By Emilie-Andrée Roumer Jabouin
September 1964, my grandfather witnessed the massacres inflicted by the Tontons Macoutes militia in Jérémie, Haïti. The violent trauma impacted my family for years to come. When the Festival Quatre Chemins invited me to participate in a two-month artist residency in Haiti, I accepted the grave task of exploring the dark and complex history of les Vêpres Jérémiennes through dance. The journey forced me to move with the weighted shadows of my family’s past and grieve with the victims and their families.
Under François “Papa Doc” Duvalier’s dictatorship, his special militia called the Tontons Macoutes imposed violence across the country. When 13 youths, four from Jérémie, confronted the militia about their attacks, the youth and their families faced severe consequences. Terror overcame the town. Marine boats blocked the sea exit, the only viable way out of town. People could only leave with permission. The government imposed a curfew. No one knew what would happen, so locals hurried to lock the front doors trembling, screaming, and hiding sometimes under their beds. When the siren rang, the militia roamed the streets spreading intimidation and fear. Between August to October 1964, the youth were executed, along with entire families narrowly related to them or not at all.
André Jabouin, my grandfather, held a public servant role leading to and under the Duvalier administration. He was present at the interrogations and required to stand amongst the crowd witnessing the brutal deaths of his friends, neighbors and acquaintances. Unable to stop the brutality, he requested to take one of the Sansaricq children as his own in an attempt to avoid the horrifying reality of having 2 to 4 year-old-children murdered. According to family stories, one of the children resembled my eldest aunt. The militia responded to my grandfather’s pleading words by swiftly taking the child’s life in complete contempt and disregard. My grandfather died of a heart attack a week later, which significantly affected my family emotionally and economically.
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I visited the site of the horrific events as part of my artistic process. The area sits behind the airport called “La piste Numéro 2,” a space where goats graze and motorcycles and people pass freely. The massive grave site is likely ignored by passersby if not for the mausoleum. My visit allowed me to tap deep within to remember. My journey meant more than simply informing choreography, it allowed me to walk in the footsteps of my ancestors to understand. I imagined my grandfather walking with deep sadness, horror, and disbelief to the site. A mausolée, a shrine with prayers, houses photos of the murdered families with their names written on the walls, and other objects, such as Catholic prayers hanging from the back wall. When approaching the mausolée’s entrance, I automatically began to feel sick and nauseous. Layered heaviness consumed the space around me like a thick, invisible cloud of debris comprised of violence, pain, torture, and unrest. The mausoleum appeared neglected as though no one had visited there in 50 years. Photos tilted possibly from a fallen screw or earthquake. Shrouds of dust, spider webs, and plants seemed unbothered for years.
Town resident, Calas Lupnet, built the mausolée. He said the beautiful flora around the structure grew from flowers left by victims’ families. Throughout the years, loved ones hosted prayers, vigils, memorials, and ceremonies to honor the dead. Why does a heavy cloud still hang over the area and a deafening silence floats above the town? I began to explore this question through my body and dance.
Before traveling from Canada to Haiti for the residency, I began my movement explorations. I approached the experience with the raw, unadulterated intention to unsettle the generational trauma regulated within my body. Tremors and shakes expressed the horror. My eyes conveyed pain and shock. The shame of survivors’ remorse also arose. I started by standing upright, then made my way to the floor. My body did not feel traumatized (or re-traumatized), I felt calm as though I experienced a reset.
After visiting the mausolée, I began my bodily exploration amongst the trees. Then, the ocean called. The ocean waves sung to me and cradled me. I breathed and moved through the Yanvalou water dance with the ripples and currents. Each movement cleared, renewed, eased, healed, and washed away the pain to make peace with the past. In Yanvalou, it is important to stay in the bounce, to keep the flow. The consistent rhythm echoes counts of 2, 4, 8, 12. The kase or break in the movement indicates that without forgetting we can move on, switch, enhance, begin anew, end, shift, break and grow. The waves tell us how to move and when we trust them, they massage us and carry the heavy weight. Mother water takes care of us.
Dance allows us to connect with nature and ourselves. The movement tells us what to do, but we must permit our bodies to move with the elements. Dance introduces exploration that yields atonement and healing. Through my journey, I danced a duet with my grandfather and began healing my family’s trauma.
By Emilie-Andrée Roumer Jabouin, Ig: zila_danceandresearch, Facebook: Emilie R-J, LinkedIn: Emilie Jabouin, PhD
