his belief in Candomblé, Zé Diabo produces the sacred objects in the order dictated by the xirê, the set of songs that evoke each saint in the rituals. "When you go to the axé house, which Orisha do you start with? Exu. So I only start that way: I start doing Exu or Ogun. Then whatever I was ordered for the day. That's the way," says the blacksmith.

Zé Diabo walks down Ladeira da Conceição, in Salvador's historic center
Image: Rafael Martins/UOL

Among the items, agogôs may cost R$30 or R$60, depending on the size. Tools vary widely. A small Osayin (17 inches) costs R$150. Some galleries buy the most ellaborate ones and resell them for up to R$4,000.

Expertise and dexterity are not lacking for this craftsman and his callused hands. "Iron is not a concern for those who know... [how to deal with the material]," he says. Zé begins his work by taking the raw iron bars, already sawn, to the furnace, holding them with tongs. "Are the coal and the energy there? Then it's on," he says in a playful manner.

The next step is to heat the bars over the coals, sometimes increasing the flame with the hot wind from the bellows wind. Then, on an anvil, Zé strikes with his hammer and, when the desired shape is obtained, he takes the material to cool off, which can be spontaneous, on the workshop floor, or by immersion in a water bucket. In this process, Ogun, the Orisha of iron, handicrafts and technology, is helped by Shango (fire), Oya (wind), Oshun (water) and Eshu (transformation).

The last step is the assembly of each tool, made with some adjustments (sawing, cuts and sanding), fittings and, finally, welding. The piece only becomes a liturgical object after being washed with the sacred leaves of Candomblé, a process made by the buyer. "When it leave here it's iron, with the energy of Ogun. When it arrives at the axé house to be washed and settled, it changes, it's now different. It's only iron when it's here."

Zé Diabo holds a tool for Eshu, an object used in Candomblé's liturgy
Image: Rafael Martins/UOL

When the process slows down, he exchanges the hammering on burning iron bars and peeking in rudimentary sketches for periods of rest that may include sips of beer at Evandro and Ana's Bar, in a neighboring arch, and inhales on a cigar, so that Eshu and Ogun leave their "good ori" and "open up his mind and the paths". At the Nação José workshop, time is commanded by the Orisha.

Ogun's odu

If daily orders connect him to his ori (judgment and intuition), the odu, the path of life, comes before everything. And José Adário and his family belong to Ogun.

Zé Diabo was born in Salvador, but notes that his folks came from Cachoeira, a city in Bahia's Recôncavo that received thousands of Africans during centuries of slavery in Brazil. His ancestors are part of a priestly dynasty. Zé is a babalorisha, following in the footsteps of his great-grandfather, his grandparents and his parents, and he observes the tradition continuing with one of his 14 children, in preparation to be an iyalorisha.

Zé Diabo forging the metal, creating the basis for an Osayin
Image: Rafael Martins/UOL

The blacksmith carries a string of dark blue beads on his neck, which can be seen up to part of the chest. Would he be a son of Ogun, then? Surprise: the white beads that, along with the blue ones, protect the children of Oshalufon, like Zé Diabo, are hidden under the elder's robes. The truth is that each person has three Orisha, in addition to odu, the path of life defined by Ifá shell divination. "My whole family comes from Ogun. Without him, I am nothing," explains José Adário.

Zé Diabo's ancestors had professions "of Ogun," but only Zé became a blacksmith. "Nobody decided to work with iron. It was left for me and it was good. Whatever you play, I'll dance to it," he says. However, the only metal the artisan can take out to dance is iron: his godfather did not give him the ability to make tools out of other metals.

His gift is the wisdom to deal with iron and its derivatives, in a synergy that Zé Diabo calls "Ogun jabá," a kind of technical sensitivity necessary to understand the axes involved in handling the mineral and the science of alternating crude movements and light gestures — which reproduces his character, sometimes grumpy, sometimes welcoming.

Image: Rafael Martins/UOL

Devil's Workshop

Ogun made Zé Diabo go down a prestigious road. A very different course from the walk of shame that little José was subjected to when he was 11, when he entered the Mercado Modelo building carrying Eshu statuettes under the screams of "here comes the devil!" The situation was so common that it enshrined the nickname that would accompany him for the rest of his life.

Zé arrived at Ladeira da Conceição da Praia in 1958, at the recommendation of an uncle who was a shoeshiner in the market and knew the work of blacksmith Maximiano Prates, the man who supplied the local religious houses. In order for his nephew to follow the family's odu, he took him to the city center for his first classes.

His master was not made in Candomblé, but, according to Zé Diabo, he inherited the ancestral wisdom of Ladeira de Nanã and the houses of Engenho Velho de Brotas, where he lived. Maximiano submitted the disciple to a learning process similar to that of initiation in Candomblé: with much observation, some practice and few questions. The secrets of the art had to be unraveled through the eyes of the apprentice.

After Maximiano's death in the 1970s, Zé Diabo migrated from the 18th to the 26th arch, where he still works, and inherited customers from his mentor, such as capoeira master, merchant and musician Camafeu de Oxóssi. Then, he got new customers: the afoxé Filhos de Gandhy (for which he has been producing agogôs for over four decades), writer Jorge Amado (1912–2001), artist Carybé (1911–1997), photographer and Babalawo Pierre Verger (1902–1996), musician Carlinhos Brown and Pai Air de Oxaguiã, from Terreiro Pilão de Prata. His works are in art galleries and museums like the Fowler, in the United States; the Afro-Brazilian National Culture Museum, in Salvador; and Afro Brasil, in São Paulo.

Ogun's tool, fabricated by Zé Diabo, in Salvador
Image: Rafael Martins/UOL

However, the days of artistic blacksmithing, a cultural heritage produced at the Nação José workshop, might be numbered. On the one hand, there is already an industry that produces generic tools; on the other hand, some houses with greater purchasing power have children of the saints (usually ogans) specialized in making pieces exclusively for the settlements of the house. It worked this way with other famous dead blacksmiths, like Mestre Didi, from Ilê Axé Opó Afonjá, and Vadinho Boca de Ferramentas, from Gantois.

Facing the lack of interest of the new generations, Zé Diabo almost gave up on transmitting his knowledge. "Not even my blood wants to learn. They tell me, 'Am I going to get done in by the iron, get my hand chipped and burned?' They want to study, because with the pen they can earn money. Why would I insist?", he laments. His son José, 53, is the only assistant at the workshop, but he works as a handyman and does not intend to pursue a career in the ironmongery business.

The few attempts to teach someone outside the family have also been unsuccessful. Zé specifically remembers a candidate who left São Paulo just to learn the trade. "He wanted to know more than I do. I would tell him to cut it this way, he would say no. He thought he knew everything. Then I told him not to come anymore, since he was so intelligent."

Without finding a successor, old Zé Diabo is hammering at the iron, aware of his condition as the last master of a century-old craft, practically limited to the Arches of Conceição da Praia, one of the three oldest slopes in Salvador.

The tension between tradition and modernity is echoed by the slope and its occupants, who are stubbornly surviving contemporary technologies and threats of gentrification in the old center, the target of real estate speculation. Although the Lacerda Elevator monopolizes travel between the upper and the lower city, Conceição da Praia still has car and pedestrian traffic. It still connects the dots. Just like Zé Diabo, who continues to transform iron into "something else", helping to connect the mundane Aiye to the divine Orun.

The routine of Zé Diabo, one of Brazil's last Candomblé blacksmiths

 

[Yehuda]

From Tambú: Curaçao's African-Caribbean Ritual and the Politics of Memory.

 

[Yehuda]

Someone showed me a thread on twitter about this fāʼidah (something you should pay attention to, take note of) from Mali on how to avoid being enslaved. They pointed out that this process of making a recipe is a little similar to an ebó (the offerings in Candomblé, I don't know if that's what they are called back in Nigeria as well). I think it's a good way to elucidate religious syncretism in West Africa:

A fāʼidah—a text to bring benefit—buttresses the last page (fol. 12) of a manuscript of religious poetry, from the collection of the Aboubacar Bin Said Library in Timbuktu, Mali. (SAV ABS 04020)

This text is from the extensive genre of Islamic texts known as Fawāʼid, or “texts to bring benefit.” In many parts of the Islamic world, these texts serve the function of a nota bene as in the Western manuscript tradition, indicating that the reader should take special notice of the text that follows. However, in West Africa they serve as specific recipes or practices to bring supernatural assistance in times of need—from helping to memorize the Qur’an, to mending relations with a partner, to curing backache or eye problems.

Fawāʼid (singular fāʼidah) appear across the family libraries of Timbuktu, as in so many others, at the start and end of collection items. This is because they are usually written by the copyist of the text or one of its owners. Habitually ignored by catalogers and researchers alike, Fawāʼid reveal the intimate concerns of manuscript copyists and of the wider societies in which they lived, to an extent not usually possible for those studying the pre-modern period.

The page pictured here is one of the rare sources that bear direct witness to the period of European Atlantic slavery as seen from the African perspective. It reveals the fears of a society that felt vulnerable to capture at any moment by Naṣārá—in Arabic, “Christians,” but here with the meaning of European or white slavers in general.

Along with the direct physical resistance to this unjust trade, the text shows how the spiritual resources of the scholar were employed as an additional means of defense. The introduction of the text begins with a Qur’anic verse from Sūrat al-Raḥmān referring to the sea, demonstrating that the horrors of the passage across the Atlantic were well known. Meanwhile, the inclusion of terms for trees and plants in Bambara, a local West African language, shows that the power of the Qur’anic text worked side by side with local pharmacological traditions.

In this text, “dati” probably refers to bati or baro (Nauclea latifolia), known as the African Peach. Its roots exude a bright yellow dye which is used to treat a variety of ailments. It is well known in markets across West Africa today.

Text Translation

He released the two seas, meeting one another; Between them is a barrier so neither of them transgresses. [Qur’an, Sūrat al-Raḥmān, 55:19-20] Write this out twelve times on a writing board and take the roots of a tree called dati, or foronto [hot pepper]. Put them in a pot and wash with it. Then take seven fruits of the dati and burn them at a crossroads. The Europeans will not take you if God wills.

An African Peach tree and fruit, photographed by Ibrahim Sidibe in Koro on October 20, 2020. Koro is a village located about five miles east of Bobo Dioulasso, the second largest city in Burkina Faso.

Postscript

 

[Yehuda]

Mothers of faith: how Iemanjá and Our Lady of Seafarers ended up being honored on the same day

This Tuesday (2) Rio Grande do Sul celebrates the day of the protectors of the waters. Due to the pandemic, there will be no procession this year

By Jéssica Rebeca Weber | January 30, 2021
Updated January 31, 2021 — 20h38

Father Remi says six nights of Mass in the sanctuary of neo-Gothic architecture in the north of Porto Alegre. On the other side of the city, Mãe Andreia buys flowers, cooks canjica and decorates the yard in the Restinga neighborhood. Preparations for February 2 have similar doses of anxiety and faith, but they are not exactly for the same deity.

Our Lady of Seafarers and Iemanjá are mothers, protectors of the waters and celebrated on the same day in Rio Grande do Sul. If it were not for the coronavirus pandemic, Catholics and practitioners of Afro-Brazilian religions like Batuque would meet in a large procession on Tuesday, which had brought together up to 200 thousand people in previous years.

There is an expression to explain this double divine identity: religious syncretism. And any discussion on the topic — says Professor Emerson Giumbelli — needs to go back centuries in history. African-based religions arrived in America in a situation in which practitioners had been enslaved, and there was already an official religion here.

“The survival of beliefs and practices of African origin necessarily depended on living with the symbols of the dominant religion, Catholicism. This was the case for almost four centuries and, even with the changes introduced by the Republic, repression, persecution and prejudice did not cease to happen”, says the professor of the Undergraduate Program in Social Anthropology at the Federal University of Rio Grande do Sul and a member of the university's Religion Studies Center.

The slaves did not abandon the belief they brought from Africa, but they managed to disguise it within the Christian liturgy. They sought to compare the qualities of their Orisha with the Catholic saints, to deceive their masters and cultivate the faith.

“They placed a stone with their settled Orisha, known as ocutá, behind the image of the saints, so as not to be beaten”, says the president of the Afro-Umbandista Spiritualist Federation of Rio Grande do Sul (FAUERS), Everton Alfonsin.

It is because of this same religious syncretism that Saint George is so popular in Afro-Brazilian religions: he is related to Ogum, a warrior Orisha. The same occurs with Saint Anthony (equivalent to Bará Exu), Xangô (Saint Jerome) and others — see the list below.

Mass at the Nossa Senhora dos Navegantes Sanctuary, in the Navegantes neighborhood. Isadora Neumann/Agencia RBS

A ritual at a Batuque house in the North Zone. Isadora Neumann/Agencia RBS

Father Ramon during the seven-day Mass. Isadora Neumann/Agencia RBS

A herbal bath in a Batuque house. Isadora Neumann/Agencia RBS

Waiting for the believers at the Sanctuary, which has a 30% occupancy limit due to the pandemic. Isadora Neumann/Agencia RBS

Drums and atabaques make the soundtrack to the ritual. Isadora Neumann/Agencia RBS

A ribbon representing Our Lady of Seafarers. Isadora Neumann/Agencia RBS

A ribbon representing Iemanjá. Isadora Neumann/Agencia RBS

Multiple faces

Sometimes, the same Orisha is linked to more than one saint. Iemanjá herself takes some practioners back to Our Lady of Glory.

And she is also far from having a single name or unanimous image in the country. Iemanjá (or Janaína, Queen of the Sea, Princess of Aiocá, Inaê...) is one of the most diverse deities in the pantheon of the Orisha.

Here in the South, the most popular appearance is that of a white girl, with long hair and a crown on her head, with a blue dress outlining her breasts and hips. It is mostly used in Umbanda, says Everton Alfonsin, a religion created in 1908. In the African matrix, however, there are houses that have a black sculpture, sometimes with their eyes covered, because it is believed that men are not worthy of looking the Orisha in their eyes.

Being initiated in the Jeje Ijexá nation on Iemanjá Day, manager Grazieli Scot, 38, has a black Iemanjá in her living room, in Restinga. Wearing a crinoline dress and a light blue turban on her head, she is hugging a black child (who she explains is a representation of Xangô). However, Grazi's mother in the religion, Andreia Silvana Pereira da Silva, 46, is more traditional.

Mãe Andreia de Iemanjá will make white canjica, buy cocada and watermelon and offer perfumes, flowers and pearls to an image of Our Lady of Seafarers, just like her ancestors would do before her.

“I'm an old timer. We cannot forget that our religion comes from Africa; however, it has been mixed. It was the slaves who worshipped Iemanjá here, in the image or Our Lady”.

Photo: André Avila/Agencia RBS

Rio Grande do Sul is the state with the highest adherence to Afro-Brazilian religions, according to the 2010 Census. FAUERS believes that today there are more than 80 thousand religious houses spread across Gaúcho territory. But Grazi and Mãe Andreia's generation is one of the first with freedom to worship their Orisha without the risk of “having someone invade their house telling them what they can and cannot do”.

“It was like that at my grandmother's house. Sometimes even the police would come; she couldn't practice. And if you were caught with an offering on the street, you risked being arrested”, remembers Mãe Andreia, who saw her family suffering this persecution in her childhood. “Today there is still prejudice, although a lot less. You couldn't even say you belonged to an Afro-Brazilian religion until recently”.

Other relationships established by religious syncretism*

• Oxalá: Jesus Christ, Our Lord of Bonfim. The great father of Umbanda. Lord of compassion, forgiveness, wisdom and faith.
• Xangô: Saint Jerome, Saint Peter (in Rio de Janeiro), Saint John. Xangô is the god of thunder and justice.
• Ogum: Saint Sebastian (in Bahia), Saint George (in Rio de Janeiro and Rio Grande do Sul). The Orisha of iron, fire and technology. Ogum is the warrior Orisha capable of opening paths in our lives and conquering all quests.
• Oxossi: Saint Sebastian (in Rio de Janeiro and Rio Grande do Sul), Saint George (in Bahia). The Orisha of hunting and bounty. The great hunter of lost souls, the great healer and the great counselor.
• Obaluayê: Saint Lazarus, Saint Francis (in Bahia). The lord of healing, evolution and passage.
• Omulu: Saint Roch, Saint Lazarus, Saint Benedict. The lord of closure, the lord of paralyzation.
• Oxumaré: Saint Bartholomew. The Orisha of rain and rainbows, the Master of Snakes. He dilutes and renovates sick and vicious sentiments.
• Ibeji: Saints Cosmas and Damian. Pureness, lightheartedness, happiness and tenderness.
• Yansã: Saint Barbara. A warrior Orisha, the goddess of lightning, the wind and the storms, freedom, movement and passion for life.
• Oxum: Our Lady of the Conception (in Rio de Janeiro and Rio Grande do Sul), Our Lady of the Candles (in Bahia), Our Lady of the Revealed Conception (in Rio Grande do Sul). The Orisha of pure and true love, the Orisha of happiness and union. The lady of fresh water and waterfalls.
• Nanã: Saint Anne. The lady of stagnant water, swamps, clay and wisdom.
• Egunita: Saint Sarah. The lady of divine wildfire. Her best quality is purification.
• Obá: Saint Catherine, Saint Magdalene. Obá is the Orisha that quietens the rationale of beings and exhausts distorted knowledge.
• Oyá: Joan of Arc. The Orisha of time, the past, the present and the future (chronological time), and her most important actions are in the religious sense, where she acts as the organizer or religious chaos.
• Bará Exu: Saint Anthony, Saint Bartholomew, Saint Peter (in Rio Grande do Sul). He wages war to bring about peace. He acts on the duality of man. The guardian Orisha of temples, crossroads, passages, houses, cities and people; the divine messenger of the oracles.

Source: FAUERS

Mothers of faith: how Iemanjá and Our Lady of Seafarers ended up being honored on the same day

 

[Yehuda]

People leaving their offerings to Yemoja across Brazil last February 2

In Lauro de Freitas

In Natal

In Salvador

In Santos

In northern Rio Grande do Sul

 

[Yehuda]

People leaving their offerings to Yemoja across Brazil last February 2

In Uruguay

 

[Yehuda]

From "Visiting Ancestors: St. Lucian Djine in Communion with their African Kin".

 

[$cam-U-Well_Jack$on]

Props for keeping this thread alive.

 

[Yehuda]

From "Reflections on the Children of Shango: An Essay on a History of Orisa Worship in Trinidad".

 

[Yehuda]

From "The Sonic Structure of Shango Feasts".