We Slaves of Suriname. Anton de Kom
through the difficulty of rightly framing it. All, nevertheless, flutter round it … How does it feel to be a problem?” (Souls of Black Folk, p. 9).
Yet by placing We Slaves in the context of African-American literature and theory, I intend to show that it is, in fact, a major work of Dutch literature. The “problem” of We Slaves as literature lies not in the book, nor in Anton de Kom, but in the prevailing perspectives on and framing of Dutch literature itself: what form it takes, who can write it, and how to read it.
Double Consciousness
We Slaves begins with a poetic ode to Suriname, interlaced with autobiography. This is directly followed by the historical narrative, from the beginnings of colonization to manumission (the release of enslaved people by their “owners”) in 1863, the new wave of immigrants, and, lastly, De Kom’s visit to and banishment from Suriname. It almost seems more like a collection of essays than a well-crafted story, and in a few places, De Kom directly addresses “the white reader,” as if he knows some readers will respond to what they read with skepticism.
What are we to make of this blending of genres and the autobiographical approach? Note how De Kom links the history of slavery in Suriname to his own individual self: “the right to use and abuse one’s living chattels, to buy and sell our fathers and mothers” (p. 54, italics DvO). This turns history into autobiography. In the African-American literary context, the form is practically traditional. Take, for example, W.E.B. Du Bois’s The Souls of Black Folk (1903), which sheds light on African-American culture from many different angles – history, economics, anthropology, biography, fiction, autobiography, and cultural history – emphasizing each time how the alternative perspective can overturn received ideas. Du Bois underpins every one of his claims with detailed historical accounts and facts. Each chapter is rooted in his now-famous concept of double consciousness: “One ever feels his twoness, – an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body” (p. 11).
That same inner struggle, and the rewriting of the experience of double consciousness, come to the fore magnificently in We Slaves. Having grown up with the conventional Dutch history of Suriname as enshrined in the Winkler Prins encyclopedia, De Kom rewrote it by reinterpreting history and fictionalizing it from the perspective of the enslaved Black people. For example, he tells the story of Flora, Séry, and Séry’s daughter Patienta, taken captive on a 1711 expedition. The child is torn from Séry’s arms by “rough white hands.” Séry trembles with fear but “no scream came from her lips; she simply gazed at Ensign Molinay with fire in her eyes and then rose to her feet, displaying her pride to the white soldiers, defying them all without the slightest fear” (p. 95). The story is told from the women’s perspective, with Séry’s gaze fixed on the eyes of the white colonizer, rather than from the point of view of the soldier. Then De Kom quotes a long passage from a classic work of history accepted by scholars as authoritative, J. Wolbers’s Geschiedenis van Suriname (“History of Suriname,” 1861), choosing to italicize some phrases, such as these from a report quoted by Wolbers:
Notwithstanding all the torments with fire and blows, we [Dutch soldiers] were never able to compel her to answer, for notwithstanding all this she remained as stubborn as ever, and by pointing at the sky, grasping a long lock of hair on her head, slapping her mouth with her fingers, and running her hand over her throat, she let us know she would rather have her head cut off than disclose any information, whether by speaking or by pointing the way. (p. 96)
De Kom concludes that in this episode “defenseless Surinamese women fell into the hands of supposedly civilized Dutchmen who murdered them” and concludes with the words, “Brave Séry. Brave Flora. We will always commemorate and honor your names” (p. 97).
This rewriting and reversal of the narrative focus, shifting the center of attention from Molinay’s failed expedition to the women’s heroism, serves a crucial literary purpose. De Kom first situates us in Séry’s perspective, looking through her fiery eyes, and then makes her central to a documentary historical narrative. Instead of being presented with stereotypes of enslaved Black people, we read about named individuals in old, historical Dutch.
In his manifesto of the Harlem Renaissance (The New Negro, 1925), Alain Locke writes that Black authors should portray an African-American as a fully fleshed literary character, and no longer as “more of a formula than a human being” (p. 3). He urges them to avoid stereotypes like those in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin in favor of realistic characters that do not let themselves be defined by others but instead define themselves. That is exactly what De Kom does in this passage, presenting the women as the decision-makers, in control of the situation, even though they die.
De Kom employs another literary strategy also found in the work of Du Bois, using white history (such as Wolbers’s work) as documented fact, as evidence for the truth of his own narrative. For example, De Kom keeps insisting that his book gives the “facts.” He repeats this many times: “Once again, we would like to start by presenting a few facts by way of example” (p. 70). This is a rewriting of what is already in the archive.
Facts Forgotten and Facts Suppressed
And that cultural archive was bulging with material.1 De Kom devotes one whole gruesome chapter to the “punishments” inflicted by the plantation owners, with details drawn from historical documents. In We Slaves, De Kom uses these documents to give literary form to facts forgotten and facts suppressed, so that the reader can no longer dismiss them as trivial.
Until the publication of We Slaves, much of the Dutch population felt that slavery in Suriname had been far away and irrelevant. They told themselves it couldn’t have been as bad as all that. Yes, perhaps there had been a few unfortunate incidents – so the argument went – but that was a question of a few rotten apples spoiling the reputation of all plantation owners. Meanwhile, the investors in Surinamese plantations had often been banks or individuals in the Netherlands. African-American literature contests this “bad masters defense,” often with horrifying facts and stories, and De Kom proceeds in exactly the same way, showing that the Dutch justice system had horrifying consequences. Because enslaved people were not seen as human beings but as possessions, public massacres came to be considered normal. The torture method known as the “Spanish billy goat” played a central role in all this; almost everyone has seen the prints by John Gabriel Stedman and William Blake. Surinamese slavery is known, despite continuing debate in some quarters in the Netherlands, as the cruelest form practiced by any Western power.
Another form of cruelty discussed by De Kom at length is the systematic sexual exploitation of “our mothers.” They “worked” for their owners and produced still more Dutch chattels: the children they bore. His trenchant analysis shows that this practice was inspired not by any Christian ideology, but by the deep-seated Dutch love of the koopje, the cheap buy. To De Kom, the combination of putative Christianity and the desire for a cheap buy is unique to Surinamese slavery.
De Kom also rewrites the rainforest expeditions against the maroon leaders Joli Coeur, Baron, and Boni, describing them from those leaders’ perspective and telling the stories of their individual backgrounds. He sets them in direct contrast to the governors heading the Dutch colonial administration and shows the reader that their conduct is more civilized than that of the “whites.” He writes, “We defy one and all to show us that whites have ever, at any time in Surinamese history, treated colored people this way” (p. 115)! Role models like these, “our fathers and mothers,” as De Kom consistently calls them, are the book’s literary heroes.
They were counted among the brutes, as the whites called the maroons in those days, but to us they are and will remain heroes of Suriname, who won their proud status as leaders through bravery and virtue, fighters for the rights and liberty of Surinamese slaves. Baron! Boni! Joli Coeur! Your memory will be forever cherished in our hearts. You are part of us. (p. 120)
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