Chapter 2. Tourism Development and Nation-Building: The Case of Aruba

Jorge Ridderstaat

A destination’s tourism development can be connected with its nation-building process, with possible elemental roles for branding and heritage. This study investigates the relationship between tourism development and nation-building in the context of a Caribbean destination (Aruba), which transitioned its economy in the mid-1980s to become a successful tourism player. In this chapter the intermediation effects of branding and heritage on the two investigated constructs are also examined. The findings indicate that Aruba’s tourism has benefitted from the “one happy island-mentality” that prevailed despite the many socio-economic and environmental changes accompanying the tourism development process. At the same time, there is recognition that the current unsustainable tourism development model threatens the happiness feeling needed to remain a preferred destination. Branding has been critical to the island’s tourism success and portrays a much-shared the vision of a happy island, but the alignment of heritage with Aruba’s tourism is complementary. At the same time, its non-inclusive conceptualization seems to dilute its role in supporting the national identity.

Caribbean cultural heritage and the nation: Aruba, Bonaire and Curaçao in a regional context Stipriaan, Alex van; Alofs, Luc; Guadeloupe, Francio Citation Stipriaan, A. van, Alofs, L., & Guadeloupe, F. (Eds.). (2023). Caribbean cultural heritage and the nation: Aruba, Bonaire and Curaçao in a regional context. Leiden: Leiden University Press (LUP). Retrieved from https://hdl.handle.net/1887/3629949 Version: Publisher's Version License: Creative Commons CC BY-NC-ND 4.0 license Downloaded from: https://hdl.handle.net/1887/3629949 Note: To cite this publication please use the final published version (if applicable). Caribbean Cultural Heritage and the Nation CARIBBEAN CULTURAL HERITAGE AND THE NATION Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao in a Regional Context Edited by Alex van Stipriaan, Luc Alofs, and Francio Guadeloupe Leiden University Press Funded by the Dutch Research Council (NWO) Cover design: Andre Klijsen Cover illustration: Mural in Curaçao saying ‘Straighten your back and live your culture’, 2018 (photo: Alex van Stipriaan) Lay-out: Crius Group Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use all copyrighted illustrations reproduced in this book. Nonetheless, whosoever believes to have rights to this material is advised to contact the publisher. ISBN 978 90 8728 425 1 (paperback) ISBN 978 90 8728 382 7 (hardback) e-ISBN 978 94 0060 427 8 (e-PDF) https://doi.org//10.24415/97807283827 NUR 694 © Alex van Stipriaan, Luc Alofs, and Francio Guadeloupe / Leiden University Press, 2023 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the publisher and the editors of the book. Contents Acknowledgements 7 Introduction 9 Alex van Stipriaan, Luc Alofs, and Francio Guadeloupe Chapter 1. Nation-Building and Nation-Branding in the Caribbean: Comparative Reflections on National Imaginaries and Their Consequences 27 Michiel Baud and Rosemarijn Hoefte Chapter 2. Tourism Development and Nation-Building: The Case of Aruba 47 Jorge Ridderstaat Chapter 3. Slavery and Debates about National Identity and Nation-Branding 67 Rose Mary Allen, Gert Oostindie, and Valika Smeulders Chapter 4. Representations and Reparations of Slavery in the Caribbean 83 Alex van Stipriaan Chapter 5. Aruban Archaeological Heritage: Nation-Building and NationBranding in a Caribbean Context 103 Tibisay Sankatsing Nava, Raymundo Dijkhoff, Ashleigh John Morris, Joseph Sony Jean, Jorge Ulloa Hung, Pancho Geerman, and Corinne L. Hofman Chapter 6. Four Islands: Contemporary Art in Suriname, Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao 119 Rob Perrée and Alex van Stipriaan Chapter 7. Papiamento: An Official Caribbean Creole Language from Legal Repression to Full Recognition 137 Joyce Pereira and Luc Alofs Chapter 8. Aruban, Bonairean, and Curaçaoan Writers between the Caribbean and the Netherlands Sara Florian 153 6 CONTENTS Chapter 9. Radical Imagining in Dutch Caribbean Music 169 Charissa Granger Chapter 10. Sport Heritage, Nation-Building and Nation-Branding in the Anglophone and Dutch Caribbean 189 Roy McCree Chapter 11. Exploring the Nation through the Lens of Baseball: A Popular Culture Perspective on National Belonging in the Dutch Caribbean 205 Francio Guadeloupe Chapter 12. Facing the Ecological Crisis in the Caribbean 221 Stacey Mac Donald and Malcom Ferdinand Chapter 13. Digital Humanities, Social Justice and the Pluricultural Realities of Dutch Caribbean Heritage Archives 235 Margo Groenewoud Chapter 14. Caribbean Diasporas, Metropolitan Policies, and Cultural Heritage 251 Francio Guadeloupe and Gert Oostindie Epilogue 271 Alissandra Cummins Notes 277 Bibliography 303 Illustration Credits 331 The Authors 333 Index 341 Acknowledgements This book is one of the outcomes of a research and capacity building project focused on cultural heritage of the Dutch Caribbean islands Aruba, Bonaire and Curaçao. The project was called Traveling Caribbean Heritage (TCH) and was funded by the Dutch Research Council (NWO). It ran from 2017 until 2022. Apart from capacity building activities ranging from a variety of courses, workshops and exhibitions, the project team also produced a number of academic articles and books. These include a biography on Dutch Caribbean artist Mo Mohammed by Luc Alofs (2021), a book on the history and culture of Curaçaoan straw hats by Alex van Stipriaan (2023), and a two-volume edited book by project leaders Gert Oostindie and Alex van Stipriaan: Antillean Heritage, Then and Now and Now and Beyond (2021). These books are in Dutch. The current book in English presents cultural heritage of the three islands to an international readership by investigating how they compare to the surrounding Caribbean region. Its focus is on the question how heritage is used in processes of nation building and nation branding. In order to make these comparisons the editors invited 22 experts in their respective heritage fields to contribute to this volume. The majority of them was from outside the TCH project. We thank them extra for their efforts, inspiration and contributions. We thank the Dutch Research Council (NWO) for funding most of this project as well as for an open access grant. We also thank the Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies (KITLV-KNAW) in Leiden for co-funding and hosting this project as well as our partner institutes Leiden University, Erasmus University Rotterdam, the University of Curaçao Dr. Moises Da Costa Gomez and the University of Aruba. We furthermore thank the Amsterdam Institute for Social Science Research (AISSR) of the University of Amsterdam for their financial support and cooperation, as well as Manpreet Brar and Valentini Sampethai for their editing assistance. Finally, we thank Leiden University Press for their patience and their careful publication of this book. Introduction Alex van Stipriaan, Luc Alofs, and Francio Guadeloupe The Project Centuries of intense migrations have deeply impacted the development of the creolised Papiamentu/o-speaking cultures of Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao. These three islands, together with the three windward islands of St. Maarten, St. Eustatius, or Statia, and Saba, nine hundred kilometres to the northeast, plus the Netherlands in Europe, another seven thousand kilometres to the northeast, form the Kingdom of the Netherlands. In 1845, the six islands were made into one administrative colonial entity governed from Curaçao and subordinated to the Netherlands. In 1954 the Netherlands Antilles obtained autonomous country status and as such became responsible for internal affairs as laid down in the Kingdom’s Charter. Cultural and heritage exchange remained a one-way street from The Hague, the seat of the Dutch government, to the Caribbean. That changed when on May 30, 1969 (Trinta di Mei) an enormous uprising took place in Curaçao with obvious anti-colonial and Black Power sentiments. Two people were killed by police forces and parts of the inner city of Willemstad fell victim to burning and looting by protesters. From that time on a process of Antillianisation set in. For decades, the other islands had felt subordinated not so much to the Netherlands, but more so to Curaçao, the seat of the colonial government. Particularly Aruba experienced this constellation as a pressing yoke and managed, in 1986, to assume an autonomous position (status aparte) within the Kingdom vis-à-vis the Netherlands Antilles and the Netherlands. The remaining Netherlands Antilles fell apart afterwards, and since the October 10, 2010 official dissolution of the Netherlands Antilles, Curaçao (over 160,000 official residents), Aruba (115,000) and St. Maarten (41,000) have been autonomous, non-sovereign countries; meanwhile, Bonaire (21,000), St. Eustatius (3,100), and Saba (1,900) have become municipal entities of the Netherlands (17.6 million). Numbers illustrate the asymmetrical demographic relationships and also hint at extended postcolonial political, economic, and ideological metropolitan dominance. The question arises as to whether this applies to travelling cultural heritage within the Kingdom and how this relates to cultural heritage policies in the wider Caribbean. ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN, LUC ALOFS, AND FRANCIO GUADELOUPE Fig. 1. Map of the Caribbean Region 10 INTRODUCTION 11 The Caribbean Region In 2017, two academic institutions in the Netherlands1 and two in the Caribbean,2 with the partnering support of some 20 heritage organisations in both parts of the Kingdom,3 started a research and capacity building project called Traveling Caribbean Heritage.4 The islands’ asymmetrical and complex relationship to the Netherlands spurred questions regarding insular identities as well as relationships within the Kingdom. Additional questions arose as contemporary migrations5 deeply impacted insular demographics and understandings of what it means to be Aruban, Bonairean, or Curaçaoan, and as many islanders lived in the Diaspora in the Netherlands.6 Because of the comparability in a number of aspects, such as the increasing role of tourism, the decreasing importance of the oil industry, and particularly the common language of Papiamentu/o7 and a sizeable heritage field, our consortium decided to focus on the three islands off the Venezuelan coast. We also decided to focus on the question of whether cultural/historical heritage is part of each island’s “national” identification and whether this is used top-down and/ or bottom-up in questions of nation-building and nation-branding. Put differently: What heritage do citizens cherish and what heritage strengthens the idea of a common “we” (nation-building)? What kind of image of the island is simultaneously presented to the outside world (nation-branding) and how does that image relate to this national “we”? This project has resulted in a large number of lecture series and courses for cultural practitioners and professionals on the islands (on, among other subjects, historic canons and intangible cultural heritage); workshops (on, among other subjects, individualised heritage or how to write the Dutch Caribbean into Wikipedia); and participatory exhibitions (photographs as living heritage). Additionally, the project has resulted in a number of academic articles, a biography of Dutch Caribbean artist Mo Mohamed by Luc Alofs,8 and a two-volume edited book in Dutch by project leaders Gert Oostindie and Alex van Stipriaan: Antillean Heritage, Then and Now and Now and Beyond (Leiden 2021). These two volumes address a large number of heritage dimensions, from eighteenth-century collections of curiosity to contemporary mental heritage; from carnival to the literary canon, from museums and photo collections to the digital future; from food to song; from fishery to art; and from heritage policy to heritage education. The outcome of this investigation is that the role of heritage and heritage policies differed very much over time and per island, as did the importance attributed to (particular) heritage in processes of identification. It turned out there is considerable ambivalence surrounding heritage and identification. There is a lot of pride in a more traditional kind of heritage (music, dance, food, festivals); there are mixed opinions on the role of Papiamento/u; and there are even feelings of shame for heritage and memories 12 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN, LUC ALOFS, AND FRANCIO GUADELOUPE related to slavery and cultural heritage from migrants who arrived on the islands in the twentieth century.9 Finances and enough trained staff are a problem everywhere, and some have stated that since the dissolution of the Netherlands Antilles care for heritage and culture in general has deteriorated substantially, especially in the special municipality of Bonaire.10 The already precarious financial situation of most heritage institutions went into free fall after the outbreak of the Covid-19 pandemic, the collapse of tourism and tourism incomes, and the loss of public funding for non-governmental cultural organisations. The heritage sector came to a virtual standstill and the cultural infrastructure on the ABC islands was seriously affected. Museums and galleries were temporarily or indefinitely closed and heritage professionals lost their jobs.11 Post-pandemic recovery has been slow. This book aims to investigate how the three islands plus the fourth “island”: Caribbeans in the Netherlands, compare to the surrounding Caribbean region. We decided to focus on more heritage fields—such as sports, visual arts, ecology, archaeology, music, and tourism—than in the two volumes mentioned above. Taken together, the chapters cover a large and sometimes unexpected part of Aruban, Bonairean, and Curaçaoan (and Caribbean in the Netherlands) heritage, which, we think, is of particular interest to residents and policymakers in the Kingdom. The comparison with the wider Caribbean primarily is a means to find out how and why the three Dutch Caribbean societies differ or do not differ from others, and to understand the history of European colonisation and slavery. Simultaneously, this approach draws attention to the Dutch Caribbean for anyone interested in Caribbean history and culture in general. In English, French, or Spanish studies of the Caribbean, the Dutch Caribbean is often neglected or comes only marginally into focus. The Nation The essays collected in this volume revolve around the question of the nation in Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao by questioning these nations. Note that the two questions are radically dissimilar. The question of the nation is undecidable about whether or not the peoples inhabiting the ABC islands should be defined as nations. Questioning these nations, on the other hand, takes the presence of there being a nation for granted. Now while these questions form an unlikely pair, they articulate to one another in the essays of this volume. Questioning Dutch Caribbean nations has been a mainstay among Caribbeanists.12 They usually, and at first glance rightfully, depict Caribbean nations as lacking strong institutions, economic fortitude, a sense of cohesion, and a general will to move from nationhood to sovereign statehood.13 All these factors are true INTRODUCTION 13 as far as conventional understandings of truth are concerned. Interestingly, this depiction’s critiques by Caribbean scholars in the Netherlands and on these islands are based on the same premises as the established Dutch scholarship.14 There is much arguing for these academic and popular analyses to remain on the level of questioning these nations. After all, these islands, like the rest of the Caribbean, were peopled by the descendants of Africans, Asians, Europeans, and the remaining Amerindians, who sought to transform European- and North Americanrun plantations into societies. This is a story of triumph in the face of almost insurmountable odds. These are nations with a will to national self-determination. This volume, however, parts company with this triumphalist reading of Caribbean becoming. There were undeniable transformations, albeit incomplete, from plantation factories to societies. But societies aren’t nations; they cannot be equated in their modern conceptual usages. It is perhaps best to begin explaining the difference between the two concepts by rehearsing what is understood by “nation.” Mainstream academics are constructionists when it comes to the nation.15 A nation is “an imagined political community—and imagined as both inherently limited and sovereign”.16 Individuals who see themselves as part of a nation need not ever meet one another to cultivate a sense of common identity. Note that we are here in the order of totality—whether imagined or real—whereby there are clear borders. All critiques based on this understanding will theorise or empirically show who is not fully recognised within a particular nation or who is altogether left out.17 In questioning the nation, the aim seems to be a more total totality; thus far, what a nation signifies conceptually. Unlike conceptualisations of the nation, today few in the social sciences and humanities conceive of society as a totality, an example of imaginary holism. Rather, in the most sophisticated theorising, society only signals recursive socialities enabled by and simultaneously enabling cross-cutting multiplicities.18 A recursive sociality in this case is a set of iterative encounters between peoples, persons, ideas, humanly produced and extra-humanly constituted objects, and landscapes—these are examples of multiplicities.19 Movement of multiplicities, also their articulations and disarticulations, is what matters, but not all movement that matters takes place at the same pace. The landscape of the ABC islands that are the main focus of the essays is disarticulating and moving so slowly that it gives the impression of set boundaries where a particular recursive sociality is taking place. However, what enables the recursive sociality of the ABC islands (a shorthand being society) are outside multiplicities that are simultaneously inside. They are inside through articulations, which the case of a Trinidadian-style carnival on the island of Aruba demonstrates. However, as Aruba is an ongoing set of multiplicities shooting outwards, there is the concomitant influence on Trinidad, too: think only of the speeding up of Trinidadian Soca that nowadays resembles the Aruban Roadmarch! 14 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN, LUC ALOFS, AND FRANCIO GUADELOUPE Society and the concept of the nation are not compatible, for they deal with different social processes. Easy equations won’t cut it. Questioning nations means interrogating imagined thing-like social substances solidified in laws, books, cultural heritage, language, and social institutions. It is to move to a more inclusive nation or to national self-determination—that old Hegelian dream that every nation’s telos is to be a nation-state. Society, on the other hand, is liquefying and becoming in odd ways of peoples, ideas, and objects, whereby every boundary can be articulated as a door. When such an articulation is wilfully blocked, there are calls to question whether injustice is taking place. Easy equations between society and nation are insufficient. When the question of the nation is raised, however, an articulation between the concept of the nation and society can take place. This is because every nation is understood as an imagined political community always being undone, always in strife, always troubled by multiplicities from the outside. Many of the essays in this collection demonstrate this, working with the conceptualisation of society as explicated above, without mentioning it. Nation-Building and Nation-Branding Nation-building and nation-branding are often perceived as two opposite though closely linked phenomena. The first is focused on the internal cohesion of a nation, while the latter is focused on the external promotion of that nation. The first seems to be more of a (social) process, the latter a (commercial) strategy. The first can be simultaneously a top-down policy as well as a bottom-up movement. The first creates an exclusive “we,” whereas the latter invites others to take part in, or at least taste, that “we.” Moreover, both phenomena seem to have several dimensions, which makes defining them all the more confusing. Economic nation-building is about the creation of prosperity for the nation symbolised by a strong economy with a high GDP. Sociopolitical nation-building is about building trust, by creating cohesion through common goals and a trustworthy state. And then there is also sociocultural nation-building, which is about the creation of common national identifications.20 At first sight nation-branding seems to be related solely to economic nation-building, i.e. as an instrument to directly attract capital through investments, or indirectly, for instance through tourists who spend their money with you. In reality, these processes, strategies, and dimensions of nation-building and -branding are tightly entangled: one cannot do without the other. The self-perception of nations, just like that of individuals, is fed and stimulated through the mirror of the other. The need to build a strong and cohesive nation in which the INTRODUCTION 15 population believes and with which it identifies is simultaneously a need to at least be seen and recognised by others. And if such cohesiveness had not (yet) a sound economic basis, that significant other would be needed for its capital as well. And that is, of course, where the branding—or showing off particular assets you know the other is interested in—comes in. Positive outside responses to the branding results in positive incentives for the self-perception and attempts to push these particular assets even harder. Internally, the branding message might even become a self-fulfilling prophecy. For example, once the island of Aruba acquired status aparte as a more or less autonomous nation within the Dutch Kingdom, its successive governments put all their cards on tourism. The accompanying branding slogan for many years now has been “One Happy Island.” This helped to bring in millions of tourists, which produced increasing prosperity, which made Arubans, generally speaking, ever happier, which in turn stressed the attractiveness of the island to tourists. As one of the main tourist websites reads: Happiness radiates from the island through the cheerful colors of the colonial buildings in Oranjestad, the Caribbean atmosphere, the pleasant shops, restaurants, night clubs and bars, the cordiality and hospitality of the Aruban population, and the kilometers of hailwhite sandy beaches with waving palm trees. All this, made Aruba one of the most popular destinations in the Caribbean.21 So this kind of branding works as a self-fulfilling prophecy indeed. It boosts, or maybe even alters, people’s self-perceptions and their identification with the nation. It strengthens ideas of nationhood. However, as will be shown later in this book, there are limits to that as well. Some have warned that branding might actively shape social relations; for example, by putting material consumption front and centre, nation-branding can become counterproductive when (changing) circumstances no longer parallel the branded promises.22 Another interesting case might be the one-and-a-half to two million euros per year deal the Curaçao Tourist Board concluded in 2020 with the most successful and internationally famous football club in the Netherlands, Ajax Amsterdam. American influences had made baseball the number one sport in Aruba and Curaçao. However, because of their massive Diaspora in the Netherlands, and owing to globalisation, European football has become a rising number two, particularly in Curaçao. Players such as Hedwiges Maduro, Jetro Willems, vurnon Anita, Riechedly Bazoer, Lutsharel Geertruida, Jürgen Locadia, and Denzel Dumfries were and are stars and role models for bottom-up success, while branding their island of descent in the Netherlands as well as in the rest of Europe. The Curaçao Minister of Economic Affairs was invited to unveil the sponsor logo on 16 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN, LUC ALOFS, AND FRANCIO GUADELOUPE Curaçao as a brand logo on Ajax football shirt the Ajax jersey shirt sleeve and saw the first match during which the team wore the jersey. On that occasion the minister stated: Tourism is an important pillar of the economic development of Curaçao. The collaboration with Ajax is a fine way to tell our Dutch and international target group more about Curaçao as a versatile holiday destination … a partnership with Ajax, with their international reach and gaze on future generations fits very well with our own objectives. We look forward to a good cooperation and to receive the team in Curaçao so that they can experience how much there is to do on our island.23 Receiving the team, of course, was a means to create ambassadors for the island, but simultaneously it was a means to stimulate local pride, and to use sports in general as part of nation-building. It would not come as a surprise if football culture gradually replaces baseball culture, which entails much more than watching another weekly game. Certainly in popular culture, two kinds of branding can be observed, one topdown (e.g. Curaçao-Ajax), the other bottom-up (football players becoming stars). This reflects Dinnie’s distinction between a “nation brand image” which lives in the minds of the target groups and a “nation brand identity” which lives in the local society, respectively.24 The first is the top-down branded image produced to attract capital in order to stimulate prosperity. This is a rather static, i.e. it promotes a static, but always positive and inviting image that lives in the minds of the target groups (tourists and investors). This image has to be static because it should be sustainable and reflect stability. INTRODUCTION 17 What Dinnie calls nation brand identity can be promoted top-down too but in reality is at least a mix with and for the bigger part a bottom-up kind of branding living in local society. This can most clearly be observed where continually creolising popular culture (and its heritage) goes beyond local borders, often when nongovernmental, commercial and diasporic agency goes international, meanwhile strengthening nation-building: “Look, this is us!” At least as interesting in these processes is what is not branded. The problem with small societies that depend mainly on one product, in this case tourism, is that the country and its population is the brand. In bigger, richer and more diversified economies locals as well as foreigners are perfectly aware that the branded image only relates to particular parts of that society. Generally, what is not promoted far outweighs what is. However, given Caribbean societies’ small scale and their dependence on tourism, the image is the island and vice versa. What is not branded, and whether this is nonetheless part of nation-building, is what’s interesting. In this book the interrelated workings of nation-building and nation-branding are analysed from a perspective often used in “nation projects” but in a much broader and mosaical sense than is usually the case, and that sense is historical. Or rather a particular historical dimension, namely that which a nation publicly cherishes and makes efforts to preserve and protect for future generations: cultural or historical heritage. Generally, the idea of heritage in this sense is limited to museum collections, historical city centres and/or monuments, and folkloric traditions. This kind of heritage is often celebrated on national days as well as promoted as the extra attraction and unique asset next to the sun, sea, and sand promotion in tourist advertisements. The variety of heritages related to the project of the nation presented in this book shows there is so much more than that, including the serious dilemmas inherent to them. It shows that it may be too simple to phrase it as Derek Walcott did in a few lines of his masterful epos Omeros, in which he refers simultaneously to the female protagonist and the native nation of St. Lucia: She was selling herself like the island, without any pain, and the village did not seem to care that is was dying in its change, the way it whored away a simple life that would soon disappear This Book This book consists of fourteen chapters and an epilogue. In the first chapter, “Nation-Building and Nation-Branding in the Caribbean: Comparative Reflections on National Imaginaries and Their Consequences,” Michiel Baud and Rosemarijn 18 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN, LUC ALOFS, AND FRANCIO GUADELOUPE Hoefte analyse the intertwined and contradictory processes of nation-building and nation-branding. Nation-building is defined as the process in which peoples and societies align behind a shared set of notions and narratives of uniqueness and belonging; nation-branding, on the other hand, is a commercial process presenting and “selling” selected elements of a nation’s narrative to outsiders such as tourists, investors, and international organisations. Both processes tend to empower and make visible preferential groups while at the same time ignoring, marginalising, or exoticising marginal population groups. Baud and Hoefte compare nation-building and nation-branding practices in the independent states of the Dominican Republic, Jamaica, and Suriname. Nationbuilding and branding in the Dominican Republic is grounded in its nineteenth century independence movement and the republic’s struggle to come to terms with its authoritarian, anti-Haitian, and suppressive Trujillo regime. Attempts to rebrand the Dominican Republic are in contradiction with its violent past and current social, economic and environmental problems. Similarly, nation-building and nation-branding activities in Suriname must cover up the country’s ethnic tensions and its poisonous former military dictatorship. An “accommodationist” nation-branding strategy tropicalises the indigenous Amerindian and Maroon communities for the sake of ecotourism and investment. Jamaica also faces the contradiction of how to build a nation characterised by poverty, drugs, crime, and countercultures and simultaneously brand the nation as a safe tropical sun, sand, and sea destination. Through nation-branding, entrepreneurs and state authorities want their country’s population to comply with stereotypes stressing the servicing of foreign visitors. Baud and Hoefte set the tone for a debate on nation-building, nation-branding, and the nation-state as lived in and thought of by cultural practitioners, governments, and academia in the Caribbean, the Diaspora, and postcolonial metropoles. In the second chapter, Jorge Ridderstaat presents the assertion that tourism development can go together with a nation-building process with crucial roles for branding and heritage. This is illustrated by the case of Aruba. Particularly since it became an autonomous country within the Dutch Kingdom in 1986, the government has put all its cards on tourism under the brand of “One Happy Island.” Sun, sand, and shopping are the main reasons for tourists to visit the island. The heritage part in the tourist package centres around language, folkloric traditions, and national symbols. Until recently, this destination branding strategy worked for tourists and Arubans alike. However, increasing dissatisfaction with excessive building and massive labour immigration and Aruba’s tourism expansion is starting to undermine residents’ happiness. This threatens the attractiveness of the island for tourists, which in turn is a threat to economic development. Ridderstaat finds the main solution in a drastic turn towards a sustainable tourist industry, in which INTRODUCTION 19 the happiness of tourists and residents go hand in hand. The remaining twelve chapters and the epilogue may provide us with pointers on how to achieve this. Rose Mary Allen, Gert Oostindie, and Valika Smeulders’ contribution, “Slavery and Debates about National Identity and Nation-Branding,” concerns the entangled, though differing dynamics of memory-making around slavery, debates about national identity and nation-branding within the Kingdom of the Netherlands. In the aftermath of Curaçao’s May 1969 revolt, slavery and its legacies became part of a national narrative that has fostered pride in Afro-Caribbean cultural heritage. Slavery is even included in Curaçaoan nation-branding strategies, though tertiary to the sun, sand, and sea image, and the rosy picture of colonial architectonic heritage. Aruba perceives itself as a Mestizo nation that hardly has a slavery past. Thousands of Afro-Caribbean migrant labourers settled on the island before World War II, introducing the (Trinidadian) carnival celebration to the island. In the domain of heritage, carnival is recognised as part of Aruban heritage and branded as such, but local slavery and its legacy are neglected in cultural and nation-branding policies. Bonaire’s original population is predominantly Afro-Caribbean. However, the narrative of island identity is about a tranquil, post-emancipation society of peasants and fishers, whose fate was interrupted by massive migration from the Netherlands, tourism, and recolonisation by the Dutch after the island’s incorporation into the Netherlands. Partly because of Caribbean migration to the Netherlands, the debate on slavery has come to the fore. For now, debates on the slavery past seem to be more nation-splitting than nation-building on both sides of the Atlantic. Building upon the previous chapter, in “Representations and Reparations of Slavery in the Caribbean,” Alex Van Stipriaan compares the representation of slavery in museums in Barbados, Cuba, Saint Kitts and Nevis, Suriname, the Bahamas, and Guadeloupe to those in the Dutch Caribbean islands of Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao from the angle of reparations: what is the role of Caribbean nations in articulating a reparations discourse and how does the Dutch Caribbean fit in? In most Caribbean nations, slavery is recognised as the central part of national history, but Caribbean museums treat slavery less thoroughly than might be expected. The reason for this can be the fear of stimulating anti-white sentiments, which might not be favourable to national cohesion and the tourism industry. The representation of slavery in museums in the ABC islands varies. Most museums are small, understaffed, and lacking substantial government support; they are often located outside tourist areas. Kura Hulanda Museum, located in the heart of Willemstad, makes Curaçao the exception to the rule. This privately owned slavery museum is mainly aimed at Afro-American tourists from the United States. Slavery is represented in museums in Aruba and Bonaire only superficially. Overall, Dutch Caribbean museums present indigenous archaeological objects but lack a coherent narrative of slavery. This reflects the state of the debate on reparations in the Dutch 20 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN, LUC ALOFS, AND FRANCIO GUADELOUPE Caribbean. Commemoration days are hardly celebrated and local governments do not take a firm stance in the reparations debate. Archaeological heritage practices across the region are rooted in representation, persistence, resistance, and decolonisation processes. In their contribution “Aruban Archaeological Heritage: Nation-Building and Branding in a Caribbean Context,” Tibisay Sankatsing Nava, Raymundo Dijkhoff, Ashleigh John Morris, Joseph Sony Jean, Jorge Ulloa Hung, Pancho Geerman and Corinne Hofman explore how archaeological heritage influenced nation-building and branding processes in Cuba, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Trinidad and Tobago, and Haiti. Concerning their main case, Aruba, the authors describe the dominance of indigenous legacies in research by the National Archaeological Museum Aruba and in the role of indigenous symbolism in nation-branding activities such as the inclusion of Amerindian symbols in bank notes, the names given streets and schools, the promotion of indigenous rock art for tourists, and emphasising the cultural and historical ties with the Amerindian Wayuu community of La Guajira, Colombia. These express Aruba’s identification with indigenous elements and illustrate the omission of Afro-Caribbean and Asian heritage and the lack of multivocality in nation-branding activities. After comparisons with archaeology, indigenous heritage, and nation-building practices in the wider Caribbean, the authors conclude that in order to decolonise archaeological agendas and practices, archaeologists need to establish a true connection between science, society, and nation-building processes. In “Four Islands,” Rob Perrée and Alex van Stipriaan discuss and explore the role and potential of contemporary arts for nation-building and nation-branding in independent Suriname, the non-sovereign countries Curaçao and Aruba, and the special municipality of Bonaire. The authors compare the political and economic climate, arts infrastructure, the prevalence of art galleries, arts education, the market for arts, the funding of art projects, and the local and international connections of artists. Scale is identified as a factor in the stagnation of artistic life. Common to all islands is the absence of national art museums. In spite of individual international artistic success and the national bank interest in the arts, the national Caribbean art worlds are characterised by isolation. Young talents lack possibilities for higher arts education and are forced to enrol in arts programs abroad, while the tourism market is underdeveloped and the state shows limited interest in cultural and arts policies. On the ABC islands, tourism has a major impact on the arts. Street art, more specifically murals, are attracting interest, especially in Willemstad, Curaçao, and San Nicolas, Aruba. The potential of the arts for nation-branding is not fully recognised by the state. In the Caribbean, there are two national Creole languages, Haitian Creole and Dutch Caribbean Papiamento, which is the language of Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao. INTRODUCTION 21 In “Papiamento: An Official Caribbean Creole Language from Legal Repression to Full Recognition,” Joyce Pereira and Luc Alofs illustrate that the colonial linguistic discourse was based on a supreme ethnocentric self-confidence and the oppression of the mother tongue of the island populations. The struggle for the recognition of the Creole language, by local and metropole governments and even its own speakers, is far from over. Papiamento has its origin as a pidgin language that developed during the transatlantic slave trade. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, the language was spoken by practically the entire population of the ABC islands. However, the colonial authorities did not consider Papiamento a valid language. As of 1819, only Dutch was permitted in schools. Subsequent colonial language policies aimed to eliminate Papiamento. In 1954, the Dutch Antilles obtained an autonomous status. The islands could make their own educational and language policies. In the 1960s, the first publications appeared denouncing the language problems in the educational system. In the decades that followed, educational innovations took place and Papiamento became the language of instruction and a subject in primary and secondary education. Language emancipation was reversed in Bonaire after 2010, when the island was integrated into the Netherlands and Papiamento lost its official status. Centuries of language oppression resulted in a low status of the language, even amongst its own speakers and the local and Kingdom governments. NGOs and educators play a crucial role in the safeguarding and promotion of Papiamento. Despite the flourishing of Papiamento in literature and other art forms and its potential for nation-branding, Pereira and Alofs seek the creation of an institute for language planning and policy, which should devote special attention to prestige and image planning to further popular and political awareness of the importance of the mother tongue as a language of instruction in education, and hence nation-building and nation-branding. Sara Florian argues that displacement is part of the process, in “Nation-Building and Nation-Branding: Aruban, Bonairean and Curaçaoan writers between the Caribbean and the Netherlands.” Florian analyses the literary works of Nicolas “Cola” Debrot (born in Bonaire, 1902—died in the Netherlands, 1981), Frank Martinus Arion (Curaçao 1936–Curaçao 2015), and Quito Nicolaas (Aruba 1955). In Mijn Zuster de Negerin, My Sister the Negress (1935) Frits Ruprecht returns to Bonaire from the Netherlands where he revisits the plantation house of his forefathers. He gets involved with Maria, who turns out to be his half-sister. Ruprecht gets caught between colonial nostalgia and slavery’s racist legacy. Debrot was governor of the Dutch Antilles during the May 30, 1969 revolt in Curaçao. In its aftermath Debrot wrote his plea for racial harmony in his short novel De Vervolgden (1982), which was based on the sixteenth-century history of Curaçao. In Dubbelspel (1973), Martinus Arion focuses on the “négritude” aspect of Curaçaoan culture. In an imaginary suburb in Curaçao, four dominoes players 22 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN, LUC ALOFS, AND FRANCIO GUADELOUPE represent different social classes. Again, the May 30, 1969 revolt was a spur to fight for racial and gender equality. Through Maureen, the main character in Verborgen Leegte (2016), Nicolaas explores the migration and diaspora of the ABC-islanders. Maureen studied in the Netherlands and in Washington—only to discover her multiracial family background by accident. In the works of the three authors, Florian discerns identity shifts from late colonialism to extended postcolonial Kingdom relations. If literature is best conceived as the artistic practice of seeing the future in the present—a point made by Caribbean and Black Atlantic luminaries such as Aimé Césaire and Derek Walcott —Charissa Granger’s essay “Radical Imagining in Dutch Caribbean Music” is a rumination about viscerally experiencing and attempting to make a future for cultural heritage and inclusive national belonging on the ABC islands that is musical. Such a musical future, meaning representational and evocative of what one hopes is to come, is open-ended and cannot be owned by a particular ethnie or class, because it is driven by and stems from what Audre Lorde terms the erotic: “the sharing of joy, whether physical, emotional, psychic, or intellectual that forms a bridge between the sharers which can be the basis for understanding much of what is not shared between them, and lessens the threat of their difference.” Granger argues that the sharing in forms of Caribbean musical performances such as steelpan panoramas and carnival, where the audience is recognised as a group of performing agents, is always all of the aforementioned modalities of being—physical in dance and chant and also emotional, intellectual and spiritual. Granger’s chapter is a critique of the ideological state apparatuses on the ABC islands— educational institutions, media houses, and policymakers tasked with creating legislation on cultural heritage—that in her polemic are (un)willingly depriving the peoples of the isles of the creative nourishment of artistically engaging with the questions of national belonging, the economy, and governance. Comparable to cricket’s popularity in the Anglophone Caribbean, baseball and soccer are popular sports on the ABC islands. These may not strictly fit the UNESCO instigated heritagisation of traditional sports and games, but in the Caribbean all heritage is marked by colonial encounters and subsequent creolisations. In his contribution, “Sport Heritage, Nation-Building and Nation-Branding in the Anglophone and Dutch Caribbean,” Roy McCree compares the cricket museums in Trinidad and Tobago and Grenada to similar initiatives in Aruba and Curaçao: sport heritage in the process of nation-building. The Sport Museum Curaçao’s aim is to have “sport heritage in Curaçao [serve] as a mechanism for not just nation-building but helping to repair the damage of colonialism to people’s [negative] sense of self.” In Aruba there are plans to create a sport museum to assist in social cohesion and nation-building. Curaçao and Aruba may be lagging behind their Anglophone Caribbean counterparts Trinidad and INTRODUCTION 23 Tobago and Grenada, but not by much. Sport museums on these islands are the initiatives of a professional cricket club in the case of Trinidad and Tobago, and business owners in Grenada. Not surprisingly, when government funding was not forthcoming, the Grenadian businessman closed the museum. What works better is the articulation of nation-branding to sports. The professional Caribbean Premier League is linked to the tourist industry. This is a lucrative enterprise, but UNESCO does not feature here—cold cash does: American dollars and British pounds. Confirming McCree’s main argument, Francio Guadeloupe explores “The Nation through the Lens of Baseball.” In popular culture, social classes meet on relatively fair terms in a context of struggle, entertainment, and commerce. In a (Dutch) Caribbean context, class is very much related to the differences between “oldcomers” and “newcomers.” During games the nation might be understood from a non-hierarchical perspective. Neither ethnicity nor class play dominant roles, teams are mixed, and winning is the common purpose. Most players come from the working and lower-middle classes, and if there is any racial superiority on the baseball diamond, it would be Black rather than White. Simultaneously articulations of popular culture in terms of nation-building, nation-branding, and national self-understanding do connect people, however, in different modes over time. Commercial popular culture, as opposed to historical folk culture and traditional cultural heritage, has little to do with the nation-state, but expresses what Guadeloupe terms “outernationality”: commercial popular culture has a strong local, bottom-up signature and is meanwhile interacting in transnational and global top-down contexts. Sports in general and baseball in particular cannot escape from the socio-economic and political dynamics of society and the world at large. Therefore, baseball goes very well together with the state’s promotion of the common Creole nation. Caribbean states can choose to treat local commercial popular culture and internationally acclaimed sports heroes as a national brand, similar to those of reggae and the image of Bob Marley in destination branding for the tourist industry. In “Facing the Ecological Crisis in the Caribbean,” Stacey Mac Donald and Malcom Ferdinand discuss the global ecological crisis as it manifests itself in the Dutch and French Caribbean. Colonisation, slavery, imperialism, and disaster capitalism have been the conditions for the destruction of Caribbean environments. While the region contributes little to global warming, it is at the forefront of its consequences: rising sea levels, high category hurricanes, and ocean acidification. The ecological crisis impacts biodiversity, food sovereignty, energy production, and cultural and natural heritage preservation. The authors consider the “double divide of modernity”: the environmental divide (man/nature) and the colonial divide (coloniser/colonised). This double divide has led to a tension between ecological and cultural heritage preservation. 24 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN, LUC ALOFS, AND FRANCIO GUADELOUPE The historical and cultural value of fishery is obvious in Bonaire. Fishers are celebrated yearly during the virgin of the valley festival on 8 September. Over the years, fishery has gained attention from a nature conservation perspective. However, Eurocentric environmentalism and island policies lack a local perspective and local voices in ecological debate and decision-making. The same is true of pesticide pollution in Martinique and Guadeloupe, where state agencies neglect the local ecology protest movement. Cultural heritage and ecological policies must no longer be thought of separately. The dialogue between nature and culture, environment and society, ecology and politics can ensure a place to live for future generations and lay the foundation for a common world vibrant with plural histories and cultures. While bottom up practices of nation-building and nation-branding are under pressure because of political and economic interests, Margo Groenewoud argues that “digital humanities” in the field of cultural heritage can be a means to reinvigorate UNESCO’s mission to have culture instigate social justice and nation-building in the ABC islands. The term digital humanities refers to the use and application of digital resources in education, research, and art practices. Inspired by UNESCO, Groenewoud writes, “When culture is approached as a driver for the sustainable development of just societies, the active promotion of heritage preservation by definition should be about promoting inclusivity, democracy, and human rights.” The endeavours in the field of digital humanities have not yet been made compatible with highly commercialised nation-branding pursuits. This neglect may enable digital humanities to be a useful tool in forging Caribbean nations where each citizen is considered and treated as a valid person. Groenewoud is aware that the tandem of commodification and commoditisation in nation-branding is the ethnic and national absolutism in many nation-building projects. She advocates a tactic of going below and above the nation, by focusing on grassroots organisations and regionalism in an attempt at nation-building for social justice and inclusivity. Groenewoud’s essay provides the reader with a survey of emancipatory projects in the digital humanities throughout the Caribbean. This survey is employed to avert that Papiamentu/Papiamento has to be both the linguistic vehicle and primary symbol of cultural heritage in inclusive nation-building in the ABC islands. Digital humanities is a field that has yet to yield many of its promises. In the final chapter, Francio Guadeloupe and Gert Oostindie’s “Caribbean Diasporas, Metropolitan Policies and Cultural Heritage,” the authors state that cultural heritage as an instrument of Caribbean nation-building and nation-branding is mainly limited to “authentic” heritage from (pre-)colonial times. It is mainly about the heritage of the islanders who trace back their local roots many generations, who often exclude the cultural legacies of newcomers even though they might be third- or fourth-generation islanders. INTRODUCTION 25 In the Dutch metropole, Caribbean heritage seems to be much more integrated into an encompassing Black identity influenced by White politics, on the one hand, and globalised African-American identity politics on the other. Following Stuart Hall and Paul Gilroy, the authors state that two kinds of Black identities can be discerned: a static and essentialising one and a dynamic, continually creolising one. The first one can be found among Black activists, among whom are quite a number of Afro-Caribbeans in the Netherlands. They fight institutionalised racial exclusion based on an essentialist understanding of Blackness as being the inverse of early White negative stereotypes. This kind of Black identification is termed a politics of fulfilment. The other kind of Black identification is dynamic and open to change and is termed a politics of transfiguration. By interacting and exchanging with other ethnic groups, transformation takes place, as can be observed in urban popular culture. The authors show hip-hop in the Netherlands as a strong case in point. Its basis was and to a great extent still is a coming together of musicians, dancers and audiences from all Caribbean, Surinamese, and native Dutch backgrounds, creating “their own [and new] thing.” The authors conclude that transnational urban popular culture is transfigurational, and in many ways mirrors the multicultural reality in the metropole and on the islands. Creolisation still is a driving force in nation formation. In the epilogue, Alissandra Cummins reflects on the essays presented in this volume. CHAPTER 1 Nation-Building and Nation-Branding in the Caribbean: Comparative Reflections on National Imaginaries and Their Consequences Michiel Baud and Rosemarijn Hoefte I’m just a red nigger who love the sea, I had a sound colonial education, I have Dutch, nigger, and English in me, And either I’m nobody, or I’m a nation —Derek Walcott, “The Schooner Flight” What more fantasy than the Antilles? —Junot Diaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao These quotations, by a Nobel laureate from St. Lucia and an acclaimed DominicanAmerican writer, reflect the diverse and complex reality of Caribbean ideas on self and nation. They may serve as an entrance point to the question of how different independent Caribbean nation-states have tried to understand and present their societies, and how this has changed over time. In this chapter we analyse the tension that exists between nation-building—aligning populations and societies behind a common set of rules and narratives of uniqueness and belonging—and nation-branding—presenting and “selling” selected elements of a nation’s narrative to outside actors. We not only contend that nation-branding is a logical extension of nation-building, but that these two processes are often intertwined in antithetical ways.1 Keeping in mind the region’s heterogeneity and myriad experiences of gaining independence, in most Caribbean countries nation-building was (and is) a complex and often contradictory process. Although new ideas of self and nation propelled the struggle for independence, the actual construction of the nation often took place after achieving independence. In his seminal work Imagined Communities (1983), Benedict Anderson emphasises the importance of culture and emotion to understand how people develop a sense of national consciousness.2 He thus draws attention to processes of imagining, remembering, forgetting, and restoring. Anderson also underlines the role of print media in creating communities and building nations through spreading images. This process has always been contested. Groups of citizens may acquiesce, 28 MICHIEL BAUD AND ROSEMARIJN HOEFTE adapt, or resist, and these reactions will change over time. Gilbert Joseph and Daniel Nugent call these processes “everyday forms of state formation.”3 They assert that the most productive way to conceptualise postcolonial nationalism is as a dialectical contest between the hegemonic project of nationalist modernity and popular challenges to that project at various levels. In short, nation-building is an ongoing and contradictory process, especially in postcolonial, multiethnic societies, where different cultural, linguistic, and religious traditions coexist. Rootedness, economic contributions, (past) experiences of oppression and neglect, as well as loyalty should be considered if we wish to understand claims on the nation by different groups. In her analysis of historical narratives of the history of Trinidad and Tobago, Bridget Brereton pointedly observes that “the past is a key arena for contestation.”4 Nation-branding is a more recent phenomenon. Although we can see examples already in the early twentieth century, when islands like Cuba and Jamaica tried to attract well-to-do tourists, it only became a general feature around the turn of the twenty-first century. It is a commercial process highlighting specific national characteristics to promote the country to foreign investors, tourists, or international organisations. Nation-building and nation-branding both consciously foreground certain narratives while concealing others, but in branding a key role is reserved for (foreign) consultants who link state and commercial interests to “sell” the client’s country. The influential marketing and policy advisor Simon Anholt coined the term nation-branding in 1998. A few years later he provocatively stated that “brand has become the dominant genre by which the nation is expressed”.5 Given Anholt’s own commercial interests, that may not be a surprising position, but what is important to our argument is the notion that branding not only “sells” the nation to outsiders, but also, domestically, allows governments to stimulate the formation of a nationally shared identity, enhance pride in the nation, and promote social uniformity. In this process, they can use nation-branding to suppress domestic dissent and undermine political opponents by foregrounding commercial interests.6 In this context, we argue that nation-branding should not be seen as the next phase in nation-building but that these two processes are closely interconnected. These intertwined processes empower and make visible some groups while at the same time ignoring, marginalising, or exoticising others. The continuous development of visual means of communication, including film and television and the introduction of the internet and social media such as Facebook, exacerbates these developments. This expanded role of media in nation-building, and nation-branding, has intensified the debates over nation and self in the Caribbean. In this chapter we cannot do justice to the entire complexity of this issue. Therefore, we will focus on three independent countries from the former Spanish, British, and Dutch empires to show how cultural expressions and social movement activity were instrumental in shaping the nation. NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 29 From Nation-Building to Nation-Branding in the Caribbean The Caribbean nation-state emerged in many different forms in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Haiti and the Dominican Republic had already started their path to national independence in the early nineteenth century. Cuba and Puerto Rico hesitantly followed suit in the last part of that century, only to see the sprouts of nationalist movements succumb to the tutelage of the US. Meanwhile, the Dutch, British, and French colonies remained under colonial control until the second half of the twentieth century, or even longer. After the idea of a British Federation collapsed (with the exception of cricket and the University of the West Indies), the British islands fell apart in an amalgam of small (semi-)independent nations under the umbrella of the British Commonwealth. The Dutch colonies remained—in one constitutional form or another—part of a shrinking Dutch colonial empire, with the exception of Suriname, which gained its independence in 1975. The French islands of Martinique and Guadeloupe are still French departments but fight for “true equality” with the metropolis, and recognition of their cultural identities.7 Even though recognised nation-states were slow in emerging, nationalist feelings existed, in very similar ways, in all twentieth-century Caribbean societies. Embedded as they were in the global community of ideas, they were not immune to the “dream” of a new, postcolonial world and were often actively involved in making this dream a reality.8 Caribbean intellectuals like George Padmore, Amy Ashwood Garvey, Amy Jacques, José Martí, Aimé Césaire, Frantz Fanon, Sylvia Winter, C.L.R. James, and Anton de Kom dedicated their lives, all in their own way, to this dream of decoloniality and independence. Nationalist, often anti-colonialist, movements and ideas emerged everywhere. These took different political, ethnic, and cultural forms, and expressed themselves in various ways, a classic example being cricket, which as C.L.R James has so convincingly suggested, played a crucial role in the articulation of West Indian independence.9 When it concerned social or political issues, these movements sometimes turned to open resistance and violence. This was the case, for instance, in the so-called “Labour unrest” in the British Caribbean between 1934 and 1939 and the 1969 rebellion in Curaçao.10 These expressions of an incipient social and political discontent were the result of extremely heterogeneous movements which clearly reflected the fragmented reality of the Caribbean. Differences of language, colonial legacies, and culture led to varying forms in which the “dream” articulated itself. Nevertheless, these expressions were important, because they often provided cornerstones of national ideas in the postcolonial era. In that sense, these emerging narratives could be considered the equivalent of the “popular proto-nationalism” that Eric Hobsbawm identified as underlying European nation-building in the second half of the 30 MICHIEL BAUD AND ROSEMARIJN HOEFTE nineteenth century.11 It is important not to lose sight of these protonational roots when we consider Caribbean narratives of state and nation. In light of the foregoing, it is clear that the development of Caribbean narratives of the nation developed in different time periods. Where Haiti and the Dominican Republic had already started the search for their national identity in the nineteenth century, other Caribbean nations only started to articulate national (and postcolonial) identities in the twentieth century. The size of the colonies and their populations accounted for another differentiating factor. The larger countries, specifically Cuba, the Dominican Republic, and Jamaica, could more convincingly claim a strong foundation for their national identity and self-reliance. Smaller islandstates cherished their cultural identity but often struggled with the socioeconomic viability of their (semi-)independence. In addition, and partly as a consequence, the relationship with their (former) motherland was, and still is, often ambiguous and convoluted. This became clear recently, when smaller islands were struggling to cope with the disastrous effects of hurricanes Irma and Maria and the Covid-19 pandemic and relied on outside help for solving their most pressing problems. Despite this heterogeneity, there is no doubt that Caribbean nations are facing similar challenges concerning their national identity and their place in the world. Not only economically, but also culturally and socially, the Caribbean is part of a global community. Many of these nations have economies that are fully dependent on global tourism markets and foreign visitors. A transnational migrant community, both in North America and Europe, is another crucial element with great economic importance and a direct influence on national narratives. As we will show below, transnational communities increasingly came to play an important role in both nation-building and nation-branding. Nation-building and branding in the Caribbean consequently generate fierce debates on the nation’s place in the world and the viability of its constitutional independence. We will try to present these contradictions and challenges by focusing on three cases. “Authoritarian” Nation-Building in the Twentieth-Century Dominican Republic In 2011, the Museo Memorial de la Resistencia Dominicana opened in the capital city of Santo Domingo. The original initiative for the museum came from the family of one of the guerrilla fighters who invaded the Dominican Republic in 1959 in a failed attempt to overthrow the dictatorship of General Trujillo. The museum is in private hands and does not attract much attention, as it is hidden in one of the small streets of the Zona Colonial. It meticulously shows the authoritarian nature and atrocities of the Trujillo regime that governed the country from 1930 to 1961. It emphasises Trujillo’s reinado de terror and highlights the infamous massacre NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 31 of thousands of Haitians in 1937 with an immense placard that reads, “Genocidio Haitiano,” explicitly blaming the army and Trujillo himself for the killings. At the exit, the visitors find a cursory reference to two unblemished nationalists from the nineteenth century: Gregorio Lúperon, a liberal politician in the Dominican Republic, and José Martí, the Cuban intellectual and freedom fighter.12 The museum can be seen as a symbol for the slow and very hesitant transformation of the nationalist narrative in the Dominican Republic. For most of the period from the late nineteenth century through the twentieth century, Dominican nationalism was based on one dominant narrative, that of a mulatto (indio in the local parlance) nation with a predominantly Hispanic culture which was fundamentally different from and opposed to the Black Republic of Haiti and its inhabitants. This narrative especially found traction in the period of imperial dominance of the US, especially as a result of the US occupation of the country from 1916 to 1924. As a result of the simultaneous occupation of Haiti (1915–1934), opposition to US influence in nationalist circles of the Dominican Republic was fuelled by the idea that the US intended to bring together the two countries under one flag. Dominican nationalism and anti-imperialist ideologies thus fed on the idea of the nation’s fundamental difference with Haiti. Still today, many Dominicans tell you that the US does not understand the fundamental difference between the two nations. In an extreme way, the Trujillo regime expanded and systematised this anti-Haitian nationalism. After the consolidation of his regime, Trujillo employed a considerable number of Dominican historians to describe the “silent invasion” of Haitian peasants in the Dominican border region. At the same time, intellectuals like Manuel Arturo Peña Battle and a future president, Joaquín Balaguer, presented and sometimes fabricated historical evidence, which on the one hand demonstrated the cultural and racial uniqueness of the Dominican population, and on the other demonstrated the mortal danger posed by the primitivism and promiscuity of the Haitian “barbarian” masses.13 As if this was not enough, Trujillo ordered the indiscriminate killing of thousands of Haitian and Haitian-Dominican inhabitants of the border region in 1937. Although this was widely recognised as one of the most horrendous crimes in modern Caribbean history, the anti-Haitian emphasis in Dominican nationalism remained a powerful trope until the end of the twentieth century. Indeed, Trujillo’s intellectual servant, Balaguer, stayed on after the assassination of Trujillo and governed the country until 1996. To date, there has been neither an official investigation of the killings nor any official gesture in recognition of the victims’ families. Part of today’s Dominican nationalism still revolves around this mythologised Spanish past and a rejection of (Haitian) Blackness, but the museum makes clear that alternative views have gained traction. The racialised presentation of the Dominican nation is increasingly considered an outdated and, in many ways, 32 MICHIEL BAUD AND ROSEMARIJN HOEFTE reprehensible narrative for defining the Dominican nation. It may well be that the PLD governments of Leonel Fernández (1996–2000, 2004–2012), although ostensibly supporting anti-Haitian rhetoric, were instrumental in this change of tone. With their propagation of the Dominican Republic as a hub of modern technology (“the Singapore of the Caribbean”), they turned Dominican nationalism away from its racialised relationship with Haiti and toward a mythical future of progress and innovation. His branding project in many ways echoed late twentieth-century positivism in the sense that participation in this grandiose project of modernity became almost an obligation. The president and his followers tended to ridicule and censor critical voices that pointed at the cleavage between this ambitious project of modernity and the state of underdevelopment in which the mass of the population lived. In this same period Dominican voices started to clamour for a recognition of the Dominican Republic as a multicultural nation and a definitive rejection of Trujillista ideologies. The Museo Memorial de la Resistencia Dominicana in its own way contributed to this cause. Its celebration of the 1959 resistance and its explicit rejection of the Trujillo legacy can be considered a similar attempt to break with the past and formulate new and more inclusive forms of national identity. For the moment it is a feeble effort, which reflects a cautious approach to the recent past. It is easier to celebrate the heroism of Las Hermanas Mirabal (the Mirabal sisters), the innocent, female victims of tyranny who are presented so movingly in Julia Alvarez’s novel, In the Time of the Butterflies, than to discuss the widespread collaboration of Dominican society with the regime and the continuing salience of its ideology.14 Today, racialist, conservative nostalgia is no longer a generally accepted option, but it has been difficult to straightforwardly reject the ideological legacy of El Trujillato. The dictator’s regime is generally condemned (although a certain nostalgia for its “order” remains in some circles), but national memory emphasises the exceptionalism of its extreme repression. It has not led to a national soul-searching that attempts to explain it as a (partial) product of Dominican culture and society. Trujillo has remained a historical persona whose repression is viewed with horror in present-day society, but whose ideological roots in Dominican society have scarcely been considered. While the Dominican Republic struggles with poverty, emigration, and weak institutions, the debate over its national identity lacks urgency and a clear direction. The promise of progress and development has not yet materialised for large parts of the population and is too ephemeral to sustain modern forms of nationalism. The massive emigration to the US after 1965 and the existence of a huge Diaspora community of Dominican Yorks, as they are commonly called, have posed new questions regarding ideas of nation and self. While it undermined existing nationalist tropes, it created forms of “long-distance” nationalism. This “retorno de las yolas,” as Silvio Torres-Saillant has called this influence of the Dominican Diaspora, NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 33 Branding the Dominican Republic for tourists on the official tourism website helped place the Dominican identity in a wider context and allowed intellectuals and artists to express their identity in novel forms.15 The migration experience has converted Dominican popular culture into a transnational phenomenon, which has enhanced its acceptance but at the same time made it less adequate for nationalist narratives. Dominican-born writer Junot Díaz tries to connect these two worlds, by looking at the Dominican Republic from the outside and, at the same time, formulating counternarratives of the nation. He stresses the need for a demystification of Trujillo and his legacy in order to create space for new interpretations of twentieth-century Dominican national history and identity.16 In a 2008 interview in Newsweek, Díaz observed, “The concept of a ‘nation’ is definitely problematized in a place like the Caribbean. This myth that nations exist, they have to work overtime in the Caribbean, where you have so many elements, so many mixtures, so much hybridity.”17 In this one quotation he is 34 MICHIEL BAUD AND ROSEMARIJN HOEFTE both placing Dominican nationhood in a wider perspective and trying to reframe it. In this respect, it is no surprise that Diaspora intellectuals like Junot Díaz actively rejected the 2007 ruling that would take away the citizenship of thousands of Dominicans of Haitian descent. Even less surprising is that they were immediately accused in conservative Dominican circles of not being “real” Dominicans.18 This shows the contested narratives regarding nation and self in the Dominican Republic and the ambiguous ways the Dominican Diaspora is supportive in reframing the debate over Dominican national identity. Intellectuals and activists in and outside of the Dominican Republic are trying to find new terms to present Dominicanidad, but their activities are often countered by traditional nationalist tropes in which the legitimacy of the migrant community to speak about nation and self is questioned and criticised. These complex and ambiguous debates about the Dominican national identity in and outside the country and the hesitant reframing of the Trujillo heritage and its anti-Haitian nationalism, occurred when the country experienced enormous growth in international sun-and-sand tourism. This transformation was accompanied by state attempts to rebrand the nation. The Dominican government and the country’s corporate sector attempted to steer away from the country’s painful past and “sell” the country as a Caribbean paradise. These attempts to rebrand the nation aimed at hiding the country’s complex and painful challenges but also led to the exacerbation of problems such as prostitution, exclusion, and pollution. This led to new debates, inside and outside the geographical confines of the Dominican Republic, concerning new expressions of nationalist identity and changing ideas about the desired future for the country. The Quest for Harmony in Suriname “Do you see how much I love my country? Look, I eat my land, look!” In a celebrated scene in the classic film Wan Pipel (One People), protagonist Roy Ferrol (Borger Breeveld) exclaims these words while eating a good chunk of Suriname soil. Roy is an Afro-Surinamese migrant in the Netherlands who returns to his homeland to bid farewell to his dying mother. He falls in love with Rubia Soekdew, a woman of Indian descent, and decides to stay in Suriname, as he feels a need to contribute to his birth country. The film, by Pim de la Parra and Wim verstappen, was released one year after Suriname’s independence (1975) and is still a staple of the country’s independence celebrations on November 25.19 Yet what is now seen as an icon of nation-building was a source of controversy in the early years of independence. NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 35 Roy and Rubia’s interethnic relationship was a sensitive topic at a time when close to a quarter of the population left for the Netherlands in anticipation of the country’s contested independence. Relations between the two largest population groups, Afro-Surinamese and Hindustani (of Indian descent), were fragile. In the movie Rubia is expelled from her family; in real life Diana Gangaram Panday, who plays Rubia, was repeatedly threatened by more conservative Hindustani who labelled her a “whore” because of her relationship with a “Negro.”20 Artists like De la Parra, at that time living in the Netherlands, wanted to overcome the existing divisions in their multiethnic, multilingual, and multireligious homeland in order to build a truly Surinamese nation. The film’s title is taken from the final words of what is probably the most frequently quoted Surinamese poem, by Dobru (the pseudonym of the nationalist poet Robin Raveles), entitled “Wan” (One): “Wan bon/someni wiwiri/wan bon … Wan Sranan/someni wiwiri/ someni skin/someni tongo/wan pipel.”21 This idea of one nation was first expressed by writer and activist Anton de Kom. His Wij slaven van Suriname (We Slaves of Suriname) was the first history of Suriname written by a Surinamese author adopting a Surinamese perspective.22 Why did Dobru and De la Parra stress the idea of wan pipel? Early post-war nationalism in Suriname was mainly cultural rather than political, and once independence was achieved, the political tensions ran so high that artists stepped into the breach once more. In the 1950s, a largely urban Afro-Surinamese movement, called Wie Eegie Sani (Our Own Things), with strong roots in the Diaspora, focused on a re-evaluation of Afro-Surinamese culture and a rejection of Dutch linguistic domination and Christian values. In this cultural renaissance, the emancipation of Sranan Tongo, the country’s lingua franca, was of utmost importance. Cultural emancipation was seen as a first step toward political emancipation. The Hindustani philosophy, most eloquently expressed by intellectual, writer, and politician Jhan Adhin, was summarised as “unity in diversity,” celebrating cultural diversity based on a “deeper unity”.23 For Hindustani activists Wie Eegie Sani (and Dobru as well) served as sources of inspiration to write poetry and stories in Sarnámi, the language of the Hindustani population.24 Slowly, political nationalism gained prominence in certain circles in the early 1960s. Not surprisingly, given Suriname’s cultural diversity and political fragmentation along ethnic rather than ideological lines, this movement did not have great appeal. Instead, its Afro-Surinamese stamp led to a backlash of intensified ethnic consciousness within other ethnic groups that were alarmed by these nationalist ambitions and their possible outcomes: independence and Afro-Surinamese dominance.25 It was indeed an Afro-Surinamese-dominated government headed by Henck Arron that paved the way for independence, alienating large segments of the population who felt excluded from the decision-making.26 In turn, the politicisation and 36 MICHIEL BAUD AND ROSEMARIJN HOEFTE polarisation of the independence question effectively killed any opportunity for the Arron administration to engage in nation-building. This is when artists such as Dobru and De la Parra stepped in with their call for one nation.27 The post-independence period was dominated by Desiré (Dési) Bouterse, who came to prominence during a 1980 military coup that removed the Arron government. For four decades he remained a prominent on- and off-stage presence in Suriname. The military intervention was supposed to break the political stalemate in post-independence Suriname. Importantly, as was to be expected from a national army, the military soon declared its support for all Surinamese, regardless of ethnic background. The military allowed the use of Sranan Tongo in parliament for the first time, and Dobru, as state secretary of culture, became one of the defenders of the military regime and its attempts at “Surinamization.”28 Paramaribo’s Independence Square featured Cuban-style billboards depicting the heroic history of the Surinamese people in its centuries-long struggle for freedom. This type of propaganda made nation-building and Surinamisation after the fall of the military regime a poisonous issue for many years to come. The dictatorship, and Bouterse in particular, were associated with human rights violations, corruption, drug trafficking, and economic chaos, resulting in widespread poverty and food shortages. The great majority of the population equated nationalism with this unpopular regime that left the country in ruins.29 In 1987, with the return of democracy and the old ethnic parties, Dutch—considered ethnically neutral—was reaffirmed as Suriname’s official language. Sranan Tongo continued to be viewed as principally part of Afro-Surinamese culture.30 Decades later, the political chameleon Bouterse, now as an elected president, urged the nation to live in “unity and harmony.” In 2014, Niermala Badrising, then Suriname’s Permanent Representative to the Organization of American States, explained how her country was a model “for how a healthy diversity can bring about a peaceful and accepting society.”31 The themes of diversity and harmony also defined nation-branding efforts to attract foreign tourists and investors as well as how the nation was, and still is, performed in official shows, festivals, and tourist entertainment. Theatre maker Sharda Ganga critically assesses the “parade of traditional costumes, song and dance [of each ethnic group], in the end there is a coming together in a climax of all ethnic groups—a spectacle of unity.”32 Almost half a century after independence Suriname has gradually adopted an “accommodationist” approach to nation-building: differences are authorised by the state, as it permits schools, places of worship, sociocultural associations, and celebrations and commemorations of the various ethnic groups on an (almost) equal footing. While respective Surinamese governments have allowed different population segments to retain their cultural traditions, in return they expect and even demand loyalty to the state, its institutions, and the general law.33 As a result, NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 37 Material example of nation building and nation branding in downtown Paramaribo (photo Rosemarijn Hoefte 2016). nation-building in Suriname has not aimed to weaken cultural and ethnic identities; instead, the relatively harmonious relations between different Surinamese groups are highlighted and serve as a source of national pride. Adhin’s idea of unity in diversity seems to have gained the upper hand while at the same time Wan and Wan Pipel have achieved an iconic status in Suriname and in the Diaspora. Fragmented Nation-Building and Popular (Counter)Cultures in Jamaica34 Hanging out in Kingston, visitors may end up in Tracks & Records, a flashy place to have a beer or dinner. Huge screens project all the well-known races of Jamaican sprinting hero Usain Bolt, who is the owner. The chain also has locations in Montego Bay, Ocho Ríos, and London. The pubs advertise their Jamaican vibe and tell potential visitors: “Jamaica, the home of Bob Marley, Blue Mountain Coffee and Bolt. At every Tracks & Records you get to experience a truly authentic combination of the best that Jamaica has to offer through our music, sports and of course amazing food.” Immediately in this text, the other world-famous representative of Jamaica is mentioned: reggae singer Bob Marley. Amidst the omnipresence of his music in 38 MICHIEL BAUD AND ROSEMARIJN HOEFTE Jamaican society, his cultural legacy is safeguarded in the Bob Marley Museum, run by the singer’s heirs, and, to a lesser extent, the Trench Town Culture Yard Museum, where many of the most memorable moments of Marley’s life took place. In these few commercial lines, two Jamaican heroes are presented as the most appealing symbols of the Jamaican nation. Indeed, today there is no doubt that Bolt and Marley are Jamaica’s best-known representatives. Orlando Patterson notes that both Marley and Bolt represent the island’s “rural heartland.”35 But are they also accepted symbols of the Jamaican nation? This is a much more complex question. It is clear that the building of the nation, which began in the twentieth century, was based on anti- and postcolonial symbolism much more than on national cultural heroes. It could be said that the struggle for independence from British colonialism was not solely a Jamaican but a West Indian issue, which was fought as much in the Diaspora as in the Caribbean. As Stuart Hall observes, “Colonialism condensed the diversity of global complexities and temporalities into a single narrative” which “framed your very existence.”36 At the same time, every part of the colonial empire, every island, every society, fought its own particular struggle, geared toward local circumstances and narratives. Following independence in 1962, cultural and political policies in Jamaica were geared toward the development of a “creole multiracial nationalism” reflected in the country’s motto: “Out of many, one people.”37 Connor Doyle writes that the myth of racial harmony was ubiquitous in official expressions of the Jamaican “national ethos” in the 1960s.38 The Jamaican nation developed a political system that was dominated by the “creole” nationalism of two nationalist parties, the PNP and the JLP. Underneath these clear-cut political dimensions social and racial fault lines existed which were informally appropriated by these parties. However, they were never fully integrated, coopted, or even accepted. As Stuart Hall observes, “[T]hose marginal of the political system were harnessed to the formal parties through informal rather than conventional means: through religious affiliation, the politicization of rival, and increasingly militarized ‘garrison’ no-go areas, petty and organized crime, gang and community loyalties and the ‘Don’ system of patronage.”39 This led to complex and oftentimes ambiguous efforts to build the Jamaican nation, which in part entailed celebrating and appropriating living popular culture, promoting its African heritage and Black pride, and at the same time rejecting it as dangerous and vulgar. It was clear, however, that these nationalist ideologies mainly represented the interests of the ruling groups.40 Most Jamaicans were all too aware that their society was divided not only by class lines but also in terms of race.41 Apart from providing Jamaican nation-building with a clientelist and often violent tinge, it also led to political and symbolic struggles about nation and nationhood. These struggles were accompanied by the growing presence of Rastafari ideas about racial “downpression” and the global popularity of reggae NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 39 music that criticised Jamaican inequality.42 The conflict came to a head during the 1972 election. The war of words between politicians Michael Manley and Edward Seaga over the “Rod of correction,” a stick said to be a gift from Haile Selassie, the hero of the Rastafarian movement, can be seen as one example of this politico-cultural war.43 It symbolised the increasing importance of Rastafarian symbolism in Jamaican politics and a new search for the foundations of the Jamaican nation. The elite’s attempts to create a shared colonial culture and the subsequent colonial and postcolonial “culture wars” did not lead to a unified Jamaican national identity, but rather to a number of contested and often contesting narratives and practices.44 Many observers today suggest that Jamaican nation-building fell apart with the collapse of two peace processes that sought to end the internal political warfare.45 The first started with the famous 1978 One Love Peace Concert in which Bob Marley forced opposing leaders Manley and Seaga to, uncomfortably, hold hands. The second occurred in 1999 when community leaders tried to stop the violence in their communities. It failed because a new generation of local gang leaders were no longer interested in the state as a solution. Deborah Thomas suggests that in this development the content and direction of Jamaican nationalism was transformed.46 In her eyes, by the late 1990s, creole nationalism was superseded by “modern blackness”—an urban Blackness rooted in youth culture and influenced by African American popular culture. Expressions of Blackness that had been marginalised in national cultural policy became paramount in contemporary understandings of what it was to be Jamaican. This process was neither controlled nor centralised in a coherent movement and therefore led to fragmented narratives of self and nation. Bogues wryly observes, “The Jamaican postcolony therefore faces a unique situation. Not only is there no hegemony from the rulers, but subaltern radical counter-hegemony itself has also collapsed or has diminished in influence.”47 This situation obstructed a coherent narrative of the Jamaican nation. Today, different social and political groupings, often informal, present their ideas of Jamaicanness. The state may still hold on to the narrative of creole nationalism, while large groups of the population have concocted their own narratives, either connected to Rastafarianism and Black nationalism or to cultural phenomena like sports or music. Young Jamaicans today easily fall back on street dance culture, which dates back to the 1960s, or present-day dance hall culture to perform a new found spirit of nationalism. These narratives are heavily influenced by the migration experience in the Diaspora, where counternarratives emerged that express anger or frustration with Jamaican problems of poverty and violence and look for new ways of representing postcolonial Jamaican society. A poignant example of this may be the revaluation or even celebration of Jamaican patois in the work of novelist Marlon James, which he uses to break through colonial stereotypes about language and identity. These Diaspora narratives are often very strong and 40 MICHIEL BAUD AND ROSEMARIJN HOEFTE poignant but, as with all long-distance nationalism, they have limited influence on society back home. One of the ironies of present-day Jamaican nationalism is that the brand that is most famous, the person and music of Bob Marley, has been implicitly or explicitly rejected by successive Jamaican governments. The same could be said about A Brief History of Seven Killings, the acclaimed, Booker Prize-winning novel by Marlon James, which according to Laëtitia Saint-Loubert “repoliticizes Brand Jamaica and the figure of Bob Marley (‘the Singer’).”48 Bob Marley is conspicuously absent in the National Heroes Park in Kingston, but he is celebrated in the city’s many murals alongside other popular culture (national) heroes, varying from dons in the garrison communities to sporting heroes in stadiums. Jamaican politicians want to present their nation as a safe haven for tourism, an example of racial democracy, and a modern nation. In this sense, they are uncomfortable with popular culture and Rastafarianism, which are associated with poverty, drugs, and crime. On the other hand, politicians and intellectuals cannot ignore these popular landscapes. They also need popular culture and are in constant need of confirming their neighbourhood affiliations and affinity with popular culture. This permanent ambiguity may well be the crux of Jamaican debates about nation, race, and identity today. Branding and Selling the Nation Dominican President Fernández hoped to turn his country into “the Singapore of the Caribbean.” He certainly is not the only one. But what did the president have in mind? Singapore as a small economically powerful postcolonial nation—a city-state—is an example for many Caribbean countries and beyond of how nation-building and branding are intertwined. It was one of the earliest nations to actively brand itself internally and externally as efficient, well-organised, confident, hardworking, and technologically advanced.49 The admirers of the Singapore model seem to focus on its economic success, but seldom mention the flip side of authoritarianism and social engineering in the city-state’s nation-building and nation-branding.50 Essential political and sociocultural variables in Singapore are different from those of the Caribbean cases discussed here. So how do Caribbean countries actually brand themselves? And, more complex, how does this branding interlace with and affect nation-building? It is not our intention to examine the nation-branding efforts of each of our three case studies; we instead will analyse some of the trends we have observed while studying these countries. It is important to understand that the branding of Caribbean nations often clashes with narratives and ideologies of nation and self, often with unintended or even pernicious consequences.51 NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 41 Given the importance of tourism in the Caribbean it is not surprising that nation-branding strategies are geared toward attracting (more) foreign visitors.52 Taking advantage of the centuries-old, explorers’ lure of paradise, branding companies present Caribbean societies as places of relaxation, where the local populations (of course, no longer called “natives”!) are ready to serve the needs of foreign travellers. The promise of sun, sea, and sand is still a main selling point for the region. In the Dominican Republic there is “white sand beaches that seem to endlessly run into the horizon, punctuated with slim coconut trees reaching the skies.” It states that “paradise has never been easier to explore.”53 Suriname may be a Caribbean exception as far as the importance of tourism goes,54 but the country also has its eyes on the tourist dollar and euro to diversify its economy. Common themes in the branding of these three nations are nature, hospitality and friendliness of the people, gastronomy, and history and culture. Yet the tourism boards of all three countries also diversify their offerings by marketing other activities ranging from playing golf to city trips to “inland safaris.” The focus on fun and relaxation thus does not preclude inserting elements of national culture and history in the country’s brand. Branding can also imply presenting an attractive and interesting image of a nation’s history, society, and culture. Central American countries, for instance, have successfully promoted indigenous heritage to foster cultural tourism.55 In the same vein, Caribbean nations have celebrated cultural and ethnic diversity and harmony as a unique feature of the region. This often implies very simplified versions of national culture and selective presentations of the past. Contesting narratives on the past and national culture are condensed and homogenised into sellable and uncontroversial products. Often these elements are greatly simplified and uniformly presented to create a commercial image of the country and its people. In other words, branding normally produces an “essentialized image of the nation that influences conceptions of the place at home and abroad”.56 Branding analyst Melissa Aronczyk compared the introductory texts of different official tourism websites (Ireland, Jamaica, Poland, Senegal, and Turkey).57 She concluded that the five texts—all extolling natural beauty, hospitable people, a colourful history, and unique culture—are interchangeable, despite these nations’ very different histories, cultures, and socioeconomic conditions. The common language of the foreign branding experts who stereotype local societies and their populations homogenises the supposedly unique brands. In the Jamaican case, Hume Johnson and Kamille Gentles-Peart argue that the authorities have decided to exclusively brand the “sun, sand, and sea” part of the island. They do not include “other aspects of Jamaica’s global reputation (such as successes in music, sport, and fashion), nor do they address the less favorable reputational issues (such as crime and homophobia) that also circulate about Jamaica.”58 The inclusion of 42 MICHIEL BAUD AND ROSEMARIJN HOEFTE Bob Marley in the national imagery in Usain Bolt’s establishment diverges from the official branding because it does not comply with the harmonious, modern (and not Rastafarian!) image that the branding tries to promote. This is different from, for instance, the case of the much more uncontroversial musician Juan Luis Guerra, who figures prominently on the first page of the official tourism website of the Dominican Republic.59 Thus nation-branding picks those elements from the national imagery that are most easily and successfully sold to a foreign audience. This leads to a second, perhaps even more important consequence of nation-branding. The simplified image of service-oriented Caribbean societies can have profound consequences. In the first place, entrepreneurs and state authorities want their country’s population to comply with these stereotypes that stress the servicing of foreign visitors. This will—intentionally or not—exclude certain sectors of the population and place them, as it were, outside the nation. This often implies the reproduction of racialised and gendered colonial perceptions in which local, especially female, populations are reduced to catering to (White) foreigners. Steven Gregory describes the Dominican zona turística as “a theme park where men rehearsed and reiterated the privileges of economic, racial, and geopolitical power.”60 This is at its clearest in the case of sex tourism. As Kamala Kempadoo rightly observes, this tourism is based on imaginations where Caribbean men and women are constructed “as racial-sexual subjects/objects … whose main roles are to serve and please the visitor.”61 We may see this erotic and exoticising imaginary as an (obviously) hidden but important subtext of many nation-branding efforts.62 These stereotypes may also lead to the implicit exclusion of “undesirable” elements among the popular classes, as we have noticed in Jamaica. These elements, who do not directly cater to tourists or are even perceived as damaging the nation’s paradisiacal image, are presented as anti-national and undesirable.63 While they will often be simply ignored, in some cases they are disciplined or even repressed in the name of safeguarding the nation’s reputation. This has led to heavily secluded luxury resorts or protected tourist ghettos in colonial zones in cities such as Havana, Cartagena, and Santo Domingo, with twenty-four/seven police surveillance to safeguard the historical and harmonious image that the branding presents. These processes may also have more subtle consequences. For example, in Suriname, recent official tourism branding transmits the national trope of racial democracy by lauding the country’s multiethnic “peaceful harmony.”64 But official guides also inform us: “In Suriname you encounter jungle that has not previously been entered, Amerindian and Maroon populations that have retained their centuries-old traditions …”65 The Maroon and Indigenous populations are thus exoticised as peoples with well-kept ancient traditions and habits, and apparently their presence does not count, as the jungle has not “been entered.” The presentation of Suriname’s apparently timeless tribes as exotic and distant not only leads NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 43 to voyeurism but also excludes the Maroon and Indigenous populations from the general (“civilised”) population/nation.66 Nation-branding thus often replaces, at least partially, nation-building. However, the building of a nation is put here at the service of enhancing the nation’s reputation and the commercialisation of its natural and social assets. In the words of Dominican Minister of Tourism David Collado, his country’s brand strategy “is divided into five pillars: investment, industry, tourism, culture and people. The objective is … to improve reputation, provide certainty and confidence to attract investment, generate jobs and above all promote national pride.”67 Thus national pride, generally recognised as one of the cornerstones of nation-building, is also the key objective of nation-branding. National pride is not a stated objective in Suriname’s branding strategy, but in the 2015 campaign #WEARESURINAME a key feature was a video literally singing the praises of Suriname. The video was produced by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and targeted an international market. In spite of this objective Dutch and Sranan Tongo, and not, for instance, English, were used to convey the message. Moreover, the video’s key song seemed to be directed at Surinamese people in Suriname rather than at outsiders, as evidenced by lyrics such as: “Born and raised/Tied to where I am” and the celebration of “our” Suriname. #WEARESURINAME suggests that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs actually engaged in nation-building rather than branding.68 Where nation-building was meant to create Anderson’s famous “imagined community,” branding is a commercial, economy-driven venture that promotes national pride but tends to create a simplified framework, which should be respected and supported by the population for the greater good of international reputation and the development of the nation. Branding and Building! What Nation … In this chapter we have discussed how nation-building and nation-branding are in complex and often contradictory ways intertwined. They tend to use the same lexicon and symbolism, but they serve different goals. The common denominator in both processes is national pride. We demonstrated that there is a clear temporal sequence between them. Nation-building efforts took place from the late nineteenth century through the twentieth century. Nation-branding is a more recent phenomenon, and it influenced and redirected continuing efforts of nation-building. Increasingly, we see nation-branding efforts influence the tradition of nation-building. Because branding is a commercial activity, it weakens the exclusive relationship between state and society, at the expense of increasing, often foreign, corporate control. We may point to a statement by a consultant regarding a 44 MICHIEL BAUD AND ROSEMARIJN HOEFTE non-Caribbean postcolonial state, Botswana, to illustrate the potential sociocultural impact of nation-branding: “[A brand book] will be used by teachers in schools, it will go to kids to take the brand book home to their families [to teach them how] to become more on brand.” The book’s print run was supposedly in the tens of thousands.69 Not surprisingly, branding efforts found traction in the high period of neoliberalism, which also tended to diminish the authority and legitimacy of the state. In the words of Sue Curry Jansen, “[N]ation branding is an engine of neoliberalism that explicitly embraces a reductive logic, which privileges market relations (market fundamentalism) in articulations of national identity.”70 Nationbranding is not a neutral commercial venture; it has a variety of symbolic and practical consequences for national policies and societies. Branding the nation may well result in “burning” the nation. Of course, these are complex processes, but in the case of Jamaica and the Dominican Republic we may conclude that the exclusive promotion of their cheap tourism attraction, based on sun, sea, and sand, has caused or reinforced problems of social fragmentation, criminality, drugs, and prostitution. We should certainly not exaggerate the merits of nation-building, but at least it took place in enshrined socially defined legal and political frameworks. Branding is a commercial enterprise that normally does not depend on democratic control and that ignores the pernicious social effects its activities may have, as the focus is exclusively on economic gain. This is not only important in a sense of political accountability but also affects society’s relationship with its past and cultural heritage. The commercialisation and simplification that define branding tend to ignore and even reject the nation’s history, thus leading to repressing or ignoring its historical and cultural heritage. Even in the few cases where this heritage is celebrated, it takes place in simplified (“disneyfied”) and biased forms, which tend to ignore or exclude certain sectors of society. Both building and branding tend to ignore “negative” societal elements such as the poor, the “socially deviant,” or sex workers. As Kempadoo observed above, in the Caribbean this is directly connected to colonial racism and racial exclusion, which, however, have acquired new forms and meanings in nation-branding. It is interesting to note that simultaneous with this increased importance of commercially driven image-making a new stream of critical intellectual work is appearing. Caribbean intellectuals, often moving in transnational networks, are trying to find answers to the silences and simplifications visible in nation-building and branding. As we have noted, they present new versions on nation and self, which find international audiences but at the same time provoke national debates on race or ethnicity, identity, and nation in many Caribbean societies. While branding efforts present and strengthen simplified notions of history and cultural heritage, Caribbean intellectuals are trying to find new ideas and lexicons to overcome historical exclusionary processes and structural inequalities. NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 45 Such processes are clearly visible in the Curaçaoan case: the chapters in this volume by Guadeloupe and Oostindie and Van Stipriaan show how professionals and activists are trying to lure foreign tourists away from the beaches and to interest them in the island’s inconvenient history, including slavery and other forms of subjugation. Intellectuals, professionals, and activists are thus pushing beyond tropical clichés to show who actually was forced to build and yet not allowed to become part of “paradise” in the Caribbean. But given existing commercial interests that promote the tropes of paradise and hospitality, it seems unlikely that these complex histories will become integral parts of Caribbean nation-branding in the near future. CHAPTER 2 Tourism Development and Nation-Building: The Case of Aruba Jorge Ridderstaat Introduction A destination’s tourism development can be connected with its nation-building process, with possible elemental roles for branding and heritage. This study investigates the relationship between tourism development and nation-building in the context of a Caribbean destination (Aruba), which transitioned its economy in the mid-1980s to become a successful tourism player. In this chapter the intermediation effects of branding and heritage on the two investigated constructs are also examined. The findings indicate that Aruba’s tourism has benefitted from the “one happy island-mentality” that prevailed despite the many socio-economic and environmental changes accompanying the tourism development process. At the same time, there is recognition that the current unsustainable tourism development model threatens the happiness feeling needed to remain a preferred destination. Branding has been critical to the island’s tourism success and portrays a muchshared vision of a happy island, but the alignment of heritage with Aruba’s tourism is complementary. At the same time, its non-inclusive conceptualisation seems to dilute its role in supporting the national identity. Tourism comprises visitor activities at a destination. A visitor is “a traveler taking a trip to the main destination outside his/her usual environment, for less than a year, for any main purpose (business, leisure or other personal motives) other than to be employed by a resident entity in the country or place visited.”1 Tourism has become a significant sector, generating, among other things, economic growth, jobs, income (taxes), foreign exchange earnings, and the development of ancillary industries, such as transportation, retail trade, food, attractions, and recreation.2 At the same time, tourism can lead to the destruction of flora and fauna, put pressure on the destination’s natural resources (e.g., water), and risks eroding cultural identity.3 Tourism has also been associated with increases in crime, traffic congestion, and prices (inflation). Still, many countries continue to focus on tourism for their development. The tourism product is not a conventional one, because it is a bundle of goods and services (e.g., transport, accommodation, food, etc.), often indivisible and partially intangible, where tourists are generally required to consume tourism at the 48 JORGE RIDDERSTAAT destination. It is, thus, impossible to consider the tourism product as a single item, and the conventional product-price relationship discussed in the microeconomic literature does not work for tourism. The tourism product is conditioned to the demand each individual (or groups of people) has for goods and services at the destination. Tourism demand is “a decision of travelers to buy goods and/or services based on different factors (e.g., price, tastes, information, cost of alternatives, and income) at a destination outside their natural environment, where they travel for less than a year for business, leisure, and/or other personal purposes.”4 Tourism demand is vital for the success of all tourism-related businesses, including airlines, tour operators, hotels, cruise ship lines, and recreation facilities, and understanding tourism demand prospects is critical to reducing relevant businesses’ operational risks.5 Tourism demand is also a fundamental construct of tourism development, and the latter has been acknowledged for its relevance to developing countries’ nation-building process.6 In this regard, tourism can contribute to creating a country’s identity, with essential roles for the nation’s history, internal social dynamics, and connections with neighbouring countries. Branding is used to create an image of a unique destination and to promise quality and value to the tourists if they experience the destination.7 Simultaneously, branding establishes a destination’s stakeholders’ co-responsibility to guarantee the nation’s brand. As such, branding can assist in defining the identity of a destination’s residents, contributing to the nation-building process. Heritage can function in a specialised role to attract a specific type of tourist (heritage tourists) but can also be incorporated as part of the overall package offered to tourists. Heritage can also help a destination’s residents preserve their national identities through influential symbols such as historic buildings and monuments.8 As such, a destination’s branding and heritage are potentially relevant for tourism development but can also serve as ingredients to the nation-building process. Investigating the link between tourism development and nation-building, with mediating roles for branding and heritage, can enlighten the workings of specific destination-related supply factors on tourism development while offering insights into the development and maintaining of a common identity among the destination’s residents. This study provides an in-depth case study of these relationships for Aruba, an island with ample experience with tourism. The comprehensive approach will allow for an enriched analysis and an understanding of the symbiotic link between creating a thriving tourism destination and achieving a collective feeling of unity. This chapter is organised as follows. From the literature perspective, section 2 will discuss the roles of tourism development, branding, and heritage in nation-building. Section 3 will introduce the reader to the Caribbean as a region where differences are more dominant than similarities and where context is likely to play a crucial part in understanding tourism development and its connection TOURISM DEvELOPMENT AND NATION-BUILDING: THE CASE OF ARUBA 49 with the islands’ nation-building process. The fourth section describes Aruba’s tourism development and the different ramifications that influenced the island’s nation-building process. The last section provides some concluding remarks. Tourism, Nation-Building, Branding, and Heritage Nation-building aims to create a collective capacity to achieve public results and pursue a shared future vision.9 Developing countries have often used tourism as a tool in their nation-building process.10 Nation-building with tourism development involves creating an identity for the outside world to see, using deliberate representations of the destination’s history, internal social dynamics, and relationships with neighbouring countries. Tourism branding is key in the nation-building process because it allows for differentiating a destination’s product from its competitors and represents a promise to tourists that they can rest assured and rely on the quality and value of experiences offered by the brand every time they see it.11 Branding can also be used to establish co-responsibility of the destination stakeholders (e.g., businesses, the government, employees, and other residents) on achieving and maintaining the promise made by the brand.12 It can also be used as a deliberate process to shape a country’s image and reputation on the global stage.13 However, Hoefte and Veenendaal contended that the success of branding depends on a country’s historical, demographic, cultural, and socio-economic conditions.14 They argue that nation-branding can be promising for countries with colonial legacies, heterogeneous societies, and weak economic foundations. Some countries may have limited opportunities for nation-building because there is barely any (historical) bond for shared national identities and price, making them unattractive for investors or tourists. So, the success of branding on nation-building is not automatic and guaranteed, and depends on the country’s specific conditions. Heritage is another essential condition for identity-creation in tourist destinations. In its broader form, heritage is associated with the word “inheritance,” which is transferred from one generation to another. Heritage attractions include places, structures with historical and cultural relevance, which are generally unique to the destination, making their attractiveness contingent upon the desires and expectations of tourists. Some authors also consider natural places as heritage.15 Some destinations with world-renowned heritage, such as Machu Picchu in Peru, the Pyramids of Giza in Egypt, or the Roman Colosseum in Italy, have the advantage of specialising in heritage tourism. Heritage tourists visit these destinations specifically for their historical importance, including built environments and urban areas, ancient monuments and dwellings, rural and agricultural landscapes, locations where historical events occurred, and places where exciting 50 JORGE RIDDERSTAAT and important cultures stand out. Tourist places with fewer inheritances could incorporate heritage as part of the overall package offered to tourists. Heritage can also assist the nation-building process as it helps countries’ residents maintain their national identities, where historic buildings and monuments can be essential and influential symbols of a nation’s aspiration and identity.16 From the previous analysis, we can distil that branding and heritage can mediate the tourism development-nation-building relationship. However, given branding’s differentiating goals and the heritage uniqueness in each destination, it is likely that the workings of both factors in tourism development and nation-building are based on the circumstances surrounding each place. The discussion in the next section will explore some contextual features of Caribbean destinations. The Caribbean and Tourism Caribbean islands share a common region but are geographically dispersed between North and South America (See Figure 1, Map of Caribbean region). The islands are all considered Small Island Developing States by the United Nations, except for Bonaire, Saba, and Saint Eustatius, which are special municipalities of the Netherlands.17 They have varying constitutional statuses and differ further in their size, population (density), language, and dependency on tourism development (Table 1). Caribbean tourism began with travel, particularly in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, as Europeans crossed the Atlantic to visit their Caribbean colonial possessions for exploration, scientific discovery, and investigation.18 Tourists were initially not attracted to the sea and sand of the islands but by the “invigorating climate and balmy air … recommended by the medical faculty.”19 In the late nineteenth century, tourism became gradually more organised as Europeans and North Americans from the upper classes spent some time per year in Jamaica. Cuba dominated as the top destination in the Caribbean in the first quarter of the twentieth century, maintaining that position until the late 1950s. As of the 1960s, more Caribbean destinations became popular, thanks to commercial aviation, with tourists seeking sun and beach destinations. Tourism helped Caribbean islands reinvent themselves into flourishing service-oriented economies in the 1970s, with increasing government intervention. Mass tourism followed in the early 1980s when air travel became accessible and economically feasible for the North American and European middle class.20 Nowadays, all Caribbean islands have experience with tourism, and some have become highly dependent on this activity. For example, prior to the COvID-19 pandemic, tourism accounted for 43.4 percent of Anguilla’s economy and 51.1 percent of the island’s employment (Table 1). Barbados’s pre-COvID-19 tourism reliance was, respectively, 29.6 percent (economy) and 37.2 percent (labour). Tourism took TOURISM DEvELOPMENT AND NATION-BUILDING: THE CASE OF ARUBA 51 up 69.2 percent of Aruba’s economy, while travel and tourism’s contribution to employment reached 85.6 percent in 2019. Dependency on tourism was also often correlated with over-concentration on a single market, as shown by Ridderstaat and Nijkamp.21 The effects of tourism vulnerability became more than evident in 2020 when the Caribbean islands suffered badly from the economic consequences of the COvID-19 pandemic. Tourists generally see the Caribbean as a sun, sea, and sand opportunity, and destinations have not deviated much from that purpose.22 The role of heritage seems rather a complementary part added to the tourism product, which might explain why many destinations have no registration of their tangible and intangible heritage with UNESCO (Table 1). The latter is a lost opportunity to integrate the role of heritage in the tourism product, which could benefit tourism development.23 Many countries have incorporated heritage as part of the show to tourists, often portraying a simplification or deviation of actual conditions. As put by Wong, heritage tourism sometimes has been reduced to a fake performance for tourism revenue: In this pursuit of maintaining and expanding classical tourism, many … indigenous cultural and environmental attributes are purposely corrupted for touristic entertainment values. [The] [t]hematic framework of tropical-paradise tourism often mimics past colonial regimes … Exploiting ‘rich agriculture heritage’ to tourism has also been proposed to establish distinct branding of the preferred destination … However, in this approach, the brutal hardship and suffering endured by slaves during the colonial era would need to be conveniently omitted. The enjoyment and amusement of tourists are paramount.24 There are, of course, some exceptions to the described view of the role of heritage in tourism, such as the case of the Saint Lucia Heritage Tourism Project, an initiative by the local government to establish heritage tourism as a viable and sustainable component of the island’s tourism product.25 The Saint Lucia heritage initiative may be more of an exception than the rule. It is more likely that heritage has a diluted part in the tourism product of Caribbean destinations, considering the fierce competitive environment and where tourism demand has been historically tied to sun, sea, and sand. The previous analysis portrayed Caribbean islands as sun, sea, and sand destinations with an ambiguous role for heritage, where differences among the islands are the rule rather than the exception. Context is likely to play a crucial part in understanding the connection between Caribbean islands’ tourism development and nation-building. It implies that a one-size-fits-all analysis may not be appropriate, and a circumstantial approach may offer better results. Considering the latter, the subsequent analysis will contemplate the case of Aruba, an island that experienced a constitutional change in 1986, coupled with an all-important transition of its economy to become a key tourism destination in the Caribbean. 52 JORGE RIDDERSTAAT United Kingdom Antigua and Barbuda Aruba 164,87 English Independent 442 97.929 221,56 English Kingdom of the 180 106.766 593,14 Dutch/ Official language 15.003 (in km2) 91 Area Population density Constitutional status Anguilla Population Island Table 1: Similarities and differences among Caribbean islands Papiamento Netherlands Bahamas Independent 13.943 393.244 28,20 English Barbados Independent 430 287.375 668,31 English Bonaire Kingdom of the 294 21.745 73,96 Dutch Netherlands British Virgin Islands United Kingdom 151 30.231 200,21 English Cayman Islands United Kingdom 264 65.722 248,95 English Cuba Independent 109.886 11.326.616 103,08 Spanish Curaçao Kingdom of the 444 164.096 369,59 Dutch/ Papiamento Netherlands Dominica Independent 751 71.986 95,85 English Dominican Republic Independent 48.671 10.847.910 222,88 Spanish Grenada Independent 344 112.523 327,10 English Guadeloupe France Haiti Independent 1.628 400.124 245,78 French 27.750 11.402.528 410,90 French/ Haitian Creole Jamaica Independent Martinique France Montserrat United Kingdom Puerto Rico United States 10.991 2.961.167 269,42 English 1.128 375.265 332,68 French 102 4.992 48,94 English 8.870 2.860.853 322,53 Spanish Cultural Heritage List on UNESCO’s intangible Number of registrations Heritage List on UNESCO’s World Number of registrations (pre-COVID-19) Key tourism market employment (2020), in % travel contribution to Travel and tourism employment (2019), in % travel contribution to Travel and tourism economy (2020), in % travel contribution to Travel and tourism economy (2019), in % travel contribution to Travel and tourism TOURISM DEvELOPMENT AND NATION-BUILDING: THE CASE OF ARUBA 53 43,4 15,7 51,1 37,7 United States 0 0 40,5 23,3 90,4 75,1 United States 1 0 69,2 44,0 85,6 73,9 United States 0 0 44,4 20,0 50,2 45,1 United States 0 0 29,6 17,9 37,2 34,4 United States and 1 0 0 0 UK N.A N.A N.A N.A The Netherlands, Aruba Curacao, Saint Maarten, and United States 38,6 13,4 68,8 50,7 United States 0 0 21,0 9,7 36,8 31,8 United States 0 0 10,2 5,7 11,0 8,9 Canada 9 4 N.A N.A N.A N.A Netherlands 1 0 32,6 13,5 35,9 30,1 Caribbean 1 0 15,9 7,5 17,1 14,5 United States 1 4 40,7 16,6 23,8 15,9 United States 0 0 9,5 4,3 11,1 8,7 France 0 0 9,8 3,6 10,1 7,2 United States 1 0 28,2 11,9 29,4 22,4 United States 1 2 7,5 4,7 8,4 6,7 France 0 1 N.A N.A N.A N.A Caribbean, United 0 0 0 0 States and UK 5,0 1,8 10,1 9,1 United States Population density 13 1.918 147,54 Dutch 21 9.877 470,33 French Official language Population Kingdom of the (in km2) Constitutional status Saba Area Island 54 JORGE RIDDERSTAAT Netherlands Saint Barthélemy (or France Saint Barts) Saint Kitts and Nevis Independent 261 53.199 203,83 English Saint Lucia Independent 539 183.627 340,68 English Saint Martin France 54 38.666 716,04 French Saint Vincent and the Independent 389 110.940 285,19 English 21 3.142 149,62 Dutch 34 42.876 1261,06 Ducth 5.130 1.399.488 272,80 English Grenadines Saint Eustatius Kingdom of the Netherlands Saint Maarten Kingdom of the Netherlands Trinidad and Tobago Independent Turks and Caicos United Kingdom 948 38.717 40,84 English United States 347 104.425 300,94 English Islands United States Virgin Islands Sources: Agence de développement touristique de la France, Central Bureau of Statistics of the Netherlands, Tourism Analytics, United Nations, Wikipedia, Worldometer, World Travel & Tourism Council, and author’s calculations N.A N.A N.A N.A United States, Cultural Heritage List on UNESCO’s intangible Number of registrations Heritage List on UNESCO’s World Number of registrations (pre-COVID-19) Key tourism market employment (2020), in % travel contribution to Travel and tourism employment (2019), in % travel contribution to Travel and tourism economy (2020), in % travel contribution to Travel and tourism economy (2019), in % travel contribution to Travel and tourism TOURISM DEvELOPMENT AND NATION-BUILDING: THE CASE OF ARUBA 55 0 0 Aruba, Curacao, Saint Maarten, The Netherlands N.A N.A N.A N.A Saint Maarten 0 0 52 22 58,6 41,6 United States 1 0 68,1 28,7 79,7 59,6 United States 1 0 N.A N.A N.A N.A Guadeloupe 0 0 41,7 16,4 44,8 38,2 Caribbean, United 0 0 0 0 States and UK N.A N.A N.A N.A Aruba, Curacao, Saint Maarten, The Netherlands N.A N.A N.A N.A United States 0 0 7,4 4,2 8,9 6,8 United States 0 0 N.A N.A N.A N.A United States 0 0 53,6 27,1 71,3 53,0 United States 0 0 56 JORGE RIDDERSTAAT An Island Embracing Tourism Development: Materialism Overcoming Idealism Aruba’s economy had long depended on an oil refinery, the Lago Oil & Transport Company, Ltd. (Lago), which brought material prosperity to the island. Lago’s economic contribution was generally considered secure, thanks to its long-lasting presence on the island. Idealism was more prevalent than materialism, as Aruba was involved in a decades-long struggle to separate itself from the Netherlands Antilles, particularly from Curaçao. The latter was perceived as too dominant within the Netherlands Antilles and an obstacle to Aruba’s prosperity and progress. Many names have been synonymous with the separation movement, but it was Betico Croes and his Movimiento Electoral di Pueblo (MEP) party who channelled the will of many on the island.26 Of course, not everybody seemed happy with the notion of separating from Curaçao. For example, behind the scenes, Lago’s management had become sceptical and critical of the MEP party and Betico Croes: Those people [MEP] are totally irresponsible. This island can’t stand alone. Our taxes and the tourist income aren’t enough to float this island. We’ve supported the introduction of new industries, but they just never paid out. We support the growth in the tourist industry, but it’ll take years before that will lessen the dependence of the people on us … Now, if Aruba actually does separate from Curaçao, they will become even more dependent on Lago.27 At the 1983 Round Table Conference in The Hague, Betico Croes successfully negotiated Aruba’s partial separation from the Netherlands Antilles on January 1, 1986, with complete independence to follow ten years later.28 Only a few cared about the full implications of the agreement. What was important was that Aruba would divorce itself from Curaçao, which was the only thing that mattered for many. The joyous moment was reflected in an overwhelming election outcome (April 29, 1983) for the MEP and Betico Croes (thirteen seats out of twenty-one in Aruba’s Parliament). Unfortunately, the celebrations did not last long. What seemed like a bright and cheerful future suddenly became sour grapes when Exxon, the parent company of Lago, decided to close the refinery in 1985. While the official reason was economics, the impending constitutional change may have also played a role in Lago’s decision to end activities on the island. Aruba was left with an immediate loss in tax revenues of 40 percent and an unemployment rate close to 20 percent.29 While being the architect and man of the hour of the Status Aparte, Betico Croes would not become the man reigning in the Status Aparte. The MEP and Betico Croes suffered a disastrous loss at the Island Council election (November 22, 1985), losing the party’s majority in Parliament (from thirteen seats to eight seats). The refinery’s closure proved to be too much for many voters and prompted one of the last memorable statements by Betico Croes on election night: “Materialismo a vence idealismo” TOURISM DEvELOPMENT AND NATION-BUILDING: THE CASE OF ARUBA 57 (materialism has overcome idealism). Betico Croes would also not see the Status Aparte become reality, as he fell into a coma after a car accident, hours before the constitutional change. He never regained consciousness and died on November 26, 1986. A New Era with Tourism Development Lago’s closure prompted Aruba to explore other economic sources, and soon it became evident that tourism development was the way forward. Aruba’s history with tourism did not start with its Status Aparte in 1986, but it received a vital impetus with the constitutional change. By leaving the Netherlands Antilles and becoming an autonomous nation in the Kingdom of the Netherlands, the island gained more sovereignty in decision-making. Tourism would become the new economic mainstay, and there was a new visionary in town. Henny Eman became the first prime minister of Aruba on January 1, 1986, and is also credited with Aruba’s economic reform after the departure of the Lago refinery. He replaced the founder of the industry, Juan E. Irausquin, whose vision of tourism began with the construction of the first luxury hotel (Aruba Caribbean Hotel) in 1959, but who also died too young to see many of his ideas completed.30 The tourist industry in Aruba (photo Jorge Ridderstaat) 58 JORGE RIDDERSTAAT Table 2: Main purpose of visiting Aruba (in percentages) Vacation 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 90,6 90,3 90,3 90,4 90,2 90,2 90,5 93,0 92,9 94,0 Honeymoon 2,8 2,6 2,5 2,7 2,2 2,2 1,3 0,9 0,9 0,3 Visit Friends/ 3,6 4,4 4,7 4,5 4,8 5,4 4,6 4,0 4,0 3,8 1,0 0,7 0,6 0,7 0,5 0,4 1,0 0,7 0,7 0,8 Relatives Business and leisure Other 1,0 0,9 0,9 0,8 1,1 1,0 1,8 0,8 0,8 0,7 Business Only/ 0,3 0,6 0,5 0,5 0,5 0,3 0,3 0,3 0,3 0,1 Wedding 0,3 0,4 0,3 0,4 0,4 0,4 0,3 0,3 0,3 0,2 Events/Festivals 0,5 0,1 0,1 0,0 0,2 0,1 0,2 0,2 0,2 0,1 100,0 100,0 100,0 100,0 100,0 100,0 100,0 100,0 100,0 100,0 Convention/ Conference Total Source: Tourist Survey - Central Bureau of Statistics - Aruba By early 1986, Aruba had about two thousand rooms, and the International Monetary Fund recommended a fifty percent increase by 1998, projecting that economic growth would resume in 1987. However, the island authorities were ambitious and pursued a doubling of room capacity,31 a decision with repercussions for later (see the discussion in the next segment). Soon, new hotels, shopping malls, and other commercial buildings were being constructed. The government offered fiscal incentives in the form of reduced profit taxes, tax holidays, and substantial government guarantees to stimulate foreign investment in the tourism industry.32 The number of hotel rooms more than doubled to 4,789 by 1990.33 The fruits of tourism development soon became evident. Tourist arrivals increased from 181,211 in 1986 to 432,762 in 1990. Cruise tourism also grew significantly, from 73,338 arrivals in 1986 to 129,969 in 1990 (+77.2 percent). The island’s economy grew annually on average by 17.3 percent (nominal terms) and by 12.7 percent (real terms) in that period.34 The economic growth was also stimulated by the reopening of the refinery (Coastal Aruba Refining Company N.v.) in 1990,35 propelled by new Prime Minister Nelson Oduber.36 Tourism development continued in subsequent years. The number of visitors to Aruba grew steadily as new hotels were constructed. After more than thirty-five years of tourism development, the number of hotel rooms more than quadrupled compared to 1986, surpassing eight thousand units.37 By 2019, the island welcomed TOURISM DEvELOPMENT AND NATION-BUILDING: THE CASE OF ARUBA 59 1.1 million stay-over visitors, more than sixfold the number of 1986. Aruba welcomed 830,000 cruise visitors that same year, eleven times the level reached in 1986. It is safe to say that the island had successfully transitioned its economy to become a key tourist destination in the Caribbean. Data from the Central Bureau of Statistics indicate that Aruba remains a vacation destination, as indicated by more than ninety percent of surveyed tourists (Table 2).38 The island’s holiday reputation has not changed much compared to the early years of Aruba’s tourism in the 1960s. However, a deeper analysis reveals that all that glitters is not gold, and there are more aspects to consider behind the veil of a seemingly successful tourism development process. Benefits and Costs of Aruba’s Tourism Development The transition of Aruba into a tourism destination was reflected at both the macro and micro levels. At the macro level, we have seen significant improvements in GDP and employment. More people found work in hotels and restaurants over time, generating income for consumption and investment (e.g., purchasing a home). Balance of payments data from the Central Bank of Aruba also reveals growth in travel spending by Aruban residents when going abroad, indicating that more locals were profiting from the tourism development by becoming tourists themselves. The greater number of visitors also made it attractive to establish larger supermarkets, where Aruban residents could benefit from more extensive product choices. The island also introduced general health insurance (AZv) in 2001, allowing relatively easy access for Aruban residents to medical care.39 Improvements in the tourism product over time, such as the introduction of the Linear Park and the beautification of the beaches, have also benefitted residents who use these amenities. At the micro-level, Aruban residents experienced the benefits of the tourism transition. A study by the Central Bureau of Statistics in 2016 reveals that 69.5 percent of respondents were satisfied with their standard of living.40 Furthermore, 70.1 percent were satisfied with their job, 88.9 percent with their family, 73.3 percent with their leisure time, 66.2 percent with their health, and 60.9 percent of the employed respondents were satisfied with their work-life balance. Studies by Ridderstaat, Croes, and Nijkamp showed that tourism development directly impacted Aruban residents’ quality of life (often positively), validating the relevance of tourism for the islanders’ well-being.41 However, the influence of tourism on society may be waning. A study by Croes et al. (2017) revealed that in 2017, seventy-nine percent of respondents indicated that they were happy, and seventy-six percent were satisfied with their lives.42 However, compared to 2011, the study showed that tourism was no longer responsible for people’s happiness but only reflected an impact on their 60 JORGE RIDDERSTAAT Nature reserve Ari Kok in Aruba (photo Jorge Ridderstaat) life satisfaction, a potential sign of the increasing disconnect of tourism development with Aruban society. Sustainability of Aruba’s Tourism Development Aruba’s tourism development has been historically synonymous with land use. New tourism business establishments generally meant replacing nature or old buildings with new ones. Some examples in the early years: the shallow sea in front of Wilhelmina Park was filled up and developed into a hotel property, and the old and historical Police Station in Oranjestad was torn down to make a multiple-story hotel.43 The government soon became aware of the unsustainable practices and took two crucial construction-halting measures in the 1990s. In 1994, the government instituted a moratorium on hotel construction to deter any new hotel projects. In 1997, TOURISM DEvELOPMENT AND NATION-BUILDING: THE CASE OF ARUBA 61 authorities created Arikok National Park, which covered almost nineteen percent of the island, to protect Aruban animal and plant life, geology, and cultural-historical heritage.44 While the national park was an effective policy for creating a no-building zone, the moratorium proved ineffective at halting the construction boom. This was because the moratorium covered neither certain types of accommodation, such as condominiums, nor reconstruction and renovations of existing hotels, which could continue undisturbed.45 Ironically, the government eliminated its moratorium in February 2010, when it announced the construction of the Ritz Carlton (opened in late 2013). Without a moratorium, the building of other hotels soon followed (e.g., Radisson Blue and Hyatt Place), and others are now in the pipeline.46 Hotel construction seemed to have become more political prestige than economic necessity. It is politically attractive because a building provides tangible proof of political achievements and because of the positive (shock) effect such a project has on Aruba’s GDP— which is all good campaign material for the next election.47 Paradoxically, the government enacted a State Ordinance on Spatial Development in 2006, providing legal instruments to achieve an orderly system of regulations for spatial development,48 which led to the Spatial Development Plan approved in May 2009 and an updated version in July 2019. However, much construction has already materialised, making these efforts seem too little too late. Regardless, the institution of spatial regulation is still vital for orderly construction development in the future. Meanwhile, many Aruban residents have become fed up with over-construction on the island. Residents protested the continued construction of tourist accommodation. The construction of the Ritz Carlton near the Fisherman’s Hut, an area used by local fishermen for many decades, is a good example, which was met by notable protests.49 An organisation called Stimaruba protested against plans to build a hotel near Arashi.50 The Aruba Birdlife Conservation won court cases to stop the destruction of Aruba’s Bubali Wetlands.51 Many people are no longer pleased with how large buildings populate the island. There is also a growing consciousness among younger generations that Aruba’s future tourism development needs to be sustainable. There is agreement that tourism will likely remain Aruba’s central economic pillar for the coming decades, but there is also a need to transition toward a sustainable tourism model and curb over-development.52 The government has endorsed these ideas, but the proof is in the pudding, and the execution will determine the government’s willingness to put words into action. Persistent Immigration In the early stages of the second wave of tourism development, the economy became overheated53 and, coupled with increasing employment opportunities, caused labour shortages. Authorities were initially facing a dilemma of whether or 62 JORGE RIDDERSTAAT not to open the labour market to foreign workers. The excessive demand for labour was reflected in the inflation rate, which reached close to six percent in 1990. With some initial hesitancy, the island authorities opened the market to foreign labour, particularly from surrounding countries (e.g., Venezuela, Colombia, Dominican Republic, Haiti, Peru, etc.), and by 1990, some 2,000 foreign workers reinforced the labour force in Aruba.54 The decision to allow foreign workers to participate in the tourism development process marked the beginning of a second immigration wave,55 one that has outlasted the tourism boom (1986–2000).56 Immigration has good, bad, and ugly sides. For Aruba, the good side was that foreign workers managed to cool the overheated demand for labour on the island and helped mitigate wage pressures. Together with locals, foreign workers allowed Aruba to achieve the tourism destination status it has today. Foreign workers also helped rejuvenate the Aruban labour force57 and are generally seen as having enriched Aruban cultural identity.58 Many immigrants and their families have integrated into Aruban society and genuinely contribute to the island’s future. The bad side of immigration is that it is still an ongoing process tied to tourism and other economic developments. The increased economic activity requires the import of foreign labour, and according to International Monetary Fund calculations, more foreign workers will be needed to sustain the continued growth of the aging population.59 The resulting increase in the population has also added further pressure on housing,60 infrastructure, health, and education, indicating that immigration imposes significant costs. The ugly side of immigration in Aruba has been, so far, not so ugly, probably because immigration has become embedded in societal thinking, and many Arubans had immigrant blood from their elders, following the first immigration wave in the first half of the twentieth century. Fiery anti-immigrant protests, like in many other countries, did not materialise in Aruba, fortunately. There is, however, anecdotal evidence of frequent complaints of too many immigrants on the island (“No hay cama pa’ tanta gente”61), or that they are stealing jobs or husbands from locals or refuse to speak Papiamento. Immigration often does not occur only through legal channels, and Aruba has also been experiencing its share of illegal aliens living and working on the island. Aruba remains a magnet for people from certain Latin American countries (e.g., Venezuela and Colombia) and some Caribbean islands (e.g., Haiti and the Dominican Republic). Recent (gu)estimates indicate that about twenty thousand undocumented aliens were living on the island at the end of 2021,62 a development that has become more pronounced with the political and economic unrest in Venezuela.63 The government has announced its intention to implement an amnesty policy, and it will be interesting to see how this would work on the economy and residents’ feelings toward immigration. TOURISM DEvELOPMENT AND NATION-BUILDING: THE CASE OF ARUBA 63 Productivity, Vulnerability, and Resilience of Aruba’s Tourism Despite the ongoing pursuit of new tourism projects, there is also evidence that Aruba’s tourism industry may have landed in a saturation zone, where every additional expansion effort produces a diminishing return.64 According to the IMF, the limited availability of still-to-be developed land and the constant need for immigrant labour further support the ongoing “exhaustion effect” in Aruba’s tourism development. The latter may also explain residents’ growing dissatisfaction and protests against further construction. There is also evidence that the island is becoming more vulnerable to tourism-related shocks. In the past, Aruba was able to withstand the effects of several international shocks, such as the Gulf War (1991), the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York and Washington (2001), the Natalee Holloway case (2005), the global financial crisis (2008–2010), and the collapse of the venezuelan tourism market. Overcoming these crises was possible thanks to the coordinating efforts of many key tourism stakeholders, including the Aruba Tourism Authority (ATA), the Aruba Hotel and Tourism Association (AHATA), and Aruba’s population itself. For instance, in the case of Natalee Holloway’s disappearance, U.S. media attention in part led to fewer U.S. tourists.65 The island’s image took a hit, mainly because of boycott calls from the missing girl’s family and Alabama officials who pressured Aruba’s judicial system.66 Back then, the ATA and the AHATA were primarily busy correcting inaccurate perceptions of the island.67 The case also touched the Aruban community, who saw all kinds of biased and unfair statements and assumptions made about the island every day on their television screens. Many saw the need to protect Aruba’s tourism (the bread and butter of many) and volunteered to help search for Natalee Holloway. The case, which remains unsolved, dragged little Aruba into the (wrong) spotlight but revealed the unity and willingness of Aruban residents to step up together to counter a national crisis. So far, the island has successfully weathered several global shocks, but the COvID-19 crisis could become the mother of all crises. For the first time in many decades, the island was confronted with (almost) zero tourists due to border closures. By July 2020, tourists started to come back to Aruba as the island started to open again for the U.S. and other countries (e.g., Canada, European countries, Bonaire, and Curaçao). However, the arrival numbers were only a tiny fraction of what they had been and could not economically support the more than one hundred thousand people living on the island. Mass firings and furloughs followed. The government provided a socio-economic package to help many people who lost their job and/or other income due to COvID-19. On the other hand, the government curtailed the salaries of civil servants and those in similar positions to mitigate 64 JORGE RIDDERSTAAT growing government fiscal deficits. The salary reduction was unbalanced, as not every employee saw a reduction in their payslip, creating perceptions of inequality in the solidarity process. The latter may explain the protests of some workers against the salary reduction measure.68 The overall effect of the COvID-19 pandemic is ongoing, and its consequences on Aruba’s tourism remain to be seen. Mediating Role of Branding and Heritage Aruba’s strong tourism brand has helped the island transition itself to the tourism destination it has become today. The brand also helped the island overcome several crises. The brand is the result of decades-long development, and the underlying message has been refined over time. Like many (Caribbean) destinations, we can follow the island’s branding process through vehicle licence plates. Until 1976, plates incorporated no slogan; only “ARUBA, N.A.,” appeared, a monotonous message presumably intended to help tourists remember the island’s name.69 Between 1976 and 1982, plates incorporated the island’s carnival tradition in the form of the slogan “ISLA DI CARNAvAL”, pinpointing a single Aruban custom. Perhaps the best-known brand name was introduced in 1983, i.e., “ONE HAPPY ISLAND,” which continues to be used nowadays and emphasises the happiness factor tourists can find on the island.70 The happiness factor should be interpreted broadly: Aruban residents are generally characterised as being friendly, happy, warm, and welcoming.71 They are also responsible for the safety and well-being of tourists, as the government website states: “The people of Aruba look forward to greeting you on One happy island with warmth, gratitude and, above all, your safety and well-being as our most important priority. Now is the time to relax, renew, refresh and rediscover Your Happy Place in Aruba.”72 So far, Aruban residents have met the One Happy Island condition, and the branding success is reflected in its ability to connect the tourism industry with the Aruban residents. However, the increasing dissatisfaction with Aruba’s tourism development model could threaten the resident happiness level necessary to remaining a preferred destination. Heritage Contribution to Tourism Development and Nation-Building In the context of Aruba, heritage is generally exclusive, rather than inclusive, considering folkloric traditions, national symbols, and the Papiamento language while omitting conceptualisations belonging to younger generations and ethnic and cultural minorities.73 The lack of an inclusive concept of heritage may also explain the emphasis of Aruban stakeholders on preserving and enhancing monuments, TOURISM DEvELOPMENT AND NATION-BUILDING: THE CASE OF ARUBA 65 Table 3: Places visited by tourists while in Aruba (in percentages) Visit Museum 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 3,2 3,2 9,0 5,0 4,7 8,7 13,7 5,8 3,2 Visit Historical Buildings 14,7 17,9 22,4 24,6 25,6 27,5 28,8 29,5 32,9 Visit Historical Sites 18,8 38,7 39,4 42,5 38,7 44,7 39,1 35,9 40,9 Visit Art Galleries 1,4 1,4 3,7 3,3 2,3 2,8 2,5 1,0 0,5 Took Cultural Tour 2,2 1,4 2,6 3,2 3,6 2,7 1,7 1,6 0,4 Attended Festival 11,4 14,3 22,7 21,8 22,1 22,6 21,5 17,1 10,6 Visit Beaches 95,1 95,8 96,5 96,9 96,2 93,4 91,3 91,7 95,5 Visit Center Oranjestad 91,4 91,8 85,5 92,9 93,4 94,5 96,0 96,7 97,4 visit Franse Pas 9,3 12,6 17,7 15,6 17,0 17,3 19,0 22,4 22,9 67,8 60,1 59,0 62,5 64,9 67,5 74,1 70,5 65,1 Saw Hotel Shows 13,1 19,0 23,4 19,7 22,5 32,4 38,8 49,4 49,8 Made Island Tour 46,5 61,9 62,6 60,3 57,5 61,9 57,5 58,0 59,5 visit National Park 38,3 36,1 37,1 29,5 28,0 29,2 32,3 40,0 44,7 Visit North Coast 47,1 58,4 61,1 59,6 59,4 58,2 60,1 58,7 58,3 Visit Restaurant Outside Architecture 10,0 9,1 37,0 40,1 34,4 32,8 36,1 33,1 39,0 Visit Rock Formations 36,2 44,5 46,3 38,7 37,9 35,6 38,7 40,3 45,3 Visit San Nicolas 40,3 55,5 62,3 56,8 50,5 53,2 62,8 67,5 64,3 Visit Shopping Malls 86,8 93,0 89,7 89,9 91,8 92,9 96,4 97,9 98,8 Source: Tourist Survey - Central Bureau of Statistics Aruba historic buildings, and natural landscapes, forgetting that everyday life is also a shaper of Aruban identity (Arubanness).74 From the perspective of nation-building, the role of heritage in maintaining national identity seems suboptimal. Heritage seems part of the tourism product but has not been a key reason for visiting Aruba. According to the Central Bureau of Statistics, around ninety percent of all responding tourists have visited Aruba’s beaches when on the island, validating the sun-sea-sand motivation mentioned earlier (Table 3). The surveyed tourists also seem to like visiting Oranjestad and the shopping malls. Although not a key reason for visiting Aruba, tourists also are interested in the island’s heritage. About forty percent of respondents visited historical sites or rock formations (Table 3). There was also interest in historical buildings, but tourists deemed visiting museums or taking a cultural tour less important. Many tourists were also interested in visiting 66 JORGE RIDDERSTAAT San Nicolas, but the reasons are not clear from the data. It is also unclear whether tourists have dined in restaurants serving local cuisine. Overall, the contribution of heritage to tourism development is likely to be a minor part of tourists’ activities while on the island. Concluding Remarks Aruba’s second tourism development wave, initiated in the mid-1980s, has made the island what it is today, i.e., a tourism destination. Tourism development has competently formed a symbiotic relationship with the island’s nation-building process. Arubans can quarrel about anything, but there is general agreement that tourism is still the way forward. They also largely identify themselves with the “One Happy Island” feeling, which has worked well in the branding strategy to distinguish Aruba from its competitors and attract more tourists. It is safe to say that Aruba’s brand is essentially a representation of how Arubans feel, and Aruba’s promise to take care of tourists is secure. While branding has worked well in the tourism development-nation-building interrelationship, Aruba’s heritage has been complementary to the tourism product and suboptimal for nurturing national identity. However, promises can be broken; happiness may not be in the DNA of Aruban residents, contrary to what the Aruba Tourism Authority has suggested.75 The island’s tourism development risks losing touch with what residents deem essential. Also, what has worked well in the past may not necessarily continue to work for future tourists. Tourism demand can change over time, and new travellers may see the world differently and have different lifestyles and views about sustainable destinations.76 The island is in dire need of a sustainable tourism development model, where it can continue to outshine its competitors, satisfy residents’ needs, and provide tourists utility beyond sun, sea, and sand. There is an opportunity to preserve Aruba as a happy place for everyone if stakeholders work together towards a new tourism development vision. The Aruba Tourism Authority has already recognised the need for an innovative and sustainable tourism development model,77 and there seems to be a similar agreement among other stakeholders and the government.78 The regulations for spatial development are also in place. The next and perhaps most challenging endeavour will be the execution, which includes determining policies to untangle Aruba’s tourism development from its current unsustainable conditions, including a reorganisation of building and immigration policies. It may be difficult, but it’s not impossible if the vision is clear. Aruba’s tourism has already experienced visions of change in the past, and it is time for the next visionary architect to step forward. CHAPTER 3 Slavery and Debates about National Identity and Nation-Branding Rose Mary Allen, Gert Oostindie, and Valika Smeulders Slavery and its legacies are fundamental to Caribbean history and resonate in contemporary debates about cultural heritage. Generally speaking, this holds true for the Dutch Caribbean islands too, but as we will argue in this chapter, there are significant differences in the ways this history and its heritage are reflected in contemporary debates about nation-building and practices of nation-branding in Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao.1 At the same time, for reasons we will explain below, these debates cannot be fully understood without taking on board the simultaneous rediscovery of slavery and its legacies in the Netherlands. In this contribution, we will focus not only on the situation on the three islands and in the Netherlands, but also on the transatlantic links connecting them. Our lead question concerns the entangled dynamics of memory-making within the challenging constitutional context of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. Curaçao For ecological reasons the six islands that once formed the Netherlands Antilles were not developed as typical Caribbean plantation colonies. Even so, the Atlantic slave trade and slavery were fundamental to their history under Dutch rule, which began in 1634. Curaçao was developed as a commercial nexus, as was St. Eustatius in the Northern Caribbean. Mainly in the period up to 1730, Curaçao was a major transhipment hub for enslaved Africans. Only a minority was retained on the island, and the actual proportion of enslaved people in the total population decreased from some sixty percent in the late eighteenth century to thirty percent on the eve of emancipation (1863)—relatively low figures by Caribbean standards. Nevertheless, throughout the colonial period and up to this day, enslaved Africans and their descendants have formed the majority of the insular population. However, the ethnic makeup of the population has changed considerably, first from the late 1920s through the 1950s owing to regional labour migration spurred by the oil industry, and again 68 ROSE MARY ALLEN, GERT OOSTINDIE, AND VALIKA SMEULDERS Mural in Curaçao referring to the slave revolt led by Tula in 1795 (photo Gert Oostindie) in more recent decades owing to extensive outmigration to the Netherlands and replacement immigration from the Caribbean and Spanish America. There is no doubt that slavery and its legacies are major subjects of public debate in contemporary Curaçao. But this is a relatively new development, at least in the sphere of government, education, and culture. The first museums dedicated to slavery date from the 2000s, as do official monuments commemorating slavery and, particularly, slave resistance. The national day in celebration of resistance to slavery—Dia di Lucha pa Libertat (Day for the Struggle of Freedom)—dates only from 1984, whereas in the other former major Dutch Caribbean colony, Suriname, the end of slavery has been celebrated annually, on a day known as Keti Koti (The Chain is Broken), since the 1863 emancipation. In explaining the former’s tardiness, one cannot ignore the fact that there was an obvious continuity in the presence of colonial and postcolonial elites. Whereas in Suriname the White planter class had more or less vanished by the twentieth century, the partly Protestant, partly Jewish White elite of Curaçao has remained present and highly influential in local society to the present day. Also present is the Roman Catholic church, to which until recently most Afro-Curaçaoans adhered, and which was deeply implicated in upholding both slavery and colonialism as such. This has certainly not stimulated an early and open debate about slavery. Where descendants of enslaved Africans and their owners SLAVERY AND DEBATES ABOUT NATIONAL IDENTITY AND NATION-BRANDING 69 live side by side, discussing slavery and its legacies is a delicate and potentially divisive matter—particularly as socioracial hierarchies have persisted into the present. This is not to say that there is no previous tradition of public reflection on this past and its legacies. Curaçao did not produce something similar to the Afro-Surinamese author Anton de Kom’s 1934 book We Slaves of Suriname, an eloquent and bitter indictment of slavery, colonialism, and racism. But already in 1929, the Afro-Curaçaoan Pedro Pablo Medardo de Marchena published his pamphlet Ignorancia ò educando un pueblo, lashing out against the colour line and the mental legacies of slavery. A few years later, and inspired also by Marcus Garvey, Willem E. Kroon spoke against the repressive Roman Catholic Church and racial self-hatred: “Don’t think of yourself in terms such as triste color, sad colour, no doubt this is an invention of the white people.”2 Important as these reflections may have been, they were not about slavery itself, nor explicit pleas to rethink slavery as constitutive of Curaçaoan national identity. The first attempts to achieve that rethinking date from around 1950 and included a lecture by the well-known author Pierre Lauffer on Tula, the principal leader of the major slave revolt of August 17, 1795.3 Since the 1960s, in the context of the Black Power movement and particularly the May 1969 revolt on Curaçao, several grassroots activist groups put enslavement and its legacy back on the societal and political agenda. Tula, hitherto either depicted as a criminal or simply disregarded, was now heralded as the protagonist of the Afro-Curaçaoan struggle against slavery and racism. This is the context in which the government symbolically recognised August 17 as the Dia di Lucha pa Libertat. The story of his rediscovery half a century ago up to his contemporary status as a national hero encapsulates the success of an emancipatory narrative of insular identity, one in which resistance to slavery has taken centre stage.4 It would take until 1998 before the first museum dedicated to slavery opened its doors, in a prime location in Willemstad. Ironically, the Kura Hulanda Museum (the name means “Dutch courtyard”) was established by a wealthy Dutch entrepreneur whose highly critical attitudes towards Curaçaoan politicians made him an unlikely partner in nation-building efforts. Likewise, the museum’s distinctly non-localised narrative of the Atlantic slave trade and slavery in the Americas may have been more appealing to an international tourist public than to the insular population, and as such indeed was promoted as a key element in nation-branding.5 Nonetheless, Kura Hulanda marked a new era. Since then, Curaçaoan activists have opened several more local museums dedicated to slavery and Afro-Curaçaoan cultures, as well as a “Slave Route,” supported by local and metropolitan Dutch funding. Some of the older museums have now added slavery as a topic to their exhibitions, or are in the process of doing so.6 These museums, as well as a score of scholarly and educational books and articles published in recent decades—though still mainly written by Dutch and foreign historians—explicitly address both the violence and racism of slavery and 70 ROSE MARY ALLEN, GERT OOSTINDIE, AND VALIKA SMEULDERS the resistance of the enslaved.7 But the discourse about legacies seems to remain slightly ambivalent. Thus while creolised forms of expression such as the Creole language Papiamentu and local musical styles such as the Antillean waltz and tumba have long been celebrated as typical for the entire insular culture, it took far longer for the more heavily African-style tambú to be accepted as such—in fact, the colonial ban on tambú was only lifted in 1952 and exempted from remaining restrictions in 2012.8 And when it comes to openly addressing the mental legacies of the attempt at dehumanisation that is inherent to slavery, Antillean scholars and activists observe that there is still a long way to go.9 The recognition that slavery was constitutive of Curaçaoan history and identity has been literally canonised in the recently published official historical canon of Curaçao, with a great number of entries critically dealing with the slavery past. Unfortunately, school text books and course materials used in primary schools dedicate little attention to slavery and colonialism.10 Pride in accomplishment against the odds of colonialism and particularly slavery forms the backbone of this instrument of nation-building. At the same time, however, it is not easy to reconcile this celebratory narrative of the nation with the sobering realities of non-sovereignty, hence dependence on the former coloniser and enslaver, and the fact that almost half of the Curaçaoan community now lives in the Netherlands rather than on the island. This is not the type of predicament one uses in nation-branding. Instead, the branding of Curaçao for international tourism mainly evokes both generalised commercial perks and typical local heritage that refers to an unproblematised colonial past. Thus, on the one hand, images of sun, sand, and sea, happy and welcoming locals, luxury resorts, and the like; and on the other, colourful images of the colonial inner city of Willemstad with its forts and mansions and plantation estates scattered over the island. This type of tourist campaign may be successful in attracting foreign visitors and hence contributing to the local economy, but it seems quite at odds with the dominant narratives of nation-building. In the field of musical branding, we do find exceptions to this rule, though.11 An overly rosy branding may be problematic in itself—one is reminded of Derek Walcott’s anger over a Caribbean island selling away its true character, “the way it whored away a simple life that would soon disappear.”12 But one may also wonder whether this type of nation-branding does not underestimate the commercial potential of invoking another, more painful and perhaps also more conflictive cultural heritage. This, indeed, was the idea behind the Kura Hulanda Museum, whose owner had high hopes of attracting well-to-do African-American tourists not only to his museum but to his adjacent boutique hotel, a luxury complex also named Kura Hulanda. Curaçaoan activists and professionals driven by idealistic rather than commercial motives have likewise attempted to use the heritage of SLAVERY AND DEBATES ABOUT NATIONAL IDENTITY AND NATION-BRANDING 71 Entrance, made by Giovanni Abath, to the Parke Lucha pa Libertat, Willemstad, Curacao, 2021 (photo Charles Martina) slavery not only for nation-building, but equally for nation-branding. The idea is simple and convincing. Most tourists come to the Caribbean primarily for fun and relaxation, but this does not exclude that a considerable number of them—of whatever colour or nationality—might also be interested in local culture and genuinely open to learning about the abhorrent pages of colonial history, including slavery.13 This has been the operative idea behind a series of museum initiatives taken in the past two decades on the island, mainly by cultural entrepreneurs of AfroCuraçaoan background. Not all of these have been successful, to put it mildly. To the best of our knowledge, the problem was a lack of neither good ideas nor professional approach but rather stable funding. Major problems were inherent to the island’s small size and the limited number of potential national and international visitors, making it very hard to uphold an economically viable cultural infrastructure in the first place. Even prior to the Covid-19 crisis, most museums were in dire straits; the crisis was simply disastrous and it remains to be seen what forms recovery will take. Does this mean that slavery is not a viable subject for nation-branding? Not at all, but economic viability is indeed a problem. A more sustained island-wide campaign combining the various individual museums may be part of a solution. We may also point to another type of commemoration, in monuments. In 1998, the Curaçao government unveiled a new seaside monument called Desenkadená 72 ROSE MARY ALLEN, GERT OOSTINDIE, AND VALIKA SMEULDERS (equally, The Chain is Broken). Designed by sculptor Nel Simon, the monument testifies to the suffering and despair as well as the resistance and triumph of the enslaved. UNESCO has declared it a Messengers of Peace Site. Other monuments dedicated to the 1795 slave uprising are the columns representing a fist with a broken shackle, which were commissioned by the National Park Foundation (founded on January 20, 1998) and created by the artist Yubi Kirindongo. They are placed in seven locations marking the seven-week trajectory of the rebelling slaves in 1795.14 Two further observations are appropriate. First, activists are becoming more creative and are not only using museums for nation-branding but also other purposes, such as cinematic culture. Next, owing to Curaçao’s small size, schoolchildren from all over the island have had or will have the opportunity to visit places commemorating, both for locals and visitors, their local history, slavery included. An awareness that their history is not only presented to them (nation-building) but equally to foreign tourists (nation-branding) may well help foster a sense of pride in the local heritage of slavery. Aruba For the first three centuries of Dutch colonisation, both Aruba and Bonaire were mere dependencies of Curaçao. Up to the 1863 emancipation, enslaved people of African origin formed at most one-third of the population. The establishment of an oil refinery in the 1930s resulted in a demographic explosion through the settlement of migrants, mainly from English-speaking Caribbean islands. After the collapse of the oil industry, tourism boomed in the 1980s, resulting in another demographic boost through immigration, this time primarily from Spanish America. The ethnic makeup of the island is therefore more diverse than in Curaçao with its still predominantly Afro-Caribbean population. Aruba separated from the Netherlands Antilles and attained status aparte as an autonomous country within the Kingdom in 1986. In the decades-long struggle for this separacion, exclusive ethnic definitions of Aruban identity as a mestizo nation prevailed. In this rhetoric, there was no place for the island’s slavery past and little place for the Afro-Caribbean immigrant population. In recent decades, contestations over the essence of Aruban culture have lost their fierceness and given way to more inclusive nation-building efforts. In the domain of heritage, particularly the Afro-Caribbean contribution of the carnival is now appreciated as a truly Aruban bacchanal and also branded as such. In recent years, attempts have also been made to upgrade the once predominantly Afro-Caribbean industrial town of San Nicolas, and this effort included the establishment of two museums celebrating the lives and contributions of these Black migrant workers to Aruba.15 SLAVERY AND DEBATES ABOUT NATIONAL IDENTITY AND NATION-BRANDING 73 Slavery, in contrast, has but a minor place both in narratives of Aruban history and nationhood and in the domain of cultural heritage. Even so, over the years, more research has been done on the cultural heritage of the enslaved people on this island as manifested in language, musical expressions, and family histories. Aruban cultural institutions teamed up to host the 2008 exhibition on local slavery, Exposicion herencia di sclavitud, to teach school children about this chapter in Aruban history.16 Also, a group of Aruban artists has promoted the Aruban tradition of the Afro-Caribbean tambú. But clearly all of this is not nearly as important as it is in Curaçao. This is not surprising. Most Arubans do not consider themselves Black, and those who do have roots mainly in other Caribbean colonies and hence relate to other, literally faraway histories of slavery. Slavery is virtually absent when it comes to the nation-branding of Aruba. Tourist brochures market this “one happy island” as ethnically diverse but emphasise it as being Latino with a Dutch twist, rather than Afro-Caribbean. History figures little in this branding, except for a few colonial buildings and fortresses and modern hotels and shops erected in quasi-colonial style. But otherwise, little history, and no slavery. While this reflects the lesser importance of slavery in insular history, one may also assume it makes a difference that Aruba, unlike Bonaire and Curaçao, caters primarily to the US market and attracts mainly White American tourists. Bonaire While enslaved people formed only a third of the total population in 1806 and a quarter by 1863, the majority of the Bonairean population was of African origin, and this has remained so until today. Over the past two decades substantial immigration from Spanish America and the Netherlands, linked both to the island’s integration into the Netherlands as a quasi-municipality and the development of tourism, has considerably diversified the insular population. Unprecedented Dutch involvement in, and indeed control of, government has provoked protest against what is now often described as “recolonisation.” Interestingly, in this context the concept of “slavery” has achieved renewed currency, as in the polemical juxtaposition of recolonisation, slavery, and apartheid as signifiers that condemn Dutch policies and actions.17 Ethnically, Bonaire has traditionally been more similar to Curaçao than to Aruba, and much of what is today cherished as typical cultural heritage of the island is Afro-Caribbean, particularly as this developed in the island’s second town, Rincon. In this context, research conducted in the 1980s testified to persistent racial divides with a history going back well into the nineteenth century.18 But much of the narrative of Bonairean identity is about a tranquil society of peasants and fishers 74 ROSE MARY ALLEN, GERT OOSTINDIE, AND VALIKA SMEULDERS interrupted only in recent decades by tourism and recolonisation. Slavery is not a dominant theme in Bonairean nation-building, and unlike in Curaçao, there are no national heroes related to slave resistance, although Boi Antoin’s 1997 book Lantamentu di katibu na Boneiru (The Slave Revolt on Bonaire) did bring its leader Martis into focus.19 The slavery past does figure rather conspicuously in nation-branding. Stone cabins once used for stay overs by enslaved women and men working in the salt pans are now a colourful attraction for tourists, and explanatory signs have been added to the site. Likewise, the former colonial plantation has been renovated. Marketed as the Mangazina di Rei (The King’s Warehouse), it attracts tourists with the promise of giving a taste not only of local produce, but also of how slavery was back then. Since this constitutional reform, the interest of the Bonairean population in its own culture and history, including the history of slavery, seems to have grown. Paradoxically, the new municipal status of Bonaire implies far better access to funding for the preservation and sharing of cultural heritage, slavery included, than presently available in Aruba and Curaçao. Thus in 2020, Dutch government funding enabled the production of a short film on the abolition of slavery on the island.20 The Netherlands Colonialism and slavery have been integral to the development of the Netherlands since 1600, but this has only been seriously recognised in recent decades, primarily owing to the large-scale settlement of migrants from the former colonies, who have brought this history home to the metropolis.21 The impact of these postcolonial communities on memory-making in the Netherlands has been highly uneven. The first wave of immigrants, from Indonesia, had been largely connected to the colonial order and was therefore rather frustrated over the loss of empire as well as the chilly reception in the Netherlands. In contrast, for the majority of subsequent postcolonial immigrants, first from Suriname and then the Dutch Caribbean islands, colonialism was associated with slavery and hence inspired anything but nostalgia. These Caribbean communities also encountered hostility and racism in the Netherlands, and a general ignorance and lack of interest in colonial history in mainstream Dutch society, including in education. Activism to ensure recognition of the Dutch slavery past initially emanated from the Afro-Surinamese community. This activism has a long history, starting with the publication in 1934 of Wij slaven van Suriname (We Slaves of Suriname) by the Afro-Surinamese activist and author Anton de Kom. This seminal book, at once a historical account and political treatise, has been rediscovered time and again as the ultimate literary condemnation of Dutch colonialism and particularly slavery in SLAVERY AND DEBATES ABOUT NATIONAL IDENTITY AND NATION-BRANDING 75 Suriname. In 2020, the book was included as one of the fifty lemmas (“windows”) in the national canon of the Netherlands and immediately appeared in bestseller lists. The 1990s saw the emergence of a broader community-based activism urging official recognition of the Dutch role in the Atlantic slave trade and slavery in the Caribbean colonies. That citizens of Surinamese backgrounds dominated this lobby, led by the Landelijk Platform Slavernijverleden (National Platform [for the] Slavery Past), is not surprising. Mass migration from Suriname dates from the 1970s as compared to the 1990s for the Antilles and particularly Curaçao. The Afro-Surinamese community was therefore more firmly grounded and had already developed a solid basis for a political lobby. Nonetheless, the Curaçaoan novelist Frank Martinus Arion made a crucial contribution to this lobby by publishing a short article in a Dutch weekly, calling for “a good gesture.”22 This eloquent plea did much to bring the issue of slavery and national recognition to the heart of Dutch politics. In 2002 a national monument in commemoration of the slave trade and slavery was inaugurated, and more monuments were erected in several Dutch cities afterwards. In response to calls first articulated by the Surinamese and Antillean communities in the Netherlands, successive Dutch governments have expressed “deep remorse” for the nation’s slavery past. A national slavery institute with both scholarly and educational tasks was established in 2002 but was not able to fully develop its potential and fell victim to budget cuts imposed by the then centre-right government, which clearly had quite different nation-building ideals. But the tide has turned again, and plans are now being completed for a genuine national slavery museum.23 Slavery was included as one among fifty themes of the first national historical canon, in 2006, and was maintained and strengthened as such in the 2020 update which now also includes Anton de Kom. Amsterdam and Rotterdam, the country’s two largest cities, have both financed historical research to establish their involvement, and other cities have followed, notably The Hague and Utrecht, but also other parts of the country.24 Amsterdam has offered official apologies, and the mayors of the two largest cities have urged the national government to do the same. Leading Dutch museums have organised exhibitions on slavery, culminating in a 2021 exhibition in the leading national museum for art and history, the Rijksmuseum, in Amsterdam. Over the past two decades, Dutch national television has broadcasted a number of television series and documentaries about slavery and its contemporary legacies, including racism and the increasingly discredited Zwarte Piet tradition. And more scholarly and popularising books on the subject have been published in the past two decades than in the preceding four centuries—we will not even begin to list the dozens of new titles, mostly in Dutch. As for content, the overall tendency is to stress the inhumanity of slavery, the resilience of the enslaved populations, and the incompatibility of this history with the rosy Dutch self-image of having been in the historical vanguard of the struggle 76 ROSE MARY ALLEN, GERT OOSTINDIE, AND VALIKA SMEULDERS Banner for exhibition on slavery Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, 2021 for tolerance, human rights, and democracy. From the start, a link has been made from the slavery past to contemporary problems of racism and white privilege, a concept successfully introduced in the Dutch public debate by the SurinameseDutch scholar Gloria Wekker25—hence the struggle to do away with the highly problematic figure of Zwarte Piet. Geographically, there has long been a rather unbalanced representation of slavery, with a heavy focus on Suriname. This has SLAVERY AND DEBATES ABOUT NATIONAL IDENTITY AND NATION-BRANDING 77 gradually been corrected to the degree that Curaçao too now forms part of the mainstream narrative. Slavery in the three Northern Dutch Caribbean islands is still treated as a footnote, even if recently educational materials have been developed.26 Dutch colonial slavery in other parts of the Americas, in the Cape Colony and Asia are becoming part of the debate, as is the African part of the history, presently mainly narrowed to Ghana with its historic Dutch fort of Elmina. The focus on slavery in Suriname and Curaçao, of course, reflects not only the longevity of Dutch colonialism in these two places, but also the dynamics of the Caribbean community in the Dutch societal and political landscape. So one may observe that progress has been made, and indeed the 2021 slavery exhibition opened by Dutch King Willem Alexander in the country’s most prestigious museum, the Rijksmuseum, has been a milestone in this respect.27 But what does all of this mean for nation-building and nation-branding? In the Dutch Caribbean, the memory of slavery is never far away. In the Netherlands, in contrast, decades of campaigning for recognition started from the correct assumption that little of this history was widely known in the first place, and that it would be a major challenge to convince a predominantly White Dutch audience that this is their history too. To put things in context, the total Afro-Caribbean population in the Netherlands, including Afro-Surinamese, may be estimated between three hundred thousand and four hundred thousand, hence only a small proportion of the country’s total population of over seventeen million. Thus education has been a central issue throughout the Netherlands, and this is indeed where significant gains were made. It may not be enough, and the tone may often still be apologetic, and there is a racist backlash as well—but there is no doubt that there is far more awareness now about the Dutch slavery past than there was a few decades ago. This is also reflected in opinion surveys that find Dutch involvement in the Atlantic slave trade and Caribbean slavery now tops the list of episodes that are a source of shame and regret. In a 2021 representative survey, fifty-six percent of all Dutch people considered the national slavery past as (very) negative.28 Is this enough? It’s open to discussion, to say the least. The debates about whether or not the Dutch state should go beyond regrets by officially offering apologies illustrate this. Between the two poles of deep engagement with the subject among both Black and White Dutch people, as opposed to a White chauvinistic backlash refusing any recognition, it seems that for the majority of the Dutch, this is a past that, like colonialism in general, is no longer unknown or denied, but neither is it considered mainstream Dutch history. Thus the same 2021 survey indicated that compared to Dutch citizens with a Caribbean background, White Dutch are clearly less interested in the issue and in historical research into the period. And while overall only thirty-one percent of those surveyed supported the idea of official apologies, seventy percent of Dutch citizens of Caribbean background did. 78 ROSE MARY ALLEN, GERT OOSTINDIE, AND VALIKA SMEULDERS Hence references to Dutch colonialism in general and Dutch involvement in slave trades and slavery do, in the end, figure in debates about Dutch identity, and this broadening of the historical horizon may indeed be seen as an important element towards a more inclusive nation-building. But at the same time, acknowledging colonialism and slavery exposes a glaring contrast to the traditional rosy narrative of national identity which many Dutch are still reluctant to relinquish. Clearly colonial history is not an explicit element in Dutch nation-branding, though colonial riches have contributed considerably to the historic scenery of Dutch cities, so abundantly displayed in marketing campaigns for international tourism. There is a niche market for tourism related to the Dutch slavery past, as apparent in the Amsterdam slavery tours that have been offered since 2013. In recent years, slavery guides have also been produced for several other Dutch cities, but so far this seems to respond primarily to a national niche demand. The 2021 slavery exhibition in the Rijksmuseum may mark a shift, with its laudatory reviews not only in the Dutch press, but also in some major foreign newspapers. The upcoming establishment of a national slavery museum may also attract foreign tourists, though it will undoubtedly target mainly a national public. In any case, it seems unlikely that this history, with its sobering impact on rosier Dutch narratives of the nation, will be a permanent core element of nation-branding. Slavery became part of museum and commemorative programming in the Netherlands to accommodate Caribbean migrants and add them to the list of target audiences. Initially, slavery was added as a “perspective” on the past, relevant not to all Dutch citizens but to a specific group. Yet ongoing research and presentations continue to link this past to the Dutch mainland and its national history. Public debates over what aspects of the past should be included in the Dutch national narrative further intensifies interest in the presentation of the colonial era. As a result, the attention in the cultural sector is expanding, thereby increasing awareness in society and political and policy realms of a colonial past that is not “a foreign country” at all: it is a subject in present-day identity debates that capture headlines on a regular basis. While the state did not introduce it as a keystone of nation-building, slavery nonetheless seems to be slowly finding its way into the practice of building the nation. This changing practice is also due to developments in the debate about control and ownership over museum objects. Museums and collections in the Netherlands have been built either around a “local” narrative or a narrative about “the Other.” While history museums presented the story of “a small country that conquered the world,” anthropological museums presented “the world that was conquered.” In the end, both form part of a larger story of “who we are and where we come from,” according to the Dutch museum association. But the distinction between the two types of museums has created a hierarchy of belonging, placing the Caribbean and the “perspective” of slavery outside mainstream Dutch history.29 SLAVERY AND DEBATES ABOUT NATIONAL IDENTITY AND NATION-BRANDING 79 In 2019, the ongoing international debate on the ownership of objects with a colonial provenance prompted the Dutch minister of culture to commission an advisory committee chaired by Lilian Gonçalves-Ho Kang You. Based in part on interviews with cultural experts of the Caribbean islands, the commission recommended the recognition of injustice committed in the colonial period. This recognition means that not only should the law be taken into account, but that in matters of ownership and belonging, the historical, cultural, or religious meaning of objects for the countries concerned should also be taken into consideration.30 In 2020, another commission was appointed, this time to formulate guidance on what is or should be considered the Dutch national collection—heritage which “says who we were and are [as a country].”31 The commission aims to redefine Dutch heritage as including private ownership and public accessibility, to prevent valuable art from leaving the country, but has also concluded that the Dutch collection should represent “the richness, complexity and diversity of our material heritage. It serves as a mirror of Dutch identity in all its diversity. Its contents can change over time.”32 This again means that the relationship between heritage and myriad population groups linked to the former Dutch colonial world is gaining recognition. This acceptance of ethnic diversity and the fluidity of geographical boundaries over time could lead to slavery no longer being seen as a Caribbean “perspective” but rather as an integral part of Dutch national history and heritage. The recent and rather belated inclusion of Caribbean professionals in Dutch heritage institutions has clearly played a role in these developments. Acceptance of slavery in the representation of the Dutch past has taken a long time, mostly because it requires a change in a national narrative that relies heavily on the glorification of those who brought the Netherlands economic prosperity. In contemporary art museums, this evolution has a different dynamic. While both historical and anthropological museums cater mostly to local visitors, contemporary art museums are more aligned with international consumers and interests.33 At the same time, the representation of Caribbean artists in contemporary art is much greater than it was during colonial times. These artists are able to address slavery heritage in more personal and therefore layered ways than the apparent dilemma of pride in versus shame of the past that is seen in historical museums. Their art presents their experience of the world as complex, and migration, creolisation, colonial and postcolonial oppression, and inequality as given historical factors that need to be navigated. This requires honesty, self-awareness, acceptance, irony, and humour, and the ability to celebrate life fully while maintaining full awareness of its dark sides. The resulting work attracts national and international audiences alike, as demonstrated by visitor numbers.34 While presenting slavery in a historical context conflicts with the traditional Dutch sense of self and nation, contemporary personal artistic reckonings with the past spark much less debate and are not avoided in nation-building and nation-branding cultural sites. 80 ROSE MARY ALLEN, GERT OOSTINDIE, AND VALIKA SMEULDERS Transatlantic Links In sum, we argue that throughout the Kingdom of the Netherlands, the common slave past has become more accepted in debates about national identity—and to a far lesser degree in processes of nation-branding. But it is also clear that there are deep contrasts in the place allotted to this past on both sides of the Atlantic. In this final section, we offer some comparative reflections, both on developments within the transatlantic Kingdom of the Netherlands and in a wider geographical and hence political framework. First, of course, these developments have not occurred in a vacuum, but rather in a broader Black transatlantic framework. The struggle for recognition of the slavery past and some sort of reparations, linked to calls for an end to racism, has a long pedigree throughout the Americas in which the recent Black Lives Matter movement is another milestone. Within the Caribbean proper, the Commonwealth Caribbean countries have been calling for reparation policies for some time now, and Suriname has joined this call. Because of their constitutional status, the Dutch Caribbean islands are not at liberty to join such international political campaigns, but it stands to reason that this activism has inspired Dutch Caribbean activists.35 Second, the Dutch rediscovery of slavery parallels similar developments in other European countries with substantial Caribbean communities—hence France and the United Kingdom, but not Portugal and Spain. The British and French trajectories, with national regrets, exhibitions, research projects, educational outreach, links made to contemporary racism, and so on have much in common with the Dutch case. One contrast is that the Netherlands is late in its initiatives to create a dedicated museum—the United Kingdom has the International Slavery Museum in Liverpool plus various permanent exhibitions in Bristol, Hull, and London, while France, as well has permanent exhibitions and a memorial in Bordeaux and Nantes, respectively, and a future memorial in Paris, boasts the grande oeuvre of the magnificent Memorial ACTe Slavery Museum in Guadeloupe. Incidentally, another contrast is that in remembering slavery, both the United Kingdom and France have long nurtured a rather chauvinistic tradition of extolling metropolitan abolitionists—this type of self-congratulatory commemoration is not rooted in Dutch traditions, as the final end of slavery came late and was therefore an embarrassment rather than a humanistic gesture even remotely qualifying as heroic. Returning to the Dutch Caribbean case, we cannot ignore that some of the asymmetries of the colonial past seem to be reproduced in the present. Thus the paradox that since the late 1990s, the Dutch rediscovery of—mainly Caribbean— slavery has resulted in a considerable number of exhibitions, documentaries, and a range of other educational products which were first conceived, elaborated, and SLAVERY AND DEBATES ABOUT NATIONAL IDENTITY AND NATION-BRANDING 81 disseminated in the Netherlands before they were brought to the Caribbean. Within the Caribbean, there was another postcolonial hangover that sustained this asymmetry. There are clearly more financial means available for this type of exchange within the Kingdom, hence for the Dutch Caribbean islands, than for Suriname, an independent state since 1975. Either way, the exchange of educational materials, exhibitions, and the like has been overwhelmingly one-way. This is also typical in a broader sense—thus the model of a national historical canon first established in the Netherlands was emulated in recent years in Curaçao, with different content of course, but with the same objectives and structure. There is also an upside to this story of seemingly ongoing postcolonial dependence. In the Netherlands itself, from the beginning, most of the activists who demanded recognition of the slavery past had an Afro-Caribbean background, but once it came to translating this struggle into research, exhibitions, media productions, and the like, they had to operate in a White institutional environment. But also right from the beginning, there were exceptions, as in the work of the Curaçaoan artist Felix de Rooy, who (co)curated exhibitions on racism and slavery in the Netherlands beginning in the late 1980s but was later also actively involved in setting up permanent exhibitions in Curaçao, including one in the Savonet Museum.36 In recent years, the number of curators and researchers of Caribbean background has been slowly increasing, which has been a factor in the general struggle to decolonise leading academic and cultural institutions. This process is anything but complete, but it does seem to hold promise for a more equitable relationship in this field between the Netherlands and its former Caribbean colonies—a relationship in which slavery is acknowledged as part and parcel of a national past shared by all. In conclusion, we observe an increasing awareness of the slavery past everywhere in the Dutch Kingdom. However, how much that past is part of nation-building and nation-branding processes differs per nation, mainly depending on how that past is experienced by today’s citizens (as alien or familiar). Moreover, its (tangible) heritage is only used for nation-branding when it looks good in tourist campaigns. But this also helps foster a sense of pride in local slavery heritage. Meanwhile, activists increasingly put slavery and its legacies on national agendas. Partly because of this, the slavery past and its cultural heritage are now prominently presented in the national narratives of Curaçao and Bonaire, and are gradually receiving more recognition in the Netherlands as well—only Aruba presents a different picture. Dynamics in this field are intense, though, and only time will tell whether this so long not really “shared” past will become a truly cohesive factor in a supranational identification with the Kingdom of the Netherlands.37 CHAPTER 4 Representations and Reparations of Slavery in the Caribbean Alex van Stipriaan The twenty-first-century Atlantic world shows a growing interest in its slave past, although the way in which that past is remembered differs substantially on both sides of the ocean. Take the once two biggest slaving nations of Europe: Spain has nothing to commemorate that past while Portugal has a small museum in a harbour town and an unfinished monument in Lisbon. Meanwhile, the UK, France, and the Netherlands each have several slavery monuments and several permanent exhibitions in major museums; the UK even has a separate museum wholly dedicated to slavery in the UK and the Dutch are planning one of their own in the capital, Amsterdam. And it is like this in the Caribbean as well: a gigantic memorial centre in Guadeloupe on the one hand and hardly more than one room dedicated to slavery in the—privately run— Surinaams Museum in Paramaribo. In this chapter the representation of slavery in Caribbean museums is inventoried and compared to the representation of slavery on the Dutch Caribbean islands of Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao. The question will be posed of whether and how the different kinds and scales of slavery representations in the Caribbean cultural heritage field are also representations of how the particular nations relate to that past. Eventually, this particular relationship is analysed from the angle of reparations: what is the role of Caribbean nations in articulating (or not articulating) a reparations discourse and how do the Dutch Caribbean nations fit into it? Caribbean Museums and Slavery The Caribbean has approximately four hundred museums in total, most being in Cuba and Puerto Rico (around ninety each).1 This implies something like one museum for every 110,000 Caribbean inhabitants. In the Netherlands this figure is around twenty-five thousand,2 four times more museums per capita. Given the Caribbean’s wealth inequality with the Netherlands and that the latter is among the countries that have the world’s highest museum densities, the Caribbean does not seem to score so badly. Until the end of the 1990s there was not a single museum in the Netherlands dedicating part of its permanent exhibitions to the country’s 84 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN slavery past. That history had happened far from home and was not considered part of national history. That has been changing quite rapidly since the turn of the century, and this goes for other Western European countries as well, particularly those with large Caribbean migrant communities. It would not be strange to suppose that this late acknowledgement did not exist in the Caribbean, where, after all, the slave past had taken place. But the reality is almost the opposite. This is because until the 1960 and ‘70s Caribbean museums were as colonial and Eurocentric as their counterparts in the colonial metropolises. The atrocities of the past were just that, the past, and museums existed to tell stories of pride, to civilise, and to show things of interest. Furthermore, Caribbean museums were actually only of interest to the middle classes and elites, not to the majority of the population. The latter actually had no time, no money, and often not the literacy to visit museums which did not connect or add meaning to the lives they lived. Such a museum was, as the Barbadian minister of information and culture stated in 1980 regarding the Barbados Museum, “not really representative of the various aspects of Barbadian life … while the collection tells the visitor a great deal about Barbadian merchants and planters, their life-style and their adoption of European material culture, it says little or nothing about slaves, plantation laborers or peasant farmers”3 From the mid-nineteenth century to the late twentieth century museums in general in the Caribbean had been private initiatives. Despite the strong rhetoric of the “civilising mission” of the colonial state, the educational mission of museums, which was in itself acknowledged, was left to private commercial societies, intellectual associations, and financial benefactors. Of course, they presented what was of interest to them and their alleged civilised class. Over time these museums often started out by presenting local progress—being part of the larger world—in agriculture and commerce, and later included local natural history and eventually made local and international (Western) art part of their collections. When forms of decolonisation became visible on the horizon after World War II, history and bits of local folklore also became part of the museum narrative but still as a part of colonial history. All kinds of colonial buildings, such as forts, plantation mansions, and town houses were musealised but only told the story of the colonisers. The history that mattered to and represented the majority of the population was ignored, as the focus remained Eurocentric.4 Only with independence, or at least when forms of local autonomy started to be realised, did anti- or even postcolonial nationalist governments start to become aware that they had responsibility for the education, unity, and national pride of this majority. Jamaica led the way, other countries followed, and a number of the larger museums became nationally subsidised institutions. But there were, and still are, enormous differences in the region. Of course, in Cuba most museums have REPRESENTATIONS AND REPARATIONS OF SLAvERY IN THE CARIBBEAN 85 been government institutions since 1959. On the other hand, in Suriname, which became independent in 1975, there still is no national museum and all museums are private, although some do receive a (little) bit of state support. Another incentive for more attention to local history and culture in many Caribbean societies, apart from nationalism, has been the rise of tourism. Tourists often want to delve into a country’s individuality, which does not exclude sensitive parts of local history, such as slavery, but to a certain extent it has to fit into “the exotic” experience of holidays in the tropics. Even local visitors often have a longing for a kind of exoticism. For the first group it is the exoticism of the unknown aspects of “them”; for the latter group it is the kind of exoticism that identifies with expressions of the horrors experienced by blood relations, i.e. their forefathers and mothers. Both groups are catered for by many history museums and sites that present shackles, chains, buoys, and stories of severe punishment. Many telling visitor accounts can be found on the internet. Here’s just one example from La Isabelica Plantation Museum in Cuba: “One of the few old coffee plantations still [stands] in the area. It has plenty to see as the archaeological finds are all housed here so we have not only the tools used in the coffee making process but the instruments of torture for the slave population. You can also see inside the owner’s home. We had a fantastic local guide who was very knowledgeable and passionate on his subject and made it a great trip for us.”5 Analysing Caribbean museums6 shows that there seem to be more museums and museum galleries dedicated to precolonial Taino cultures and archaeology than to slavery. An inventory of eighty-five slavery museums worldwide mentions only eight Caribbean museums dedicated to slavery.7 This, however, is not correct. It might even be stated that there is hardly a Caribbean historical museum that does not pay attention to the slavery past of the society of which it is part. Knowing the Caribbean’s history, more substantial attention to slavery could have been expected. And despite all the care and energy put into these exhibitions, lack of money, staff, and training make most of them look rather alike, and predictable.8 A chronological timeline rules almost everywhere. For instance, the government-funded National Museum of Saint Kitts and Nevis pays substantial attention to slavery via three galleries. These are described on the internet as presenting “a small collection of artefacts, alongside images and text panels. The first gallery examines the indigenous populations of the island, alongside exhibits relating to natural history and ecology. The second gallery explores the arrival of Europeans to the island and the development of slavery and the plantation economy. There are artefacts showcasing the brutal nature of enslavement, including an iron slave collar. It also explains the processes involved in the cultivation of sugar, as used on the plantations during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It also provides a narrative of abolition and emancipation. The final gallery examines the colonial 86 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN governance of St Kitts post emancipation, through to independence from British rule in 1983.”9 This chronological design, starting with indigenous culture and ecology, plantation slavery, and (post) emancipation, can be found throughout the Caribbean. Sometimes permanent or temporary exhibits of African cultures and local popular culture are added. This is the case in the National Museum of Saint Kitts and Nevis, with a special gallery on the evolution of Carnival costumes, as well as temporary exhibits on a particular collection or artifact. The museum advertises itself as “not only having significance as a tourist attraction but [it] is more fundamentally a symbol of nationhood and an important educational facility.”10 Another example is the Suriname Museum. Suriname has no museum particularly dedicated to its history of slavery, which lasted from 1650 to 1863. However, the old fort, which is part of Paramaribo’s historic and UNESCO listed World Heritage colonial centre, houses a national, though privately owned, museum.11 It is a cultural-historical museum that “aims to show the diversity of the Surinamese people and make it accessible to students and scientists, among others.”12 The composition of the collection shows its colonial background in the vast number of “exotic” indigenous and archaeological and Maroon objects that form the original core. Furthermore, the sub-collections are cantered around the main ethnic groups: Creoles (i.e., non-Maroon Afro-Surinamese), Hindustani (former British Indians), Chinese, Javanese, and Europeans. The museum also has an interesting historical photograph collection of some ten thousand items as well as a smaller collection of visual arts (historical and some modern art). One attractively arranged room of the fort, which contains neither too much nor too little, is the start of the “History of Suriname” tour through the museum and is partly dedicated to slavery. There are a number of objects on show, from a bottle painted with two enslaved men and their names, to clay pipes, Maroon wood carvings, drums, portraits of enslaved (Brazilian) men and women, and the inevitable shackles, manacles and slave collars. Five text panels explain the (abolition of the) slave trade, marronage, peace treaties with the Maroons, the British interim government (1799–1814), sugar and coffee production, and the plantation regime. Upstairs, some more buoys and cuffs can be found as well as a series of illustrations of the life of a plantation overseer around 1840, sketched by a Dutchman who had held that position for a short time himself in Suriname.13 That is about all that is presented on slavery. Of course, the museum has set itself the task of telling the history of the diversity of cultures in Suriname, so there is little room for each of them. However, this is not the kind of presentation Surinamese identify with very much, despite many school visits. As a historiographer of museums in Suriname wrote: “[F]or many Surinamese the national equivalent of [Rembrandt’s] the Night Watch will probably not be a museum object but something immaterial like a dance, song, REPRESENTATIONS AND REPARATIONS OF SLAvERY IN THE CARIBBEAN 87 Suriname Museum Paramaribo, slavery objects (photo Alex van Stipriaan) tradition or poem … Surinamese museums, therefore, never developed into a national symbol.”14 So probably the (traditional European) concept of museums as a display of material culture does not work well without substantial room for intangible heritage. This is not limited to Suriname, and sometimes it is not even about what or how much is presented, but how it is presented. For example, it is surprising to read a comment of a Jamaican church minister who visited in 2016 the one-room Pompey Museum of Slavery and Emancipation in the Bahamas.15 This museum is in honour of Pompey, an enslaved rebel leader. On his return the minister stated that Jamaica needed such a museum as well. “The Pompey Museum is small but effective. It displays powerful artifacts such as instruments of punishment, but it does not have even one hundredth of the artifacts that Jamaica has stored in Port Royal.”16 The artifacts presented in the Pompey museum relate to and tell the story of the experiences of enslaved Africans, from their journey from West Africa to life on plantations in the Caribbean and their fight for freedom. “The museum has books on sale but again could not compare in quantity to the books on Jamaica’s slave history. We have a significant story to tell in a slave museum,” the minister said.17 Jamaica’s National History Museum, comprised of buildings on four separate sites, with a collection of around 19,000 artifacts, including a rich African collection as well as a slavery collection, is an icon. Still the Jamaican minister identifies more with the presentation of slavery in a micro museum in Nassau, because it focuses on the enslaved and their daily life, emancipation and beyond, and nothing else. For most Caribbean nations slavery is recognised as an integral part of national history. At the same time, however, it seems to be treated less thoroughly than might be expected. The reason for this could be a fear of inciting anti-white sentiment, 88 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN which might not be favourable for national cohesion and/or the tourist industry. This almost certainly is the case in Cuba, where the revolutionary government officially abolished racism, but whose history is drenched in slavery, and race relations are still delicate.18 The outcome is clear in the only Cuban museum mentioned in the worldwide list of eighty-five slavery museums. The Cuban Museo Nacional Ruta del Esclavo (Slave Route National Museum) is housed in San Severino Castle, in Matanzas, and is part of UNESCO’s Slave Route project. It receives few visitors because it is not located in tourist hubs such as Havana or Santiago and is too far from the city centre to make it attractive to locals. Nonetheless, its story is considered to concern all Cubans, because “the vast majority of the population is mestizo, so the subject painfully and in a special way touches the heart of the island’s inhabitants,” as the official tourist website states.19 The museum aims to showcase the horrors of the transatlantic slave trade in order to prevent anything like it from ever happening again.20 It has three exhibition rooms with photographs and modern textiles from West Africa, archaeological items, historical photographs and paintings of Matanzas patriots of the era, poems, prints of slavery elsewhere in the Caribbean as well as in Cuba, drums, and other objects. Visitors can touch and weigh in their hands a slave’s chain. Finally, a fourth and special room is dedicated to the fourteen main orishas of the Santeria religion, presented as human sculptures, dressed in their symbolic clothes and colours and with their paraphernalia and musical instruments. The visitor leaves with no idea about the lives and histories of enslaved Cubans. The fifty-page visitor guide, both in Spanish and English, is only about the history of the castle itself.21 Probably the latest and certainly the largest Caribbean slavery museum— although it is called a memorial—is the Caribbean Centre for Expressions and for the Memory of the Slave Trade and Slavery, Mémorial ACTe (MACTe), in Guadeloupe. Erected on the former site of a slavery-era sugar factory, it is an impressive museum through its hypermodern architectural design. It is a museum as well as a centre for performing arts and debates, using several disciplines, materials and techniques to tell and discuss the history of slavery and the slave trade as well as its aftermath. It is also part of UNESCO’s Slave Route project. The more than eight thousand square meters of exhibition space “have permanent exhibitions on the history of slavery around the world from antiquity to the present, with a main focus on the transatlantic slave system, using objects, reconstructions, visual and audio installations, digital interactives and contemporary forms of artistic expression. The MACTe has a research centre where visitors can look into their genealogy, it has a library and a conference hall.”22 The genesis of this institution is quite complicated. Guadeloupe, still an overseas department of the French Republic, was promised over the years a slavery museum by several French presidents, but this was never realised. Eventually, in REPRESENTATIONS AND REPARATIONS OF SLAvERY IN THE CARIBBEAN 89 2006, an influential Guadeloupean politician, victorin Lurel,23 took the initiative and asked the French government to support him. Eventually, it became a prestige project for both Lurel and the French president François Hollande. About €85 million was spent on the project. However, Paris exerted its neocolonialist influence when it decided that the institution could not be called a museum, because the Guadeloupean director had not graduated from the Ecole des Chartes, which is a requirement in France. Therefore, MACTe is defined as the Caribbean Centre for the Expression and Memory of the Slave Trade and Slavery.24 The museum presents six thematical so-called “archipelagos” (Figure 2): The Americas, Towards Slavery and the Slave Trade, The Time of Slavery, The Time of Abolition, Post-Abolition and Segregation, Today. These archipelagos consist of a number of thematical islands and a gallery containing two islands with visual art. The question is whether this museum actually is a Caribbean museum, or a European museum that happens to be in Guadeloupe. In any case, because of Guadeloupe’s non-sovereign French Department status, the MACTe was able to receive in 2017 the European Museum Prize of the Council of Europe. They judged it an “outstanding, stunning and innovative museum [that] fits precisely with the Council of Europe criteria. Initially conceived as a memorial, the museum has become not only a living, dynamic place for memory of the transatlantic slave trade and slavery (connecting Africa, the Americas and Europe), but also a commemoration of the resilience of human beings. It promotes tolerance and opens up in a creative way perspectives for the future.”25 Again, it can be doubted whether this institute is something the local population identifies with, but it certainly is a part of Guadeloupe branding by the government. It should be added that many museums, in addition to their exhibitions, have programs that offer different kinds of performances of immaterial cultural expressions from the (slavery) past. Particularly music and dance performances are popular among the local populations as well as tourists. All in all, it is surprising, generally speaking, how relatively unchallenging slavery exhibitions are: they offer much about physical punishment and violence but hardly any explanation of what it was like to be enslaved, to survive, to stay strong and mentally healthy, to rebel, or what emancipation exactly meant, what happened afterwards, and what legacies still exist today. Considering those legacies in particular would perhaps translate into washing dirty laundry in public. Though there is no evidence that Caribbean nations censor national presentations of the slavery past, it is not hard to imagine that a more complex narrative of the past and the present is not considered by those responsible to be in the interest of national coherence, nor in attracting white tourists. There might be much truth in what Frith and Hodgson concluded for France as well as Haiti: “[T]he subjectification of slavery to state discourses governed by national 90 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN REPRESENTATIONS AND REPARATIONS OF SLAvERY IN THE CARIBBEAN 91 Fig. 2. Map of the structure of spaces in MACTe, Guadeloupe 92 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN interests results in a recognition that paradoxically fails to recognize slavery and its complex meanings for society today.”26 Representation of Slavery in Museums in Curaçao, Aruba, and Bonaire Beginning in the 1990s, according to valika Smeulders, Curaçao generated “an exceptionally high density of slavery presentations.”27 This is in sharp contrast to the other Dutch Caribbean islands, which have hardly any (permanent) slavery presentations at all, except for a small one in the Sint Eustatius Historical Foundation Museum, mainly showing old maps, drawings, and some archaeological artifacts. Aruba had an interesting temporary exhibition on slavery in the National Archives in 2008. To the surprise of many, Aruba turned out to have a slavery past! However, the slavery narrative has not found a permanent place in Aruban heritage institutions. In Bonairean museums such as the Bonaire Museum of Natural History, the Washington Park Museum, and the Museo Mangasina di Rei, all three housed in colonial buildings, slavery is referred to mainly via cultural traditions such as the Simadan harvest festival. The youngest museum on the island is Terramar Museum. It opened in 2016 and was a precondition set by the government for winning the tender to build a shopping mall in Bonaire’s capital, Kralendijk. The museum presents seven thousand years of Bonairean history, of which slavery is a (small) part.28 In fact, that part is more general than it is Bonairean, exhibiting large prints and art works depicting slavery throughout the Americas, including Suriname and Sint Eustatius. The museum actually is a typical example of nation-branding, in the sense that it was a government initiative and that it works for tourists. Locals, however, generally do not seem to have much affection for the museum, which is supposed to tell their history. Also, the small stone slave quarters near the salt pans are visible to everyone, presented in every single tourist flyer, and even described as “a grim reminder of Bonaire’s repressive past of slavery from 1633 to 1862.”29 Obviously, this forms part of Bonairean nation-branding too. However, a more coherent story or comprehensive narrative of Bonairean slavery is nowhere to be found in heritage presentations. In Curaçao the representation of slavery is complex. Not only are museums small, understaffed, underfinanced, and largely unsupported by the government, it also seems Afro-Curaçaoans generally have mixed feelings about their links to the slavery past. They are proud of the culture they built, but they generally do not want to be connected with African origins or the humiliations of the past.30 Tourists often seem to be more interested in the slavery narrative than locals do.31 And to top it off, there is or at least was quite some Dutch influence in where and REPRESENTATIONS AND REPARATIONS OF SLAvERY IN THE CARIBBEAN 93 Room in Kura Hulanda Museum, Curaçao (photo Alex van Stipriaan) how it is or was (re)presented. For instance, the oldest museum, probably with the best claim to a national status, is the Curaçao Museum. It was founded in 1948 by a Dutch medical doctor and artist, Dr. Chris Engels, and his Curaçaoan wife, Lucila Boskaljon. It is one of the very few heritage institutions that is structurally supported by the government. The most visible reference to the slavery past is the Klok di Katibu (Slave Bell) in the museum garden, which was used to call plantation slaves to work. Since 2004 the museum’s basement has housed an exhibition on Afro-Curaçaoan culture since emancipation. The latter theme is what can be found in a number of museums. Among these are the Tula museum, opened in 2007 and housed in the mansion of the plantation where the famous rebellion led by Tula in 1795 began, and the Museo Kas di Pal’i Maishi, housed in a traditional Afro-Curaçaoan peasant home and yard. Both are managed by an Afro-Curaçaoan historian and activist. The same attention for specific aspects of Afro-Curaçaoan culture can be found in the small Museo di Tambú Shon Cola as well as the much larger institute known as National Archeological and Anthropological Memory Management (NAAM). The former tells the history and culture of the Afro-Curaçaoan dance and drum called tambú, which developed during the slavery era and has always been one of the main targets of the Roman 94 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN Catholic Church; the latter presents exhibitions on the national material and immaterial collections, including a lot of oral history, but not very much on slavery itself. Finally, the Savonet Museum, housed in the mansion of one of the largest former plantations of Curaçao, was turned into a modern museum by Curaçaoborn artist Felix de Rooy, whose career was made in Suriname, the Netherlands, and Curaçao. The museum, located in Christoffel Natural Park, is dedicated to the natural environment and visual art and also shows the historical culture of those who used to live on the plantations, enslaved as well as enslavers. That leaves one more relevant museum, which is particularly dedicated to African culture and the history of slavery, the Kura Hulanda Museum, in the heart of Curaçao’s capital, Willemstad. It was privately developed in the late 1990s by a Dutch millionaire, Jacob Gelt Dekker, in a then run-down and drug-infested neighbourhood. Thanks to his efforts and other initiatives the neighbourhood is now in every tourist guide. Tourists, particularly (African) Americans, are the main group or market for this museum, which is a spacious annex to a hotel of the same name. It has an art garden, a life-size replica of Djenné’s city entrance, and fifteen large rooms with hundreds of artifacts and replicas. The theme is a journey from the cradle of civilisation in Africa through the horrors of centuries of transatlantic slavery to the present. Its focus is on West African art and cultures and the story of the slave trade and slavery. A basement of one of the buildings is a reconstruction of the hold of a slave ship, into which visitors can descend and get a feel of how it must have been for the enslaved. While this museum presents a general history of slavery, it is mainly about Suriname, the British Caribbean, and North America. There is hardly anything with which Curaçaoans, or Dutch Caribbean people in general, can identify as specifically “theirs.” This stresses the idea that slavery was not very important to Curaçaoans or to their history. In fact, the museum targets African Americans, who can combine a Caribbean holiday with a sort of pilgrimage without going to Africa. In a recent survey and series of dialogues in the Kingdom of the Netherlands,32 initiated by the Dutch Parliament, local Dutch Caribbean authorities admitted that in education the attention paid to the slavery past is too limited and that (re) presentations of slavery in museums are too general, with hardly any room for—or much knowledge of—the local narrative. Respondents in the Dutch Caribbean agreed that they struggle with negative imaging, including in museums, which hinders personal as well as political emancipation. The small government annual budget of less than half a million euros allotted to cultural heritage aims at “the advancement of Nation Building, Social Cohesion, Identity Development and Preservation and Protection of Material and Immaterial Heritage.”33 However, it seems as if the slavery past is not part of that officially recognised heritage, because the heritage institutions that do address the slavery past are not part of this REPRESENTATIONS AND REPARATIONS OF SLAvERY IN THE CARIBBEAN 95 structural governmental financial infrastructure.34 Generally speaking, all three islands present indigenous archaeological objects to a much greater degree than they do a coherent narrative of slavery. Reparations In September 2013, when CARICOM celebrated its fortieth birthday, this organisation of Caribbean nations announced it was going to demand reparations from eleven former European slaving nations. The CARICOM Reparations Commission (CRC) was installed in order to “establish the moral, ethical and legal case for the payment of reparations by the Governments of all the former colonial powers and the relevant institutions of those countries, to the nations and people of the Caribbean Community for the Crimes against Humanity of Native Genocide, the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade and a racialized system of chattel Slavery.”35 The result was the 2014 CARICOM Ten Point Plan for Reparatory Justice. Among the fifteen full members of CARICOM are Suriname, a former Dutch colony, and Haiti, the Caribbean’s first independent nation. The other thirteen are all former British colonies, as are the five associated members. Recently, Aruba and Curaçao, without being completely sovereign nations, have become observers with CARICOM. In 2019, the much broader Association of Caribbean States (ACS), consisting of thirty-five countries in the Greater Caribbean, declared their support for CARICOM’s call for reparations for the transatlantic slave trade and slavery. Its former secretary general (2016– 2020), Dr. June Soomer, stated that despite “not all governments seeming to be on the same page there is ‘consensus’ on this subject.”36 The consensus being, of course, that something should be done about the legacies of slavery; a consensus that has been very much stimulated since the Black Lives Matter movement gained worldwide momentum after the police murder of George Floyd in the US. The position the ACS is in, is more complicated than that of CARICOM, since it also counts France and the Netherlands among its member states, for the former on behalf of Saint Barthelémy and French Guiana, for the latter Bonaire, Sint Eustatius and Saba. The other French- and Dutch-related territories are autonomous members. This implies that these two European countries are at the same time demanding reparations and the subject of these demands. It is unclear whether they fully realise this paradoxical situation, but it has not been (publicly) debated so far. History is at the heart of the claim for reparations, of course, but the claim itself has a long track record too. Even during the slavery era and, after abolition, increasingly during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, particularly the descendants of enslaved Africans fought for reparations in many different ways. 96 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN Caribbean demonstration for reparations by European nations Among them were illustrious Caribbean intellectuals such as C.L.R. James, Frantz Fanon, Aimée Césaire, Anton de Kom, and Walter Rodney. Often these claims accompanied anti-colonial or other kinds of liberation struggles. An example of this in the Dutch sphere happened the year after the 1969 Curaçao labour revolt. One of its leaders, Amador Nita, who after the revolt became minister of social affairs in the first Black majority government of the Netherlands Antilles, visited the Dutch queen in 1970. The story goes that he demanded $500 million from the Dutch government for a fund to repair the damage of slavery and colonialism. 37 Even if the story itself is not accurate, the fact that people are (re)producing it is telling in itself. The second of the ten points in CARICOM’s 2014 reparations action program— after “apologies”—echoes the long history of the reparations struggle: repatriation to Africa.38 This issue has been on the agenda at least since the times of Marcus Garvey and the activities of the Rastafarians after him. At the same time, it shows that reparations are much more—and not even primarily—than financial compensation, although money is required to reach the goals expressed in the ten points. The other eight points are: 3) an indigenous development program; 4) investments in cultural institutions; 5) fighting the health crisis; 6) eradication of illiteracy; 7) an African knowledge program; 8) psychological rehabilitation; 9) technology transfer, and 10) debt cancellation. So, these are not demands for money to repair damage inflicted by the slave trade and slavery as such. These are claims to compensate REPRESENTATIONS AND REPARATIONS OF SLAvERY IN THE CARIBBEAN 97 for the current state of underdevelopment of Caribbean societies as a consequence of this horrific history. Their actuality make the claims even more relevant and urgent, of course, but it is also a means to circumvent the problem of historical crimes being too far in the past to take to court. There is, however, an ideological dimension to this as well. Some have it that a distinction should be made between backward-looking reparations and forward-looking reparations.39 The difference between the two seems to fall in line with the views between those who demand full recognition of and apologies and reparations for the horrors of the past and those who say, “Let’s see what we can do now for the future.” The latter is often the stance of former slaving nations. For example, in response to CARICOM’s ten-point plan, a British government spokesperson stated, “Slavery was and is abhorrent. The United Kingdom unreservedly condemns slavery and is committed to eliminating it.” However, the spokesperson stated reparations are not the answer. “Instead, we should concentrate on identifying ways forward with a focus on the shared global challenges that face our countries in the 21st century.”40 In fact, CARICOM’s ten-point plan is a mix of both backward-looking and forward-looking goals, which might explain the problem discussed hereafter. A substantial part of the fourth point of the reparation program, investments in cultural institutions, has to do with (slavery) museums and education. An explanation of the ten-point plan states, “The reparations claim takes into account what its authors say are slavery-related chronic diseases such as hypertension and Type 2 diabetes, widespread illiteracy, the lack of museums and research centers for Caribbean history, the lack of respect for African culture and identity, continuing psychological effects of centuries of slavery, and the lack of scientific and technical know-how to compete in the global economy.”41 The first part of this chapter showed that there are quite a number of museums in the Caribbean that have exhibitions on slavery and some museums are even completely dedicated to the history of slavery. However, those histories, generally speaking, don’t go very deep, and they concern just that: history. It is an exception when contemporary issues, which are rooted in slavery, are addressed, let alone the question of exactly how they should be addressed, in other words the question of reparatory justice. Only Guadeloupe’s MACTe is clear on this. It “aims to preserve the memory of those who suffered during slavery, as well as to act as a space for discussion on the continuing repercussions.”42 Furthermore, MACTe “will continue to contribute to the construction of a collective memory of slavery and to finally heal its abhorrent wounds and hurts, through historical awareness, values of tolerance and contemporary creation. Guadeloupe’s ambition is to use MACTe on an international level as a place for meeting and dialogue among all those who played a part in this dark history.”43 So 98 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN this goes beyond the museum; it is Guadeloupe’s ambition. However, never is the term “reparations” used and the whole text breathes “healing and reconciliation,” rather than a fight for equality and repair. It is exactly the kind of ambition that could be expected of a modern and engaged European museum. But it’s in the Caribbean, the arena where it all happened and where legacies are most vivid. The museum’s vision is phrased in the following terms: “fertilize the encounter”; “disseminate the history”; “sensitize”; “develop a taste”; “encourage”; “pacify relations between communities by recombining memories.”44 Actually, it’s the European Council Museum Prize jury that seems to be more outspoken when it praises MACTe for its role “to make the act of remembrance a means of producing a new society, with the goal of providing intellectual tools for the fight against the social and societal consequences of slavery such as racism, social exclusion, inequality and contemporary forms of infringement of human rights.”45 This shows the complexity. On the one hand, European fora praise Caribbean institutions for providing space to fight for reparatory justice; on the other hand, European states are very reluctant to use phrases that genuinely apologise for slavery and thus justify substantial reparations. Reparations in the Dutch Caribbean Although Aruba and Curaçao are ACS associate members and on their way to gaining the same status with CARICOM, reparations is hardly an issue on these islands. Bonaire, as a special municipality of the Netherlands, cannot even have a policy of its own in this regard. What’s more, when the author asked Aruban government officials via email about Caricom’s (and ACS supported) ten-point plan, the Aruban authorities answered that they know nothing about it, so obviously there is no official standpoint on this subject. Moreover, they added, they are not aware that the Aruban state officially recognises Aruba has a slavery past at all. Nor are they aware of groups or movements in Aruba striving for reparations.46 Of course, there are individual Arubans who are, but indeed, there is no organisation working towards this end. Neither is there one in Bonaire.47 In Curaçao the situation differs from the other two, although the national government does not take a formal stand and it’s hard to discern a national debate on the issue. Nonetheless, there is one political party that fights for emancipation from mental slavery and for reparations. This Movementu Kousa Promé (which loosely translates as The Cause First Movement) was founded in 2015 and is led by former Minister of Education René Rosalia. The party is clearly outspoken on these issues but won less than three percent of the vote in the 2021 elections, which was insufficient for a seat in Parliament.48 Apart from a few small civil organisations, REPRESENTATIONS AND REPARATIONS OF SLAvERY IN THE CARIBBEAN 99 just one substantial organisation in Curaçao campaigns for reparations, the Plataforma Sklabitut i Herensha di Sklabitut (Platform Slavery and Legacies of Slavery), founded in 2009. Its leaders are well-known intellectuals and activists who have been active in the field of emancipation since the 1970s.49 One of them, Jeanne Henriques, is also on the board of the Caribbean Pan African Network,50 which follows the recommendations of Sir Hilary Beckles and CARICOM. The theme of reparations is not recent in Curaçao. The late author, linguist, and pedagogue Frank Martinus Arion almost two decades ago pleaded for such a program. In the 1990s he demanded that the Netherlands erect a national monument in Amsterdam to commemorate slavery.51 His demand coincided with the actions of a large Afro-Dutch activist movement, the National Platform Slavery Past that managed to realise this goal in 2002. In 2003 Arion, together with Dutch activist Piet Reckman, launched “A Plan for Reparation and Quittance,” which was nothing less, he stated, “than a moral ransom for the politically, socially and educationally negative sides of colonialism.”52 In Curaçao July 1, Emancipation Day, is hardly the day slavery is commemorated. That is August 17, the day Tula began his 1795 revolt and liberated almost half of the island from slavery, before being betrayed, captured, and cruelly put to death by the colonial authorities. In 1998 on that day a monument was unveiled to celebrate his fight. In 2010 Tula was officially declared a national hero. In 2019 the Plataforma sent a letter to the chairman of the Council of Ministers of the Kingdom of the Netherlands, Prime Minister Mark Rutte, asking for “reparation and rehabilitation” and stating, “The Dutch state as the successor of the colonial administration in 1795, will … have to correct the bad mistake [of criminalizing Tula] by restoring Tula and his fellow fighters, so that Tula, as our national Hero, can actually function as a source and symbol of inspiration and motivation for the development and emancipation of the Curaçaoan human being and the Curaçao community on its way to actual sovereignty.” Gradually, Tula is becoming a symbol of nation-building and eventually could become a symbol of nation-branding. The Desenkadena (Unchained) monument, which is dedicated to Tula’s uprising, appears in many publications and tourist brochures, although it is far from a hot spot. The complexity of Curaçao’s position towards the slavery past and reparations was very well articulated by Gilbert Bacilio when he stated that the past as well as the continuing relationship with the Netherlands “have put the Curaçaoans and Curaçao in the confusing and syndromatic situation of being and victim and survivor and especially a situation of love and hate for the Dutch state which has, as her colonizer, dominated her for many years and has kept her in a political-psychological state of unfreedom, inequality, subordination and dependency.”53 This statement, published in a government report, spurred the Dutch Parliament to organise a Kingdom-wide dialogue in order to inventory the impact 100 ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN of the slavery past on the present. The dialogue’s recommendations, presented in a July 1, 2021 report to the government, are crystal clear: state recognition, established in law, that slavery was a crime against humanity; sincere apologies by the prime minister, the king, and Parliament for the slavery past; followed by reparations. Reparations cannot be financial compensation for all the damage done in the past, the report states, and the new law must be formulated in a way that there can be no question of liability, but there should be an appropriate structural financial regulation constructed “to counter the harmful effects of that past in the present.” Conclusion It seems as if Curaçao differs somewhat from the rest of the Caribbean in that it has a substantial museum dedicated to slavery, the Kura Hulanda Museum, which is not at all government-related or funded, whereas the few comparable slavery museums in the rest of the Caribbean are. Moreover, most (mixed) history museums in the Caribbean pay attention to their national history of slavery, whereas in Curaçao they either don’t or only do so indirectly. However, generally, the slavery narratives being presented do not confront what their meaning is to present-day society. The slavery past seems to be more of a common historical and thus binding societal factor, so in this sense it’s obviously part of nation-building, but since then society has moved on. Moreover, although the indigenous have mainly disappeared from the islands, the overwhelming presence of their archaeological and cultural remains in Caribbean museums seems to be very much a part of national identification and binding processes. Everyone seems to feel comfortable with Indigenous roots. As national heritage it is hardly contested. Therefore, to many, certainly in the Dutch Caribbean, it functions as a point of identification that distracts from the simultaneously shameful and horrific slavery past. At the same time the slavery narrative is often presented via Afro-Caribbean cultural legacies and traditions, and sometimes also via stories of uprisings and resistance. The latter two observations go for Aruba and Bonaire as well. Aruba has a state-owned, up-to-date archaeological museum, founded in 1981, for conserving and presenting artifacts, particularly those of indigenous ancestors. Other heritage institutions have paid temporary attention to the island’s slavery past, but, as stated before, the state doesn’t even formally recognise Aruba’s slavery past. Heritage institutions in Bonaire, on the other hand, do recognise its history of slavery, but their recognition is limited to protected and cherished cultural legacies and thus hardly refer to a more complete narrative. The only exception may be the slave houses near the salt pans and their connection to the village of Rincon. On both islands that leaves no—or hardly any—room for a reparations discourse. REPRESENTATIONS AND REPARATIONS OF SLAvERY IN THE CARIBBEAN 101 Taken together this suggests that in most parts of the Caribbean, including Curaçao and to a certain extent Bonaire, a polished kind of history, which in itself is horrific, is considered something of the past. This allows for using that past as a means of nation-building and even nation-branding, considering its presence in many tourist brochures and film clips. This is a less confrontational approach in very unequal societies where racism and colourism still play huge roles. And maybe, to a certain extent, the narrative of slavery is even an exotic attraction for tourists; it is certainly the main source of income in most Caribbean societies. The feelings of shame some European tourists express after being confronted with these representations of slavery can at the same time be a way for them to identify with the particular society and support local sociocultural or economic initiatives. Tourists have become very much a part of nation-branding, as these museums, forts, plantations, and other slavery sites often cater to them and their hard currencies than to the local population or its educational institutions, which often seem to come second. The role of the state in this differs per country. It also seems as if the debate and policies on reparatory justice for slavery and its negative legacies is too political for museums, and therefore not addressed. Outside museums, reparations is sometimes part of political discourse and rhetoric, particularly in the Anglophone Caribbean, where the first emancipation from transatlantic slavery took place. Politically, the Anglophone Caribbean is more decolonised than the Dutch or French Caribbean.54 It has a majority of African origin, unlike the majorities of most Spanish Caribbean societies, and is more focused on participating in a North American reparations discourse owing to the shared language and migration tradition. CHAPTER 5 Aruban Archaeological Heritage: Nation-Building and Nation-Branding in a Caribbean Context Tibisay Sankatsing Nava, Raymundo Dijkhoff, Ashleigh John Morris, Joseph Sony Jean, Jorge Ulloa Hung, Pancho Geerman, and Corinne L. Hofman Archaeological heritage is essential in constructing and defining cultures and national heritage. In the Caribbean region, these processes vary according to countries’ socio-political and historical contexts. These contexts influence the research agendas, conservation, protection, and appraisal of archaeological work to transform heritage components in countries’ brands and national imaginaries. Archaeological heritage and its study have marked the shaping of Caribbean nations in different ways, and influenced the development of national identities and nation-building and branding throughout the region.1 Nation-building is understood here as the active process of crafting and adopting a shared national identity that simultaneously recognises cultural diversity and syncretism (see introduction chapter) and transcends societal differences. On the other hand, nation-branding is strongly linked to concepts of commercialisation and international tourism, where countries and regions are promoted or marketed using slogans, images, symbols, and cultural expressions.2 The process of patrimonialisation of archaeological sites and material culture in the Caribbean was promoted by the development of tourist industries.3 Archaeological heritage and its study have impacted developments in nation-building and branding in the Caribbean. Nation-building and branding efforts in the Caribbean took shape alongside other profound transformations in the region, characterised by social and cultural in/exclusion imposed by the colonial metropoles and through geopolitical borders. At the same time, these developments are rooted in representation, persistence, and resistance, and in decolonisation processes across the region. This chapter focuses on the ways Aruban archaeological heritage has influenced nation-building and branding and explores how archaeological heritage has influenced these processes in countries with different colonial backgrounds and geopolitical configurations: Cuba, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Trinidad and Tobago, and Haiti. We explore the instrumentalisation of archaeological heritage for the nation and identify three trends: visibility, omission, and homogenisation. 104 TIBISAY SANKATSING NAvA, ET AL. Aruba The history and development of archaeological research in Aruba is described extensively in Dijkhoff and Linville.4 In the early nineteenth century, Dutch researchers recorded linear rock designs.5 In 1880, A.J. van Koolwijk conducted the first archaeological excavations and collected numerous archaeological artefacts that are currently kept in the National Museum of Ethnography in the Netherlands. In the century that followed, Aruban archaeology was led by a succession of Dutch archaeologists as institutional and political support for archaeological research grew. In 1967, the Archaeological Institute of the Netherlands Antilles was founded, followed by the Archaeological Museum Aruba (now the National Archaeological Museum Aruba or NAMA) in 1981. In the late twentieth century, the Aruban government hired Aruba’s first local archaeologists, fundamentally transforming archaeological heritage management and research on the island.6 Archaeological research in Aruba has primarily identified Indigenous sites.7 The National Archaeological Museum (MANA), tasked by the Aruban Ministry of Culture with preserving and managing Aruba’s archaeological heritage since 1981, primarily features a collection related to the island’s Indigenous archaeological heritage.8 Colonial material and sites were recorded in archaeological surveys carried out before 1999. However, it was not until 2001 that archaeological excavations of a historical site were conducted, with the accidental discovery of the Santa Cruz 35 cemetery. This site resulted in vast amounts of data from field campaigns in 2001, 2012, and 2016. The recent (rescue) investigations at the Santa Cruz 35 cemetery provide insights into the culture of death during the Historic Amerindian Period (AD 1515–1880), and reflect a transcultural site where Indigenous people, “Mestizos,” and Europeans were buried. These finds of the historic Indigenous period changed part of the museum’s focus, and this research is presently ongoing. The African legacy of Aruba’s history has not yet been identified in Aruba’s archaeological record. The museum plays a vital role in the cultural sector both nationally and as one of the focal points of heritage tourism on the islands. Pre-COvID-19, an average of 5,000 tourists visited the museum each year before the permanent exhibition closure in March 2017. The 2019 pan-Caribbean exhibition on Indigenous heritage, Caribbean Ties: Connected People Then and Now, incited broad public interest and support for the museum that helped trigger the formal reopening of the permanent exhibition in 2019.9 The Caribbean Ties exhibition also highlighted African and Asian cultural influences in Aruba, giving expression to the multicultural character of Aruba and the broader Caribbean. NAMA considers this part of the shift in Aruba in recognising the presence and influence of legacies that are not Indigenous. ARUBAN ARCHAEOLOGICAL HERITAGE 105 Archaeological Heritage in Branding and Tourism in Aruba Aruba’s all-inclusive tourist-friendly brand touts the sun-sea-sand destination as a significant part of Aruba’s branding strategy. This includes the mass-imported plastic souvenirs and merchandise printed with “Aruba 1499”.10 At first glance, archaeological heritage plays a negligible role in the island’s national brand, which suggests an omission of the island’s Indigenous cultural heritage in the strategic nation-branding of Aruba. However, when we look beyond the Narratives of the One Happy Island,11 elements of nation-building and branding in Aruba tell a more complex story and include significant archaeological heritage components to which even tourists are exposed. The island’s famous national park, the Fundacion Parke Nacional Aruba (FPNA), which covers over 20% of Aruba, is a popular attraction for both locals and tourists. At this ‘Parke Arikok’, visits often include a guided tour of the caves and of the Indigenous rock art. The national park’s branding and logo design feature a hummingbird based on Indigenous rock art located in the park.12 While this single representation does not communicate the diversity of Indigenous archaeological heritage found in the national park, the logo plays a central role in the park’s Tourist merchandise referring to the year the first European, Alonso de Ojeda landed on the island of Aruba (photo Tibisay Sankatsing) 106 TIBISAY SANKATSING NAvA, ET AL. branding—on the website, in print materials, and on the membership card—and by extension in the island’s branding. Archaeological Heritage and the Nation: Language, Education and Currency in Aruba Indigenous legacies are embedded in the Papiamento language, which is a strong unifying element in Aruba: 92% of households speak Papiamento at home. The language is the most important Aruban symbol related to nation-building and includes words of the Arawakan languages, including Caquetio, spoken by the Indigenous peoples.13 Many Indigenous toponyms and names for local flora and fauna are also present in today’s Papiamento.14 Indigenous heritage was taught extensively in elementary schools in Aruba, in part due to early efforts of NAMA in developing educational materials.15 While this has decreased over the past years, NAMA continues to organise educational programs, documentaries, and activities about the Amerindian past. Contemporary legacies of Indigenous heritage in Aruba have never been part of the curriculum, likely due to lack of research and the ongoing (academic) discussions on Indigenous continuity versus “reinvented traditions” of indigeneity in Aruba.16 In Aruba, Indigenous cultural elements have also found their place on the banknotes of the Aruban florin, since the 1990 introduction of the official Aruban currency. This currency was introduced during an important period for nation-building in Aruba, shortly after Aruba’s Status Aparte in 1986, to use “fundamentally Aruban” elements.17 The original designer of the Aruban florin and a former NAMA director, Evelino Fingal, included Aruban fauna on one side of the The Aruban banknote of 25 Florin, shows the Indigenous pictographs and material culture, but also faunal and traditional Aruban architecture elements ARUBAN ARCHAEOLOGICAL HERITAGE 107 banknotes and decorative motifs of Indigenous ceramics on the other, explicitly emphasising “the relation between past and present.” Banknote iconography is considered an indicator of nation-building and branding efforts. Besides their utilitarian function, banknotes are a type of material culture used to shape ideas about identity; specifically, they use iconography to build collective identities.18 Specific messaging on banknotes promotes values and ontologies in a nation’s brand.19 The banknote series introduced in 2019 replaced the various Indigenous decorative patterns on each bill with the representation of Indigenous cultural heritage through a ceramic vessel and several Indigenous pictographs on the 25-florin bill. The Aruban currency is a source of national pride, and the 2019 edition fits seamlessly into the nation-building efforts invigorated in 1986 after Aruba’s Status Aparte. Archaeological and Indigenous Heritage in Contemporary Aruban Culture Besides the (in)visibility of archaeological heritage in formal branding and nation-building elements in Aruba as described above, archaeological cultural heritage informs and inspires many aspects of Aruban culture and society, such as traditional knowledge practices among fishers, horticulturalists (rain-dependent agriculture), Carnival and Dera Gai celebrations, architecture (cas di torto or wattle and daub houses), social organisation names (Club Caribe, Club Caquetio), schools and clubs (Caiquetio School, Ceque School, Caquetio Chess Club, Arawak Checkers Club), logos for national celebrations (the “Aruba 500 years” logo from 1998–99), in culinary practices (pan bati, funchi, piedr’i mula), and in crafts and artistic expressions such as visual arts, dance, theatre, literature, and musical instruments (wiri and raspa).20 These and other examples of Indigenous legacies, such as Indigenous mitochondrial DNA, are presented in NAMA permanent and temporary exhibits. Since the mid 1990s the Wayuu community in Aruba have formed their own informal organisation that promotes the ties between their homeland and the island.21 These ties are symbolised by a canoe of the Wayuu community of La Guajira-Colombia that was donated to NAMA in 2012, which is now in front of the museum. Wayuu individuals were prominently featured in the Caribbean Ties exhibition in Aruba. Rose Mary Allen explains that songs in the former Netherlands Antilles contain important indicators of cultural traditions and daily life experiences.22 Indigenous legacies also appeared in contemporary pop culture in a recent hit song by the Aruba artist Jeon. “Ta Mi Hendenan” is a popular song (with over one million views on YouTube at the time of writing) released in 2020 by Aruban artist Jeon and Bonairean group Rincon Boyz.23 The song explores who “mi hendenan” (my people) are on Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao. The lyrics refer to physical traits considered to be of Indigenous origin: “si bo tin color Indian, ta mi hendenan,” which roughly 108 TIBISAY SANKATSING NAvA, ET AL. translates to “if you have Amerindian colouring, you’re one of us.” Later in the song, a similar reference is made to hair type that is considered an Indigenous trait. This is one of many references made regarding the islands’ multicultural populations (including Afro-Caribbean and Asian communities). The examples given in this section illustrate that oral history, traditions, and archaeological research have reinforced Arubans’ identification with and the prevalence of Indigenous elements in Aruban daily life. Archaeological heritage has influenced nation-building and nation-branding to a lesser extent. As such, Indigenous legacies remain a part of the Aruban national identity. Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, and Cuba In Cuba, Dominican Republic, and Puerto Rico, nationhood is not unrelated to the narratives created or strengthened by archaeology. The past of these islands has been used, ignored, recreated, manipulated, and interpreted from archaeology according to diverse social interests and social conjunctures.24 Furthermore, this phenomenon is related to the influences of foreign theoretical and methodological models in the origins and development of archaeological research in these islands, articulated in the research agendas, researcher training, and funding of research activities.25 Archaeology and Early Ideas of the Nation Supported by the emergent discipline of archaeology, Hispanisation and Indigeneity are the two poles of debate in the early ideas of the nation. Archaeological knowledge of the Indigenous peoples was integrated into narratives about nation-building based on the idealisation of these communities: the exaltation of the Indigenous as a victim, an idealised entity, representative of a pristine and natural past and completely dislocated and destroyed by colonisation. This phenomenon is later present through the model of the three roots (Spanish, Indigenous, and African) to explain the cultural formation of these Caribbean nations. In the twentieth century, the United States considered the Caribbean islands laboratories to create, develop, or test models of thought about their populations and generate a perspective about their past.26 The historical and political trajectories of each island after their independence from Spain fostered a particular relationship between archaeological research and the image of the nation. From an archaeological perspective, independence was characterised by: a) the creation of museum collections, photographic archives, and data for the understanding of the past; b) the influence of North American methodological premises in the structure of the archaeological narrative as well as in the heuristic and interpretative models; ARUBAN ARCHAEOLOGICAL HERITAGE 109 c) emphasis on cultural history with an empiricist normative perspective, where diffusion and migrations explain cultural change and transformation.27 Nation-Building and Branding in Cuba, Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico It is important to consider the processes of heritage adaptation to national identity and the tourism market in relation to narratives derived from archaeological research. Often, in the Spanish-speaking Caribbean islands, the narrative generated by archaeology is used to validate authenticity. The “exotic” or pleasant is prioritised for the spectator. The most common practice is to remove items from their contexts and complexity to conceive them as stand-alone symbols of a nation, a city, etc. In this sense, a kind of reductionism emerges with the presentation of specific archaeological objects. Objects inspired by archaeological finds are often (re) produced through semi-industrial methods to cater to the tourism industry.28 The representation of material cultures are transformed into a source of motifs for artists, designers, and craftspeople, to be used for commercial purposes. As such, the motifs reproduced are considered symbols which refer to the presence of the Indigenous in the current nation. This in turn constitutes the basic resource to connect with a culture or cultural groups that are considered exterminated. The biased perspective of connection with Indigenous ancestors ignores the multiplicity of spaces, processes, and ways in which these ancestors were inserted to create the current regional and local cultures of these islands. Indigenous resilience is manifested through the persistence of important Indigenous legacies in agricultural practices, the use of tools and craft techniques, culinary practices,29 wooden rafts, fishing pens, canoes, hammocks and macutos, etc. These practices and objects were also essential to colonial societies’ daily lives and are still associated with domestic ritual activities.30 It is also visible in words to designate species of flora, fauna, geographical spaces, personal names,31 and the management of landscapes for healing or ritual purposes, where caves, mountains, forests, trees, water sources, plants, stones, earth, and animals are linked with oral traditions that venerate spiritual entities of Indigenous ancestors.32 Indigenous knowledge is used in various forms of healing,33 and practices of popular religiosity, where the so-called Indigenous Division is commonly found, are present in variants of voodoo,34 spiritism, or Santeria.35 In some cases, these practices incorporate Indigenous objects in altars, predictive practices, or ritual invocations.36 Recent historical and archaeological studies have contributed to revealing the diversity of ways Indigenous ancestors were integrated into the societies of these islands. This integration marked diverse forms of Indigenous survival in the colonial societies and their contribution to the construction of these nations in the Caribbean. 110 TIBISAY SANKATSING NAvA, ET AL. Trinidad and Tobago In Trinidad and Tobago, nation-building has been influenced by a multiplicity of factors associated with its variegated past. As the southernmost in the Antillean chain, these islands were conduits for waves of human movement between mainland South America and the Caribbean beginning approximately 8,000 years ago.37 By 1498, Trinidad and Tobago’s Indigenous population was heterogeneous, multicomponent, and multilingual.38 The colonial era that followed was an equally complex milieu of Indigenous, African, European, and Asian influences that has left indelible marks on the landscape. As a result, this nation boasts an abundance of regionally significant archaeological heritage assets from Archaic Age burial sites to World War Two fortifications and beyond. Despite this abundance and the academic interest therein, archaeological heritage, especially “pre-Columbian,” has been at the periphery of Trinidad and Tobago’s public consciousness. Until recently, archaeological heritage was virtually absent from its national identity and invisible in its externally projected image. This omission and distortion are direct consequences of the undervaluation of indigeneity and the systemic neocolonial attitudes towards education. Indigenous Heritage in Trinidad and Tobago Archaeological heritage and contemporary Indigenous people have a symbiotic relationship. This heritage is vital to the formation and maintenance of Indigenous identities. Conversely, Indigenous peoples worldwide fiercely protect tangible heritage, which is the patrimony of their forebears. In Trinidad and Tobago, this relationship is strong and mutually beneficial. The First People of Trinidad and Tobago regularly perform spiritual rituals using archaeological sites such as Banwari Trace, San Fernando Hill, and Caurita petroglyphs.39 However, First People communities and organisations have historically not been afforded the same recognition found in other territories mentioned in this discourse. “Here every creed and race find an equal place” is a twice-stated refrain in Trinidad and Tobago’s national anthem. This verse is a national commitment to social justice and parity for the components of Trinbago’s multicultural society. However, despite approving the UN Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous Peoples in 2007, the term “Indigenous peoples” is not legally defined by the government of Trinidad and Tobago.40 Further, the country’s decennial population and housing census has only recently included an “Indigenous” ethnic grouping. In 2011, the number of census respondents identifying as Indigenous stood at 1,394 of a total population of 1.3 million.41 This country attained its independence from Great Britain in 1962, but the first official recognition of an Indigenous group occurred in 1990. Trinbagonians have ARUBAN ARCHAEOLOGICAL HERITAGE 111 The Jamaican national coat of arms is a striking example of Indigenous heritage imagery used in nation branding been taught from an early age that their history begins with transatlantic contact in 1498 and all else prior is preamble. Traditional historical accounts have habitually distorted the role of Indigenous peoples in the post-nineteenth century development of Trinidad and Tobago.42 These narratives suggest the oblivion of Indigenous people and their meaningful absence from the historical discourse. According to Forte, “Asserting extinction is one blunt way of not having to answer the question of who is an Indian.”43 As a result, Trinbagonian nationalism has not been equipped with an appreciation for “Indigenous” archaeological heritage or symbolism. For example, the nation’s coat of arms displays Columbus’s three vessels but bears no Indigenous symbolism. This emblem appears on every denomination of Trinidad and Tobago’s currency and every government building. It was designed by a committee of noted artists such as Carlisle Chang and George Bailey to “select symbols that would represent the people of Trinidad and Tobago.”44 The national icon reinforces the commonly held notion that Trinidad and Tobago’s history began in 1498. In direct contrast, Jamaica’s national coat of arms prominently features Indigenous history while acknowledging its colonial past. These nations have similar histories, Indigenous populations in both territories suffered under the yoke of Spanish and British colonialism, and they attained independence from Britain in 1962. Nevertheless, one boldly displays its Indigenous heritage while the other is obscured. 112 TIBISAY SANKATSING NAvA, ET AL. Recent Developments in Trinidad and Tobago Recently, attitudes toward archaeological heritage management as it pertains to Indigenous identity have changed on the community and national levels. The National Trust of Trinidad and Tobago has been empowered by an act of Parliament to safeguard and promote archaeological heritage. This organisation legally protected the Banwari Trace Archaeological site in 2013. This site has been described as the oldest pre-Columbian site in the West Indies.45 October 14, 2017, was designated as a one-off public holiday called First People Day. This observance allowed the citizens of Trinbago to reflect on the country’s Indigenous history. In March 2013, discoveries including human remains, artifacts, and other archaeological material were made at the Red House, Trinidad and Tobago’s seat of Parliament, during restoration works. Preliminary data from this investigation suggested that the Red House site was a relatively sizable Indigenous settlement that was continuously inhabited for over 1,200 years (AD 125–1395).46 This chance discovery galvanised the importance of the country’s archaeological heritage. The project’s committee included a consultation phase where information was shared with all major heritage stakeholders. The First People groups of Trinidad and Tobago, including the Santa Rosa First People Community and the Warao Nation, played an active role in deliberations concerning excavation methodology, and finds care and processing. After this research was completed, the First People communities of Trinidad and Tobago held a reinternment ceremony on the grounds of the Red House in October 2019. The human remains uncovered during the project were reburied in accordance with ritual and religious rites. This gesture of respect allowed for a national reflection on the country’s Indigenous past. Perhaps in time, the archaeological heritage directly associated with African and Asian presence during the country’s colonial past will also enter the public consciousness, for there are numerous historical archaeological sites such as sugar estates, maroon communities, and forts waiting to be explored. Archaeological heritage has traditionally not informed nation-building and branding in Trinidad and Tobago. This occurred due to systemic neocolonial attitudes towards education, the undervaluation of indigeneity, and lack of management. However, recent trends demonstrate a shift towards emphasising the importance of Trinidad and Tobago’s archaeological heritage. Haiti Behind the early French works of literature on Haiti’s first inhabitants, the French colonists manifested interest in collecting indigenous archaeological objects found in many parts of the country during French colonisation leading to the reorganisation ARUBAN ARCHAEOLOGICAL HERITAGE 113 process of the landscape. More often considered “fetish” objects, some of them were sent to the Cabinet de Curiosité in France. This interest has been further manifested by attempts to establish an Indian museum in Cap-Francais (today Cap-Haitien) by the Cercle des Philadelphus, founded in 1784 in Cap-Francais, in which emerged intellectual activities based on science and medicine. These colonial interests for the Indigenous material past are considered an early archaeological step.47 The interest in collecting archaeological objects continued in Haiti for many years after its independence. Scientific archaeological practices can be traced to early 1900, mainly with the arrival of American anthropologists and the significant inputs of Haitian scholars.48 Certainly, foreign anthropologists have contributed to establishing the foundation for archaeological development. However, Haitian scholars’ research objectives can be traced parallel to the Americans’ by considering sociological stakes. These stakes consider the social context in which Haitian archaeological practices and discourse on heritage appeared in early 1940. The creation of the Bureau d’Ethnologie in 1941 by the Haitian ethnologist Jacques Roumain aimed to establish a museum to conserve archaeological objects and inventory and classify archaeological objects.49 This official institution, implemented to save Vodou objects threatened by the Catholic Church’s anti-superstitious campaign, is situated in this social context. The debate on identity that started to foreground the African legacies largely emerged through literature productions and was deeply discussed in anthropological research during Haiti’s U.S. occupation (1915–1934). While the first inhabitants of Haiti were mostly romanticised in literature productions, Jacques Roumain and other Haitian ethnologists placed the Amerindian and African legacies at the heart of Haitian popular culture, which has been primarily repressed by the Haitian elite.50 To reinforce this discussion via scientific productions, Haitian scholars have undertaken archaeological investigations to promote Amerindian history by highlighting this past’s materiality, and have rescued Amerindian objects from the oumfò (Vodou temples) that had been damaged during the anti-superstitious campaign by the Catholic Church and were preserved at the Bureau d’Ethnologie. This demonstrates the Indigenous-African syncretism that formed Haitian popular culture. Haitian scholars’ archaeological practices contributed to promoting this culture in scientific debates. Nevertheless, this research outreach lasted for a short time after the creation of the Bureau d’Ethnologie. The first official laws and regulations on heritage established archaeological heritage as a public domain and appealed for its protection and preservation.51 However, Indigenous material culture was not branded Haitian, as is the case of some built heritage. In this case, the most emblematic aspect of Haiti-branded heritage comes from another path of heritage practices in Haiti that took place in the 1950s. These practices have mostly focused on mapping, preserving, and revalorising historical monuments. Later, in the 1970s, interest in promoting historical heritage went 114 TIBISAY SANKATSING NAvA, ET AL. hand-in-hand with tourism’s rise and promotion in Haiti. This interest has taken shape by focusing on mapping, identifying, and restoring Haiti’s historical monuments.52 From this perspective, the Parc National Historique—which encompasses the Palace of Sans Souci and the Ramiers and Citadelle buildings, built in the early nineteenth century—was listed as a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1982. As universal symbols of liberty and as the first monuments to be constructed by black enslaved people who had gained their freedom,53 these monuments are considered veritable archaeological components that convey nation-building discourses. La Citadelle refers to Haiti’s defensive strategy against the potential French return to the country after the nation’s independence and is the most highly prized Haitian heritage component among other archaeological sites. It is also used as a material feature to brand Haiti in terms of history and tourism. Other historical monuments such as fortresses also received some attention and are part of the nation’s identity and memory, since they are illustrated in the local currency. Regardless of the discourse and practices about Haitian heritage’s multiple material components, the emblematic buildings have received more attention in constructing narratives about nation-building. An Amerindian statue was placed in a public space (Champs de Mars) at Port-au-Prince in 1983 under Jean-Claude Duvalier’s dictatorship. It was associated with an attempt to claim 28 November as an “Indian National Day of Culture” in Haiti, published as a decree.54 The statue was vandalised in 1986 during the fall of Duvalier’s dictatorship, not because the statue is not linked to Haitian history but because its controversial character was associated with Duvalier and inherited from political tensions that oppressed the freedom of expression in Haiti. There is a lack of public spaces such as archaeological museums to promote the multiple Haitian heritage traces. At the same time, there exists in Haitian society today an enormous market in Indigenous fake objects geared towards certain “collectionneurs” who are actively engaged in collecting Indigenous objects. Finally, the narratives about the first inhabitants are still biased in the school curricula, to such an extent that the general textbooks are not updated with new knowledge of the past from archaeological research in Haiti and the Caribbean. Towards a Conceptualisation of Archaeology and Ideas of Nationhood in Aruba and the Wider Caribbean Despite the diversity of ways archaeology has influenced nation-building, the analysis of archaeology’s impact on creating a nationhood ideal allows us to define a set of trends: visibility, homogenisation, and omission of archaeological heritage in nation-building and branding. The manifestation of each of these is not exclusive to the others, and in general, these trends can be considered inherent biases in the ARUBAN ARCHAEOLOGICAL HERITAGE 115 formalisation of the so-called Caribbean national heritages. In most cases, their manifestations permeate academic, educational, scientific and societal discourses and the efforts to study, appraise, or protect archaeological heritage. For example, the choices in archaeological practices (such as a focus on precolonial archaeology in Aruba) are influenced by geopolitical and historical aspects and both reflect and influence the inclusion of cultural elements in nation-building and branding. This is exemplified by the differences between the archaeological research and nation-building and branding efforts in the Dominican Republic and Haiti. In the Dominican Republic, the celebration of Hispanic and Indigenous cultural roots through archaeology has contributed to a nationalism that differentiates itself from neighbouring Haiti and to the creation of a country brand associated with tourism marketing. This has formalised a narrative that generally reduces the presence of African roots and idealises the Indigenous presence in the nation-building process. Visibility of Archaeological Heritage in Ideas of Nationhood In Aruba, we can recognise visibility in the way archaeology is “utilised” for the nation. Visibility is the politics of heritage that foregrounds some types of archaeological heritage while repressing others. Visibility also refers to how archaeological heritage is used as performance, for representation, identity, and community across the Caribbean. This visibility does not reflect the complex cultural diversity of archaeological heritage across the region. In fact, as is argued in this chapter, the archaeological heritage that has marked the nation-building and branding of Caribbean countries is limited to certain aspects of the cultural diversity found in the Caribbean prescribed by the islands’ colonial geopolitical context. Aruba’s archaeology, which is largely excluded in the island’s official tourism branding strategy, formally begins with Van Koolwijk. However, expressions of the first islanders beyond archaeological research are visible through the examples of petroglyphs, oral tradition, food, the national park, education, and popular culture,55 which permeate into the tourism experience. This visibility can transform into performative spotlighting of particular aspects of heritage. For instance, in the case of Haiti, Jean et al. show how the Parc Historique and other monuments are used to remake the past.56 The Dominican case shows that discourses about identity can be manipulated via historical texts, and how archaeological heritage is used to make certain components of national history visible.57 In Trinidad and Tobago, archaeology exists outside the realm of common social discourse. However, “Indigenous” heritage is clearly less visible in comparison to tangible colonial culture. For instance, the National Trust of Trinidad and Tobago is responsible for listing and legally protecting heritage assets of national significance. At the time of writing 43 sites have attained this legal protection. However, only three assets bear 116 TIBISAY SANKATSING NAvA, ET AL. any Indigenous or First People significance; Banwari Trace Archaeological Site, the Caurita Petroglyphs, and the imagery depicted in the Conquerabia mural. Homogenisation of Archaeological Heritage in Representation of Indigenous Elements The examples from across the Caribbean demonstrate how homogenisation processes of heritage reduce and simplify cultural diversity through the dissemination of a set of symbols, material culture, customs, ideas and values of one culture, often to the detriment of other symbols present in a nation. Homogenisation can contribute to national stereotypes in the tourism imaginaries and to a colonial image of cultural identity.58 As becomes clear from the Aruban examples, the most visible elements of archaeological heritage in Aruba do not reflect the diversity present on the island. They also do not reflect the cultural diversity and cultural interactions of the Indigenous peoples of the island, and homogenise this rich cultural capital into a simplified category like “indjan.” The aspects of cultural heritage that are made national across the Caribbean can be associated with strategic political goals, ethnic or social segregation, cultural revival processes in the face of external cultural threats, or stereotyping within cultural industries or the tourism market. Omission of Archaeological Heritage There is intense focus on precolonial and Indigenous archaeology across the Caribbean, inherited from the earliest archaeological practices in the region. Concurrently, there is notable literature on Caribbean archaeology related to the African diaspora.59 However, the material culture that reflects the atrocities of slavery is not well represented in museums and in museum-led nation-building in the countries addressed in this chapter. The choice of archaeological artifacts displayed in museums and public spaces at the expense of others corresponds to the devaluation or silencing of certain cultures and histories. This omission is prevalent across the region: cultural values associated with particular social actors are omitted in the construction of the idea of national culture or brand. Until recently in Aruba, archaeology and MANA focused mainly on the Indigenous cultural heritage and reinforced the already present orientation of Indigenous cultural heritage in society. The museum’s permanent exhibition refers to multiculturalism and elements of Indigenous and European influence. However, Afro-Caribbean heritages are glaringly absent at the museum and in archaeological research on the island in general. This is being addressed by the “Manteniendo Herencia Bibo den Tempo” project, which highlights the Ecury family and their relationship to the physical building of the museum. This project, however, is not directly related to the archaeological research conducted by MANA. In the case of ARUBAN ARCHAEOLOGICAL HERITAGE 117 Haiti, the lack of archaeological research and public spaces in general, which could give rise to new discourses on Haitian history, is a real disadvantage in discussing issues related to omission and homogenisation. However, the built heritage, such as the Citadel, is the element most often used to brand the country, despite objects related to the Indigenous past often being displayed at Bureau National d’Ethnologie and the Musée du Panthéon National. Building and Branding the Nation: Local Leadership and Multivocality in Caribbean Archaeology Traditional ideas of nation-building based on archaeological research in the Caribbean have been critiqued from the second half of the twentieth century, specifically relating to the efforts to create national archaeological research agendas and to decolonise archaeological practices. The liberation from traditional normative perspectives60 was considered essential to establishing a true connection between archaeology and society and contributing to the understanding of the complex process of nation-building.61 Homogenisation and omission are closely associated with creating imaginaries related to tourism development, expanding the market and cultural industries,62 and creating or strengthening a country’s brand. As this chapter shows, the emergence of multivocality in agenda-setting and heritage-making in archaeology in the Caribbean is crucial to this. While in Aruba archaeological research is led by local archaeologists, archaeological research was until recently mostly conducted by foreigners without the participation of local scholars, stakeholders, or community members. This contributes to omission and homogenisation in archaeological research and the subsequent influence of archaeology in building and branding Caribbean nations. Similarly, archaeological research in Trinidad and Tobago overwhelmingly remains a pursuit of foreign scholarship. Archaeology and First People culture are not important factors in Trinbago’s present tourism strategy. For example, “Visit Trinidad” and “Visit Tobago,” the country’s new official destination websites, hardly feature archaeological heritage beyond that of the colonial era. Multivocality can amplify alternative ways of making heritage by critically addressing how archaeological heritage is used in museums, public spaces, and education.63 This should also become a standard in archaeological projects, where community engagement64 and co-creation with local stakeholders are prioritised in the valuing and protection of archaeological sites.65 Gradual shifts in research agendas and new opportunities for researchers throughout the Caribbean have led to a growing number of local Caribbean archaeologists and heritage managers. These developments contribute to more heterogeneous and inclusive practices in archaeological research and are expected to provide novel stories of Caribbean nations. CHAPTER 6 Four Islands: Contemporary Art in Suriname, Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao Rob Perrée and Alex van Stipriaan From a Dutch perspective Suriname and the three Leeward Dutch Caribbean islands are often considered more or less the same, all four being ex-colonies of the Netherlands. From an art perspective the connection or a comparison between Suriname and these islands is hardly ever made. The respective art historiographies of Suriname and the Dutch Caribbean are still young, but they are expanding relatively quickly. However, a comparison could be very interesting. For instance, what is the role of having had the same coloniser? Does Suriname’s almost half a century of independence make a difference given the Dutch Caribbean is still part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands? What is the relationship between their respective art worlds and the nation? What is the role of tourism and art in nation-building and nation-branding mechanisms? “It is not easy to be an artist in Suriname” In 2009, after an intense period of exchanging ideas with three artists living in Suriname, three Surinamese-Dutch artists living in the Netherlands jointly presented an exhibition in Fort Zeelandia, Paramaribo. The project was called Wakaman (urban wanderer) and was followed by the publication of a book of the same name that expounded on the exhibition.1 The exhibition attracted a large audience, so when one of the participating artists stated, “It is not easy to be an artist in Suriname,” it aroused some surprise. However, the artist was right. A country’s political and economic climate is important for the support and development of the arts. Politics in Suriname, independent since 1975, has often failed in this area. Even a minister of culture such as Robin Ravales (a.k.a. Dobru), himself a writer, musician, and poet, or a culture-friendly president such as Ronald Venetiaan, also a poet, were unable to find the money and create facilities to advance the arts substantially. There was no interest in the arts whatsoever under President Desi Bouterse (2010–2020), or rather there was negative interest, given the destruction of an art gallery in the town of Moengo when its projects were considered to be too critical of the state as well as the church. Because Bouterse 120 ROB PERRéE AND ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN left the country bankrupt, the current president also has no opportunity to turn the tide. The lack of good infrastructure for art is largely related to political unwillingness and its financial consequences. Suriname does not have a museum of modern and contemporary art. The (private) national Surinamese Museum is primarily a cultural-historical museum. Creating an art museum has been mentioned by many people over many years, but never beyond an article in a newspaper or magazine, and any plans ended up in the bottom drawers of the responsible ministry. Artist Marcel Pinas founded the CAMM in Moengo, Suriname’s second town after its capital Paramaribo. This Contemporary Art Museum Moengo is meant to introduce the residents of northeastern Suriname to Pinas’s art in particular, but also to the work of artists whom he invited to be in residence there. Because resources are lacking and the local government is anything but cooperative, CAMM remains limited to having good intentions. It cannot act on them. Paramaribo has one mature gallery: Readytex Art Gallery. This private gallery is housed in a beautiful historic building with many possibilities, located in the heart of the city. It mainly serves older artists, from the time “when Surinamese art only hung on the wall,”2; however, it recently embarked slowly on a new policy according to which space is made available to young artists. Their concepts and ideas correspond to international developments and experiments, and although their work is not yet commercially attractive, it may become so in the future. The gallery’s collection is limited to Surinamese art, has no international contacts through art fairs and the like, and, due to insufficient funding, is not (yet) willing or able to launch an international program. Because the gallery cannot represent its artists internationally, reasonably successful artists such as Marcel Pinas and George Struikelblok drop out. There are some smaller gallery initiatives such as G-Art Blok and Sukru Oso, but they only have occasional exhibitions and therefore play a small role in the national art scene. The same goes for the Surinamese Museum, as well as the Hall, a multipurpose exhibition centre, both of which host a brief art exhibition only once in a while. For a gallery circuit to be viable, there must be a market for contemporary art. Suriname is a large country with few residents, most of whom have little money. Moreover, there is no database of foreign collectors and other international buyers, because no gallery presents itself abroad, and art tourism is very limited. Taken together, these circumstances explain why, generally speaking, artists cannot make a living from their art in Suriname. Every artist has a job on the side. The same applies to the aforementioned galleries: each has a secondary activity through which they make money. This does not benefit the concept of art as a profession. What does help to a certain extent is the still strong connection to the Netherlands, FOUR ISLANDS: CONTEMPORARY ART IN SURINAME, ARUBA, BONAIRE, AND CURAçAO 121 where some 350,000 people of Surinamese descent now live, who remain closely linked to the almost 600,000 inhabitants of Suriname. The former sometimes serve to support the work of Surinamese artists in the Netherlands. Most artists have been trained in the Netherlands, often after having attended Paramaribo’s Nola Hatterman Art Academy, which is an easily accessible art school that stimulates youngsters six and over and young adults to explore their talents under the supervision of established Surinamese artists.3 The academy is monitored and funded by the government’s Culture Department. However, this might be more of a curse than a blessing, since finances are scarce, and the politics surrounding the academy is a snake pit. For a number of years the academy collaborated with Amsterdam’s Rietveld Academy, but that was not enough to help build a solid base, and now the Nola Hatterman’s existence is rather meagre. It had at one time, supported by the government, sent a number of artists for one or two years to the Edna Manley Art Academy in Jamaica. These artists, who are now established and often teach at Nola Hatterman, include Marcel Pinas, George Struikelblok, and Kurt Nahar. The Edna Manley experience stimulated their artistry and careers. Paramaribo also houses an Academy for Higher Art and Culture Education, which offers BA level education. It has three departments: journalism and communication, social and cultural formation (also called community work), and the smallest, visual arts. It seems to offer art teacher training more than artist education. Few established artists completed any training there. Its only full-time lecturer stated that one of the main struggles is preventing students from copying work from the internet.4 Many large contemporary art projects—including Wakaman (2009), Paramaribo Span (2010),5 and the Kibii Foundation’s Moengo project—owe their existence largely to funding from the Netherlands.6 With the exception of the last, these projects were incidental. Their influence has not endured, and the only permanent part of the Moengo project lost its headquarters owing to political conflict. It remains to be seen whether project managers will be able to rebuild Moengo’s art and culture complex somewhere else in town. As a consequence of the Covid-19 pandemic, the yearly Moengo Festival has not been organised for two years now, although the art produced by Surinamese and foreign artists under the Kibii Foundation umbrella is exhibited in the public domain all over Moengo. Artistic connections with neighbouring countries such as Brazil and Guyana are relatively exceptional, despite quite a number of Guyanese and Brazilians living in the country. Contact with French Guiana is closer thanks to its Surinamese Diaspora, particularly Maroons, but also to others such as visual artist John Lie A Fo. As a result, exchanges with this country have increased, often on the initiative of visual artist Marcel Pinas, the founder of Kibii Foundation, CAMM, and the Moengo Festival. Moreover, Moengo is not far from the border with French Guiana. 122 ROB PERRéE AND ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN All in all, it is not hard to conclude that the majority of Surinamese artists seem to live on an island surrounded by a world with which they hardly interact. Only with the Netherlands are they continuously in touch and, therefore, the former coloniser seems to be the closest neighbour, much closer than the diasporic motherlands with which most of the population is historically linked: West Africa, India, China, and Indonesia.7 Of course, Surinamese artists are all connected to the internet, but international influences, or artistic trends do not seem to be important incentives in the Surinamese art world. Shared histories and diasporic connections with faraway countries and continents or the surrounding region are apparently no motivation for Surinamese artists to seek out others in whom they might discover much about themselves. This rather gloomy story could easily give the false impression that contemporary artists in Suriname are not able to live up to international standards. That is not the case. Artists such as Kurt Nahar, Ken Doorson, Dhiradj Ramsamoedj, and Ruben Cabenda, to name a few, have proven that they are no less talented than many foreign colleagues. However, they often lack the means and opportunities to develop, to reflect, and to present themselves outside Suriname. Implicit proof of this is the status of artists born in the Netherlands, or who moved there at a particular moment in their lives, such as Michael Tedja, Patricia Kaersenhout, Iris and Natasja Kensmil, Remy Jungerman, Charl Landvreugd, Jaasir Linger, Xavier Robles de Medina, and Sara Blokland, to give some examples. They are now successful in the Netherlands and also further abroad. The only artists of the younger generation living in Suriname who have been successful abroad are Marcel Pinas8 and George Struikelblok.9 Kurt Nahar recognised the uninspiring island situation of Suriname when he stated, “Anyone who wants to reach a higher level will have to travel abroad from time to time. If you should stay forever in Surinam, you’ll find that ‘the situation’ and the economic state of affairs have a tremendous impact on you. You’ll go out in search of work in order to earn some money. But often the kind of work you’ll find is not worthy your talent.”10 There may be other factors in the lower visibility of Surinamese artists, particularly in Europe. On the one hand the Dutch art world has long considered Suriname an artistic backwater. In 1995, for example, when the director of Amsterdam’s Stedelijk Museum organised the first-ever exhibition of Surinamese art in the Netherlands, he stated, “Suriname is mud … What will be shown in the Stedelijk is a variant of Dutch painting slowly stuck in that mud,” and added half-heartedly, “I admire that struggle, I admire the courage it requires. That may be seen.”11 On the other hand, artists of colour practicing their profession in a predominantly white environment, for instance the Netherlands, is different from working in the home environment of Suriname. Diaspora artists are much more challenged than their colleagues in Suriname to prove that they are as good as anyone in that FOUR ISLANDS: CONTEMPORARY ART IN SURINAME, ARUBA, BONAIRE, AND CURAçAO 123 Natasja Kensmil, Self portrait with cross, 1999 white world. They are often more inclined to make that struggle part of their work, raising issues like slavery, colonialism, racism, identity politics, Black Lives Matter, and the fight for recognition as a human being and also as an artist. This to a certain extent imposed challenge is lacking in Suriname. Art criticism is not a fully developed phenomenon and people are quite easily considered professional artists. There is, nonetheless, a professional and up-to-date website presenting everything professionally worthwhile that is going on in the Surinamese art world, run by professionals applying critical standards of quality. They also disseminate the digital newsletter Sranan Art Xposed once or twice a year.12 This private initiative is closely linked to Suriname’s main gallery Readytex. The yearly National Art Fair in Paramaribo, organised since 1965, on the other hand, despite a selection committee, shows a much broader interpretation of professional art.13 Recently renamed the International Art Fair, it includes what elsewhere would be categorised as amateur or folk art, with a lot of flora, fauna, and house and yard paintings presented next to the work of established artists 124 ROB PERRéE AND ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN such as Paul Woei, Reinier Asmoredjo, Cliff San A Jong, Soeki Irodikromo, Wilgo vijfhoven, Johan Pinas, and Juhnry Udenhout, or young emerging artists such as Razia Barsatie. Many of the work’s titles refer to the local situation and are either social or politically critical or praise the country’s beauty. The art fair is also a private initiative funded by local enterprises and stimulated by the Suriname Rotary. The two largest art collections in Suriname are the property of two banks. De Surinaamsche Bank (DSB) is a private enterprise that started collecting art many decades ago. When the bank celebrated its 140th birthday in 2005 and a catalogue of their collection was published, the bank’s president stated that Suriname has “a rich culture that, in my opinion, is still too often not perceived at its true value. Our institution has always valued art. Not only because of the fact that a type of economic activity is supported, but even more, to instil into our banking community the significance and awareness of artistic appreciation. Our bank is at the center of Surinamese society.”14 The other collection is in the hands of the state owned Central Bank of Suriname.15 This is separate from the State Collection of about 330 works, owned by the state, managed by the Culture Department, distributed over a number of government buildings, and generally not much cared about. The Central Bank’s collection is carefully collected and well-kept. In its fiftieth anniversary catalogue, painter Aanand Binda is approvingly cited for stating: “Artists are pioneers of the nation; they feel instinctively where a nation should be heading.” And the editors continue: “Once it is understood that artists can contribute significantly to a healthy society it becomes clear that it is very important to encourage and promote talent … In the international world Surinamese artists also play an important role. Often they are the ambassadors of their country.”16 The editors’ statement makes clear that, despite a blatant contradiction between rhetoric and practice, in particular levels of the state apparatus there is an awareness that art could or even should be instrumental in nation-building and nation-branding. The next question is whether that other ex-colony of the Netherlands, Curaçao, is affected by the same circumstances and shows comparable developments. Curaçao “While the stereotype images combine clear blue waters, sandy beaches, palm trees, cool cocktails, tanned bodies, drum beating musicians, carnival parades and attractive dancers into a picture postcard view of the Caribbean, the population is struggling with unemployment, low income, political indecision as part of post-colonialism, as well as drug, gambling and alcohol addiction” (Tony Monsanto).17 FOUR ISLANDS: CONTEMPORARY ART IN SURINAME, ARUBA, BONAIRE, AND CURAçAO 125 If there is one thing in which Suriname differs from Curaçao, it is the role of tourism. Before the coronavirus threw sand into the engine, Curaçao attracted over a million tourists per year, two-fifths of whom stayed over while the remainder were cruise ship tourists who spent (less than) a day on the island.18 Suriname tourists numbered half that. Moreover, in Suriname perhaps up to fifty percent of “tourists” are actually not tourists exploring a strange country but visitors in their country of descent. The same occurs in Curaçao, but they form just a small percentage of the visitors. In part, Curaçao’s differing position has to do with natural circumstances and marketing. Suriname has no tourist beaches nor a natural harbour for cruise ships. Its unique selling point is the Amazonian rainforest with its “exotic” nature and Native American and Maroon inhabitants, as well as to a certain extent colonial architecture. So those who are not visiting relatives in Suriname are mainly ecotourists going for a jungle adventure and/or history and culture aficionados. Airfares and jungle tours are relatively expensive, so it is the more well-to-do tourist who visits Suriname. Curaçao, on the other hand, sells itself as a carefree tropical paradise, it has white beaches and a blue sea. This suffices for the bulk of diving, snorkelling, and sun-worshiping tourists. In addition, it has sufficient and relatively cheap air traffic and hotel accommodation. Furthermore, Willemstad’s waterfront has the same effect as canal houses and windmills in the Netherlands owing to its architecture. The picture sells. For cruise lines, that is enough to dock their sailing skyscrapers at the island. Tony Monsanto, Welcome to paradise, 2009 126 ROB PERRéE AND ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN Tirzo Martha, Sin miedo/without shame, 2022 It is telling that there is probably no Surinamese piece of art referring to the tourist industry, whereas well-known Curaçaoan artists such as Tirzo Martha and Tony Monsanto (see above) made it one of their themes. Tourism here is all over the place and the number one source of income for the country. This could be a serious incentive for a thriving art market. The downside of that, of course, is the temptation for artists to make money by adapting their work to the paradisical image of dushi Kórsou with which Curaçao tourists are presented. For instance, the Curaçao Tourist Board’s new “Feel It For Yourself” global branding campaign states, “Drawing inspiration from the island’s vibrant aesthetic.”19 This is not a reference to the reality Curaçaoans live in, nor to the work of serious artists. Here the gift shop and the tourist gallery enter into the equation for which the picturesque and the exotic are produced in series. For artists such as Tirzo Martha such a development is a horror. For him, this tourist branding image and its resulting art have nothing to do with the real Curaçao; he takes his audience seriously by showing his creative process and making the end result into a mirror for the viewer. To Tirzo Martha, Jean Girigori, or Sharelly Emanuelson, just to name a few, working for the tourist market would be like sacrificing one’s identity and creativity to commerce. Nonetheless, it is happening all around them. There is, however, another side to this phenomenon: mural or street art. In street art mainly young artists express themselves in public spaces and often FOUR ISLANDS: CONTEMPORARY ART IN SURINAME, ARUBA, BONAIRE, AND CURAçAO 127 address society with social, political, or aesthetic statements and questions, meanwhile making that same public space more interesting for tourists to whom this kind of glocal art form is not unfamiliar. Since around 2015 a movement has developed in Curaçao in different neighbourhoods, which links artists and inhabitants to social themes, while embellishing their barrios through art. Windows, doors, or walls of run down houses are decorated by paintings, for example by Art Skalo, Punda Window Art Project, and IBB students (see below). In the Otrobanda neighbourhood a so-called Kaya Kaya (street street) party is organised every year by the cultural and social entrepreneur Kurt Schoop, resulting in a total clean-up of the area, enormous murals on houses, sculptures in the streets, and a weekend of feasting. Artists contributing to these projects include, among others, Jhomar Loaiza, Garrick Marchena, Avantia Damberg, Francis Sling, Carlos Blaaker, and Roberto Tjon A Meeuw, the last two originally from Suriname. This kind of public art has nation-building and nation-branding dimensions. Local residents are invited to join in the project, including the art-making; they look at their environment with new eyes, and their pride in themselves and at least this part of the nation is stimulated. At the same time it is a new form of nation-branding to outsiders, including tourists. It tells them: “We are proud and we can take care of ourselves.” The first art museum in the Dutch Caribbean was the Curaçaosch Museum, founded in 1948.20 It started as a museum of mainly contemporary art—European, Dutch, and Antillean, from Picasso to Willink to Boskaljon—hung in typical Curaçaoan period rooms. There were intensive relations and exchanges with the Stedelijk Museum, particularly with its director Willem Sandberg. Over time the museum’s material cultural heritage dimension expanded at the expense of its contemporary art dimension. The museum historicised. It has a rich history of exhibitions to the present day, but it is less important for contemporary art. Only the retrospective exhibitions of Jennifer Smit and Felix de Rooy, Antepassado di Futuro (2010) and Exploring the Past to Envisage the Future (2014), were successful attempts at connecting past and present. A few private galleries showcase local and Caribbean art: Herman and Lusette verboom’s Alma Blou, established in the late 1980s, and Landhuis Bloemhof managed by sculptor May Henriquez’s daughter Nicole Henriquez. Both galleries are housed in nineteenth-century plantation mansions on the periphery of Willemstad and are frequented by often well-to-do and certainly art-loving locals as well as tourists. In 2016 photographer Don Marco founded Project 3, a gallery presenting photographs, paintings, and sculptures by Curaçaoan artists. That same year Uniarte opened its doors in a former store, Casa Moderna, as a sort of pop-up gallery and art platform in the heart of Willemstad’s historic centre, Punda. Its initiator is visual artist and filmmaker Sharelly Emanuelson. Recently, Uniarte 128 ROB PERRéE AND ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN moved to the Otrobanda neighbourhood, where it is housed in a three-story building with exhibition rooms, work spaces, and a residency room. Uniarte’s goal is to “strive for a dialogue between local, regional and international professionals and projects that share ideas and skills related to art production” and therefore it “provides a platform for artists, curators, cultural agents involved in research, experimentation, production and dissemination of contemporary artistic practices from and about the Caribbean.”21 Next to these art spaces there is an interesting sculpture garden developing as part of the Blue Bay Resort, with at present about forty works by Curaçaoan artists such as Yubi Kirindongo, Norva Sling, and Giovanni Abath a.k.a. 7.1.22 One of the founders of this art garden is entrepreneur, collector, and art columnist Jan Gulmans.23 Finally, the Instituto Buena Bista (IBB), led by the artists Tirzo Martha and David Bade and housed in a complex of buildings that form an integrated part of a psychiatric clinic, was created in 2006. Patients can and do walk in and out as they please. IBB organises exhibitions once in a while but is mainly an offspring of their core business, which is stimulating and training talented creative young people of all social classes and cultural backgrounds. The slogan on their website sums up their work: “Instituto Buena Bista (IBB) is the centre for contemporary art on Curaçao providing creative youth with a two year creative and/or artistic preparatory course, and a residency spot for international artists.”24 Young people are broadly educated at this institution, with the intention of preparing them for art academies in the Netherlands or elsewhere. International artists using the residence facility participate in the training process so that students can become acquainted with international developments in art. The underlying goal is to attract artists who have progressed to academies abroad to return to their home country to strengthen Curaçao’s art and art scene. That does not always work out. Artists such as Dustin Thierry, Kevin Osepa, Timothy Voges, and Quentley Barbara became successful in the Netherlands and will probably continue to live and work there for the time being. Others have returned, however, some of whom are now teaching at IBB, such as Johanna Zapata and Omar Kuwas. It is not very hard for IBB to attract artists for a residency, because the names of the founders and still acting directors, Martha and Bade, are well known in the Netherlands and abroad. Moreover, IBB is a sort of art and social hub in Curaçaoan society. Its objectives correspond to those of Uniarte: both act as artistic platforms and initiate and stimulate conversations concerning the sociocultural Caribbean context. Martha’s performances as Captain Caribbean, who questions the status quo, have become famous, and not only in Curaçao. Street art is often an indicator of what is going on in society and is increasingly integrated in the art practices of contemporary artists. IBB recognises this and therefore encourages its students to participate. Actually, this form of art is not so different FOUR ISLANDS: CONTEMPORARY ART IN SURINAME, ARUBA, BONAIRE, AND CURAçAO 129 from the street projects of the duos of David Bade and Tirzo Martha and of Ruben La Cruz and Karolien Helweg. They are also committed, critical, and close to “the street.” And Yubi Kirindongo, by taking waste material as the starting point for his sculptures—automobile bumpers for example—touches upon this tradition as well. By preparing dozens and dozens of young talent to study abroad for many years now, IBB has created a basic attitude that differs from that imparted by most education in Curaçaoan society. Talent alone is not enough, making money is not sacred. IBB stresses that the imagination is given ample room, that social engagement is expressed, that urgency counts, that the means of expression are unlimited and must match the content, that it is not only important to be aware of the immediate environment but to look literally across borders. Uniarte calls for the same engaged attitude. Both institutes produce artists with open, while critical minds and a wide range of skills. Their social impact goes way beyond the walls of their institutes. And what’s more, they do it with almost no support from the Curaçaoan government, which is in dire straits but has in any case never shown much interest in the arts. The available figures show that in 2019, 0.015 percent of Curaçao’s total budget was invested in “culture, archaeology and museums.”25 Galleries survive by offering other services such as printing and/or selling frames and/or cheap art made in series for tourists. The other art and heritage institutes rely heavily on Dutch funds and a few local private funders. Finally, Curaçao has two main institutional players in the art scene, which are, as in Suriname, banks. One is the over century-old Maduro and Curiël’s Bank (MCB), the other the state-owned Central Bank of Curaçao and Sint Maarten (CBCS). Their art activities may be less visible to outsiders, let alone tourists, but their doings are crucial for the local art world. They both have built up vast collections, make donations, and sponsor and support local initiatives. Works from the MCB collection, for instance, are used to decorate its more than thirty branches, including those in Bonaire and Aruba. In their own words: “We strongly believe in preserving and promoting our island’s art, history and culture, as they contribute to social cohesion and nation-building.” Therefore, they supported for instance Alma Blou Gallery when its owners bought the old plantation mansion in which the gallery is housed today.26 The CBCS also has a solid collection of high quality Curaçaoan art. Works can be seen in its offices as well as on its Facebook page, where a work from the collection is highlighted every month.27 Moreover, the bank has its own Money Museum, which is dedicated to the history of (Antillean) coins and banknotes, and where there is a permanent space reserved for art exhibitions. These exhibitions present Curaçaoan artists such as Jean Girigorie, Ellen Spijkstra, and Nel Simon, but also artists from the wider region such as Francisco Salazar from Venezuela or K’Cho from Cuba. As in Suriname, these banks employ a curator, in this case Marlies Schoenmakers, who also serves other banks and is also an artist.28 130 ROB PERRéE AND ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN Aruba and Bonaire People go to Bonaire for the beaches, diving, and sailing, not for its art. Prior to the Covid-19 pandemic, the population of about twenty thousand received approximately 160,000 stay-over tourists, and over 400,000 cruise ship passengers. It is, therefore, not surprising that there is quite a lot of tourist art for sale. The main genres engaged in by artists, often of Dutch descent, are (underwater) landscapes and portraits, usually applied in a traditional, realistic way. In no way can Bonaire compete with the art worlds of Curaçao or Suriname. The only two local artists who are also known outside the island are Nochi Coffie, who specialises in a stylised symbolism, and Winfred Dania, who died in 2012 but whose magic-realistic work is still popular. Locally well-known are Henk Roozendaal’s portraits in which a certain street art style is never far away, which is no coincidence since he has created murals in Bonaire as well. Recently, the young Bonairean artist Tatiana Nicolaas, a.k.a. TXN, returned to the island after pursuing art education in the Netherlands. Other, mainly Dutch artists have settled in Bonaire as well. There is one more or less permanent, but small, venue for contemporary art exhibitions, which is a space in a history museum, the Terramar Museum.29 Aruba is again another story. Thanks to the flourishing tourist industry, which is two to three times larger than Curaçao’s,30 the economy thrives. Nonetheless, this is not reflected in its art world in the sense of high-end art galleries or an art museum. Entering the island through its international airport, however, one might get a different impression from the colourful art and design on the walls of the arrival hall. Even the official Aruba website states: “Discover why in the art world our island is considered as the emerging art centre of the Caribbean.”31 And actually it is true. However, one should not look for mature contemporary art in conventional hot spots like galleries or a museum. Once in a while there are contemporary art exhibitions, for example in the island’s cultural venue Cas di Cultura (House of Culture). A number of artists have their own gallery or exhibition space, such as Elisa Lejuez, Ciro Abath, and Osaira Muyale; others exhibit in shops and banks, as is the custom in many Caribbean countries. When one of the authors of this chapter visited Osaira Muyale’s (public) studio and saw her Paradise Park installation, he was overwhelmed: “It looked like a dreamland populated with blue sculptures, a mixture of human figures and animals (e.g. horses), sometimes mixed together in one sculpture. Body parts were popping out of the walls or they were ‘flying’ above my head.”32 Aruba has actually given birth to quite a number of professional artists with qualitatively solid reputations, as well as a well-known art historian, Dr. Adi Martis. Many of the artists have studied abroad and returned to home. Their names are known beyond the borders of Aruba, including Ryan Oduber, Elvis Lopez, Stan FOUR ISLANDS: CONTEMPORARY ART IN SURINAME, ARUBA, BONAIRE, AND CURAçAO 131 Kuiperi, Osaira Muyale, Glenda Heyligers, Ciro Abath, Alida Martinez, Alydia Wever, and others. There is one important venue for art as well as art education, which is Ateliers’89 Punto de Beyas Arte Aruba. This initiative by Elvis Lopez, who is the director, is actually the art platform of and for Aruba. It has exhibitions, workshops, the Barrio (neighbourhood) project with and for local youth, and an artist-in-residency program called Caribbean Linked that focuses on artists from the wider region. With its staff of two professional (Dutch) art historians/curators, the institute, apart from presenting contemporary art, has set itself a clear mission: “Firstly, we want to introduce our children to Contemporary Art and exposing them to a diverse range of techniques we are allowing them to ask an important question, would I like to pursue a career in the Arts? Secondly, we strongly believe that social cohesion can be achieved through art. Art successfully crosses the young and old, rich and poor divides.”33 Aruba also has an Academy of Fine Arts and Design, which was founded in cooperation with the Rietveld Academy in Amsterdam. It is an academy structured on the Dutch model: a four-year program driven by the specific directions students have to choose after the first year. It also aims for involvement with local society and the environment. However, this involvement in many cases also has to compete with the urge to make a career in the Netherlands, or elsewhere. Despite all this activity the words of artist Stan Kuiperi still hold. In 2001, he stated that the arts in Aruba were blossoming but working conditions were bad. He attributed this to a political climate in which interest in the arts was nonexistent and to what he called “the absence of a democratic cultural policy.”34 The governmental investment in culture is a bit more substantial than it is in Curaçao, at 0.31 percent of the 2020 total budget, but a large part of that is not going to art.35 The aforementioned initiatives such as Ateliers’89 are for the large part sponsored by funds from the Netherlands. Yet there is one other art space where artists, the private sector, and the state actively meet and that is most certainly part of nation-branding: San Nicolas. This second town of Aruba has become a centre for street art with an internationally recognised mural culture. It was more or less born of necessity. After the oil refinery in San Nicolas closed in 2012, the town was at risk of turning into a ghost town. In 2016 the Aruba Art Fair was established in San Nicolas by private initiative and has since been organised yearly. Thanks to the efforts of various art organisations in Aruba, such as Art Rules Aruba and, of course, Aruba Art Fair, the multiple day event has turned into something massive with more than 150 art exhibitors, many from abroad, and over ten thousand visitors in 2019.36 In addition, a number of local and international artists have left their aesthetic traces on walls and buildings on San Nicolas’s Main Street. Now San Nicolas has become a tourist attraction of 132 ROB PERRéE AND ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN Mural art in San Nicolas, Aruba, 2017 (photo Alex van Stipriaan) sorts thanks to the murals, which expand and multiply every year. Aruba Mural Tours capitalises on this most Afro-Caribbean part of the island, while public authorities have stimulated investment. Among other things, they supported the building of a museum of industry in the town’s former water tower, with a state of the art exhibition on Aruba’s industrial history. Furthermore, the government supported the opening of a community museum on Aruba’s cultural history, with a space for contemporary art and a café. The expanding mural art, which is actually an aesthetic makeover of the town, is, however, the main attraction of San Nicolas, which as well as pleasing on the eye tells stories of the island and its inhabitants. Just like in Curaçao the murals appear to be an effective form for involving all parties—artists, the (international) audience, governmental and entrepreneurial infrastructure, and funding sources—to make art part of a nation-building as well as nation-branding process. It is an investment in local pride as well as in international visibility. Comparing and Concluding Now the question is: How do the art worlds of these four “islands” compare, what does their common background as former colonies of the Netherlands mean to their art practice or local art worlds, and how do their art worlds relate to the nation—in the form of the state—and vice versa? Obviously, country size plays a decisive role. Because of its small population Bonaire cannot be compared to the other three countries: just a few Bonairean FOUR ISLANDS: CONTEMPORARY ART IN SURINAME, ARUBA, BONAIRE, AND CURAçAO 133 artists produce autonomous art beyond the level of the tourist market, there are no mature art venues, hardly any serious collectors, and no professional art training. None of the four islands have an art museum. Maybe the Curaçaosch Museum comes closest, but it is a cultural-historical museum as well. In any case, it is the only more or less national museum with art that is structurally funded by the state. This is, however, no indication of a state that uses art to help build and brand the nation. In this Curaçao differs very little from the other countries. Art is not a state priority when the economy is in dire straits, financially as well as politically. The most negative example of this is Suriname, where the state even became a destructive force under the presidency of the former military leader Bouterse. Not only did he launch a plan—which fortunately never came to fruition—to turn the Suriname Museum in the historic Fort Zeelandia into a festival and amusement space, he also obstructed the work of Moengo’s Kibii and CAMM art platforms. The most positive state approach to art and culture can probably be found in Aruba, which is also the state with the relatively most flourishing economy. Thanks to state support San Nicolas has two new (historical) museums and is the town being promoted internationally as an up-to-date centre of mural art. On the other hand, Aruba’s Central Bank does not play the important role the central banks of Suriname and Curaçao play in the arts with tax payer money. Though central banks are state institutions, these operate quite independent of the state and assume a responsible role towards society. They recognise that art contributes to the cohesion of the nation and that artists can function as ambassadors for the nation. The Central Bank of Suriname’s art catalogue even stated that artists “feel instinctively where a nation should be heading.”37 That might be overdoing the artist’s importance and wisdom, but it is at least a welcome recognition. It seems that in Suriname and Curaçao the state has transferred its role as a stimulator and protector of the arts to the main state-owned and private financial institutions. They form the local life lines of the art world. Next to those examples, the dynamic role of private art platforms in Suriname (Kibii), Curaçao (IBB and Uniarte), and Aruba (Ateliers’89) are quite telling. All operate more or less independent of the state, were initiated and are directed by artists, host residencies that keep them connected to the international art world, and most have a stimulating role in training young talent even if they don’t have the “right” educational background. Actually, they have created infrastructure one would expect the state to create but that it economically or politically cannot or will not do. Remarkable is the role of the Rietveld Academy in Amsterdam, which is connected to institutions in all of these countries except Bonaire. It has deliberately assumed this role as part of its mission to be truly international.38 One or two artists might be considered an art platform in themselves, working in the space that once formed the Kingdom: the Dutch Caribbean, Suriname, and 134 ROB PERRéE AND ALEx vAN STIPRIAAN the Netherlands. One of the most remarkable of these is probably Mo Mohamed. Born in Aruba of Surinamese parents, he moved to the Netherlands, where he became a self-made artist in the wild 1960s and 70s, worked for long periods in Suriname and Curaçao, and is now back in Aruba. Wherever he lives and works, he is part of the local art scene in his own way, as well as a bridge between art worlds.39 The bright side of institutionalised private initiatives is that they can apply for and accept funds from abroad, when this is often not possible for a state apparatus. That is the other, if not main, life line for the respective art worlds. And that line runs straight to the Netherlands. A number of Dutch funds have almost structural relationships with art institutes in the Caribbean including Suriname, and the Dutch embassy in Paramaribo is said to have invested for years much more in the Suriname arts and culture sector than has the Suriname Culture Department. This might be perceived as a sort of postcolonial compensation; it is also at the very least a sort of neocolonial nation-branding by the former coloniser. In all countries concerned only a small group of artists can live reasonably well on their work. Most have other activities on the side to support them. The same goes for the very few commercial outlets for these artists. Even the two top galleries, Readytex in Suriname and Alma Blou in Curaçao, are dependent on other sources of income. In all these countries there is enough talent: artists can compete artistically with their colleagues in other parts of the world. What they lack is a solid infrastructure, opportunities, exposure, and governmental support, particularly when international connections are concerned. The artists can hardly do without such connections, as their societies are too small and too poor to pay artists a living wage, as well as too isolated to guarantee an inspirational and innovative art climate. International connections with the region are much fewer than would be expected. If artists wish for a serious and substantial career, they go abroad, temporarily or permanently. And for most, “abroad” means the Netherlands. Even the diasporic connections with other countries and far away continents—Africa and Asia—or in the surrounding region are apparently no incentive to seek each other out internationally. In that sense colonial relations seem to be reproduced in postcolonial times. However, that is not the full story. Decolonisation has started here too. For some of the international working artists the Caribbean region is part of their focus, with the Havana Biennial as an important space of reference. Residencies all over the world and a focus on the Americas are now becoming part of the picture. Finally, there is street art, most developed in Aruba, least developed in Suriname. Although street art is still not seen by some experts as “high art”, murals by urban artists have conquered a serious place in the international art world and the Caribbean has its share. It plays an important role in Curaçao and Aruba and seems to be a keen indicator of the pulse of the nation. On the one hand it refers to urgent sociopolitical issues—in Curaçao more than in Aruba, it seems; on the FOUR ISLANDS: CONTEMPORARY ART IN SURINAME, ARUBA, BONAIRE, AND CURAçAO 135 other, it portrays the aesthetic beauty and exoticism that make people proud and that certainly tourists love to see. It is the most democratic art form: free entrance, visible and accessible to everyone, with comprehensible themes and forms, and embellishing parts of society where traditional art lovers do not live. Moreover, it doesn’t necessarily require formal art training, but rather mainly talent and much practice. It speaks an artistic language that today is known all over the world, while its themes can be particularly local. This is an ideal mix for building a diverse nation, which can be branded locally as well as internationally: Look, this is us! CHAPTER 7 Papiamento: An Official Caribbean Creole Language from Legal Repression to Full Recognition Joyce Pereira and Luc Alofs Pierre Lauffer – Mi Lenga My Mother Tongue by Pierre Lauffer Mi lenga, My mother tongue, Den nesesidat Sali Born out of necessity Fo’alma di aventurero Of the adventurer’s soul Kultivá na boka di katibu Developed at the mouths of slaves A baj drecha su pará Proceeded to enhance its standing Den kwentanan di jaja. In maids’ nursery tales. Su kurashi sin keber Its daring courage – E marka brutu di su nasementu – – The rough mark of its birth – A butele rementá busá Triggered the blowing up of its muzzle I fórsa di su gan ‘i biba And the power of its craving to survive A lant’e di swela Rose it anew to its feet Den un warwarú di pusta-boka. Amidst a whirlwind of discussions. Su kantika tin kandela Its tune is fiery Su simplesa tin koló. Its plainness is colorful. Ku su wega di palabra With its wordplay Mi por ‘nabo bo sojá I can call you everything under the sun Ku su ritmo í su stansha With its rhythm and its poise Mi por sinta namorá. I can court along at ease. Na mi lenga di kriojo, In my creole mother tongue, Ku su zjèitu di zonidu, With its spirited sounds No tin dwele ni legría pa herami, No sorrow, no bliss can pass me by, Ni tin sort’i sintimentu Nor is there any kind of feeling Ku mi n’tribi machiká. I didn’t dare put into words. Source: Pierre Lauffer, Raspá, 1962; translation by Frank Williams 138 JOYCE PEREIRA AND LUC ALOFS Three Islands, Two Orthographies, One Speech Community The division of the Caribbean into four areas—the English-speaking, the Spanishspeaking, the French-speaking, and the Dutch-speaking—is a colonial legacy. However, there are also two official Creole languages in the region: Haitian Creole, the official language of the first independent black nation in the Caribbean; and Papiamento, which is spoken in the non-sovereign Dutch territories of Aruba, Curaçao, and Bonaire.1 DeGraff holds that the term “Creole language” intends to distinguish the Creole languages from those of the European colonial rulers, implicitly making a value judgment about Creole languages.2 Creole languages originated during colonisation and slavery. Depending on the circumstances, the place, and the time of origin, Creole languages developed similarly to other languages. Creole grammatical structures differ substantially from those of European languages—no verb conjugation, no noun declension, no gender distinction—and in the opinion of colonial officials creole languages were not languages at all and great efforts were made to discourage their use. Creole language speakers eventually came to believe that their language and culture were inferior to those of Europeans.3 However, worldwide awareness is growing that one’s language, one’s mother tongue, is of crucial importance for the development of the individual and, therefore, of the nation. Such is the case with Papiamento. This chapter illustrates that the colonial linguistic discourse was based on the supreme ethnocentric self-confidence of the colonisers, the oppression of the mother tongue of the colonised,4 and the struggle to debunk deep-rooted colonial myths and hence the recognition of the Papiamento Creole language by both local and metropole governments and even its own speakers on the ABC islands. This last process is far from complete. Papiamento (or Papiamentu) is the language of Aruba (officialised in 2003), Curaçao (2007), and Bonaire (2007, until 2010). Its speech community also includes Papiamento speakers in the Netherlands. The island variants are 100% intelligible between their speakers; differences such as vocabulary and sentence melody enrich the language and make it more interesting. In 1976, the Aruban Parliament enacted a law that legalised the Aruban etymologically based orthography (examples: stoel, conexion, cas, Papiamento). In that same year, Curaçao and Bonaire legalised their phonologically based orthography (examples: stul, konekshon, kas, Papiamentu). This chapter uses “Papiamento.” PAPIAMENTO: AN OFFICIAL CARIBBEAN CREOLE LANGUAGE 139 Language, Education and Oppression The valorisation of Papiamento is closely intertwined with the colonial history of the islands. Papiamento has its origins as an Afro-Portuguese pidgin language that developed along the transatlantic slave trade route during the Dutch West India Company (WIC) era (1634–1792). For this reason Papiamento and Cape verdean Creole (or Kriolu, Kriol) speakers are mutually understandable. Intense kinship, cultural, and commercial interaction with Spanish-speaking countries on the South American mainland resulted in the Spanish relexification of the original Afro-Portuguese creole.5 In the colonial setting of Curaçao under the WIC, Papiamento evolved from the language of the enslaved to that of practically the entire population. It was next to impossible for the enslaved population to learn the Dutch language. To protect their superior and elite position, the Dutch colonists excluded the enslaved people from learning Dutch and from joining the Dutch Reformed Church.6 In their pastoral work, Catholic priests used Papiamento, the language of the enslaved people; Dutch colonists and Sephardic Jews preferred to speak Papiamento to the enslaved; the daily speech between Dutch colonists and Sephardim was in Papiamento and the Papiamento speaking “Yaya” (nanny) was an important figure in Dutch and Sephardic households. The Dutch-speaking population was small compared to the ever-increasing group of enslaved people and people of colour. Moreover, because of its role in trade, Papiamento became an essential language in the region. Under the dominion of the West India Company, the islands of Bonaire and Aruba were initially closed off to settlement. After 1750, the colonial authorities permitted Curaçaoan colonists and their enslaved to settle on these islands. Papiamento rapidly took root there. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, Papiamento was fully developed and used by several generations. The colonial authorities did not consider Papiamento a valid language, and argued “in a Dutch colony people should speak the Dutch language.” The authorities discouraged the use of Papiamento and went to great lengths to discredit the language, hoping to eliminate it as quickly as possible. In 1819, through the introduction of the decree Provisionele Reglement op het Schoolwezen, the Provisional Regulations on the School System (P.B. 28), Dutch became the only language of instruction permitted in schools. Subsequent language policies aimed to reinforce the position of the Dutch language and eliminate Papiamento, which de facto became an oppressed language.7 140 JOYCE PEREIRA AND LUC ALOFS Visitors from the Netherlands were astonished and outraged by the language situation on the ABC islands. Public school teacher van Paddenburgh called Papiamento an “unbearable cackling with a turkey-like sound,” a “spoilt” mixture of Spanish, Amerindian, and Dutch.8 visiting Dutch Reformed Pastor Bosch9 was of the opinion that the Dutch colonists themselves were responsible for the fact that not only the African descended and coloured inhabitants but also European descended children and women used Papiamento instead of the language of the mother country, as was the case in the English, Spanish, and French colonies. Bosch blamed their Dutch mercantile spirit for being harmful to the Dutch language. He continued to accuse Catholic priests of using Papiamento to make the Dutch language redundant. Writer-traveller M.D. Teenstra10 raged against the language of Curaçao. He described the “zamengelapte Papiement”—lumped together Papiamento—as a poor patchwork of indigenous, Spanish, and Dutch words, with an African accent, which was unbearable to the civilised ear. Again, the underlying assumption was that languages had to be European to be good and accepted. Because the colonial government did not have the financial means to provide public education for the poor and the enslaved, the Catholic mission acquired a dominance in the education of the poor and the enslaved population in the run-up to the abolition of slavery. The mission favoured using Papiamento for education and was in charge of most schools. The prominent presence of Papiamento in the ABC Islands remained a thorn in the side of the Dutch. In the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth century, scores of education decrees were promulgated to ensure that the islands’ populations would understand that Dutch was the language of instruction and not Papiamento. Dutch as a language of teaching became a condition for schools to qualify for government subsidies in decrees in 1907, 1913, and 1935. Imposing higher licensing requirements on teachers threatened to end the activities of the missionary sisters and brothers and make popular education unaffordable.11 Dutch colonial views and the many myths about the inadequacy of Papiamento dominated the discussions. Some local advocates for Papiamento deemed this situation undesirable, but the authorities refuted their opinions. Finally, even the Catholic clergy relented and shifted its position. Eventually, pro-Papiamento orders such as the Dominicans left the islands to be replaced by Roman Catholic Orders such as the friars of Tilburg and Dominican nuns, who were willing to accommodate the colonial educational and linguistic policies. The earlier policy of “one nation, one kingdom, one language” of King William I during 1813–1840 was reconfirmed in what around the turn of the twentieth century became the “ethische politiek” (ethical politics), the Dutch version of Europe’s self-imposed imperial “civilising mission”—the white man’s burden. A prolonged period of renewed “Hulandisacion” was set in motion.12 PAPIAMENTO: AN OFFICIAL CARIBBEAN CREOLE LANGUAGE 141 Colonial myths and legacies are difficult to erase. In 1954, under the terms of decolonisation, the Dutch Antilles obtained an autonomous status within the Kingdom of the Netherlands. This entailed, among other things, that the former colonies could make their own decisions about their educational and language policies. The prolonged exclusion of Papiamento and an alienating educational system has had long-lasting effects. The lengthy absence of Papiamento and the prominence of Dutch, English, Spanish, and even French and German in education weakened the position of Papiamento. Most Papiamento speakers have never had Papiamento in school, neither as a subject nor as an instructional language. Their language proficiency consists of what they learn at home and their living environment; few achieved continued academic development in their language. In the 1950s and 1960s few politicians, academics, teachers and parents realised that ignoring the mother tongue and learning in a foreign language discourages educational achievement. Due to a lack of local educational and linguistic expertise, it took a while before the debate on educational and language reform took shape. The Struggle for Recognition It was not until the late 1960s and early 1970s that the first publications appeared denouncing the language problems in the educational system, launching a movement for change.13 In the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s teachers’ unions of the ABC islands encouraged the public and political debate. Similar to the pro-Papiamento Roman Catholic clergy in the nineteenth century, educational and linguistic specialists and educators acknowledged the value of the mother tongue, as it is that language that is by far the best basis for learning. Students must develop their mother tongue to the highest level in order to realise their full linguistic, academic and human potential. Quality education is frustrated when blunt memorisation replaces comprehension in primary school and other levels of formal education. Such language policy imposed insurmountable obstacles for both teachers and students, a fact which is often not acknowledged, and is even trivialised.14 Consequently, the struggle for recognition of Papiamento has become a long and difficult one, with few willing to commit their time and energy. Recurring counter-arguments to these (not so) new language and educational perspectives have been continuously brought up in discussions about educational renewal and the introduction of Papiamento in the ABC islands. Common arguments include: the community is not ready for it; there are no teaching materials available; it is not possible to learn via Papiamento; it hinders the learning of Dutch, et cetera. Through all of this, islanders have a dualistic attitude towards 142 JOYCE PEREIRA AND LUC ALOFS their language: “Mi stima Papiamento, pero no pa enseñansa. Mi no por haci nada cu ne.” (“I love Papiamento, but not for education. I can not do anything with it.”) They assign Papiamento a low status and cannot see it as a language of instruction and school subject. Nevertheless, Papiamento caught the attention of the governments. The decades that followed were lucrative when it came to educational innovations. Following the May 30, 1969 revolt in Curaçao and in the slipstream of Aruba’s separatist movement, leading to the island’s separation of the Dutch Antilles in 1986, the political climate gradually created space for innovative ideas, and in relatively quick succession, educational innovations took place. Achievements for Papiamento, 1976–2021 – Since 1976, Papiamento has had an orthography: etymological in Aruba; phonological in Curaçao and Bonaire. – In 1979, the special education track switched to Papiamento as the language of instruction. – In 1986, Papiamento was introduced as a subject in the primary schools of Curaçao and Bonaire. – In 1987, Frank Martinus founded Kolegio Erasmo in Curaçao, the first primary school with Papiamento as the language of instruction; in 2022 the school has lower secondary education in Papiamento and bilingual Papiamento-English pre-university sections. – In 2002, Papiamento was introduced as a subject in the lower grades of secondary education in Aruba. – In 2003, Papiamento became an official language in Aruba. – In 2007, Papiamento became an official language in Curaçao and Bonaire. – In 2012, the pilot project Scol Multilingual (Multilingual School) started in Aruba in two primary schools, with Papiamento as the primary language of instruction. – Aruba, Curaçao, and Bonaire have graduated teachers with bachelor’s and master’s degrees in Papiamento. – In 2015, Papiamento became an optional exam subject in secondary education in Aruba. – The government of Aruba decided that from 2018 on, the Scol Multilingual model will be introduced gradually in all (subsidised) primary schools. The Scol Arubano Multilingual is ready to be rolled out. – On March 16, 2022 the Minister of Education launched the Language Policy Project and the Minister of Culture launched the Cultural Policy Project. PAPIAMENTO: AN OFFICIAL CARIBBEAN CREOLE LANGUAGE 143 While significant steps have been taken, an educational system with Papiamento as the primary language of instruction alongside other languages still encounters resistance. An example is the 2003 Landsverordening Officiële Talen in Aruba. Although Papiamento was officialised as a national language (next to Dutch), the national ordinance at the same time discriminates against Papiamento. Articles 5, 6, 8, and 9 exclude Papiamento as the language of the law. Moreover, Articles 8 and 9 explicitly exclude the possibility to draw up notarial deeds in Papiamento. To many, these restrictions overshadowed the officialisation of Papiamento. A recent example of Papiamento resistance is the “Protocol of collaboration on the policy areas of Education, Culture, Science and Emancipation between Aruba and The Netherlands” of July 4, 2012.15 The protocol required the Aruban secondary education system to be fully embedded in the Dutch school system by 2016 and final exams to be in Dutch to guarantee the connection with the Netherlands. Accepting a socially non-functioning language as the primary language in replacement of your own proved impossible. Since the introduction of the Dutch-language education system, educational results have been poor, with high percentages of repeaters, dropouts, and students scoring below their potential as indicated by their actual intelligence level. There is a waste of talent, energy, motivation, and finances; there are many socio-psychological and socio-economic consequences. Table 4 illustrates educational level according to the most spoken language in Aruban households. Papiamento-speaking households score lowest at the secondary and highest educational levels. Table 4. Level of Education by Household Language in Aruba, 2010 (in %) Pap Spa Eng Dut Other Lower Vocational/MAVO (LE) 84.4 75.4 77.1 43.5 77.9 HAVO/VWO/Middle Vocational (IE) 10.6 20.4 13.6 26.7 15.6 4.8 4.2 10.7 29.9 6.4 HBO/University (TE) Source: CBS 2010; Pap=Papiamento; Spa=Spanish; Eng=English; Dut=Dutch. While Dutch became mandatory in education, justice, and government offices, Papiamento flourished in the community in different ways. Papiamento developed into a strong, thriving language, conquering more and more sectors of society. Papiamento is the language of most families, theatre and literature, music, art, the press, integration, even of Parliament and government agencies, and is the lingua franca between language groups. The imposition of Dutch as the only language of instruction has led to Dutch remaining a minority language and the least popular language (Table 5). 144 JOYCE PEREIRA AND LUC ALOFS Table 5. The Popularity of the Main Languages Spoken in Aruba Census 2010 YES 2015 Household Popularity Papiamento 76% 62% English 7% 24% Spanish 12% 9% Dutch 4% 4% 99% 99% Sources: Central Bureau for Statistics Aruba, 2010; Peterson, R. (2015). Youth Engaged in Sustainability – National Youth Study Aruba 2015. University of Aruba. In a survey,16 teachers and parents in Aruba also favoured educational reform with Papiamento as the language of instruction. They wanted their children’s schools included in the multilingual school project Scol Multilingual. This aspiration is understandable because on a daily basis they experience how their children struggle with a system that does not take into account their language and cultural background. They understand that “[l]earning is almost impossible if you do not understand.”17 Bonaire is a shocking case. In 2010 Bonaire became a special municipality within the Netherlands, and the Dutch government turned the clock back. Without any discussion, Papiamento lost its official status, with all its consequences, especially for education. The TaalUnie (Language Union) even dared to give the Dutch Ministry of Education this advice: use Dutch for cognitive development and Papiamento for identity and culture.18 It appears that the Dutch government does not dare acknowledge that Papiamento is the majority language in Bonaire (and English in Saba and St. Eustatius). The website Rijksoverheid.nl reads: “On the islands of Bonaire, St. Eustatius, and Saba (BES islands), Dutch is the official language. In Bonaire, people speak a lot of Papiamentu; in Saba and St. Eustatius, a lot of English. The languages Papiamentu and English may be used in education, contact with the government, the administration of justice.”19 In Bonaire, the struggle to provide Papiamento with the place it deserves started all over again; new research on the functions and value of Papiamento in the Bonairean community had to be conducted. This yet unpublished study, requested by Fundashon Akademia Papiamentu of Bonaire and conducted by Faraclas, Mijts, and Kester, shows that Papiamento in Bonaire has the most significant number of native speakers, is the community language, and should be the school language.20 In the final pages of this chapter we discuss the need for a language policy and planning for the ABC communities. PAPIAMENTO: AN OFFICIAL CARIBBEAN CREOLE LANGUAGE 145 Table 6. Most Spoken Home Languages in Aruba, Curaçao, and Bonaire Aruba Curaçao Bonaire Papiamento 72% 78.6% 68% Spanish 14% 6% 19% Dutch 6% 9.4% 11% English 7% 3.5% 2% Other 1% 2.4% 4% Sources: Central Bureau for Statistics Aruba, 2019; Central Bureau for Statistics Curaçao, 2011. Central Bureau for Statistics Netherlands, 2011.21 Literature and Music in Papiamento Through the centuries it proved impossible to stop the development of arts and culture in Papiamento. The development of literature and the language of music is very tangible. At the beginning of the twentieth century, Joseph Sickman Corsen of Curaçao surprised the community with his poems in Papiamento. His “Atardi,” (“Afternoon,” 1905) was the first published Papiamento poem and became a symbol of the lyrical qualities of Papiamento. Other important authors who wrote in Papiamento in Curaçao in the first half of the twentieth century were William Hoyer, Willem Kroon, Miguel Suriel, and Manuel Fraai.22 In Aruba, Frederik Beaujon can be seen as the first published poet. His “Atardi,” (“Afternoon”) “San Nicolas,” and “Ay! Mi ta cansá” (“Ay, I am tired”), were published in 1907 and 1919. In 1918, Beaujon translated Byron’s poem “The prisoner of Chillon” into Papiamento as “E prisonero di Chillon.”23 During World War II, the collection “Cancionero Papiamento” (1943) was published by “Julio Perrenal,” a combination of the names of its Curaçaoan authors Jules de Palm, Pierre Lauffer, and René de Rooy. These three young authors composed Papiamento songs to arouse the people’s love and appreciation for their language and culture. After World War II, it became increasingly normal to write songs in Papiamento. Singers, composers, and music groups produced work almost exclusively in Papiamento and became wildly popular. At yearly festivals, the Carnival Tumba on each of the three islands is elected. In Aruba, where initially Creole English was the language of the Carnival Calypso, people started using Papiamento as well.24 The islands also have annual song festivals for new compositions in Papiamento: “Un Canto pa Aruba” and “Un Kanto pa Korsou.” The Aruban children’s Papiamento song festival Voz-I-Landia Escolar is popular. Theatre in Papiamentu 146 JOYCE PEREIRA AND LUC ALOFS became more and more popular, and over time numerous theatre groups became active. There were many theatre performances and inter-island and international theatre festivals in which Papiamentu had a glorious presence. Youths became enthusiastic about the art of Papiamento spoken word. As of the 1998–1999 academic year, Papiamentu became a mandatory subject in secondary education in Curaçao. This fact gave the impetus to Arte di Palabra (“Art of the Spoken Word”), a competition of poetry and stories in Papiamento. Arte di Palabra aims to develop young literary talent. Young people, divided into different age categories, recite poems and stories, either their own or existing poems and stories. The competition was held for the first time in Curaçao in 2000. Bonaire and Aruba have participated since 2006 and 2009, respectively. The joint final takes place on a rotating basis on one of the islands. The organisers of Arte di Palabra also present an award, the Tapushi Literario, to a person or organisation that has made a significant contribution to the position of Papiamento. Adults have their own poetry competition, organized by the Department of Culture in Aruba. For one year, the writer of the best poem may hold the title “Poeta di Patria,” “Poet of the Country.” Since 2018, the Fundacion Lanta Papiamento (FLP) has organised a tribute to authors who had an informative, literary, or scientific publication in the current year. Papiamento for Nation-Building Papiamento functions as the number one unifying factor in nation-building in the ABC islands. UNESCO, UNICEF, scientists, educational reformers in Aruba and Curaçao, and NGOs defend the proposition that language, any language, is invaluable to the individual and the people whose mother tongue that language is. Language is part of the cultural heritage of a people and should be preserved, especially in these times of threats like globalisation, modernisation, and the blending of international culture.25 Also it is widely accepted that when a language dies out, an entire culture becomes extinct, including the knowledge, traditions, heritage, and ancestral memories that are acquired in that language. It has proved challenging to receive the support of the ABC governments for creating language awareness programs and policies. NGOs fill the gap. NGOs in Aruba, Curaçao, Bonaire, and the Netherlands that represent the interests of Papiamento have been working together for years in the Plataforma Union di Papiamentu (“Unified Papiamento Platform”).26 Their shared goals concern raising awareness among the Papiamento-speaking communities concerning the value of their language, shaking off the colonial yoke and changing the negative mentality towards their own language into a respectful and responsible attitude (which is so important for real development) and, of course, working to achieve PAPIAMENTO: AN OFFICIAL CARIBBEAN CREOLE LANGUAGE 147 the recognition of Papiamento in the Netherlands, being the majority language in Bonaire, which since 2010 has been a Dutch Public Entity. Language activism covers a wide variety of activities and includes research on all aspects of Papiamento; lectures and conferences about the language Papiamento (grammar, orthography, literature, history, sociolinguistics, education, language rights); courses to stimulate the development of Papiamento language proficiency on different levels, from beginner to advanced; storytelling, poetry, and other oral performances; spelling bees and dictation competitions; book publication; Papiamento celebrations (Day of the Mother Tongue, February 21; officialisation of Papiamento, May 21), the Year of Papiamento), and awards and special recognition. An example of a Papiamento campaign in Aruba was the establishment by ministerial decree on October 17, 1995, of Grupo Pa Promove Papiamento (GP3). This was the result of recommendations laid out in the document “Pa un enseñansa bilingual na Aruba” (“Towards bilingual education in Aruba”).27 GP3 was installed as an interdepartmental and multidisciplinary commission with members from almost all pertinent organisations and bodies and representatives from the media and the fields of theatre, music, and literature. GP3’s aims included raising awareness related to Papiamento, promoting better knowledge of Papiamento, and fostering a more careful, general, and ample use of Papiamento. GP3’s founding was remarkable and highly significant because the authorities openly recognised the value of Papiamento as a national language and proved their willingness to prepare the community for new language policies and changes in education. GP3 organised activities such as “Aña di Papiamento” (“The year of Papiamento”) in 1997 and introduced a special award, “Cadushi di Cristal,” for people who excelled in the promotion of Papiamento.28 Papiamento translators were trained for all government departments. GP3 has been inactive since 2008 due to expenditure cuts by the government. A group of translators started the NGO Fundacion Traductor di Papiamento (“Foundation Papiamento Translators”) (FCP). FCP together with Fundacion Lanta Papiamento and the Department of Culture organised the “Aña di Papiamento” in 2013 and 2018. ABC linguists have a regular linguistic exchange with their colleagues abroad and are active members of organisations such as the Society for Caribbean Linguistics (SCL), Caribbean Studies Association (CSA), and International Linguistic Association (ILA). Foreign universities, such as Earlham College in Richmond, Indiana, U.S.A., and the University of Mannheim in Germany, teach Papiamento language and culture courses with the help of Dutch Caribbean linguists. International students come to our islands to research Papiamento for their master’s or PhD thesis. At the first meeting of the editors of the new Journal of Caribbean Social Studies, the representatives of the ABC islands proposed Papiamento as one of the languages in which to publish. Everyone accepted this proposal, without discussion, by acclamation. 148 JOYCE PEREIRA AND LUC ALOFS Papiamento for Nation-Branding Language is the most significant identity marker of a community and a nation and Papiamento sets the ABC islands apart from other countries in the Caribbean. The community has long been aware of this and presented their “product” Papiamento not only on the islands themselves, but also abroad. The theatre groups Thalia (Curaçao), Mascaruba, and FARPA (Aruba) participated in international Papiamentolanguage theatre festivals. Mascaruba performed in Suriname, Japan, Venezuela, Colombia, Mexico, Peru, Cuba, and the U.S. Papiamento scholars introduced Papiamento at international conferences and received enthusiastic responses. Until now, tourism boards have not used Papiamento’s potential for nation-branding, but rather English, the language of global tourism. Aruba adopted the slogan “Aruba, One happy island.” Curaçao first used “Curaçao, real different!” as its slogan and now “Curaçao, feel it for yourself!” Bonaire promotes itself as “Bonaire, Diver’s Paradise.” Another example is the English tourism promotion Balashi, a recent Aruban beer brand referring to tradition; traditional funci (corn flour) with text in Papiamento; Aruban brand of rum named ‘Papiamento; Sushi restaurant ‘Ganikome’, the name sounds Japanese, but it is a Papiamento contraction of ‘Gana di kome’, meaning craving for food (collage by the authors) PAPIAMENTO: AN OFFICIAL CARIBBEAN CREOLE LANGUAGE 149 slogan: “I♥Aruba/Bonaire,” which would translate as “Mi stima Aruba/Bonaire”; “Mi♥Aruba” or “Mi♥Bonaire” would have been an easy option to familiarise tourists with Papiamento, the authentic cultural marker of the ABC islands. Curaçao sets a positive example: “Dushi Curaçao” means “My beloved Curaçao,” “Curaçao My Love,” or “Sweet Curaçao.” Although English is still widely used in advertisements and other texts for the general population, there is a steady improvement in attitudes towards Papiamento.29 A recent development is providing products from the islands with a Papiamento brand name. The products are eagerly purchased by tourists and the local people themselves to send or take abroad as gifts. Proper management of this development could result in tremendous branding of the product, the country, and the language. These are bottom-up examples of the creative use of Papiamento for nation-branding. Planning, Policy and Prestige for Language Emancipation The previous paragraphs provide ample arguments that language planning and policy must be a joint venture between the government and the NGOs. A language planning and policy institute on the islands working under an umbrella Papiamento/ Papiamentu language union is necessary to rescue this most important cultural heritage of the ABC communities. Baldauf Jr.’s table “The Evolving Framework for Language Planning Goals by Levels and Awareness” (2004)30 offers a four-tiered framework that focuses on the goals of language policy and planning (LPP). LPP includes four essential areas: status planning, corpus planning, language-in-education planning, and prestige planning. Each area has its specific policy and implementation planning goals, but they are all intertwined and interrelated, as shown in Figure 3. These intertwined areas operate at all levels of decision-making and execution.31 1. Status planning focuses on the functions of the languages in a given community. The objects of status planning are primarily the recognition by the government of the position of the various languages spoken in the community32 and the legal regulations which follow naturally from that recognition. 2. Corpus planning refers to language cultivation, reform, and standardisation.33 It includes such activities as producing all kinds of materials in the target language(s) for education and the community, especially for all the levels of acquisition planning. 3. Acquisition planning relates directly to creating possibilities for all groups in the community to acquire multiple types and levels of knowledge and competence in the target languages. 150 JOYCE PEREIRA AND LUC ALOFS 4. Prestige and image planning (PIP) increases the acknowledgment, appreciation, and valorisation of the target languages.34 It significantly impacts how the community receives corpus, status, and acquisition planning and eventually owns them. The focus of prestige and image planning is the promotion of the target languages among the possible users, aiming to develop a positive mentality and attitude towards those languages. Language Roles: Language in development Language as development Language for development Language of development Status Planning Papiamento Dutch English Spanish Policy and Cultivation Planning goals on Prestige & Image Planning Language Policy & Planning Corpus Planning Macro level Meso level Micro level Acquisition Planning Fig. 3. A Model for a Language Policy and Planning Institute According to Spolsky, successful language planning and policy depend on the beliefs and consensual behaviour of the members of a speech community.35 Although a relatively recent addition, prestige and image planning (PIP) is an area of language policy and planning that needs urgent attention.36 Lack of knowledge about one’s language creates a vicious circle, wherein every generation is less able to model the proper use of Papiamento for the next generation. Lack of maintenance and expansion means that even a relatively strong language like Papiamento becomes threatened. English, the “killer language,” 37 is on our doorstep. Five-year-old children speak English, which they learn from cable television and the internet, better than their mother tongue Papiamento. Unnecessary is the continuous code-switching and code-mixing with English and Dutch. The awareness or ability to be creative with new concepts is absent: words and whole sentences are just taken over instead of being translated or transformed to conform with the structures of Papiamento. Code-switching and code-mixing are phenomena that are usually associated with healthy multilingualism in a community. In the ABC islands, however, they occur so often and in such an excessive way PAPIAMENTO: AN OFFICIAL CARIBBEAN CREOLE LANGUAGE 151 that we consider them signs of severe loss of vocabulary and decay in fluency in the mother tongue. PIP is not simply a vehicle for public relations, rather it is responsible for the dissemination of information and knowledge about Papiamento and healing wounds caused by a hostile colonial language policy.38 It must guarantee that nations become aware of and have access to the content of all publications and have the opportunity to follow the discussions about them and participate in these discussions. Working to increase awareness and spread knowledge of Papiamento among communities contributes to their sense of responsibility toward and pride in their language and culture, which is essential for nation-building. The fact that Aruba, Curaçao, and Bonaire have a cooperation agreement in the development and promotion of Papiamento (2019) paves the way for the creation of a joint ABC island institute for language planning and language policy, with PIP as the trailblazer, that can play a crucial role in the process of creating a shared responsibility for language, culture, and the nation, hence nation-building.39 Concluding Remarks Three islands with two orthographies and one language. The colonial setting casts a veil over their Creole linguistic heritage. Despite recent improvements in its status, Papiamento is still struggling for recognition—even amongst its speakers—as a language that can cover all academic and emotional registers. Anti-Creole colonial language policies cast a long shadow. ABC communities still experience the consequences of the 1819 education decree and the 1935 regulations. Papiamento’s image is of a deficient non-language or “dialect.” Ministries of education, policymakers, and the ABC community must come to terms with the overwhelming scientific evidence that students’ home and community languages are optimal languages for instruction and initial literacy. Teaching materials, informational materials, and literature for young and old must become available to strengthen the realisation of human talent and the creation of resilient communities, open democracies and viable economies with a strong labour force. Hence, nation-building. Papiamento is the single most important intangible heritage expression in Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao. In spite of colonial oppression and stagnant emancipation, islanders have used the power of Papiamento to survive and let their cultures flourish. Islanders capture their thoughts and experiences in the language through poetry, stories, theatre, song, dance, and music. The arts continuously enrich the language for the sake of identity formation and dissemination. Papiamento as a vehicle for cultural expression offers limitless possibilities for branding the islands as cradles of local arts, science, and Creole tourism, hence nation-branding. 152 JOYCE PEREIRA AND LUC ALOFS Non-sovereignty matters. Despite each nation’s context after the 2010 constitutional reforms—Bonaire being part of the Netherlands; Curaçao and Aruba being non-sovereign countries—the many NGOs and universities mentioned in this chapter continued to work together, producing textbooks, reading books, grammar, and dictionaries, organising bachelor’s and master’s courses for language teachers, and designing language policies. A joint institute for language planning and policy can ensure that Papiamento, the Caribbean’s second officially recognised national Creole language, is valued, passed on from generation to generation, and promoted in the ABC speech community and abroad. CHAPTER 8 Aruban, Bonairean, and Curaçaoan Writers between the Caribbean and the Netherlands Sara Florian The Concept of “Nation” The concepts of nation, nation-building, nation-branding, and cultural heritage are at the heart of today’s mass migration movements, virtual connections, and creolised and creolising multiculturalism. In this chapter I argue that the sense of cultural displacement is part of the formative processes of nation-building. By delineating the framework within which I expect to be writing this chapter, I would like to define the above-mentioned terms. UNESCO’s definition of cultural heritage is important in contouring intangible and tangible examples of cultural heritage, such as the ABC islands’ “kuentanan di Nanzi” (African-derived Anansi stories) or “kantikanan” (folk songs):1 “Cultural heritage … also includes traditions or living expressions inherited from our ancestors and passed on to our descendants …”2 It is therefore seminal to broaden the literary lens to include other forms of cultural expression to this analysis, such as songs, art, or videos. However, language is at the core of a literary discourse on nation-building and nation-branding. The etymology of “nation” is linked to “birth” as the word originates from the Latin nascor (I was born)3 and in its turn from the Greek γεννάω (gennao, to beget, to generate).4 During the European Enlightenment period, as a consequence of the decline of the Dutch Republic in the eighteenth century, the Dutch language became a seminal component in the process of nation-building.5 Nonetheless it seems that the Dutch colonisers did not attempt or manage to infiltrate their European language in the national creoles of their Caribbean territories (although the case of Suriname might differ) as much as it happened in the case of the English, the French, the Spanish, or the Portuguese. George Lamming attributed the origin of the word “creole” to the “Spanish criar, which means … to nourish, to nurse … and to indigenise.”6 The origin of the word “creole” and its maternal/feeding connection are thus intimately linked to the idea of nation as a place of birth, of origin. Many Diaspora writers from the ABC islands still opt to publish either in Dutch or Papiamento/u. Languages that are often hybridised or Caribbeanised in a polished form become vectors to communicate with the nations of their former 154 SARA FLORIAN masters, yet disarranged from their rigid grammatical perfection to claim new “native” voices. These new expressions of culture were defined in sociological terms as an intrinsic response to power, which Stuart Hall described as “a space of weak power but … a space of power … in the contemporary arts.”7 Quoting Frantz Fanon’s “On National Culture” Homi Bhabha claimed that it is neither from a fixed historicity nor from a special crystallisation that a national discourse can be delineated, as it is the product of a cultural splitting, for it is from an “instability of cultural signification that the national culture comes to be articulated as a dialectic of various temporalities—modern, colonial, postcolonial, ‘native.’”8 The “here/there” binomial that incorporates the conceptual and imaginary space of the Dutch Caribbean varies and helps to define nationhood. In speaking of “imaginary” I also refer to the imagined space of home that Dutch Caribbean and Surinamese writers expressed. For instance, in his essay “Het eind van de kaart” (1980) Albert Helman admitted to being attached to Suriname as an “idea.”9 This is one of the reasons why I chose to analyse the following authors: Cola Debrot, Frank Martinus Arion, and Quito Nicolaas, as they witnessed this cultural splitting in fieri and explored its imaginary implications. Debrot mainly wrote in Dutch, Arion in Dutch and Papiamentu, Nicolaas in Dutch, Papiamento, and occasionally Spanish. The Caribbean is probably one of the geo-political and conceptual spaces in which globalisation had an impressive historical impact at a deep cultural and linguistic level. Creoles are a strong element which advocates for an underpinning of nation-building and nation-branding. On the islands of Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao the creoles spoken are Portuguese-based. In the case of Bonaire and Curaçao’s Papiamentu a phonological orthography is employed. Aruba’s Papiamento instead embeds an etymological orthography, hence the differences between Papiamentu and Papiamento.10 Both are a unique amalgam of Portuguese, Spanish, Dutch, French, English, Taíno/Arawak, and African languages, plausibly from the Upper Guinea region.11 In the Bonairean/Curaçaoan writer Cola Debrot’s metaphor, the shards forming the Caribbean mosaic are part of a crystal’s facets12 and represent many aspects of nation-building and Caribbean identity. On the ABC islands the moment of contact between Europeans and locals goes back to the fifteenth century, when Spanish and Italian sailors such as Alonso de Ojeda, Juan de la Cosa, and Amerigo Vespucci reached Bonaire and Curaçao. The territories were alternatively conquered by the Spanish, Dutch (first half of seventeeth century), and British. Each island had a different historical development, but the common economic denominator was the Dutch West India Company, founded in 1621. Emancipation in the Dutch Antilles came only in 1863, long after the 1795 Curaçao slave revolt led by Tula Rigaud and Bazjan Karpata at the Landhuis Knip/Kenepa. The Curaçao Slave Revolt arose on the wave of the 1791 Haitian Revolution, an extraordinarily important landmark in world history, as it was the WRITERS BETWEEN THE CARIBBEAN AND THE NETHERLANDS 155 first victorious case of a slave insurrection which led to the creation of the first Black Republic in the world. Almost three hundred years after the takeover by the Dutch West India Company a new form of capitalism was established on the islands with the institution of oil refineries on Curaçao in 191513 and on Aruba in 1924. On Bonaire a few plantations and salt pans made the island resemble Saint Martin. The three islands had different outcomes in the twentieth century: Curaçao seemed to take the lead in the former colonies of the Dutch Empire as its territory became and continued to be the axis of the late colonial government. After World War II and until 2010 the former colonies were grouped in the geo-political denomination of the Netherlands Antilles; Suriname and the Netherlands Antilles became autonomous in 1954, and Suriname became independent in 1975. In 1986 Aruba obtained a much sought-after status aparte. In 2010 Bonaire became a special municipality and Curaçao became a constituent country within the Kingdom of the Netherlands.14 From 1900 to today the three selected writers witnessed these socio-political changes as part of a transition from colonialism to a partial decolonisation: Debrot by promoting an interracial coexistence of all components of Caribbean society; Arion by focusing on the emancipation of Afro-Curaçaoans and on an exploration of their roots; Nicolaas by including the indigenous populations in his reflections on nation-building. A Bonairean Writer: Cola Debrot (1902–1981) Like Frits Ruprecht, the main character of his long novella Mijn Zuster de Negerin, Nicolaas “Cola” Debrot was born in Bonaire in 1902—the same year of the eruption of Mount Pelée in Martinique. At the tender age of two he moved to Curaçao with his father of Swiss-French descent and his mother of Venezuelan descent. At the age of fourteen he went to the Netherlands to study and there he would pursue an education in law and medicine. Debrot’s own writing inspired his travels and was inspired by them: like Frits he would also move back to the Caribbean, but Debrot did so in the 1940s, when he instilled new energy into the cultural life of the islands. Debrot was an important diplomat and politician. He rose to the position of governor of the Netherlands Antilles in 1962 and served until 1970, thus facing the May 30 rebellion in Curaçao in 1969. He was a prolific writer, who mainly wrote in Dutch, despite his polyglossia (Dutch, Papiamentu, Spanish, French, English). In this section I will analyse the concept of nationhood in his novellas Mijn Zuster de Negerin (1935) and De Vervolgden (1982; posthumous). The long novella Mijn Zuster de Negerin was published in the interwar period, when the European empires had not yet ended and, both in the northern and southern Europe, racialised ideas were gaining traction in the form of dictatorships 156 SARA FLORIAN Bust of Cola Debrot by Pieter de Monchy in Plasa Gobernador Cola Debrot, Curaçao (photo Rita Merkies) and totalitarianisms that were sinking Europe into a deep cultural regression. Indigence led to mass migration. Despite several scholarly mentions concerning incest,15 by depicting a familial relationship which disrupts the pattern of domination by a white man over a black woman, Debrot shed new light on the relationship between individuals as a novel sense of nationhood, achieving much more than reflecting on what was socially unacceptable. In his pages the concept of empire had already changed and revisions of the colonial system were requested in Curaçao and Suriname. This solidified in the form of national party movements such as the Nationale Volkspartij, founded by Moises Frumencio da Costa Gomez in 1948, which Debrot joined. Debrot depicted a moment of political changes, aimed at founding a new, more inclusive society. In that kind of Caribbean society the identitarian schizophrenic element of Frantz Fanon’s works Black Skin, White Masks (1952) and The Wretched of the Earth (1961) can be perceived in the way the characters do not accept one another’s evolution: Frits is repulsed by the invitations of the notary who would like to include him in the Europeanised lifestyle on the island, while Frits himself is not welcomed by the district warden Karel, his childhood friend. The topical characterisation of chiaroscuro elements is a constant, appearing as a foil to the nostalgic sunset-like feeling that Debrot portrays as a background to the story.16 The encounter is, however, not WRITERS BETWEEN THE CARIBBEAN AND THE NETHERLANDS 157 dichromatic, as the distant lacklustre Europe adds nuanced hues of colour to the oxymoronic perception of identity and nation. The sunset on the unnamed island is the sunset of an empire. Maria, the female protagonist of Mijn Zuster de Negerin, does not show a capacity for rebelling against Frits at the onset and she is not an example of self-fulfilment— her mother has no name—, hence her similiarity to the female characters in Arion’s Dubbelspel, who are often subjected to men. The racialised characterisation of Maria as “negerin” still highlights a linguistic inability to accept diversity without judgement. The embroilment between the Europeans and the islanders reveals the fading colours of an empire and sketches a passage to self-determination. The colonial full-rigged three-masted ship is now sitting inside a bottle in the Ruprechts’ house (70). The new negotiation of power relationships is particularly evident in the exchange between Frits and Karel, as the latter accuses the former of having strolled around the cities of Europe, while Frits replies he believes that his friend is “overestimating” the continent (my translation, “overschat,” 61). The tropical people are still given a stereotypical appearance with straw hats and pith helmets (50), while Maria is dressed in a white shirt and black skirt and local women are mythologised into fleeing Black nymphs (59). I perceive a longing sense of homesickness, or “heimwee,”17 and melancholy whilst reading the novella. Homecoming counterposes the locus amoenus of the unnamed island to the locus horribilis of Europe. In this dichotomic space Debrot shows what Fanon would have defined as a post-colonial “neurotic society” derived from colonisation, as Octave Mannoni (1956) would have also argued. But the setting is not as innovative as one may think; in fact, Van Kempen points out that the Surinamese Albert Helman had already published De stille plantage18 in 1931, almost seventy years after the abolition of slavery in the Dutch colonies, in 1863. The plantation house and its inhabitants coming and going from Europe had already been the setting chosen to discuss changing societies in the overseas Dutch colonies. Frits Ruprecht’s dilapidated “koenóekoe” (51) is a house on top of a hill (31) where Frits grew up. It carries memories of their common father, Alexander Ruprecht, who allowed Maria to get an education as a teacher. The dark cunucu house, which is inspired by Debrot’s father’s plantation house, becomes a territory that is redrafted also owing to the elderly overseer Wantsjo, who is the one revealing to Frits that Maria is his half-sister. Frits opts to live in the cunucu house and not in the Dutch-style gabled buildings that are common on the island. However, when Frits reaches the island, he is lonely but feels “glory” and longs for “blackness and affection” (my translation, “heerlijkheid … zwartheid en aanhankelijkheid,” 53). Koch observed how the Miraflores plantation represents for Frits both a funerary monument and the African literary motif of the ark,19 but he also noticed how the “symbolism of the attic” connects and acts as “the subconscious.”20 This 158 SARA FLORIAN reminds me of Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea (1966) and the groundbreaking yet complex exploration of creoleness. The comparison with Rhys also comes to mind when Frits sees the local flora and fauna (agave, cacti, palm trees, tamarind tree, “anglo”/“wanglo,” hummingbirds) and feels “intoxicated with memories” (my translation, “zich bedwelmend aan herinneringen,” 55), a sense of intoxication that is also conveyed in the Jamaican sugar plantation by Antoinette Cosway’s story in Wide Sargasso Sea.21 Frits is “endlessly intoxicated” by Maria (my translation, “de vrouw die hem eindeloos bedwelmde,” 83). After the secret relationship is revealed, Frits lulls Maria to sleep like his late mother would have done with him, in the darkness. This text contributes to the concept of nation-building by portraying a lonely, homesick individual who learns to live in a fraternal relationship with the “Other.” This is particularly relevant as I read the novella De Vervolgden (1982), which deals with miscegenation as a crime to be punished. In this novella, in order to counter racial discrimination and colonial supremacy, the governor, who respects his own national symbols such as the flag and the language, still strives against hierarchy and unreasonable supremacy. He kills Padre Rojas, who defended the criminal concept of ethnic cleansing, “limpieza de la raza,” and who aimed to disclose the culprits to the inquisition (369). Several analyses of this novella revealed the historical references and the true-to-life inspiration behind the character of the governor. Debrot might have been inspired by Lázaro Bejarano—son-in-law of the Spanish slave-dealer Juan Martínez de Ampiés22—by a projection of his idea of tolerance and “humanism” on a Romanticised version of Bejarano,23 or by himself.24 On the fictional island of Curaçam/Bonaire,25 the native Caiquetíos (the “persecuted”) try to find refuge in the caves that surround a blooming forest of kibrahacha (yellow poui), believing that the Spanish arriving on board the ship Infanta Combita will be discouraged by the inhospitable vegetation. It is the mestizo Alonso who explains how there used to be noxious plants on the island. Local vegetation is compared to human tolerance and to the long path ahead toward reciprocal inclusion that needs to be followed: as the governor cleansed the land of infestant plants (335), he now plans to do the same in order to build a better society. In this aspect, the sense of brotherhood was explored in Debrot’s novellas: in Mijn Zuster de Negerin, as one of the components of nationhood, beyond ethnicities, stereotypes, or even kinship itself; in De Vervolgden, as his idea of racial harmony in the aftermath of the May 30 rebellion in Curaçao. WRITERS BETWEEN THE CARIBBEAN AND THE NETHERLANDS 159 A Curaçaoan Writer: Frank Martinus Arion (1936–2015) Frank Martinus Arion was born in Curaçao but moved to the Netherlands in his teen years in order to study. The year of Debrot’s death, Arion moved back to his native island where he became the driving force behind the Curaçao Language Institute, promoting Papiamentu. In 1987 he co-founded the first Papiamentu school in Curaçao, the Kolegio Erasmo Skol Humanista na Papiamentu,26 and in 1988 he founded the pro-independence political party KARA (Kambio Rápido). Arion wrote poems, novels, and essays and I will analyse mainly his novel Dubbelspel (1973). More than Debrot and Nicolaas, Arion focused his literary production on a recognition and promotion of the Africanness and Afro-Caribbean identitarian component in Curaçaoans, without neglecting the indigenous stem. Nonetheless, he was also greatly inspired by European literary figures such as Dante and Petrarch.27 The importance of language for the people and of the people is an ancient idea: since Plato’s dialogues Protagoras and Alcibiades the master/teacher of language is the people.28 The love of languages and the intellectual need to explore one’s roots are evident in Arion’s PhD thesis, The Kiss of a Slave, which investigates the syntactic and morphological relationships between Papiamentu and West African languages. Since the 1950s Papiamentu has inspired the Simadán poets, such as Pierre Lauffer—who published Di Nos/Our Heritage (1971), the first anthology in Frank Martinus Arion 160 SARA FLORIAN Papiamentu—and in the 1960s the Watapana poets, such as Henry Habibe, to write in their native creole. Arion’s most successful novel, Dubbelspel, was written in a “creolised” Dutch.29 The world Arion describes in his novel is a less explored Curaçao, which also inspired the 2017 movie Double Play by Ernest R. Dickerson. As the director explained in an interview, Curaçao is also a character in the film, and women have a seminal part to play.30 Dickerson acknowledged having been inspired by the Italian director Sergio Leone, as the unusually round domino table that appears in the film mimics the round arena of the Spaghetti Western genre, becoming a metaphor of life and of perceived relationships.31 Dubbelspel has been discussed and analysed by many scholars,32 but I will focus on how the writer portrayed the concept of nationhood. Van Kempen observed how the three initial quotations in Dubbelspel (in Dutch, English, and German) represent the “Caribbean schizophrenia,”33 a feature one can observe in Debrot’s work as well. In an imaginary suburb of Willemstad called Wakota the four domino players—Manchi Sanantonio, Janchi Pau, Boeboe Fiel, and Chamon Nicolas—are all Black Caribbean men who represent different social classes during a game of dominoes at Boeboe’s house on a Sunday afternoon in a 1970s Curaçao, shortly after the May 1969 riots. The Dutch word “dubbelspel,” which is close enough to “dobbelspel” (a dice gambling game), indicates both the elements of gamble and “double”; its ambiguity explains the coexistence of white and black on domino tiles. A tile whose two sets of dots or pips are identical in number is called a “double tile.” The duplicity and double match is expressed in many ways and its etymology finds roots both in Europe and Africa. Despite its linguistic affiliations, the game of dominoes was conceivably created in China in the Middle Ages and subsequently reached Europe. The Latin word duplus (double) came to Middle Dutch via the French verb dobler (to double):34 two of the novel’s characters are married and two of them have an affair with the former characters’ wives. Doris Hambuch also reflected upon the similarity between dominoes and the Latin words dominus (master, Lord) and domus (house, home).35 What they are playing is not only a game but an attempt to conquer money, social status, or love; in fact, the reader realises that there are a couple of criss-crossed relationships that will lead to a murder. The Yoruba god Shango/Chango is characterised by a double-headed axe that shows how love and war are interconnected.36 Solema, Janchi’s lover, is married to Manchi, the bailiff who is building a weekend house. Nora is married to Boeboe, a taxi driver and libertine who often visits Campo Alegre, the prostitute camp, but she also has an affair with the Saban Chamon. Boeboe dies from fighting with Chamon, who stabs him in the heart37—a symbolic coincidence. Manchi commits suicide whilst playing the domino-like WRITERS BETWEEN THE CARIBBEAN AND THE NETHERLANDS 161 black-and-white piano keys. The deaths caused by love in the novel may also recall the “boneyard,” that is, the draw pile on a domino table. Nora spends money on rum instead of on her son Ostrik’s shoes, privileging conviviality and social consideration over culture. The Portuguese shop selling rum may be a hint at the island’s colonial past. From these instances alone one can appreciate how love and violence are linked. Poverty is often associated with problems. Women have been oppressed and considered prostitutes to the extent that Solema has to pay her husband five guilders a night, like a prostitute. Janchi wins the game of dominoes and with Solema he will possibly be able to start building a new society. The two pairs of men, the “husbands” and the “lovers,” represent the different attitudes of society, and probably the new socialist ideas engendered by Solema, a Curaçao teacher who previously studied in Europe and brings about change in the novel. Hinging on Dubbelspel’s cornerstones, Nicolaas envisages Arion’s novel as a dialectic reflection on the “poverty of culture” and consequently on a “culture of poverty,”38 whilst De Roo argued that the novel inspires the building of a better and more gender-equal society.39 When, during the game of dominoes, Janchi reveals that he wants to name the furniture factory “Solema,” he is disclosing both his secret love and his political ideals.40 The fact that Janchi would like to hire locals and use the island’s trees41 to make furniture is a symbol of nurturing the nation’s seeds and enacting the “revolution” he aspires to, while at the same time recalling Nicolaas’s gardening metaphors, which I will illustrate later on. Even though Rutgers noticed how the omniscient narrator in Dubbelspel draws from the European Romantic tradition,42 as the novel won the van der Hoogt Prize, parallels were also drawn with the South American literary tradition.43 In Derek Walcott’s painting Domino Players the colours of the Caribbean, the quiet indifference of the players, the nosy neighbour at the window, the women in the room’s background reminded me of this novel. In Omeros Walcott wrote about dominoes while he was in the US: “And beyond them, like dominoes / with lights for holes, the black skyscrapers of Boston,”44 yet in Ida Does’s documentary Poetry is an Island, Walcott confessed feeling disoriented when he was away from St. Lucia.45 Arion chose his native Curaçao over Europe and his narrative is centred on his own island, heritage, and language, Papiamentu. Arion and Walcott wrote both in patois and in the coloniser’s language. The characters of Arion and Walcott need to reflect both languages. Walcott created a well-rounded Caribbean character, Shabine, who anatomises his DNA in the lines: “I’m just a red nigger who love the sea, / I had a sound colonial education, / I have Dutch, nigger, and English in me, / and either I’m nobody, or I’m a nation”; he, subsequently, adds: “I had no nation now but the imagination.”46 In Arion’s Dubbelspel the character of Chamon, the only foreigner who has travelled within the Caribbean archipelago, may resemble Shabine as a wanderer in search of his own identity. 162 SARA FLORIAN As Arion gives an uncompassionate description of alcoholism, slums, prostitution, and the pristine beaches that attract many tourists, Walcott compares the Greek islands (“As John to Patmos”) to St. Lucia. The sense of nation-building and nation-branding that Arion portrays in his writing is very different from Debrot’s all-encompassing multicultural society. Even though Arion sketched a society made up of different mosaic tiles, he also outlined the elemental tensions that these tiles may encounter due to poverty, social discrimination, or stereotypes. One way to step out of this societal mold is by becoming cultured, culturalised, and acculturated. Walcott’s love for his people and his island allows for a comparison with a well-rooted intellectual like Arion, who was conscious and proud of his own and his people’s origins and preferred his native territory over the imperial metropolis. The aftermath of the May 30, 1969 riots in Curaçao was for Arion a spur to fight for equality between the ethnic components of society as well as for gender parity. An Aruban Writer: Quito Nicolaas (1955) Quito Nicolaas is an Aruban/Dutch writer. At the age of seventeen he went to the Netherlands to study law and political science and has been living there since. His sense of nationhood probably lies in the slash dividing “Aruban” and “Dutch”; in the “Introduction” to his latest poetry collection, Argus, I defined “displacement as a sense of belonging,” whenever “[t]he poet reflects on the distance between [t] he Netherlands, his elected dwelling place, and Aruba, the place of his heart” (13). Other Aruban writers who are based in the Netherlands, such as Giselle Ecury, Denis Henriquez, or the late Olga Orman, might be (have been) able to relate to a similar sentiment and sense of non-belonging, for Nicolaas defined “Caribbean migrant literature” as “still largely focused on the homeland.”47 By writing in the new country’s language, migrant writers tend to focus on their sense of isolation and uprootedness. In his essays and columns Nicolaas comments on the economic positioning of Aruba, the cultural and historical heritage of Arubans, and segments of the island’s community that are often overlooked or forgotten, such as the Chinese. As Nicolaas points out, the Chinese reached Aruba after the fall of the Qing Dynasty; Arion even found linguistic “affinities” between Chinese and Papiamento.48 A strong sense of belonging to his Aruban origins can be perceived in Nicolaas’s oeuvre: poems, novels, short stories, essays, articles. Especially through the last, one can place his work in a post-colonial literary discourse that embraces not only the ABC islands and the Caribbean but also the Middle East, India, and South America. For instance, in his columns Met Open Ogen (2016), Nicolaas identifies as seminal to the nation-branding process the existence and nurturing of a well-educated WRITERS BETWEEN THE CARIBBEAN AND THE NETHERLANDS 163 Quito Nicolaas intelligentsia who develops new ideas and reflections in a positive cultural environment, tackling themes such as language policy and literary education. I will analyse Nicolaas’s novel Verborgen Leegte and some of his poems. Reality has many colours in the author’s literary display. In the novel Verborgen Leegte Jakob, a Jewish character, abuses the Arubans, replacing the historical figure of the white master as a shon.49 The setting shifts from an oil refinery in San Nicolas to the Netherlands and the US. The “hidden emptiness” mentioned in the novel’s title refers to half-truths and flawed love relationships. The main character, Maureen, who studied in The Hague in the 1960s and later in Washington, meets the former governor of the island and discovers uncomfortable truths about her past. Similar to the situation in Debrot’s Mijn Zuster de Negerin, Maureen finds out that her friend Rachel Boissevain is her half-sister. This way Maureen will be able to explain her lighter complexion and face the issues of immigration and identity in Europe, which are provocatively explored in this novel. Nonetheless, everything seems to stem from an anonymous note found in the San Nicolas library, which hinted at communion and unity. The importance of culture is also a key message for people to step out of their limited viewpoint and to embrace the “Other,” to dig into history and understand its hidden truths. In fact, Maureen hopes for a holistic cultural development as she remembers being treated often as “someone coming from an island without history, culture and ambition” (my translation, “als iemand afkomistig van een eiland zonder geschiedenis, cultuur en ambitie,” 143). 164 SARA FLORIAN Nicolaas’s first two poetry collections, Eclips Politico (1990) and Ilusion Optico (1995), were written in Papiamento, the language of his heart and of his beloved San Nicolas. There he grew up surrounded by people of multifarious nationalities— Venezuelans, Lebanese, Chinese, Jewish—and compared his island to a pearl in “Union y Desunion.”50 In his poem “Tree Trunk” from the collection Gerede Twijfels, he reminisced: “Here, / I was planted, / … I grew up, / among foreign workers” (28). Nicolaas’s work shows the modern struggle in cultural heritage and sense of belonging. Having witnessed the transition of Aruba from the Netherlands Antilles to status aparte, he can relate to and recount a sense of nation-building.51 In the “Introduction” to Eclips Politico the poet had identified a sort of mental dependency of the inhabitants of the Netherlands Antilles to the former mother country, defining it as “neo-colonial,” which carries with it a “fear of independence.” The author points out how the title refers to an “eclipse,” as the waning of the moon and the sun in the colonial passages, for the individual is left in a “situashon skizofrénico”—which, again, echoes Frantz Fanon’s writing—and of cultural alienation (“Criaturanan,” 26–27). Another reference to Fanon is made in the poem “Zwarte huid,” in which the poet ruminates on the passing of time and on the perception of the Self: “Zwarte huid, blanke masker.”52 His collection Bos pa Planta (2011) was published in a trilingual edition (Papiamento, Dutch, and English) on the twenty-fifth anniversary of Aruba’s status aparte,53 a moment described with symbols of a nation in “Status Nascendi”: “The flag was hoisted / … A monument offered” (150). In his exploration Nicolaas does not neglect the devotion to the native Amerindian peoples. As the title suggests, the poet gives “a voice to the plant.” The consistent gardening symbolism relates the mother country to “mama tera,” in recurrent clusters of metaphors interweaving terrain, germination, sowing, and harvesting of truths found in the soil and uncovered, as the author forewarns in the “Introduction” (5).54 In “Simia” a wanglo seed brought identity and dedication (11); in “Determinacion” the agave plant (cucuisa/ kukwisa) has harvested a symbol in the poet’s skin, witnessing a bloodbath at the Frenchman Pass (41). The sea waves breaking on the coast are a memory of the poet’s inspirational voice (“Desampara,” 18), bringing about hope (“Soberania,” 30), a song for unity (“Un canto pa Union,” 34), and a sense of nationhood (“Nacion,” 35). In Argus Nicolaas travels beyond Europe to many cities in the world, but it is in the Caribbean that the poet finds a sense of home, among the sounds of local birds and the blowing wind (“Tera Firme,” 56). His unified sense of nation at times uncomfortably clashes with his perception of a “second skin” (“No More Tomorrow,” 32; “Deceit the Kitchen table,” 64), “de tweede huid” (“Nooit meer morgen,” 33), “calligraphed deep into the soul” (“No More Tomorrow,” 32). This provokes a painful wound, a symbol employed by the poet to invite others to learn history, “a lamented tongue. / Headstrong wind, / descending on the Hooiberg mountain / to dismantle WRITERS BETWEEN THE CARIBBEAN AND THE NETHERLANDS 165 the hurricane. / Open the book of history / so others can hear” (“En route,” 28). In the last poem’s Dutch version there are several references to language, such as “hadden … gesproken” (would have spoken); “woorden” (words); “betreurde tong” (lamented tongue); “praten” (talk) (“Onderweg,” 29). The Dutch word used for “lamented” is “betreurde,” a past tense of the verb “betreuren,” which means “to grieve” and, originally, “to mourn,”55 so language is employed as a mourning lamentation. The themes in Argus recall those in Bos pa Planta. The echo of a wounded soul reflecting on colonialism, emanating from the Hooiberg, the third highest point on Aruba, is also heard in the poem “Na caminda,” in which the poet’s voice is full of agony and nostalgia, is swept by an uncompromising wind to the Hooiberg.56 Cultural and social mobility corroborate the dynamic aspects of Aruban society and history; people should learn to embrace society’s mercurial nature to propel mutual understanding and progress. Nicolaas contributed to the discourse on the end of an empire from a multicultural diasporic perspective, one that may relate to other migrant transnational figures. Conclusion Debrot, Arion, and Nicolaas are three authors whose work can be seen as a reflection of the identitarian shift that first the Netherlands Antilles and later the Dutch Caribbean went through in the twentieth century, and who reflected on the concepts of nation-building and nation-branding in their works. Societies are complex structures, whose multiple aspects can be represented by the facets of a crystal, to use Debrot’s metaphor. History is a critical aspect in the process of nation-building, especially as Caribbean nation-states were formed in the past century. Human beings are complex combinations of DNA, cultural heritage, and life experiences. In this respect, due to constant and increasing waves of migration, as Rex Nettleford observed, the world is getting creolised,57 in the sense of Glissantian rhyzomatic mangrove roots. The world is also getting Caribbeanised, as the Caribbean has always been a place of encounter and miscegenation. With regard to this, Alejo Carpentier quoted A. J. Seymour who in 1949 spoke of “nación cultural multiterritorial,”58 a novel concept of nationhood in which the Creole feels like s/he belongs to at least two places. This concept of a scattered nation “within and beyond the archipelago” was defined by George Lamming as “a transnational family,”59 that is what Edward Said defined as “filiation” and “affiliation.” The presence of an ABC population in the Netherlands—which significantly increased after the 1954 Charter for the Kingdom, coeval with the Windrush generation moving to the UK—is shaping the European concept of nation and lifestyle. 166 SARA FLORIAN In 1994 Rutgers calculated “some eighty thousand Antilleans and Arubans, about 25% of the total population, [to] have settled in the Netherlands,”60 a statistic which had doubled as of 2020, just a quarter of a century later.61 The Netherlands has seen a new migration wave of Caribbean people that began in the 1980s, especially after the oil refineries in Curaçao and Aruba were closed down. These movements allowed for identities to be forged in new, complex ways.62 In my analysis of selected works by the three authors, I focused on how they witnessed a shift from dependency to partial “independence.” The authors that I have chosen not only represent the three different islands of Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao, but also had a strong relationship with the Netherlands. In their work the concepts of nation-building and nation-branding comprise different aspects. Cola Debrot, who was involved in the political and cultural life of the islands, courageously and provocatively possessed a vision of society that shattered cultural stereotypes. Debrot was one of the first writers to tackle the break with colonialism that emerged after the abolition of slavery in the Dutch colonies. The role that Debrot played as an agent for positive change in the Netherlands Antilles is supported by his witnessing the shift and remodelling of the Caribbean social fabric. In this new context and new concept of nation-building, the imperial past would not have been the societal model that dictated post-colonial cultural relationships. Future generations would be moulded by more inclusive and open connections and ground-breaking actions, as performed by some characters in his novellas. Frank Martinus Arion, who was also involved in the cultural life of Curaçao and in politics, focused more on the négritude aspect of literature, digging into the African roots of his people but also cultivating a national language with pride. Arion placed the Afro-Caribbean element at the centre of his stories in a search for his own and his people’s roots and the affirmation of a linguistic identity and socio-political emancipation. Arion demonstrated his devotion to culture and his island when during the 1969 riots—a time when Debrot was governor of the Netherlands Antilles—he saved the Roman Catholic archives in the National Library of Curaçao, in Otrobanda.63 Quito Nicolaas, a law consultant and political science expert, who seems to be torn between his native Aruba and the Netherlands, reflects on the migration of ABC-islanders to the Netherlands in his work. This also allows the writer to ponder his own role and the role of literature in the mechanisms of nation-building. In his writings Nicolaas explores the multicolour identity of Aruba and the Netherlands, probing the societal cracks that lead to reflections on nation-building and nation-branding. Beyond literature, there are other examples of intangible cultural heritage that are equally important to express or seek national unity. In Aruba the cultural events that contribute to the development of nation-building are often performed WRITERS BETWEEN THE CARIBBEAN AND THE NETHERLANDS 167 on important dates: on January 25 for Betico Croes Day and on March 18 for the National Anthem and Flag Day. Festivals related to local folklore might include the Bon Bini Festival and the song festival “Un canto na Aruba su Himno y Bandera.” Caribbean carnivals, which have spread to Europe (e.g., Rotterdam Summer Carnival) may be another instance, as in Lasana Sekou’s “nation dance”: “s’maatin kannaval Village is de onliest place / where all Caribbean musics … / mek i think of UNITYandNATION / … and BUILDaNATION STRONG.”64 In “seú from curacao” Sekou expressed the spirituality in this music.65 The cultural manifestation of the Curaçaoan tambú or the Bonairean bari shows how drums have accompanied this dance ever since it was born during the slavery period.66 The gardening metaphor and references to the land and soil seem to have been consistently explored by the three writers studied in this paper and by many other Caribbean writers. Island or city topography is another element that allows reflections on nation-building and nation-branding. In the ABC islands, waves of endogenous and exogenous migrations have worked differently than in the other islands owing to historical and economic reasons. As oil refineries were founded on Aruba and Curaçao, the islands’ population increased and was enriched by different migration channels. When the refineries eventually closed down, the migrants who remained enriched the islands, where they participated in cultural events, and those who left enriched the new countries they migrated to. New migrations redefine the “Caribbean nation” as an imagined space shaped by cultural and political developments, in a world in need of the open-mindedness and spirit of integration that all three writers expressed. CHAPTER 9 Radical Imagining in Dutch Caribbean Music Charissa Granger All of the Antilles, every island, is an effort of memory; every mind, every racial biography culminating in amnesia and fog. Pieces of sunlight through the fog and sudden rainbows, arcs-en-ciel. That is the effort, the labour of the Antillean imagination, rebuilding its gods from bamboo frames, phrase by phrase.1 Because what we choose to emphasize determines our lives.2 Repetition: Making Longstanding Ideas Felt Anew We forgot to water the plantain shoots when our houses were full of borrowed meat and our stomachs with the gift of strangers who laugh now as they pass us3 We must not forget to water the plantain shoots—a poetic reminder by Audre Lorde. Attending to heritage is the very act of watering, so that we and those who come before and after us might have necessary nourishment. Lorde also teaches us that “there are no new ideas, just new ways of giving those ideas we cherish breath and power in our own living … only new ways of making them felt—of examining what those ideas feel like” throughout our lived experiences. What do those ideas feel like “while we suffer the old longings, battle the old warnings and fears of being silent and impotent and alone, while we taste new possibilities and strengths”?4 Following Lorde, this meditation on heritage and Dutch Caribbean music is not new but is an offering anew. Our musicians and artists have long emphasised the importance of music and performance as part of cultural heritage in their work. Moreover, in 2012 anthropologist and pedagogue Eric La Croes5 wrote “Seú ta Muzik Kultural: Lagu’é manera e ta.” He states: Gobièrnu di Kòrsou i skolnan di Enseñansa Fundeshi meste deklará kuarta, tambú, chapi (agan), wiri i kachu komo artefaktonan musical importante di nos patrimonio kultural i nos herensia kultural. Dor ku e hóbennan ta sigui e tradishon di toka, ku gruponan kultural di 170 CHARISSA GRANGER gaita benesolano, boneriano (di simadan i barí) i arubano (di dande, aguinaldo i gaita) tin awendia, tokando nan muzik nashonal kontemporaneo. Konsèrvando asina nan ekspreshon kultural musikal nashonal, toká dor di nan mes hóbennan dje komunidat konserní. Nan ta kai den e area di muzik tradishonal regional karibeño i latino. Esaki alabes ta prevení kriminalidat bou di hóbennan. … Gobièrnu meste invertí en grande den e sector kultural aki.6 I depart from La Croes for the way he names key instruments and music styles of Aruba, Curaçao, and Bonaire; for the way he directs the musical heritage to the attention of the government and the education system; for the way he emphasises youth participation; and finally, for the way he makes broader connections to the Caribbean region in a poetics of relation—a Glissantian archipelagic relation enabled by music. Commenting more on the quest for dignity, self-empowerment, self-esteem, and the importance of national and cultural identity for those postcolonial parts of the developing world, Rex Nettleford emphasises the creative imagination in artistic practice. Nettleford notes that such practices not only empower but grant “entire societies a status in the world.”7 For this reason, Nettleford argues that arts in education be mandatory. Resonating with La Croes, Nettleford references Sir Arthur Lewis: “A society without the creative arts is a cultural desert … I would commend to our statement that they put a lot more money into the creative arts department of our secondary schools.”8 To this Nettleford adds primary and tertiary institutions, saying: “For it is to the exercise of the creative imagination and the products of such exercise that the now globalized world must turn for a sense of balance that the dissonance and chaos of our world demand.”9 Tasked with an assignment to meditate on music and heritage in the Dutch Caribbean, I want to ruminate on the exercise of the creative imagination in Dutch Caribbean music and what such an exercise is generative of. Thus, I ask, at the intersection of Dutch Caribbean music and performance, what quelled knowledges have not benefitted from our generosity? From our careful attendance? There is no question whether music in particular, and the arts more broadly, are integral to heritage, whether the body of knowledge bequeathed to us and maintained are useful to us and those who succeed us. What remains in question however is how music is structurally and socially nurtured. Within the Dutch Caribbean education system, within the governmental realm, and thereby in the social realm there is apprehension of nurturing that which has been established as integral to heritage—a disconnect of great proportions. I have been thinking about what hinders our ability to imagine other possibilities in music, or to think and feel other more liveable futures through music. I think of the many high school teachers in Aruba who strongly and frequently suggested I limit music to a hobby. I was advised to practice on the side, to not take RADICAL IMAGINING IN DUTCH CARIBBEAN MUSIC 171 music seriously, to not be fully dedicated to music practice as a full-time endeavour. The implication was that I should stunt my practice of imagining. Beyond myself, I think of the many other Dutch Caribbean contemporary musicians and artists who share such stories with me—unnurtured possibilities, still made possible. Popularly cited by teachers, as a way to dissuade, are the logics of capital—money. Within such logics the value of music and art is reduced to a singular one (capital), disregarding music’s many other important values, such as: giving meaning to lived realities, and preventing us from living in communities devoid of pleasure, intimacy, love, and erotics.10 According to Lorde “the erotic is the nurturer or nursemaid of all our deepest knowledge.”11 I take this seriously because Black feminist thought teaches me that love and the erotics are political and crucial to liveability. Lorde asserts that “our erotic knowledge empowers us, becomes a lens through which we scrutinize all aspects of our existence, forcing us to evaluate those aspects honestly in terms of their relative meaning within our lives.”12 My time playing in numerous panyards has also allowed me to take Lorde’s assertions seriously for there is much at stake. Approaching music as restorative and as a resource for and mode of cultivating joy, I want to throw into relief these aspects that have been offered little attention in discussions of music, especially in relation to cultural heritage. Here I attempt to articulate and emphasise the potential of music as a resource and reservoir that we can draw on and from, beyond its economic use and exchange value or its use to eschew criminality. Instead, through music (-making) we can imagine other ways of being and living relationally, such as through Rubén Blades’s singing livingness, specifically the contingency of life and the surprises that accompany livingness in “Pedro Navaja” with the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra directed by Wynton Marsalis.13 With this example I underscore the relationality between genres (salsa and jazz), an example of sonic relationality. To meditate on the above, I discuss briefly the work of two contemporary Dutch Caribbean artists, Vernon Chatlein and Sharelly Emanuelson, who are imagining and creating paths towards more possible and liveable futures in their art practice and their use of music therein. Music underpins and is the spindle around which these possibilities are made real; music provides a guide and the possibility to feel yourself, to know your multiple selves in relation to each other, to unwork history and build histories as Glissant instructs us: “the negation of a History and the open dawn of histories.”14 This presents a shift from the universal of humanity to a transversal community of persons. Engagement with music occurs through documentaries, theatre pieces, performance art, audio-visual installations, live curated DJ sets, and bringing to the fore the sounds of multiple, traditionally made drums—urging us to take pleasure while grappling with coloniality. The work of Emanuelson and Chatlein among others sound out Caribbean being and its complexity, and illustrates a practice of imagining in their mixed media art 172 CHARISSA GRANGER practices’ engagement with music. I submit that in doing so both artists elude that which impedes our ability to imagine. By briefly touching on Emanuelson and Chatlein’s work, I seek to acknowledge the radical creative imagination in their practices, linking this to how we might imagine strengthening Dutch Caribbean music infrastructure for reasons beyond how music subdues criminality or its economic viability as a value good. How does the practice of imagining with music in Emanuelson and Chatlein’s work help us to outline the conditions for change? Both artists have had to create their own paths and sustainable infrastructure to do their work; in doing so, they offer the Dutch Caribbean and its Diaspora a sense of togetherness, a collectiveness that further builds the communal. Lives, livingness, liveability, and humaning15 clipped, disrupted, cut short, curtailed, and abbreviated both during colonialism’s tenure and beyond its judicial end is well acknowledged. The music erupts with critiques of coloniality, emphasising the gaping wounds of its legacy. Here I cite Joe Arroyo’s “No le pegue a la Negra” also known as “La Rebelion,” a repetitive everlasting salsa that frames itself as telling a piece of our history, Black history—“De la historia negra, de la historia nuestra.”16 Here both cyclical and linear time are disrupted in an attempt to make another possible; Arroyo is saying this is not a song of now that wrestles with gender-based violence, femicide, and child abuse. This is the Glissantian time history in practice: “This past, to which we were subjected, which has not yet emerged as history for us, is, however, obsessively present. The duty of the writer [and other artists] is to explore this obsession, to show its relevance in a continuous fashion to the immediate present.”17 Arroyo presents a repetitive chorus of “esclavitud perpetua” that describes abuse, violence, and mistreatment, thereby unworking linear time—there is no past fully separate from the present or the future. This song also sings of the beautiful black man who rebelled, taking retribution for his beloved. It is vital to highlight other practices that create possibilities, so that resisting ongoing coloniality is not the only event that shapes our being. Arroyo’s song, which opens with the clave, makes us dance, makes us feel beyond the telling of this piece of history through the rhythmic breaks, the sharp brass, and the cowbell that locks it all together. For all that, music still induces the desire that we might come to overstand ourselves, to connect the Diaspora, to know each other, to know ourselves, to elude the politics of difference, inseminated by colonialism and maintained by coloniality. Here I cite Marley’s “Redemption Song” and Chin Behilia “bo ta liber den bo cansion”18 or “Zikinza,”19 a scathing critique of coloniality in a dance song—a sensorial mode of critique where our entire physicality is entangled in critical thought-movement. Along with struggles against colonialism and oppression and for judicial emancipation, there continues a reparative practice that unearths feeling, sensation, pleasure, care, tenderness, and love. Herein music generates new ways of being and knowing, offering both RADICAL IMAGINING IN DUTCH CARIBBEAN MUSIC 173 the wound and its mending; there is a continuous effort to repair, to mend. The pleasures of and in creation impede individualism. Creation makes multiple selves possible and establishes a space where we can encounter one another. With this piece I want to attend briefly to the profundity of (Dutch) Caribbean music, its making, practice, and performance and the knowledge that is generated therein. This work in music is a necessary work. It is germinal to how we self-authorise and organise our ways of being in the world. The centrality of the musics discussed here to the necessity of our being, of my being, makes my reflection here possible. Without (Dutch) Caribbean music, I would not have myself. On tambú, René Rosalia makes clear that the playing and dancing of tambú was important for life, for the future.20 The life-giving and life-affirming must be attended to. The question then remains: How can we move heritage towards a new analytic in discussing and thinking through Dutch Caribbean music (-making)? A Kaleidoscope of Dutch Caribbean Music because our land is barren the farms are choked with stunted rows of straw and with our nightmares of juicy brown yams that cannot fill us21 The stage is set with some of our instruments: tambú grandi, matrimonial, tambú, and benta. I enter the theatre and sit with histories, histories precede and follow.22 During a theatre performance of Voices from Letter: Zikinzá at the Bijlmerpark theatre in Amsterdam, I sit, entranced by the performance of the many sounds, musical styles, riddims, and dances of the Dutch Caribbean that are weaved together to tell a story about how the past ruptures the present, and offers new, alternative future possibilities. The presence of histories is intensified by the known voices of playwright Nydia Ecury and poet Elis Juliana, as well as the lesser known voices of interviewed citizens Maria Doran23 and Elogio Maduro.24 The music departs from and builds on footage of Ecury detailing how attempts were made to suppress the erotic, how dancing tumba was scorned; I knew this of tambú’s documented history, but not tumba’s.25 The necessary hip movements that suggest physical liberation and the ownership of self were often (mis)interpreted as sexual and are frequently still misconstrued. This is a false narrative that has served to historically hypersexualise the region’s cultural and performance practices, especially dance. Ecury tells of how all-night parties—gatherings where we practiced co-creating and co-imagining—were interrupted by priests. The men would break up parties and disperse everyone, and with that dissolve the erotic and intimate space—pleasure 174 CHARISSA GRANGER Vernon Chatlein playing bari grandi with mounted matrimonial (from video Allan Chatlein) was thus undone. This is for the most part ignored in today’s Dutch Caribbean scholarship, which prefers to focus on resistance against the colonial order. The erotic is maintained, perhaps remembered, and definitely conjured by Chatlein’s playing a tumba on the tambú grandi, which has a matrimonial tethered to it. The physical presence of the instrument, the sound of the blown kachu, the struck benta all resonate through the body. How do we care for and nurture that which nourishes us? Chatlein plays this tumba around the rhythmic poetry of anthropologist and ethnographer Elis Juliana, specifically the poem “Bekita.”26 The poem illustrates the tumba rhythm while describing the dancing of Bekita, a fictional character. Designer and performer Laurindo Andrea embodies the character of Bekita while dancing tumba. In this scene, dance, music, and poetry come together, to undo the historical disruption of the erotic, which Audre Lorde teaches us is an “internal sense of satisfaction to which, once we have experienced it, we know we can aspire [in all areas of life]. For having experienced the fulness of this depth of feeling and recognizing its power, in honor and self-respect we can require no less of ourselves.”27 In less than four minutes, music restores the disruption outlined by Ecury; such a performance is thus reparative in some measure. To think of heritage and music is to think of feeling, to practice humaning, to emphasise the erotic that, as Lorde notes, functions in “providing the power which comes from sharing deeply any pursuit with another person. The sharing of joy, whether physical, emotional, psychic, or intellectual, forms a bridge between the sharers which can be the basis for understanding much of what is not shared between them, and lessens the threat of their difference.”28 In Chatlein and Andrea’s RADICAL IMAGINING IN DUTCH CARIBBEAN MUSIC 175 tumba performance, the erotic is brought back—a practice of imagining. The theatre piece relies on Dutch Caribbean music, which is the propeller that moves the play forward and backward and to repeat; music guides each scene and sets the tone and feeling for its multiple themes (mourning, anger, reverence, celebration). The musical scaffolding around the voices is sparing, the recomposing is thrifty, what Morrison describes as “an exercise in restraint, a holding back—not because it’s not there, or because one had exhausted it, but because of the riches, and because it can be done again.”29 Such thrift and restraint while sonically working with the voices, imagining what they can do anew, demands practice. Morrison described her writing practice as that of a jazz musician, as someone who practices and practices and practices in order to be able to invent and to make his art look effortless and graceful. I was always conscious of the constructed aspect of the writing process, and that art appears natural and elegant only as a result of constant practice and awareness of its formal structures. You must practice thrift in order to achieve that luxurious quality of wastefulness—that sense that you have enough to waste, that you are holding back—without actually wasting anything. You shouldn’t overgratify, you should never satiate. I’ve always felt that that peculiar sense of hunger at the end of a piece of art—a yearning for more—is really very, very powerful. But there is at the same time a kind of contentment, knowing that at some other time there will indeed be more because the artist is endlessly inventive.30 I extend Morrison’s words to a very musical sense of practice: the dedicated, daily, careful, habitual work of living with music; isolating troublesome passages, breaking down phrases and putting them back together; repeating favourite parts, revising, slowing down only to bring back up to tempo, rehearsing again and again not for perfection but intimacy. I have embodied such practice; I take it with me into the everyday. My meaning of practice stems from my own musicking,31 both in the panyard and various music practice rooms. Creative imagination requires practice. In the same way, heritage is practice; this is a lesson that can be learned from the realm of music practice, and more explicitly from contemporary Dutch Caribbean music practice. Liberté egalité—Maria Doran tells us that on liberation day there was song. Her recorded voice moves through the theatre as she sings us the liberation song. The melody returns in the play so that we can hear it again—anew. What does that melodic return have to do with heritage? What can it convey about the intersection of music, heritage, and the ongoing pursuit of freedom—Liberté? Do we recognise this melody? Is it part of us? Does it resonate? What are its echoes? Chatlein’s sound and music ensures that this part of our heritage becomes an integral part of us. In his careful practice of composing around the archived voices we get a tambú 176 CHARISSA GRANGER that connects Maria Doran’s voice with Elia Isenia’s. Chatlein performs a tambú (genre) while a projection of a pre-recorded performance of Isenia singing the same chorus and clapping runs simultaneously. The chapi, a work tool repurposed as a musical instrument, is dubbed into the recording and the tambú (drum) is played live. A repetitive chorus, liberté egalité, is supported by tambú, which locks us in, we can connect to the melody that carries the lyrics, we can move physically and feel our bodies by the rolls of the drum. Morrison echoes Fanon’s reminder “that the real leap consists in introducing invention into existence.”32 Bogues argues that Fanon is “imploring us to engage in the work of the radical imagination to imagine anew what human life could be like.”33 I hear this intervention in Chatlein’s use of the sonic past to say something (a)new. Tambú is necessary, the drum is necessary, the clapping is necessary, the flesh of palms, the sheep or goat hide—the flesh is necessary to the proclamation, then and now. The voice, the drum, and the flesh of clapping hands connects the present to July 1, 1863, to Maria Doran’s voice. There is pleasure in the repetitive chorus, in the sustained rolls of the drum, in Andrea dancing tambú and encouraging us, the audience, to participate. Here there is a constant movement from within to outward and back; working with a melody that was sung, then recomposing that melody in a tambú, the imaginary occurs in this sound work and ushers in something new, the definition of which we may not grasp now. Because of the form and its potential to carry us melodically, lyrically, sonically, and rhythmically, a space of synthesis is created where, as participants, we stand, dance, and sit with multiple relationships to ourselves, to others who are brought in, to sound, to splace, to nature and heritages. Here we can answer Fanon’s question: “Why not simply try to touch the other, feel the other, discover each other?”34 This is the work that it takes to imagine the future. Coming together in this particular way, music does the work of helping us imagine futures brimming with liberté egalité. In a practice of imagining, we might consider the singing of this song in 1863, as we live what our ancestors imagined then, and relate to our singing the same chorus now. Here we perform a liveability that is yet to come; this can be thought of as a practice of radical creative imagination in Dutch Caribbean music performance. As Chatlein makes clear in his performances and the personal conversations I have had with him, letters are being sent to the future by voices from the past—performing heritages. Kathrine Mckittrick35 says that imagination is “experiential and representational … an act that is difficult to explain with clarity,” so she overstands “the work of imagination as both quiet and agentive (our inner imaginative thoughts are enunciated imperfectly: they outline the conditions for change, they invite us to do).” For the future to be possible it must be imagined now, the sung spirituals taught us this in their practice of “outlining the conditions for change”—imagining in practice. Departing from Césaire, Robin Kelly makes clear that “it is that imagination, that effort to see the future in the present, that I shall call ‘poetry’ or ‘poetic RADICAL IMAGINING IN DUTCH CARIBBEAN MUSIC 177 knowledge.’”36 In music, this imagining offers yet another way of knowing to add to poetic knowledge. In the way music practice enables communion, and allows us to co-create knowledge and thereby an overstanding of our multiple selves, music offers another way of being. Heritage is vital to such knowledge, as exemplified by Chatlein’s composing and performing Dutch Caribbean music. At the root of such imagining is the erotic; working in and with sound changes the way we feel; new ways of feeling are embodied that encourage pleasure. In this repetitious tambú, the chorus of liberation can disaggregate who we thought we were before musicking, we can co-construct our multiple selves since in music the boundaries of the self are made porous and the distance between self and non-self becomes opaque in that very Glissantian way. Music allows us to constantly create ourselves in that Fanonian way (to embody Bekita or to feel liberté, even if only briefly). We make life with and for each other—liberté, egalité. Music makes that heritage felt; we can embody that feeling and imagine what that liberation was and can be like. Because of the feelings that are made possible herein and the intimacy that is animated by music, it is crucial to think through heritage and nurture the music and erotic power that its practice generates. Wynter offered us the practice of art as a site where a “re-enchanted human” can be realised, where a new poesis of being human is possible.37 Here Wynter’s words resonate with Morrison’s in a talk on The Foreigners’ Home, a project on how art and language operate to make us feel at home, which is “vital to understanding what it means to be human.”38 She says: “We are dreaming all wrong. Art is otherwise, all that is left, able to lift the grime and glitter caked under eyelids and halt, thereby, our crippled, crippling dreaming. Truth is otherwise. It risks all to be born, to be unstoppably, irresistibly alive.”39 I recognise some of the above in practice in Chatlein’s musicking,40 which we can learn from as it informs other discussions. Studying and performing Caribbean music offers so much to how we think about livingness, humaning, different ways of being, freedom practices, sovereignty, and multiple philosophies of love. Thinking through such discussions anew within the Dutch Caribbean can be generative to ongoing Caribbean cultural criticism: by leaving identity for a minute, leaving resistance for a second, and thinking of music and heritage, music practice and climate change effects, or music and the afterlife of disaster, or music and the re-enchantment of the human—especially given the way Dutch Caribbean music lends alternative frames to complicate the overrepresentation of humanity41—and thereby disaggregate that central and centred human perspective. Through music, sovereignty can be thought anew, the discussion need not exhaust itself in judicial, legislative or political areas. Music fundamentally transforms how we approach such a discussion owing to the way imagining, a radical creative imagining, is enabled, for example, in how nature is sourced to create sound worlds. Bogues 178 CHARISSA GRANGER offers that “the work of the imagination operates as critical thought. It imagines and breaks the boundaries/horizons of the status quo of the everyday … produces new thought and desires.”42 I submit that these desires are taken up into the erotic, repeatedly reinscribing it. Lorde reminds us: But when we begin to live from within outward, in touch with the power of the erotic within ourselves, and allowing that power to inform and illuminate our actions upon the world around us, then we begin to be responsible to ourselves in the deepest sense. For as we begin to recognize our deepest feelings, we begin to give up, of necessity, being satisfied with suffering a self-negation, and with the numbness which so often seems like their only alternative in our society.43 In music we can embrace those fleshy things, we can use the erotics and understand that its usefulness is political, as Lorde emphasises. In addition to knowledge and sovereignty, a practice of freedom is made possible in the engagement of music and heritage and how they are intrinsically bound up with each other. Chatlein’s work underscores how we mythologise our lives by playing with the story of flying Africans; imagining freedom in this way makes freedom felt. Through music practice, performance, and art more broadly we might imagine and create a more just, equitable, free, and magical world—liberté egalité. I return to Bogues: “[F]reedom as practice, as a creative activity, operates through the radical imagination. Practices of freedom construct new ways of life for us as humans … freedom is grounded in a set of human practices that challenges what we are at any specific historical moment.”44 The practice of imagining via music catapults us into a kaleidoscope of sound, beauty, and form, a legacy bequeathed to us and heritages that are worked with to realise our multiple selves. When we gather, we share emotional space, and music allows us to feel emotion while immersed in the sound of a caha di orgel, wiri, or chapi as it supports the melody of a liberation song. The thinness and airiness of the benta and oscillation of the sound allows us to feel emotion. Such musicked spaces are maintained in the feedback of affirmations—“e Forsa tei.”45 Such sharing is not only about self-expression but involves a response(ability), to be reached by that which is a part of your multiple selves—the joining of selves. This music moves, educates, enlightens, and feeds us, as well as shapes the way we understand our being in the world. It traces and works with heritages; it imagines a future where all our sounds and instruments are not silent but archived in living breathing moving forms. Sharelly Emanuelson uses three compositions by musician Oswin Chin Behilia to co-tell the story of coloniality in relation to film, the archive, the colonial gaze, and the unintended audience that regards itself through that gaze. Emanuelson’s film brings us back to Behilia’s music and its lyrical critique of colonialism that RADICAL IMAGINING IN DUTCH CARIBBEAN MUSIC 179 Sharelly Emmanuselson with one of her works in her studio, 2019 (photo Alex van Stipriaan) 180 CHARISSA GRANGER moves one to dance. Behilia’s music is used so deftly by Emanuelson that its presence adds another critical layer, opening with Bendishon Disfraza (son montuno), moving onto Vota NO (son montuno), Gaña Nan ta Gaña (rhythmic Seú, with a salsa Antiana instrumentation). Echoing Morrison’s instruction that “[o]nly the act of imagination can help me,” McKittrick notes: [W]hen wading through the nested processes of seeing, knowing, unknowing, observing, representing, expressing, sharing, forgetting, erasing (and living with inaccuracies and unresolved problems), it is our imagination that helps us muddle through these complexities. As we wade, it is our imagination that seeks out and affirms already existing freedom practices. Imagination, too, leads to invention (and reinvention). Imagination is not an answer (noun), it is an opening (an act, a verb). And: Imagination does not always lead to representation, explanation, or description.46 Emanuelson mobilises long-standing critiques in the way she uses music to support her own critique, making imagining a continued practice through which we can situate ourselves in the world, a modality through which we make the world liveable and habitable. Music enables this and is thus a practice through which we can disrupt the status quo in order to make ideas and critiques heard. Can we mobilise our imagination for the things we deem necessary? It is in art that we move with Juliana and Behilia, the beauty and the sadness, the meditation and the making anew of a song and sound. Both Emanuelson and Chatlein source from the sound and music archive not to regurgitate, not to replicate, not to comfort, but to imagine other possibilities, to create differently. Possible Futurities Our skins are empty. They have been vacated by the spirits who are angered by our reluctance to feed them.47 Caribbean musics accompany me as I write this and meditate on their importance to our ongoing practice in creating liveable worlds, imagining other future possibilities and music’s significance to the whole of our livingness in the region and as Diaspora. For all sorts of reasons, the foremost being migration and continuous movement within the region, Dutch Caribbean music must also mean and include popular music and instruments of the wider Caribbean and Latin America such as calypso, merengue, salsa, timba, bachata, cumbia, reggae, bolero, bouyon, montuno, waltz, RADICAL IMAGINING IN DUTCH CARIBBEAN MUSIC 181 Curaçaoan musicians performing during a commemoration of freedom fighter Tula, one playing a benta, mouth bow (photo Alex van Stipriaan) mazurka, kadans, kompa, zouk, and steelpan. Rap, hip-hop, R&B, and jazz must also be included together with alternative rock, metal, and EDM. I have chosen to concentrate on more contemporary work that engages and centralises traditional music practices, instruments, and riddims of the Papiamentu/o-speaking islands. Traditional music, mobilised in contemporary art practice, does not often get highlighted in Dutch Caribbean scholarship, and traditional music’s potential is therefore disremembered or relegated to no longer existing, a past long-gone practice. 182 CHARISSA GRANGER Vernon Chatlein called me one day in a moderate frenzy. An edited collection on Latin-American and Caribbean music that he had been reading “says that benta does not exist, that it is no longer practiced,” he proclaimed with incredulity. To quote specifically, the entry on benta reads: “In Curaçao, another extinct instrument known only through references in the literature is benta, a mouth-bow.”48 To deem a living instrument and thereby its sound aesthetic extinct is to extinguish part of a people.49 This is the result of inattentiveness, and hence this piece is a call to renew attention, in line with La Croes, Nettleford, Behilia, and a host of others. This piece also suggests the urgency of this call. If we do not nurture our music practices, the misrepresentation from outside scholars will endure. This single musicological reference incited Chatlein’s work on and with the benta, to defend and guard the instrument against the extinction that it was relegated to by musicologists. Working against extinction and the immanence of death requires care; further, it is to overstand that at the root of such a politics of care is love, a radical decolonial love. Chatlein’s radical practice of imagining while seeking out elders who know benta history and playing, and of learning to make and play benta himself, led him to write a proposal for further research on benta and being awarded the Urban Arts Talent Grant from the Stichting Fonds voor Cultuurparticipatie, which in turn enabled him to compose a multichapter piece entitled Voices from Letters, short for the project’s concept: voices from the past that send letters to the future. The first chapter is Zikinzá, a theatre piece that hones in on music to tell the story of liberation through the voices of the Zikinzá ethnographic collection.50 The second chapter is Imershón, a music performance of contemporary compositions that build around the collection’s sound fragments—a sonic ode to our ancestors. Chatlein is thoroughly researching the history of this instrument, acquiring an intimate knowledge of how to make and play it—an ongoing practice of imagining. What but love can spur such work? This transgressive love is outlined by bell hooks51 and remains little discussed but works towards our growth, contributing towards our becoming what we are not yet. This transgressive love is often dismissed as frivolous,52 not worth(y) (of ) acknowledgement. However, I contend that a transgressive decolonial love that helps heal colonial wounds and counters individualism and capitalist self-interest, which are strong forces in (re)designing the world of modernity, requires attention when thinking through heritage. Heritage is about maintaining that love that is bequeathed to us by our ancestors’ creative imagination. Those sonic and rhythmic “jewels brought from bondage”53 were birthed in love, a love that had our becoming in mind and fuelled a practice of imagining it, especially given, as Lorde makes clear, “we were not meant to be here.”54 This practice of imagining is ongoing, making other futures possible and moving us in our process of becoming.55 RADICAL IMAGINING IN DUTCH CARIBBEAN MUSIC 183 In music we continue to practice this love, remembering those who imagined us into being, those who have passed—as Chatlein plays alongside their voices from the past—working towards becoming our future selves. Chatlein is not alone: Curaçaoan music educator and traditional instrumentalist Sorandy Sint Jacobs is a multi-instrumentalist, music educator, and contemporary benta maker and player and sound designer; Ralph Durgaram works on the Afro Caribbean Samples project.56 So often for our traditional instruments there is only one elder, usually a man, who holds instrument and music history knowledge. This should not be the case, and young musicians such as Vernon Chatlein, Lidrich Solognier, members of Kuenta i Tambú, and various projects such as Oruba, Datapanik’s caha di orgel project, and the Krosshart project, recognise this. The above musicians and music collectives all source from (Dutch) Caribbean music genres, grooves, and instrument sounds. They recognise the fragility of such music knowledge and thus are working towards extending its sound and thereby our livingness by maintaining musical knowledge practice. Part of this work in music forms bridges across the different islands of the Caribbean. I think here of how this manifests yearly at the Antiliaanse Feesten Hoogstraaten or at the many European carnivals based loosely on the West Indian carnival. The different gatherings that enable us to come together are facilitated by Caribbean music, which is the axis around which meeting and communing occurs; they are where Rebels Band from St. Eustatius can meet Oscar D’Leon and Kes or where I have found myself on multiple occasions in utter sublimation to and with the riddims of the Kassav—Zouk la se sel medikaman nou ni!—connection in music. Music practice must be nurtured so that this connection might continue. I want to make a case for how we study, nurture, and think through the practices that enable us to make a more liveable world, and to question the labour required herein. I want to take seriously the work that music and musicians do in our practice and thereby the important uses of music to conversations of heritage. Dutch Caribbean music can teach us to pursue sovereignty through heritage, and sovereignty is possible in music praxis. Additionally, the erotic, pleasure, and love must be part of thinking through and creating policy for heritage, especially as it intersects with music. Music animates, promulgates, and crotchets together the gathering that makes imagining possible. How we imagine ourselves is in a circuitous relationship with heritage. We draw from what has been gifted us—our sounds, the materiality of our instruments, and the ways they invite us to move and feel with them as an extension of ourselves, while bound up with our environment. Being attentive to these gifts we can now offer something new. Feeling is mobilised to transform multiple oppressive social conditions. As I listen, I feel musicians are concerned with making a music that offers alternative possibilities especially in how traditional music is curated and used to carry 184 CHARISSA GRANGER histories, disrupt time, and repeat stories—this is heritage. How do we practice livingness and humanity in the face of continued dehumanisation, intensified during and in the aftermath of climate catastrophe, by socioeconomic precarity, unemployment spikes and failing infrastructure, and now a pandemic? We created and continue to create songs and sound from the conditions that demanded their creation, using shells, horns, and calabashes (gourds) to create new ways of knowing, consequently inventing different genres of being.57 Tree stems, branches, roots, trunks, oil drums—all these helped us to create intimacy and pleasure through practices of self-authorship that do not rely on the recognition or acknowledgement of the nation-state—working outside the nation-state’s imaginary reach. What is at stake if we do not take seriously performance art practice? What if the state were to join in that practice of imagining? What are the possibilities that such a joining would yield? What would it make available to us? Perhaps such a joining will even offer a critical complication of heritage and lead to the nation-state’s questioning itself. This is the role of creative imagination, in troubling the still waters, to challenge the ongoing nescience with which art practice is regarded especially in ensuring continuity. The role of the creative imagination allows us to bring into question how we nurture art practice within the Dutch Caribbean. Considering the transformative possibilities of creative imagination, how might imagination usher in a Dutch intellectual tradition that critically questions cultural phenomena such as sovereignty, heritage, and the nation-state with respect to change? I tender this piece to place some contemporary practices that engage with Dutch Caribbean music in conversation with intimacy, interiority, and care, emphasising the importance of how we sense each other and our environment as part of ourselves, and to stress how the self is extended. With this preliminary discussion on contemporary music practice, I want the reader to experience the way music expands being, thought, criticality, and pleasure. The sonic and rhythmic aesthetic imbues music with futurity as performed by the musicians discussed above. Such aesthetics not only critiques colonial machinations, but are sonic ways of knowing, providing the necessary sustenance for the future that is yet to be realised—this too is heritage. Thus, from this discussion, I offer some suggestions in closing that would be generative towards the strengthening of infrastructure for music, and the sustainability of performance art practice. Imagine with me: – An application contingent, government-funded, mentoring and training program between young up-and-coming artists and professional local or regional artists. Such a program, based on an atelier type collaboration, would provide a yearlong mentoring scheme that culminates in a performance week or an interdisciplinary art exhibition. Such a program would ensure the sustainability of the islands’ creative industry (theatre, literature, design, performance RADICAL IMAGINING IN DUTCH CARIBBEAN MUSIC 185 art, music, poetry, film, dance, fashion). I imagine the growth of this scheme leading to inter-island encounters and exchanges that would be beneficial to the region’s strength as well. This is where cross-generational knowledge, methods, and best practice can be shared across the region. During the program the focus would not only be on practice; courses facilitating necessary knowledge in the different fields of art practice would be conducted. Imagine the Dutch, Spanish, English, and French Caribbean meeting in this way, gathering in such an art-charged space, and to have each Dutch Caribbean island act as host. This could be a moving Caribbean biennale of sorts that emerges from a mentoring program based in the Dutch Caribbean. – On a smaller scale, master classes in primary schools and clinics in secondary schools would also bring about intergenerational discussions, securing sustained knowledge transmission in a systematic and structured way. This would avoid silos in knowledge of local art practice. Such a program must be supported by a curated syllabus and tailored curriculum for Dutch Caribbean students. – Formation of high school bands or orchestras, with proper band room facilities that are easily accessible to students. Especially during high school, students must be able to practice and be confronted with live performances of all sorts within their school hours. This suggestion comes from my almost five-year tenure with the Northern Illinois University steel band, where I completed my undergraduate work. Our university steel band would tour high schools in the Chicago area to perform hour-long programs at high school auditoriums. We would engage students in discussion after performing, informing them about the university curriculum, the history and culture of the steelpan (going through the musical function of each instrument voice and the importance of the percussion). Through such engagement with graduating high school students, some chose to attend NIU for their undergraduate music studies. During such play outs we would be invited into the various band rooms and high school rehearsal spaces, or on rare occasions get to listen to students play for us. I was always astonished by the facilities available in some high school music rooms that held a full range of orchestral instruments, including kettle drums and other percussion instruments that became familiar to me only after leaving Aruba. I could not help but compare my high school music experience with those of my peers to whom US high school music facilities provided possibilities. Not only were the resources available but they were used. Students often shared their schedules for practice during their high school stay, which started with “marching band rehearsals at 6am.” Connected to this, I also think of my own childhood afterschool music program at Excelsior Steelpan Academy in San Nicolas, Aruba, which would take a ten-piece youth steel band ensemble 186 CHARISSA GRANGER into elementary schools for peer performances, especially in the neighbourhoods where the ensemble was based. The sheer joy that such performances brought remains invaluable. – A mandatory half-year secondary school music program (as part of the ongoing curriculum), in performance, instrument technology, or basic research, and digitising program would engage students with different areas of music work and research. In this way, there would be a multi-layered engagement with music suitable to students’ varied interests. Moreover, this would enable cataloguing and digitising of material that has been left unattended thus far. In such a way, students can conduct small-scale research into local music, its history, and music technology while contributing to securing cultural heritage. Students would learn preliminary research practice and methods, preparing them for tertiary education. – Funding to support more summer music camps directed toward learning to make and play traditional instruments and music from the region. Such infrastructure would ensure that young people have more possibilities for working within the cultural sectors of the islands, and provide fodder for nascent cultural studies and cultural analysis research programs within tertiary institutions throughout the Caribbean region and among its Diaspora. Such programs need to be accessible to all students. While some of the above occurs sporadically and unofficially, examples are too few and far between. My suggestions are rather geared towards a sustained and structured engagement with the arts and practice, especially where education is concerned. Such infrastructure is already being imagined, as in a newspaper article Thaïs Franken asks: “How can Aruba use elements of the Creative Industries in providing positive socioeconomic and cultural development? Especially for our children.”58 Again, my suggestions are neither unique nor exceptional, but how can I make them felt anew? How can I stress their urgency? I have attempted to do so by not highlighting the popular notion of music’s role in producing productive citizens or emphasising its economic potential—this will come, but should not be the point of departure in thinking about music and heritage. Discussing the newly instituted Leerorkest, Franken asks us to “imagine national competitions or yearly performances by all schools in Aruba. Imagine the community based support this could offer our children.”59 Imagine further inter-island performances and competitions that culminate in one multi-island ensemble. Franken makes clear that beyond its ability to connect students to each other, instituting the Leerorkest in the education system will connect students “with the musical traditions (cultural heritage) of the country. For Aruba, this could be a tremendous initiative for cultural education with the aim of preserving Aruba’s cultural heritage.” I am invited here to imagine RADICAL IMAGINING IN DUTCH CARIBBEAN MUSIC 187 further a tailoring of the curriculum to include and make accommodation for local instruments and music genres from Aruba and the Caribbean at large. Building upon the transplanted curriculum beyond singing traditional songs will indeed sustain the musical traditions in a radical way and thereby strengthen cultural heritage. The building, playing techniques, sounds, and potential of traditional instruments from the (Dutch) Caribbean must be taken seriously. There is a great deal at stake in overstanding that the Caribbean is a point of departure and site of instruction and reference. Glissant reinforced my knowledge of this; I knew it in practice as I left the Caribbean to study steelpan at a tertiary learning institution. What I knew in practice was sustained theoretically. Franken’s article brings me to Lorde’s encouragement to heretical action: [T]here are no new ideas still waiting in the wings to save us … as human. There are only old and forgotten ones, new combinations, extrapolations and recognitions from within ourselves—along with the renewed courage to try them out. And we must constantly encourage ourselves and each other to attempt the heretical actions that our dreams [and imagining] imply.60 Equipped with a practice of imagining and with the desire to feel fully and sense ourselves, how can such desire move us to new practices concerning music education, appreciation, the formation of new multiple selves, and the building and maintaining of the communal? Once driven by this desire, with erotic knowledge, how might we act on it? I have offered an account of this radical creative imagining in the work of two Dutch Caribbean artists and how it is bound up with music to suggest how this imaginary can be taken up in tangible ways to create supportive infrastructure for music praxis in the Dutch Caribbean. I suggest that music might be recognised for its role in building the communal. What sort of boundary-free and borderless imagining and imaginary is required to think of supportive infrastructure for music in terms of resources, institutionalisation education, and government sanctioned funding? What would this render? Hartman urges us to think of and practice beauty as a political act, teaching us that the search for beauty is political. “Beauty is not a luxury, rather it is a way of creating possibility in the space of enclosure, a radical act of subsistence, an embrace of our terribleness, a transfiguration of the given. It is a will to adorn, a proclivity for the baroque, and the love of too much”61—from the imagining that occurs in artand music-making emerges beauty, which is also a part of self-realisation. In search of beauty, what are we directed to? Is it the beauty of capitalism whose underbelly is land and human exploitation, the depletion of natural resources, environmental destruction, and the separation of selves with self-interest as the main goal? Part of 188 CHARISSA GRANGER the beauty of capitalism makes the one-pillar economy possible. Or is the search for beauty germinal to the ways we imagine and create possibilities to make liveable lives, especially in the face of social economic death? Patterson’s social death is teachable.62 “What we choose to emphasize will determine our lives.”63 The poetics of Caribbean literary and performance tradition instructs that we must feed the ghosts, and “not anger the spirits with our reluctance to do so.”64 This has been an attempt to overstand and explain us to ourselves, to show small morsels with which we might be able to feed the spirits. “The search for the beloved—the part of the self that is you, and loves you, and is always there for you”65—occurs in music. Our livingness and the knowledge of this livingness, this humaning is practiced, located, and emblematised in music. CHAPTER 10 Sport Heritage, Nation-Building and Nation-Branding in the Anglophone and Dutch Caribbean Roy McCree Introduction Since the early 1970s, UNESCO has led the charge to preserve, protect, and promote both tangible and intangible cultural heritage around the world, although some countries of the Caribbean had started to move in this direction before UNESCO’s initiatives.1 At the global level, UNESCO enlisted the support of not only its member states but also civil society and non-governmental organisations. In addition, while it has not received as much attention, since 1999, UNESCO has also been making efforts to protect and promote traditional sports and games (TSG) or sport heritage, which is the subject of this Chapter.2 In 2003, the Intangible Cultural Heritage (ICH) Convention, which subsumes sport, was also established.3 Against this background, the primary objective of this Chapter is to examine the relationship between sport heritage, nation-building, and nation-branding based on select countries from the Dutch- and English-speaking Caribbean. It begins by outlining the methodology of the study, followed by an examination of the contested nature of this identity formation process through heritage development, the examination of the efforts within the Caribbean to develop heritage and sport heritage in particular, and a discussion of the significance of these efforts in relation to the issues of nation-building and nation-branding. Methodology and Limitations This is a multiple exploratory case study based on several countries in the Dutch(Aruba and Curaçao) and English-speaking (Grenada and Trinidad) Caribbean as well as on several sports such as cricket, baseball, and soccer.4 However, in the context of the English-speaking Caribbean, while the Chapter draws particularly on the cases of Grenada and Trinidad to highlight the mixed experiences with sport museums in safeguarding and displaying cricket heritage, this is within the wider 190 ROY MCCREE Brochure of the West Indies Cricket Heritage Centre in Grenada context of cricket’s historical sociopolitical function for the region as a whole. In any event, it should be noted that these are the only two countries in the region that are known to have established cricket museums. The qualitative aspect of the case study relied heavily on documents (scholarly, official, newspaper and internet reports, as well as email communication) and purposive interviews with four individuals involved in sport in the countries directly involved. These included the Aruba Sport Union (ASU) president and the former president of the Cricket Federation in Aruba; a foremost anthropologist and one of the founders of the first Sport Museum in Curaçao (Professor valdemar Marcha), as well as one of the founders of the Cricket Heritage Center on the island of Grenada. The study was significantly constrained, however, by the lack of access to relevant documents, organisations, and individuals involved in sport, sport heritage, and heritage in general across both regions. For instance, repeated attempts to contact certain heritage organisations in Barbados, Jamaica, Saint Lucia, and even Trinidad and Tobago (which included the owners of Trinidad and Tobago’s cricket sport museum), bore little or no fruit. Relatedly, the lack of information also stems from the fact that the area of sport heritage remains insufficiently researched and resourced across both regions. In addition, another major limitation of the study SPORT HERITAGE, NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 191 was its focus on more competitive sport, which was a further consequence of the limitations in access to documents, people, and organisations combined with the stipulated word limit for the Chapter. As a consequence, the findings of this study are at best very tentative and preliminary, which is consistent with its exploratory nature. Nevertheless, it may still offer relevant baseline data for future studies on this neglected subject. Cultural Heritage and Identity Formation Although the two components are intimately connected, the notion of cultural heritage has been defined to include both the tangible and material (e.g., “buildings,” “monuments,” “sites”) and intangible aspects (e.g., “oral traditions,” traditional knowledge, and practices) of a people’s culture through which they celebrate their past and present.5 The heritage movement that emerged at a global level from 1972 under the auspices of UNESCO, with the establishment of the World Heritage Convention (WHC), has formed part of a process of identity formation that operates at two major related levels: the individual and the collective (group, community, nation, region, and globe). Relatedly, this identity formation process has also been bound up with several cleavages or sources of contestation related to “race,” ethnicity, social class, and citizenship that is linked to the impacts of slavery and colonialism, particularly at the national level. This process has also been marked by contradictory processes of exclusion, inclusion, acceptance, rejection, marginalization/incorporation, and “diversity and discrimination.”6 For instance, Ansano notes that while multiculturalism is celebrated, “the immense diversity of African people who came to Curaçao [is] almost never discussed or taken seriously in social analyses” yet “the still existing linguistic, ethnobotanical and spiritual presence of the native Kaketio community is not part of any important discussion on the island or about the island, except in small circles of archaeologists, botanists and others.”7 This “invisibilisation,” however, has not negated the continued presence of these peoples in language, literature, music, dance, religion, and rebellion, and neither has it done so in sport, where “successful sport figures” are used to create some feeling of unity and national identity. 8 It has been well established, therefore, that heritage preservation and promotion is not just a cultural process but forms part of a political process as well. This political process has arisen out of certain historical experiences and imbalances in power and resource distribution in the development of societies, particularly those who have faced the destructive and unapologetic fury of a colonialism that devalued almost everything and everyone of non-European provenance.9 192 ROY MCCREE In defining the character of intangible cultural heritage (ICH), which can also be applied to heritage as a whole and sport heritage in particular, Alofs captures the political nature of heritage as well as its importance in the context of nation-building in the Caribbean: Intangible Cultural Heritage is the outcome of the planned and unplanned processes of state-formation and nation building. The emerging states in the decolonizing Caribbean have faced this problem in the second half of the twentieth century. Along with economic development and regional integration, the process of nation building has been perhaps the single most important social and cultural challenge in the plural societies of the region.10 Drawing on the work of Benedict Anderson, who viewed the nation as an “imagined community,” Ansano poses the problematic of defining nation and national identity in the following terms: “Basically, the question is: what nation are we imagining, and who is the ‘we’ that imagines that nation?.”11 While Ansano was referencing the context of the Dutch Caribbean islands and Curaçao in particular, the question equally applies to other Caribbean and developing nations as well. Therefore, the question of what constitutes sport heritage, like heritage in general, has to be placed in the context of the historically contested and related issues of nation, nationalism, and national identity. Relatedly, the notions of nation-building and nation-branding can be seen as inextricably linked with these issues, in which both culture and sport have become enmeshed. However, while nation-building and nation-branding are arguably two sides of the same coin of development, the former can be possibly seen as speaking more to the political process of identity formation as well as general national development, while the notion of the latter speaks more to an economic process or capital accumulation, although it is also related to the former. Indeed, nation-branding has been defined by Kerr and Wiseman as “the application of corporate marketing concepts and techniques to countries, in the interests of enhancing their reputation in international relations” while Ansano has described it as a “neo-liberal strategy” used as part of nation-building that involves the marketing of countries through business and tourism.12 Sport Heritage in the Anglophone Caribbean Before the 1999 UNESCO Punta del Este declaration, which recognised Traditional Sports and Games as heritage, and the 2003 ICH Convention, which identified such sports and games as part of intangible cultural heritage, Caribbean states within the regional bloc called CARICOM13 had made two major overtures in the 1990s SPORT HERITAGE, NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 193 to develop cultural heritage in general and sport heritage in particular. The first took the form of a Regional Cultural Policy (RCP), which was first formulated in 1994.14 This policy was “seen as an instrument that aims at empowering people to be liberated to their creativity and self-development” within the context of creating a “democratic society.”15 With respect to heritage, an entire subsection was devoted to cultural heritage and entitled, “Cultural Heritage: Preservation and Protection.”16 This section established the importance of the region’s cultural heritage as part of the broader related issues of regional integration, nation-building, and identity. In defining cultural heritage, the policy stated: [C]ultural heritage is the collective memory, in various forms, of the people’s response to life and reflection on life going back several generations … It is the collective memory, embedded and expressed in many forms (museums being a particularly striking and critical example) which shows us both the positive and negative aspect of ourselves which we must know in order to build truly.17 However, while the RCP also recognised the role of sport in the process of identity formation at a national and regional level, there was no notion or language of sport heritage or any recognition that sport was also an important part of heritage or cultural heritage in general. Consequently, although the policy was based on a definition of cultural heritage that stressed the intangible, sport was still excluded from this notion.18 By way of contrast, in the 1992 West Indian Commission report on the region, which was the second major overture towards heritage in the 1990s, there is direct reference to sport as heritage, although in relation to the sport of cricket only. In this regard, reflecting on the historical importance of West Indian cricket to the integration of the West Indian islands and the West Indian collective sense of self, the Commission noted: No West Indian believer can afford to underestimate or neglect this game. It is an element in our heritage which binds us close and is seen as such both by ourselves and the outside world …19 In further relation to cricket, the Commission noted: Cricket has been a major cultural force in forging a sense of community among West Indians. It carries with it an historical pedigree dating back to the twenties and flourishes today as foremost among the Region’s agents of cultural integration, embracing the enthusiasm and interest of all West Indians irrespective of class, race, gender, political affiliation or creed. The achievements have served to foster a sense of regional identity and unity-in-diversity …20 194 ROY MCCREE The centrality of cricket as part of West Indian sport heritage has also spawned largely historical writings that underline the importance of the game as a source of national and regional identity in the region as well as of resistance to British imperialist domination.21 However, notwithstanding the supposed importance of cricket to the process of nation-building in the West Indies, the regional response to the recommendations of the West Indian Commission has been at best mixed. In this regard, for instance, while a cricket museum was established in Trinidad and Tobago in 2009 by the private Queens Park Cricket Club with some state financial support and is still operational, the Cricket Heritage Center, which was established in Grenada in the same year by two businessmen, had to cease operations in 2018 due to lack of support from the State, the cricket fraternity, and the public.22 In the words of one of its owners, “They were not very supportive at all” and this was attributed further to “a lack of appreciation of our own history.” This outcome was clearly at odds with the West Indian Commission’s regional mandate to encourage West Indian states to treat cricket as an important “element in our heritage.” It is also an expression of the lack of commitment at a national level to document the achievements of not only our cricketers but all other athletes. In addition to seeing sport and cultural heritage in sociopolitical terms as a conduit for national identity or nation-building, it was also seen in economic terms as an industry in its own right, which was relevant to the promotion of the tourism on which most of the islands heavily depend.23 In fact, in one of its recommendations, the West Indian Commission advised “that linkages between tourism and sport be pursued and strengthened with a view to deriving the maximum benefit from the West Indian reputation for sporting excellence, linked to other aspects of the regional tourism product.”24 In these respects, the 2013 creation of the professional T20 cricket league, called the Caribbean Premier League (CPL), facilitated the establishment of this linkage through sport tourism. Since its establishment, the league has been welcomed across the region by fans, cricket authorities, the state, and, of course, the tourism sector, for which it has been a major marketing or branding boost on islands so heavily dependent on tourism. In relation to its economic impact, the West Indies Cricket Board receives US$4.5 million annually from the staging of the tournament while returns to the tourism sector increased from US$105 million in 2013 to US$136 million in 2019.25 Therefore, while West Indian cricket and cricket heritage would have been originally seen as an important part of the process of nation-building narrowly defined in a political sense (nationalism, regionalism, etc.), particularly in the postwar period, it has now become an integral part of the tourism economy and the general process of capital accumulation on these islands. SPORT HERITAGE, NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 195 Dutch Caribbean The Dutch Caribbean consists of six islands and the Anglophone Caribbean of over a dozen. Unlike the vast majority of islands in the Anglophone Caribbean, which are politically independent of their former coloniser, Britain, the islands of the Dutch Caribbean reflect a more peculiar political and constitutional reality in their relationship with the Kingdom of the Netherlands. This is evident in the fact that of the six islands, three are “autonomous” territories within the Kingdom of the Netherlands: Aruba, which assumed this status in 1986, followed by Saint Maarten and Curaçao in 2010. The other three (Bonaire, Saint Eustatius and Saba) are special municipalities “under direct Dutch rule.”26 However, notwithstanding their differing political status, the Dutch government still assumes responsibility for their defense and foreign policy. The total population of the three autonomous islands is approximately 300,000. Curaçao’s population is the largest at 164,093, followed by Aruba with 107,087; together, they account for 90% of the total.27 Like the Dutch Caribbean on the whole, both countries are multicultural and multiracial, as they comprise peoples of Amerindian, European (e.g., Holland, France, Germany, UK, Spain), North American (US, Canada), African, Asian (India, Lebanon, Syria, China), Latin American (e.g., Brazil, Colombia, Venezuela), and Caribbean origin (e.g., Cuba, Dominican Republic, Haiti, Jamaica, Guyana, Saint Vincent and Grenadines, Saint Kitts and Nevis, Trinidad and Tobago) owing to their long history of migration.28 In the early twentieth century, this migration, particularly from the English-speaking Caribbean, was driven by job opportunities in the oil industry that emerged just after World War I.29 However, notwithstanding this plurality of peoples or nationalities, which varies from island to island, the largest group consists of those who were born on the island. In the case of Curaçao, this amounts to 76% while in Aruba it amounts to 65%.30 While official census data do not provide figures on the composition of their population by race or ethnicity, Alofs notes that due to the limited development of plantation slavery, “The Afro-Caribbean cultural heritage on Aruba is less dominant than on many of the other Caribbean islands” so much less that it is “often denied” and devalued owing to their societies’ historical racist thinking.”31 Curaçao Writing in 2011, Haviser and Gilmore noted, “Of the five islands in the Netherlands Antilles, Curaçao currently has the most effective cultural heritage management program, at both the Island Territory level (with a specific Monuments Bureau) and the NAAM Foundation level, with emphasis on cultural heritage management for 196 ROY MCCREE the island.”32 This more developed cultural heritage infrastructure can be seen in the fact that Curaçao, in addition to thirteen museums, now has eight official local organisations, including four governmental and four non-governmental, involved in the protection and promotion of cultural and natural heritage.33 Regarding sport, the exact number of sports played on the island is not known, but soccer and baseball are two of the most popular in terms of spectatorship.34 Figures provided by the Curaçao Bureau of Statistics reveal that in 2016, the most watched sports in the country were “outdoor football” (32.5%) and baseball (32%). However, it is not clear if the survey made any distinction between watching games on television, particularly games in international leagues such as Major League Baseball (MLB) or football leagues in Europe, and attending games locally. In addition, that only around one-third of the country watches either soccer or baseball seems at odds with the country being 76th out of 210 countries in FIFA’s global ranking of football-playing countries (FIFA 2021), and with its even more impressive history in baseball given its more than a dozen players in MLB.35 Since 1989, at least sixteen players from the island have played in MLB, although players have also played in Japan and the Netherlands.36 Based on the MLB presence of its players, Curaçao was said to have had “the most major leaguers in the world per capita” in 2014 with “one major leaguer for every 21,000 residents.” For this reason, it was described as “something of a colossus” in world baseball by the New York Times in spite of its small size. However, notwithstanding its rather impressive legal and organisational heritage management infrastructure, the dominant historical focus in Curaçao, as elsewhere, has been on its cultural and natural heritage, with little or no attention paid to sport heritage, although this has been slowly changing. Alluding to the deficiency in this area, a Mongui Maduro Library senior information specialist commented, “Regarding Sports Museums: I’m not aware of any other institution that is collecting or safeguarding sports memorabilia. This area is lacking.”37 In 2016, however, this changed with the opening of the first sport museum in Curaçao as part of the Curaçao Public Library.38 While the concept of a museum has been one of the major mechanisms employed throughout the Caribbean as a whole and the Dutch Caribbean in particular, for preserving and promoting the heritage of the islands, what has been noticeably lacking or absent has been the use of the sport museum.39 The Sport Museum Curaçao (SMC), as it is called, is still very much a work in progress. It aims to document the island’s heritage in several sports including baseball, fencing, football, karate, soccer, track and field, and swimming.40 The website also reveals the role played by blacks and whites, men and women, in creating this heritage as players, coaches, and administrators. As a consequence, the SMC seems to be quite all-inclusive in terms of the range of document sports and those who play them. SPORT HERITAGE, NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 197 In an interview, one of the SMC’s founders, the renowned scholar and professor Valdemar Marcha, provided the context and rationale that led to its establishment. The museum was actually first conceived in 2013 after a chance encounter with his childhood hero, the soccer goalkeeper Ermilio Harto, while he lay on his death bed suffering from prostate cancer. This encounter led to the sad and grim realisation that people like Harto “were forgotten and their achievements not documented other than in old newspaper clippings.” Marcha bemoaned this sense of “being forgotten after having done so much for their country, for their club and for the fans.” The absence of such documentation, however, was a manifestation or product of a deeper, more sordid reality that had to do with Curaçaoans’ lack of self-worth and “interest in our own history.” This echoed statements by one of the founders of the failed Cricket Heritage Center in Grenada, who attributed its failure to “a lack of appreciation of our own history.” Marcha added: We are not interested in our own history. We as a people. I am telling you about the natives. We are not proud of our history. Soccer history is something you throw away because it is not being documented and taught at schools, elementary school, secondary school. We don’t have heroes that we are proud of. It’s a national disaster I would call it. That is one of things we have to deal with. This lack of self-worth was seen further as a direct legacy or byproduct of European colonialism, which was constructed around the destruction and devalorisation of everything and everyone non-European while promoting the valorisation of all things European. In this regard, he stated: We do not appreciate or value what is ours. It is sad but it is true. We have learned to strive to copy the Dutch in order to be somebody … We model ourselves after the European establishment, the colonizer. The colonizer is the model that is what you want to be, that’s what you should be. Everybody encourage their children to be like them. This lack of documentation of its “sport heroes” and of self-worth among many Curaçaoans motivated Marcha to write a history of the island’s soccer players and suggest the establishment of a sport museum. The latter was first conceived as a “Salon of Fame” for the former national soccer players he had mobilised in researching and writing the history. Although the various sport federations did not embrace the idea originally, it was eventually established in partnership with the Curaçao Public Library and “with the support from the community, some banks and Mordi Maduro, a former vice President of FIFA.” In his estimation, the major function of the museum was to “educate and improve the dignity of generations to come because they can see they are standing on the achievements of great ancestors.” 198 ROY MCCREE The SMC’s establishment and its assigned role clearly reflect the recognition of the importance of sport heritage in Curaçao as a mechanism for not just nation-building but helping to repair the damage of colonialism to people’s sense of self, although the problems of self-devalorisation that prompted this initiative would not vanish overnight. Aruba Although Aruba became politically “independent” almost twenty-five years before Curaçao did, the policy and institutional infrastructure for managing its cultural heritage is not as developed or advanced as Curaçao’s. For instance, Alofs has bemoaned the general lack of resources devoted to studying and managing Aruban cultural heritage, although attempts to do so go back to the late nineteenth century.41 Consequently, while recognising “the progress … in the fields of language, literature and history” as well as “archaeology and museums in recent years”42, he can still claim, “Scientific research on Aruban cultural heritage and identity so far is unsatisfactory when taking into consideration the urgent need for recording and analysing cultural heritage in a rapidly changing society.”43 This situation could possibly explain why Aruba has only seven museums devoted to its cultural heritage, compared to Curaçao’s thirteen. The challenges in researching and documenting the island’s heritage appears to be even worse Cricket field in Aruba (photo Leroy Collins) SPORT HERITAGE, NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 199 in sport, where scholarly writings on its history are either lacking or not publicly available or both. The sparse available evidence, however, reveals that there are around thirty-five sport organisations on the island that fall under the umbrella of the Aruba Sport Union (ASU), which was formed in 1941.44 As in Curaçao, two of the more popular team sports are soccer and baseball, and it is baseball that has given it the greatest international recognition through the participation of at least six Arubans in MLB since 1996.45 And, as further testimony to the importance of the sport as part of Aruba’s sport culture or identity, its first three Major Leaguers were awarded the Order of Orange-Nassau at the rank of Knight by the government for their outstanding achievement in the sport. On the question of ethnicity and sport, ASU President Gerald Franca, surprisingly, stated, “Color discrimination is not popular here. It’s not an issue here.” This statement, however, seems to fly in the face of the major historical role that ethnicity and colour have played in shaping Aruba’s social structure, social relations, notions of hierarchy, and sense of national identity, which has always privileged the Mestizo-Aruban and marginalised the Afro-Aruban.46 It is in this context that baseball became a space or site used by Arubans of colour to resist or challenge their subordination in society as well as an avenue for upward social mobility (Guadeloupe), which was similar to the function cricket served in the West Indies. However, when asked further about the association of certain sports with particular ethnic groups, Franca noted that in certain sports like soccer, baseball, and lawn tennis, the situation was mixed, because you have both “good colored and white players,” but sports like boxing (mainly individuals of colour) and swimming (mainly whites) were associated more with one group or the other. In relation to the sport of cricket, this has been associated more with expatriate players of colour from such British Commonwealth countries as Grenada, Guyana, Jamaica, and even Pakistan. They introduced the game to the island in the 1940s after migrating in pursuit of employment opportunities in the new oil industry. Aruban Cricket Association President Jamal Mahawat Khan revealed, however, that not only was cricket not “as popular as baseball and soccer” but “it never became an Aruban sport.” He further stated that there is “no cricket heritage in Aruba because it never got a chance to root itself in Aruba [or] get rooted in a certain generation.” While it has been played in the country since the 1940s, cricket is not seen as Aruban enough to be part of the country’s sport heritage owing to its continuing association with expatriates. Nevertheless, the island does seem to have a rich sport history, which motivated the late Franciso “Chipen” Chirino to establish a private sport museum, but it apparently closed after his passing. This was revealed in an interview with ASU President Franca, who stated further that there is “no real sport museum in Aruba. We have the information but it is not organized.” Chirino was a major figure in 200 ROY MCCREE Aruban sport and was particularly known for having “organized Little League Baseball for over thirty years.” However, while the sport museum no longer exists, Franca said there are plans to establish a new sport museum based on “information” already collected. This consists of “history, photographs, cups, trophies, medals, newspaper reports” and would also include the “material” previously housed in the sport museum established by Chirino. In explaining the museum’s design, Franca said it would cater to all sports in Aruba and would be accessible to the public. He added: The idea is to focus on all sports. We have thirty-five different sports practicing in Aruba that have associations and they have their own statutes and they work independently, maybe internationally. The sport museum would try to populate all the information we can get from the different sports that we can put our hands on to get it out to the public.47 However, while they have acquired a body of information or materials for the museum as well as a possible location, the lack of funding from either the government or the business sector has prevented its construction. They are more focused on “such investments as hotel construction, factories and housing,” which can bring more socioeconomic benefits. The sport museum was seen as serving multiple purposes by providing an opportunity for people to reflect on the island’s sport history, on “how they used to play, where they used to travel, what the outcomes were if they got any recognition”; creating “an incentive for kids to go behind different sports” and informing them of their “national heroes.” In addition, the museum could help children born in Aruba to foreign parents become “part of the community” by exposing them to the “history of the country and what happened especially in sport.” For these reasons, the museum was seen as having “importance to the community” and being “definitely … a necessity.” However, while Franca acknowledges the country’s sport heritage, he notes that knowledge of this heritage is limited to “people who really practice their sport … [B]ut the other people, they don’t even know that.” This lack of knowledge is fuelled by the fact that the island’s sport heritage or history is not even taught in schools, as is the case in Curaçao and also the Anglophone Caribbean. But while the country’s sport heritage was seen as serving a definite nation-building function through integration of and education about the island’s sport history, particularly among children, it was not seen as serving any significant socioeconomic function. Franca said, “It won’t be a special attraction to tourists. They might go there to look around especially if we have one or two baseball players from the Major Leagues and they would like to see their backgrounds. I don’t think it would be a crash [success].” It was the sports of beach tennis and pickleball that were seen SPORT HERITAGE, NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 201 as having greater potential to attract tourists, particularly Americans given their historical connection with Aruba in the area of commerce. Discussion Whatever their linguistic, political, economic, historical, sociological, demographic, and sporting differences (e.g., centrality of baseball vs. cricket), Caribbean countries, whether Dutch or Anglophone, have three fundamental commonalities as relates to heritage: (i) a clear institutional bias towards traditional notions of cultural and natural heritage, which was reinforced by the 1972 World Heritage Convention; (ii) the lack of any significant attention to or interest in the documentation and promotion of sport heritage by either scholars or policymakers, and (iii) attempts to promote sport heritage, where they have occurred, being driven largely by private individuals with minimal or no state support. Although sport had become part of modern-day nationalist politics in the construction of nations and national identity since the reintroduction of the Olympic Games in 1876, and was generally seen as an aspect of popular culture that even facilitated colonisation, it still did not make the initial cut in the global heritage movement, although there were subsequent attempts to correct this omission through the 1999 Punta del Este Convention and the 2003 ICH Convention.48 As a result of the historical exclusion and/or marginalisation of sport from notions of heritage (tangible or intangible), this has led not only to a paucity of literature on the subject but to a lack or absence of public policies (education, tourism, sport, heritage) to deal with this area, particularly in small island developing states (SIDS), like those in the Caribbean. However, in spite of this lacuna, the Dutch and Anglophone Caribbean islands examined here still provide examples of attempts to protect and promote their sport heritage, which are linked to nation-building and nation-branding, although the experiences vary significantly by island and by sport. Regarding the West Indies, while there is recognition of the importance of its cricket heritage, which goes back to the nineteenth century, particularly in building each nation and, as an integrated region, in serving as an instrument of decolonisation, there have been mixed attitudes to the documentation and dissemination of this rich heritage. For instance, of the twelve islands from which players have been drawn to represent the West Indies cricket team, a cricket museum only exists on one, Trinidad, while the attempt to establish another on the island of Grenada failed as a result of the lack of support from the government and public. While cricket therefore has definitely been used to imagine or construct nations in the Caribbean and even a single Caribbean nation, the documentation and institutionalisation of its cricket heritage 202 ROY MCCREE has been lacking beyond the historical writings of a handful of cricket historians. However, as the game has become more professionalised and commercialised with the advent of the shorter version called T20 cricket, which lasts approximately three hours, West Indian cricket has also become an integral part of nation-branding through its incorporation into the tourism economy on which the majority of islands depend for their livelihood. Historically, sport has reflected the structure and conditions of the society or time in which it has been organised and played. So, in traditional society, where religion dominated people’s lives, sport was a means by which people communicated with their gods, by asking for favours (fertile soil, fertile women, protection against illness) and even, in some cases, sacrificing losers.49 For instance, the ancient Olympic Games was one of several crown festivals in Greece held in honour of the god Zeus.50 Fast forward to the twenty-first century, we see that sport in general and cricket in particular, in the West Indies is now being used to serve the interests of both local and foreign capital. In the latter regard, all T20 cricket franchises in the CPL are owned by Indian businessmen, which is a profound reflection of the game’s commodification and globalisation along the circuit of global investment capital. This can also serve to illustrate the neoliberal character of “nation-branding” to which Ansano made reference. This commercialisation of the game, however, has resulted in tremendous controversy, because it is seen as undermining the game’s historical political function as a symbol of West Indian regional integration and decolonisation.51 In that regard, political consciousness has been seen as being substituted for “cash consciousness.”52 The Dutch Caribbean countries examined also reveal relatively mixed experiences in relation to the use of their sport heritage for either nation-building or branding. In both societies, sport heritage has been seen as important to the process of nation-building, which served as an important justification for the establishment of or plans to establish a sport museum. For instance, in Curaçao, the documentation of its soccer heritage was seen as part of a deeper process of self-valorisation of its people in order to counter the worst effects of colonialism, which was grounded in the devalorisation and denigration of non-Europeans, particularly those of African descent, who were seen to have no history or culture anywhere. Consequently, it was part of an attempt to showcase the island’s own sport history and heroes and create a greater sense of self-worth or self-respect in the population based on the island’s own achievements and combat the historical practice of looking to Amsterdam or metropolitan Dutch culture for validation and a sense of importance. Thus the Sport Museum Curaçao (SMC) is not just about nation-building but rebuilding that sense of self in the people of Curaçao, structured around a greater SPORT HERITAGE, NATION-BUILDING AND NATION-BRANDING IN THE CARIBBEAN 203 appreciation and knowledge of their own sport history and those who made it. In Curaçao, the use of sport heritage to construct or reconstruct notions of nation has been intimately linked to the issue of race and to ensuring that the invisible (i.e., sport heroes) became an integral part of its imaging or reimagining. Relatedly, the sport of cricket in the West Indies served the same basic function: making former subaltern groups like those of African and Asian descent an integral part of the nation or society. These experiences show that what we consider sport heritage and its functions, just like heritage in general, are an ineluctable product of “state formation and nation-building.” In Aruba however, while the value of sport heritage and the rationale for the establishment of a sport museum was not framed in terms of a postcolonial response or as countering the negative impacts of Dutch colonialism, it was still seen as serving important developmental functions in relation to public education about the island’s sport history, motivating youths to participate or excel as well as helping to integrate individuals into Aruban society, particularly children born on the island to foreigners. Unlike the SMC however, there was no indication that the establishment of this museum in Aruba was influenced in any way by concerns over racial exclusion or any negative colonial legacy, although colour and ethnicity have formed an integral component of social relations on the island. However, the fact that cricket is not seen as Aruban or part of its sport heritage because of its continued association with expatriates—although it has been played in the country for over eighty years and even has a national association funded by the Aruban State—reflects the socially constructed and political nature of notions of nation, heritage, and national heritage. It also shows the exclusionary and contradictory character of the process of identity formation and the pertinence of the question: “What nation are we imagining, and who is the ‘we’ that imagines that nation?”53 Does this “we” include citizens of Aruba who play cricket? In relation to nation-branding, there was no indication that sport or sport heritage was being used for this purpose on either island as part of the marketing of its tourism industry, unlike the case of cricket in the West Indies. Admittedly, while the professionalisation experienced in baseball and the economic export of its best players to MLB can be seen as facilitating some degree of “branding,” for both nations, the absence of, say, a professional baseball league has undermined the potential for a branding similar to that of the CPL via West Indies cricket. Consequently, this may perhaps explain why we have not seen a similar tension between the use of sport heritage for nation-building and nation-branding in the Dutch Caribbean as we have seen in the Anglophone Caribbean. 204 ROY MCCREE Conclusion In both the Anglophone Caribbean and Dutch Caribbean, sport heritage has been used for nation-building purposes in varying degrees, but its use for nation-branding purposes seems to have differed significantly. Notwithstanding this, the interest in sport heritage in both regions still lags far behind the interest shown in cultural and natural heritage globally, as well as in the Caribbean as a whole. However, for SIDS in particular, like those in the Caribbean, where sport has served to provide more international visibility, respect, and prestige, sport heritage needs to be placed more firmly and squarely on the agendas of the state, the private sector, the sport community, researchers, scholars, and educators if its nation-building and nation-branding functions are to realise their full potential. CHAPTER 11 Exploring the Nation through the Lens of Baseball: A Popular Culture Perspective on National Belonging in the Dutch Caribbean Francio Guadeloupe Introduction: Sports and Class on a Dutch Caribbean Island Stupidity and courageousness are often indistinguishable in the act of rebelling. How far would they let him go with this act, this lewd and daring presentation of himself in public? In putting on a face, in playing a Colombian interloper between these Dutch West Indians, did he not see the frowns of those in the higher seats and that tempers were beginning to flare? Of course he did, for while doing his national act as a Colombian he had turned from time to time to look up at them. In a baseball stadium on the island of Sint Maarten, he was sitting in the lower seats, where the workers sat. These, the worst seats, from which it was difficult to see the whole baseball field, were reserved for the poor, like him. Workers paid the same price as the wealthy but, knowing their place, they sat lower. Pablo, a short and husky man built like a capybara, the giant cavy found in Latin America, was finding a way to correct this inequity. Baseball was one of the few expressions of popular culture in the Dutch Caribbean; Carnival was another, when people like Pablo could sit in the company of his fellow others, without having to defer too much. In fact, poor workers could challenge white-collar workers in popular culture sites. During Carnival all classes mixed. Carnival is a time for poor workers to show that they could wine better than the moneyed people—or rather the women could, for real men like Pablo did not do too much wining. Baseball was for men, a place where real men could be men, and show up those generosamente perfumados (perfumed classes), meaning those who work in air-conditioned offices. Popular culture is simultaneously a site of struggle, entertainment, and commerce, a combination that will be developed throughout this chapter.1 It’s where classes can supposedly meet on more equitable terms. It is here that Pablo was seeking to assert himself. 206 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE He worked in construction, one of the many men on the island with what anthropologists term “a bad job”: employment that is extremely useful to society but nevertheless pays poorly and is carried out under terrible work conditions.2 Humankind without shelter is unthinkable, but those who perform the manual labour of building housing usually lack the right connections, social manners, and education to get ahead in life. In other words, Pablo lacked social capital.3 He was an example of the multitude that exists in every society, men and women whom the well-to-do look down on without giving it too much thought. In fact, why should the better off stop and wonder about socioeconomic inequality? The mediatised landscapes of knowledge-dissemination—television, newspapers, radio, and internet—have most often told a story of a hegemonic order in which class stratification is how society ought to be. The dominant media in Sint Maarten and the rest of the Dutch Caribbean does not disrupt this status quo in any significant way, it in fact mediates the better-off’s face-to-face interactions with their class inferiors—the others.4 But the oppressed are prideful, and in less perceptible ways they disrupt the status quo.5 They do not fully believe the media-endorsed idea that they are socially and economically where they belong. Pablo was no exception, and with his muscular build he feared no one, even if he was a bit fearful of the reprisals of the well-to-do. Being brave and ignorant on that warm day on the island in 2016, he aimed at striking back at all those who called him “Spanish” (a generic name on the island for poor Spanish-speaking West Indians and South Americans) and “foreigner.” He could always say he was only bantering and had lost himself in the game; he could always act stupid, for he was seen as insipid; he typified, according to the well-to-do, the foolish and aggressive Spanish as depicted in the dominant media. With a bottle of rum in one hand and a Johnny cake in the other, Pablo was bent on exacting revenge for the thrashing the Aruban and Curaçaoan baseball teams had given his beloved Colombian team—it had been as though he personally had taken a beating. At the time, he had spewed such profanities in Spanish and English that God had supposedly “switched to his Papiamentu headphones.” That was how one of the wealthier who had attended the game against Colombia had responded to Pablo’s profanities. God spoke Papiamento, the man had joked, and the Curaçaoans were his chosen people. Colombia was the land of cocoa and whores and nada mas (nothing more). The man said he had had more than his share of Colombian women in Campo Alegre and was planning to pay the brothels of Sint Maarten a visit after the game. The headphones reference echoed the dominant media on the island in how it, at its most ungenerous, depicted Spanish, like Pablo. Pablo wanted to wring the man’s neck. He had left Curaçao and then later Aruba for Sint Maarten. On this isla ariba he was not discriminated against too much. There were fewer poor Colombians like him in Sint Maarten and in the sea ExPLORING THE NATION THROUGH THE LENS OF BASEBALL 207 of migrants 80% of the population were newcomers, he was virtually invisible. His work permit had expired, but he was known in Sint Maarten now and was sure to get a new permit soon. And if not, he could go on working without papers, for being an irregular migrant was not exceptional on the island. The island needed good handymen like him. He loved the island, small and manageable. This was a land of foreigners. He felt in some ways and on some days at home. Sint Maarten was also less violent and hierarchical than Colombia. In the land of his birth he was a permanent outsider-insider. This was not his land, but he was growing fond of it, he was developing a sense of belonging, and felt he had a right to speak up. He lived here! Pablo was going to unleash his wrath on that bold-faced Curaçaoan in the higher seats for all the humiliations he had endured in Curaçao and Aruba. His friends tried to intervene. Pablo should know better than to go against the wealthy, they told him, especially the Dutch ones in their own lands. This wasn’t the ABC islands; this was Dutch Antillean land.6 The Curaçaoan was unafraid and summoned Pablo to “come and play man,” as they say in the Caribbean, and “bin laga mi dal bo un wanta” (come and let me give you a couple of cuffs). As Pablo launched in his direction, he was taken away by security, jeered by others that he was a sore loser. Pablo unwittingly corroborated the mediatised landscape of knowing: Spanish men were naturally rude and aggressive. The Curaçaoan uncouthness, on the other hand, went unnoticed. That Pablo had every right to be angry, that his sense of patriotic pride was something anyone would expect from a person who loves his country, was not on anybody’s lips. Pablo was simply behaving like a Spanish. Baseballing on St. Maarten, 2010 (photo Perdo de Weever) 208 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE One can say Pablo was playing the fool on that day. He was performing anger, but he had lost himself in the act and was playing without recognising that he was. To be human is to perform in the sense of acting out our enculturated habits on a daily basis. This is a sociological and anthropological way of seeing human interactions that will be developed below.7 Pablo and the Colombian team lost on that day, but a few days later the tables were turned as the Sint Maarten team was no match for the gladiators of his tierra querida (beloved country). The Colombian batters were having a field day as the Sint Maarten pitchers were ineffective. It was Pablo’s turn to tease and ridicule. Pablo pontificated: El Macdonald’s no tiene power, el Chino no tiene power, cabrónes. Mira, eso es, músculos Colombianos. nosotros comemos empanada con yuca, Ajiaco, plantano verde, ustedes desayunancon hambuergesa y coca cola, pendejos que son /Macdonald’s contains no nutrients, Chinese food contains no nutrients, dumbasses. Look at these Colombian muscles. We eat yams, chicken and potato soup, green plantains, you have hamburgers and coca cola for breakfast, sets of assholes. You cannot play baseball. You no man. You boy. Sint Maarten boy. Colombia, MAN. Mira, [he stands up beating his hand on his chest] hecho en Colombia/made in Colombia. He knew exactly how to insult the oldcomers (people native to the island; locals). The newcomers often lampoon Sint Maarteners for the fact that they preferred North American fast-food to the traditional starchy foods of el gran Caribe. What was considered a symbol of luxury, namely being able to eat what the American tourists ate, made them weak and lazy according to many newcomers, and, as Pablo highlighted, unmanly; implying that the fast-food local men ate made them unable to properly perform in baseball—and in bed, hence the implication that many local women sexually desire foreign men. There, he had gone too far for a younger man, a local Sint Maartener who sneered at him and said, “Hey fuck hole, come let me bust that Spanish mouth for you.” Man’s business is not to be taken lightly. Belittling a Sint Maarten man’s sexual prowess is an insult to the national brand and image of the country. The younger man’s threat was music to Pablo’s ears. He looked and saw what amounted to a pretty boy who probably worked in the bank or some office. He asked his younger opponent if he had had his manicure today, then stood up to rush the younger man and his friends, his weapon a bottle in his hand. He was grinning in anticipation of a good fight. But also in the higher seats was Miss Cynthie. In her early seventies, she got up and eyed Pablo. “Where you think you going?” she said. “You want to fight and spoil my afternoon? Boy look here!” Pablo turned brownish pale, he had not noticed her ExPLORING THE NATION THROUGH THE LENS OF BASEBALL 209 before. As though he were a toddler faced down by his stern kindergarten teacher, he stopped in his tracks. She then turned and eyed the younger man, who was sitting near her. “You ain’t Drika boy?” she said. “You has best behave yourself, before I come there for you.” The younger man and his friends laughed. He said rather coyishly that he wasn’t a little boy anymore. Miss Cynthie stared at him until he said, “Okay, okay.” She continued, He right, look at how the team putting we to shame. No discipline, none whatsoever, mothers ain’t feeding they children properly anymore, and I wonder how many of you taking up you responsibility and making sure you children eat right. Is not only in the night when you sweet and you sweet mouthing woman that you must be man. Be man and make sure you children eat right. Make sure they train hard and make we proud. She turned to Pablo and said: I listening to you shooting shit the whole time. Shut your mouth. You is a guest in this country and you renting from me. You ain’t know who beat Colombia? The Aruban team was coached by a Romney. A Romney. That is we people, the children and grandchildren, is what in the Aruban team that cut your ass. If this was the young people thing basketball or a game of cricket is golden duck and golden goose we would be giving you all. Miss Cynthie then summoned her two grandchildren who were accompanying her and went to sit next to Pablo, among the working class. Her grandchildren knew Pablo well: he cleaned their grandmother’s huge property in exchange for paying next to nothing in rent; thus he could send more to his children and family in Colombia. Miss Cynthie was also helping him to fix his papers, as she was well-connected and had family in high places, including a high-ranking police officer. When she sat next to Pablo believing he was drunk she took his bottle away. Pablo remained as quiet as a church mouse. This vignette, taken from my ethnographic fieldwork notes, presented as characters in a novel, was chosen because it highlights some of the cardinal points that will be discussed in this dramaturgical approach to a site of popular culture in Aruba and Curaçao: the baseball stadium. “Site” refers to the cultural practices of playing and watching baseball, as well as to the plethora of daily interactions not necessarily connected to the game, when islanders put on a particular performance, an act, in front of one another. In studying the presentations and contestations of selves in everyday life, which is what ethnographically oriented anthropologists and sociologists do, there is a recognition that no person acts exactly like any other. Pablo was singular in his 210 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE actions, as his friends and onlookers belonging to the same social class did not join in with his emotions and actions. So, too, did Miss Cynthie and the other elites he engaged with show variations in the broad patterns of their enculturation. To speak of cultural types is an abstraction never to be mistaken for the reality of social life.8 Given this conceptual lens, ethnographic fieldwork, engaging field respondents, and observing their interactions forms the crux of the chapter. This mode of scientific work presupposes that research respondents are always right, meaning that it is the researcher’s task to figure out why they think they are right. It is about verstehen arrived at through “deep hanging out.”9 The views of the persons discussed here are based on fieldwork on popular culture and belonging conducted from 2010 to 2012 and in 2015 and 2016 in Aruba, Curaçao, and Sint Maarten. Fieldwork periods ranged from three weeks to five months. Baseball games and practices, as well as other events such as carnival parades, were dutifully attended. Additionally, daily commutes via buses, church attendance, hanging out at clubs, parties, beaches and political campaign rallies offered opportunities to observe and engage with different strata of Aruban and Curaçaoan society. With its focus on baseball and national belonging, this chapter contributes to the ethnographic study of the performance of selves and interaction rituals in the Caribbean. Popular Culture as Commerce Defining popular culture as a site of struggle, entertainment, and commerce suggests that they are always present with varying degrees of prominence. Moreover, the articulations of popular culture in terms of nation-building, nation-branding, and national self-understanding differ over time. Popular culture is best conceptualised commercially, as the beloved culture of the masses. The preposition “of” can be read as a euphemism for aesthetic cultural expressions “fed to” to the masses. Commercial popular culture as mass culture is in the business of producing commodities and leisure activities by what has become since World War II a multibillion dollar industry. In this version of popular culture, entertainment, via localised subdomains within sports, music, dance, film, games, and fast-food, comes with a price tag. From singers such as Beyoncé to soccer players such as Neymar to games such as Yakuza, commercial popular culture expresses outernationality,10 meaning popular culture’s ambit of operations and the styles of being it initiates and exploits have a limited relationship with the world of nation-states. Commercial popular culture is a cannibalisation of what people in nation-states consider their specific national or ethnic heritage; if cultural expressions are not exploitable and extendable beyond ExPLORING THE NATION THROUGH THE LENS OF BASEBALL 211 national boundaries, and if the entertainment they offer cannot be monetised and transposed to other places, they are not taken up by agents of commercial popular culture. Nations and ethnicities, the stuff of identity and belonging, are theatrical props in the staging of commercial popular culture. Beyoncé’s African American heritage, like Neymar’s Brazilian nationality, whatever these outernational superstars intend, add a flair of fiction or authenticity for mass consumers of their art and skills. Still, states in the Caribbean can choose to treat commercial popular culture with a strong local signature as a national brand and an asset. It is a risky undertaking but Caribbean states are willing to take the risk. An example of this is the Jamaica Tourist Board’s use of reggae and Bob Marley as a happy ideology, in contradistinction to how fans see him as a rebel for the planetary poor, in the touristic promotion of the island. Many of these visitors who love Rasta and reggae will be told by hoteliers and tour guides to avoid Kingston and places where the rebellious poor reside. The Jamaican government cannot monopolise Marley’s signification within the nation, nor can it contain the Masta Rasta’s stardom in the sense of mustering the entrepreneurial savvy of agents of commercial popular culture. Still, the government is seeking to attract tourists to the island who are enamoured with the commercialised outernational branding of Rastafari and reggae. In engaging in state-sponsored nation-branding, government officials will have to take seriously into account the virtualisation of tourism, given that the 2021 Jamaican Reggae Sunsplash will be attended by online audiences.11 This is not the first time that the Jamaican government has tried its hand at nation-branding. In the past it sought to do so unsuccessfully with Sunsplash and other music events. Lessons from the past such as the importance of offering sufficient support to local organisers and getting the hoteliers to contribute “the right mix of public-private investment” are vital.12 How does all of this hold for Aruba and Curaçao? Are these islands subject to outernational commercialisation of national and ethnic cultural expressions? To answer these queries, we must turn to baseball. Baseball, Outernational Popular Culture in Aruba and Curaçao Baseball in Aruba and Curaçao can be described as a commercial asset. With headlines in the New York Times such as “A Speck on the Map Gushes Talent” and “With Talent From Two Small Islands, the Netherlands Is a W.B.C. Favorite” and similar headlines in other quality newspapers, baseball attracts in these Dutch Caribbean islands positive press.13 Aruba and Curaçao are known in the world of commercial popular culture as baseball islands. Players suchas Andruw Jones, Andrelton 212 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE Simmons, Kenley Jansen, Xander Bogaerts, Gene Kingsale, Ozhaino Albies, Calvin Maduro, and Hensley Meulens are outernational heroes with millions of fans and millions of dollars. Even if these players are less known in the Netherlands and Western Europe, where soccer is king, Bogaerts is for instance the wealthiest sports star in the Dutch world, followed by Kenley Jansen.14 Behind this national brand of Aruba and Curaçao as a source of baseball are Major League Baseball franchises, dealers, sports agents, and international ad companies. The island governments of Aruba and Curaçao play a minor, if not insignificant, role in this branding enterprise. What takes place in Jamaica with Rasta and reggae or in Trinidad and Tobago with soca and steelpan does not have an equivalent in the Dutch Caribbean. The Federashon Beisbol Korsou and the Amateur Baseball Bond Aruba, the national organisations for baseball, are both poorly funded and lack serious professionalisation and support from their government’s Department of Sport Affairs. In 2015, a high-ranking Aruba official, who wished both himself and his department to remain anonymous, explained: Nothing changes when it comes to that. AvP or MEP it is all the same [Arubaanse Volkspartij/AvP and the Movimento Patriotico Arubano/MEP are the dominant political parties on the island] it is all the same. For them sports is recreation, you know. Something for fun or to keep the children off the street. Boy and because you have lots of Venezuelans, Colombians, and especially Dominicans in the little league, because they like to breed, Aruban politicians are not interested. Even with all our stars, they don’t see the potential. They blind because they don’t want to invest in our youths. All they care about is a photo-op when Arubans do well. You see Mike [Eman former Prime Minister of Aruba] quick to take a picture with the X-Man [Xander Bogaerts], but ask him what he plan to do next? Nothing. The current situation, he added, is that American sports agents and some Major League teams sponsor some local teams in order to seize local talent at a young age. The players are then further seasoned across the region and the US until they make it to the Major Leagues or a minor league. The parents of the players gladly concede to this, while the national organisation is left out of the negotiations and transactions. National organisations can be skipped because, he complained, most politicians were for sale. In Curaçao a similar situation holds: Most players going to MLB are youngsters that are being scouted from Junior and Senior League and some of them even from Intermediate League, which is a league between Junior and Senior League. ExPLORING THE NATION THROUGH THE LENS OF BASEBALL 213 Still, Arubans and Curaçaoans agree that Curaçao takes better care of their players and their amateur facilities, enabling more talents to emerge with a shot of making it to the Major Leagues. Here is the same official: Really Curaçao is much more successful than us [Aruba]. On a population verhouding/In terms of population demographics Curaçao has the most professional baseball players in the world. Besides the drive and raw talent the government and commercial support is essential. Once one or two make it, they will also support the baseball on their island with lectures and clinics. There is no one success. To answer your question you have to invest in training facilities, clinics for coaches and players and organisation structure that can measure the growth of the game standards over the years. Oh yeah, and the government have to start compensating coaches and board members. Some can afford to do it voluntarily and others not (car use, gasoline, time off from work, equipment just to mention a few). Everyone can be a star, but not everyone have the means. Baseball teaches you a lot about Aruba and Curaçao too. Aruba and Curaçao from the Perspective of Baseball Ironically, while Aruban and Curaçaoan players represent a global branding of the islands as fonts of baseball talent—a representation that outshines all others—baseball has not received sustained social scientific attention in Dutch Caribbean studies. As mentioned above there are no sociological, anthropological, or historical studies of Dutch Caribbean baseball heroes. In terms of this volume, the question worth posing is what would it mean to appreciate these islands from the perspective of baseball? And what would that reveal about national identity, nation-building and nation-branding, and presentations of selves in everyday life? This chapter is an attempt to answer these questions. There are precedents to this work, and to doing such analyses, in wider Caribbean studies. The seminal work of C.L.R. James on cricket comes to mind.15 Through the lens of cricket, James analysed Trinidadian society and provided a rich picture of class and ethno-racial dynamics in the British West Indies. It is via James’s 1963 study that inroads were made in understanding popular culture as the entangled triad of a site of entertainment, struggle, and commerce—and power too, James would say, given that he explicitly theorised politics and economics as a nexus. This chapter is inspired by James’s mode of analysing society via the prism of the sport that crosses socioeconomic classes. In the opening vignette it was hinted that newcomers to Sint Maarten, like Pablo, consider baseball one of the terrains of struggle for recognition. He felt that 214 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE on the baseball field class and ethno-racial classification does not matter. What matters, or should matter, is winning the game. The opening vignette demonstrated that class and ethnicity does matter on the baseball field. The game of baseball cannot escape from the wider sociopolitical dynamics of the island. There is also the outernational commercial aspect. Still, Pablo and many working-class members on the island are committed to the ideal of baseball as a democratic place, because they had seen how poor young men blocked from climbing the social ladder in myriad ways had succeeded by playing baseball. Most of the baseball heroes from Aruba and Curaçao have working-class backgrounds. On the baseball field, working-class voices argue, every person counts and everyone works for each other. And the coach is selfless, choosing the best players regardless of their station, because he wants to win. Baseball for many on the island is an ideal of a well-functioning society. While in baseball no single player decides the game, personality matters. Every player represents the team and himself. The unresolvable dialectic between being solidary and solitary holds. So does the transcultural idea often suppressed in many societies that every cook can govern, meaning that every person regardless of their Radha Martha, baseball hero in the making, 2012 (photo Francio Guadeloupe) ExPLORING THE NATION THROUGH THE LENS OF BASEBALL 215 station can rise to any occasion. This is what the working classes on the island continuously foreground. On the baseball field, individual players are encouraged to show off and display their skills, without reneging on being part of the team. In Aruba and Curaçao baseball is the sport of all classes, but it is the working class and the struggling middle class that are the source of most of the players. As mentioned above the stars from these islands, heralded in the New York Times, ESPN, and the Washington Post, hail from these strata. Usually, the uniform is sponsored by a business and the equipment belongs to the club. A good baseball player only has to bring his talent. If he belongs to the working class, this means that he can easily compete with his peers coming from families. After working long hours for measly pay, single men and families go to watch a baseball game. The baseball stadium is also a place where teens meet to date and flirt. Young, old, wealthy, and poor all go to the game. But on the field, those with less means can prove their quality, making baseball simultaneously a site of struggle, entertainment, and commerce. The working classes, and those barely earning their keep through hustling and irregular jobs, at a baseball game are not shy to speak about the injustice they face in Aruba and Curaçao. Like Pablo they too speak about being unappreciated and mistreated because of their class position. And like him they too argue that baseball is one of the few places they can contest their subordination and discrimination. A father who worked as a garbage collector in Curaçao explained that he taught his son to never strike out when facing a pitcher whose parents had wealth and status. His son also had to make sure that other players on his team respected him despite the fact that his father picked up their waste. Anytime his son did well, he would take the little change he had and buy him ice cream or KFC. If his son disappointed and was mastered by a pitcher of the other team, especially if the boy had wealthy parents, he received punishment and was summoned to train harder. The garbage collector explained that he was not alone in this. The teams in Curaçao and Aruba are mixed in terms of class. The rich and poor may not live together but they play sports together. For the team skill is what counts in winning, not a person’s economic background. Baseball, in other words, may enable a non-hierarchical understanding of the nation. The class hierarchies on the island are temporarily erased, and so are the ethno-racialised understandings of who is an Aruban and Curaçaoan. Class and ethno-racialism are intertwined and rampant on both islands. Where you encounter one, the other is surely nearby. The dominant governing apparatus on both islands promote a creole nationalism. The nation-building project in the school curriculum, national festivals, and speeches of political leaders speak to the importance of recognising diversity. Black, Brown, and White are integral to the national imaginary. Within this broad recognition, however, one identity is 216 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE privileged. In Curaçao it is the Afro-Curaçaoan and in Aruba it is the Mestizo Aruban. It is a public secret, as an Afro-Aruban working in the civil service explained: Aruba very strange. When someone from San Nicolaas do good, Aruban [San Nicolaas is a district with lots of Afro-Arubans with a working-class background]. When someone from San Nicolaas do bad, tira atraco and thing, e gaiynan di San Nicolas di repiente. That is why I does tell them, ta Rubiano nan ta. Si X-Man [Xander Bogaerts] ta Rubiano, e lardon tambe ta Rubiano. Then everyone quiet, because everyone knows what going on. No one ever says Bogaerts from Juwano Morto, they just say he is Aruban of like how the Dutch say Nederlander. Is the same up there where you from [laughter]. People in this country like to discriminate. Every country have that. There is also the question of the colour scale: I have the greenish eyes and I café con leche, so certain times they think I might just be mixed. That too you have on Aruba, the blacker the harder. Si bo ta preto bo ta hodido. But then again we have lots of educated black people from San Nicolaas. Claudius Phillips is the star [Aruba’s most renowned singer with a darker hue] and the girls from Noord [a district where the majority is mestizo and working class] love a black man. So you done know, that can’t work with we. As is the case in the wider Caribbean, Creole nationalism with its politics of complexion is alive and well in Aruba.16 It would be a mistake, however, to see this hierarchy in creole nationalism exclusively through the lens of racialised identities. Ethnicity matters because in the Dutch Caribbean migration matters plenty. On these islands racialism explicitly houses an ethnic component, hence the term ethno-racialism. Like Sint Maarten, Aruba and Curaçao are economic powerhouses in comparison to the rest of the region, attracting newcomers in search of a better life. Rough estimates indicate that about one-third to half of these islands’ population consists of recently arrived newcomers, many of whom are impoverished mestizos and blacks.17 What this translates into is a situation in which Mestizo Arubans, as many studies demonstrate, may discriminate against Afro-Arubans, but given the latter’s elite credentials and citizenship rights they are privileged far above most mestizos from, say, venezuela or Colombia. Pablo’s mestizo identity did not award him any privilege in Aruba, nor did his light complexion do so in Curaçao. The same went for Sint Maarten. In such a situation, newcomers and the ethno-racially subjugated employ popular culture as a site to struggle and contest that hierarchy. Attending baseball games in Aruba and Curaçao today one encounters many newcomers. Like the garbage ExPLORING THE NATION THROUGH THE LENS OF BASEBALL 217 collector, they fatefully attend games and make sure their sons and daughters are enrolled in the minor leagues. When their children do well, this bolsters their esteem, especially after hearing that their belonging is partial. In their struggle to belong via sports, in this case baseball, the subjugated nevertheless have the same dreams of wealth and fame as do the oldcomers. Newcomers or subjugated oldcomers who want to destroy the system are scarce. What the subjugated on these islands want is a better position, and baseball is an avenue to achieve this. Excelling in baseball offers players esteem and, if they are very, very, lucky, wealth. Part of a Longer Struggle The tradition of employing baseball as a site of struggle, entertainment, and commerce in fact is not so new. It can be traced back to the mid-1920s, when the great-grandparents of the majority of Afro-Arubans migrated from the Anglophone Caribbean to work in the Lago Oil & Transport Co. Ltd., part of the Esso/Exxon multinational corporation, and the Eagle Petroleum Company Incorporated Oil Refinery, a subsidiary of Royal Shell multinational corporation. Baseball arrived in Aruba with these early newcomers. After the arrival of Lago Oil and Eagle Petroleum in 1928 (which suspended operations during World War II) the population of Aruba grew from 8,200 to 51,000 in the 1950s.18 In Lago Oil’s heyday 10,000 Arubans, most being black migrants who would become Afro-Arubans, worked in its refinery. As agreed with the Dutch government, the multinationals provided workers with recreation, medical facilities, and education. In those early days Afro-Arubans occupied most of the positions of seniority below the white Americans and Europeans. Miss Cynthie, who declined to be interviewed, had also lived and worked in Aruba and her children were born there. Aruba and Sint Maarten were sisters, I was told by Lydia and Jerry, an Afro-Aruban couple living in Sint Maarten, who are securely upper middle class. They explained: [Lydia:] Aruba was the best. When I tell you the best, it was the best. Everything you had there. Everything. My father worked at Lago, so we could go to that hospital. It was the best hospital on the island I telling you. A lie, Jerry? [Jerry:] It is true, Aruba was swinging. Cars. Now I love cars. We had the latest brands driving. [Lydia:] Wait Jerry, he ain’t ask about all of that. Now when you ask me about discrimination, in Aruba I didn’t know nothing about that. Is in Holland I was called zwarte. Never in Aruba. On Aruba the white people never used to mess with us and we never used to mess with them. But we never thought too much about that. A lie, Jerry? 218 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE [Jerry:] Well when I went to the States I realise how bad white Americans can be [Jerry grew up in the US after he left Aruba at a young age. The rest of his side of the family still resides there. Lydia’s parents migrated to Sint Maarten when she was in her teens]. They probably had the same mentality on Aruba but they never showed it. [Lydia:] No Jerry, you wrong, I think many of them didn’t have that mentality. My father had a friend who used to come and visit him. An American guy. He had love daddy, and wanted my father to join him in the States. He loved the way my father worked and the conversations they used to have. My father refused. He was a Garveyite. On Aruba you had many Garveyites. My father and Jerry’s father were deep into their Garvey. Others were deep into their lodges. They used to read a lot, and follow the news, they knew what was happening in the world with we people. Jerry liked to party and play pool and cars, so he only came to his senses in the States [laughter]. Now the Arubans, I mean the local ones, the apaches [term for the Mestizo who were referred to as wild Indians], well they was always cordial. Couldn’t handle their liquor but always cordial. Going to school you used to see many of them sleeping on the floor because they was too drunk to get home. [Jerry:] They had like they rum Ciboney, like they were trying to get back to their roots. No man they was cool. I had lots of Apache friends. They call me preto, I call them Apache. We was good with each other [Jerry laughs; there is a stereotype that owing to their “Indian blood” Mestizo Arubans got drunk quickly; Ciboney is the name of a pre-Columbian indigenous tribe]. [Lydia:] Stop it Jerry, they wasn’t too bright, my father had to teach them at Lago, but nice people [Lydia’s father was a master electrician]. It was either Surinamers or people from up the island [term for British West Indians] who held the positions. They were the nurses, pharmacists, and teachers. Under the white man was the black man. Is only later the Apaches start to dominate Aruba. That was when we left, the smart ones, when Lago start laying off people [in the late 1960s]. Black people in Aruba was everything. Those with education and manners— [Jerry:] They had the cars. [Lydia:] Stop it Jerry I talking, and those that were knock about. So what I saying, is everyone used to stick to themselves, Sint Maarteners with Sint Maarteners, Bajans with Bajans, and Americans with Americans. Everyone was friendly but everyone had their own thing. But whenever I travel to Aruba they treat me well. As soon as they see the passport they say welcome home. Isn’t that nice? To put this lengthy dialogue in context, Lydia’s father’s friend was one of the bosses from the US who lived separately—in chic and spacious bungalows, in a place ironically called the Colony—and brought with them a love for baseball, which they shared with many black migrants who also lived separately in Aruba, in San Nicolaas and Dakota. Among these early newcomers to the island were a sizeable group of cocolos—Dominicans and Cubans of French, Dutch, and British ExPLORING THE NATION THROUGH THE LENS OF BASEBALL 219 Caribbean extraction whose parents and grandparents had migrated to the Dominican Republic in the second half of the nineteenth century. Together with the other Dominicans more rooted in the Dominican Republic or Haiti, these migrants were baseball players and could play cricket too. The US had promoted baseball in the Spanish Caribbean in an effort to domesticate Caribbean blacks during the American occupation of those islands, but it became a game through which poor blacks and other oppressed people sought to contest American superiority.19 Living in San Nicolaas and Dakota amongst the other migrant workers from places like Trinidad, Dominica, Barbados, Guyana, Suriname, Jamaica, Saba, Guadeloupe, St. Kitts Nevis, Saint Martin, Petit Martinique, Grenada, Carraicou, Anguilla, Saint Vincent, Saint Eustatius, and Sint Maarten, cocolos too contributed to the identity that would become Afro-Aruban. The influence of the American bosses, the perseverance of the black migrants, and the dedication of the cocolos made English and baseball, and West Indian style carnival the dominant modes of asserting Afro-Aruban identity.20 It became the island’s national sport, and blackness an undeniable part of Aruba. Despite the hierarchy and colourism, all Arubans recognise Afro-Arubans as part of the creole nation. This is why Lydia and Jerry, who had left Aruba in the mid-1960s, are still welcomed home. In Curaçao the cocolos also played a prominent role in promoting baseball and making it the national sport. On that island too, in a slow process, the children of the newcomers who came to work at Shell became part of the Curaçaoan nation. What the allusions to Garveyism in the quotation signal is a matter that deserves more research: the role that black consciousness played on these islands. Jerry explained in another conversation that the Americans in the Colony were afraid to play baseball against them. On the rare occasions that a golden boy of the Colony sought to play on a black team, he made little impression. Everyone could witness on the baseball field that white racial superiority was a fabrication. What did become clear was that due to the role of the cocolos a style of baseball developed on both islands that built on what in the sociological and anthropological literature is referred to as beisbol romantico, a Latin Caribbean way of playing the game that promotes flair, artistry, style, individuality, and engagement with and entertainment for the public. Coaches in Aruba and Curaçao claimed that there were no substantial differences between the baseball played on their islands and that of Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Dominican Republic. It was all spectacular and spectacle, with perfectly delivered bunts and steals that flummoxed pitchers. Where a difference emerged was that in Aruba and Curaçao there was Dutch influence. According to the coaches, this influence led to more focus on structure, discipline, and technique. That is what gives players from these islands an edge over those from the Spanish Caribbean, who are more unprincipled and reckless. This is why they reckoned Aruba and Curaçao usually beat the little league teams 220 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE of these islands. And this is also why the Dutch national team, which consists primarily of Arubans and Curaçaoans, alongside players from the Netherlands, gels so well. What the coaches did not say is that the islands’ recent batch of minor league baseball players have exactly these same qualities—news that pleased Pablo. They are the new Arubans and Curaçaoans. Among the newest newcomers are probably some of the future stars that will shine in Major League Baseball. Many of the best players that the islands have produced are actually the offspring of the first newcomers. Miss Cynthie’s claim, with which this chapter began, that Romney (the Aruban team’s coach) was a Sint Maartener, is something that Lydia and Jerry and many in Aruba and Curaçao agree on. Xander Bogaerts has Sint Maarten roots, Andruw Jones has Saban roots, and so forth. Still, they are Aruban and Curaçaoan. Their success is an Aruban and Curaçaoan success, and this contributes to oldcomers recognising and accepting the changing face of their nations. A Curaçaoan artist, Vernon Chatlein, explained: E amor ku Kòrsou tin pa “The Kid from Curaçao” manera Andruw ta jama kariñosamente, ta grandi. E ta un di nos muchanan di Brievengat ku nunka a lubida di unda e ta bini. Nos ta orguyoso di dje i hopi kontentu ku e no a deskurasha ku su projekto pa sigi desaroya otro hoben nan pa por haña mesun oportunidat ku e haña.21 He went on to issue a warning, because his fellow natives have not learned to embrace the newest newcomers: Bo ta den kura i pafo riba kaya un Mener Haïtiano ta kana pasa e ta kuminda i puntra: “Bon dia Señola, mi por limpia kulá, bintisinku flolin.” Bo ta asepta anto e ta bin limpia bo kura. E ta huza bo harpa, ku chapi anto bo tin saku di shushi pa e hinka e blachinan anto shushi aden. 1 aña despues e Haïtiano ta bolbe pasa na pia ku un chapi riba su skouder ku un sak’i Selikor na’dje. E ta puntra: “Bon dia Señola, mi por limpia kulá, trinta flolin” Bo ta asepta, e tin su mes saku ku su nes chapi. Otro aña e mesun Haïtiano ta bini riba baiskel ku su mes chapi, mes harpa anto ku su mes saku anto e ta pidibo sinkuenta flolin. E aña ku sigi e ta bin den auto anto e ta pidibo setentisinku flolin. Awe e Haïtiano tin su mes negoshi anto nan yiunan ta graduá di Universidat ku Master’s anto nan ta manager di negoshinan grandi lokal kaminda nos yu di Korsou ta bai solisita. Anto ahinda nos ta menospresiá e Haïtiano anto konsiderele menos ku nos.22 The question is: will Curaçaoans and Arubans learn from their mistakes? They should, since Pablo cleaning Miss Cynthie’s yard may have the last laugh. CHAPTER 12 Facing the Ecological Crisis in the Caribbean Stacey Mac Donald and Malcom Ferdinand Introduction “The nations of the world are not fighting a losing battle. But the nations of the world are losing this battle today. It is within our power to win it. The only question is … will it be too late for the small nations of the world?” —Barbados Prime Minister Mia Motley at the 2019 Climate Action Summit Not a single year passes by without a major hurricane sweeping through parts of the Caribbean, causing catastrophic damage, injuries, death, as well as environmental destruction.1 Irma, Maria, Dorian, and Iota are just a few of the names of the recent category 4 and 5 hurricanes that have left bitter memories. What was historically perceived as the mere ebb and flow of climate hazards is now understood as part of the global ecological crisis, especially global warming. Global climate change caused by human activities induces an increase in the intensity of hurricanes in the Caribbean. As a result, while the Caribbean region contributes very little to global warming, the region is among those bearing the brunt of its consequences. Rising sea levels, ocean acidification, and increased intensity of climatic events are just some of the ecological challenges that the Caribbean faces. Yet, in addition to generating more powerful hurricanes and climate change, the ecological crisis also negatively impacts water resources, biodiversity, food sovereignty, pollution, energy production, and cultural and natural heritage preservation. How do Caribbean countries and territories face and mitigate these challenges? In particular, in accordance with the overarching theme of this collective volume, what part does or can cultural heritage play in the ongoing Caribbean efforts to mitigate the ecological crisis? We address these questions from our respective expertise on socioecological conflicts in the Caribbean. We join our theoretical gazes on the link between ecological preservation, culture, and politics with our respective fieldwork in the Caribbean including Bonaire and the Dutch Caribbean islands (Mac Donald) and the French Caribbean islands (Ferdinand). This paper is divided into four parts. Part one provides historical and epistemological considerations concerning ecological issues in the Caribbean highlighting a “double divide of modernity,” a historical 222 STACEY MAC DONALD AND MALCOM FERDINAND and theoretical understanding of the world that separates the environmental divide (humanity/nature) and the colonial divide (coloniser/colonised). Addressing ecological issues comprehensively in the Caribbean requires moving beyond this separation. Part two highlights the divide that has led to the oft referred to opposition between ecological preservation and cultural heritage on one side and the practice of peoples in developing countries on the other. Part three presents two case studies in the Caribbean with different perspectives on the relationships between environment and society, nature and culture. Finally, part four presents a prospective outlook regarding the main challenges facing the Caribbean in the coming decades. Thinking Ecology in the Caribbean: A Double Divide Thinking about the ecological crisis in the Caribbean may appear as evident. One would only need to use the methods, tools, concepts, and disciplines already established and apply them to the Caribbean as one would any other region of the world. While this certainly is a defensible approach, we argue that thinking about the ecology crisis from a Caribbean perspective requires fundamental preliminary historical and epistemological reflections regarding knowledge production in and about the Caribbean. If, indeed, the Caribbean is like any other region of the world, its history has a unique place in modernity. It is in this region that in 1492 an imaginary knot was tied between the so-called Old World and New World, marking not only the start of the economic globalisation but also the understanding of the Earth as a global and materially finite totality. In addition to the violence and dehumanising conquests, genocides, race-based slavery, and slave trades that followed, the coloniality of knowledge, which socially and politically defined who could be part of the world on equal footing, who could participate in knowledge and science production, and who could not, was established.2 As a result, from the end of the fifteenth century to the mid-twentieth century, a significant part of what is considered scientific knowledge regarding the Caribbean region, its people, and its ecosystems was not produced by Caribbean peoples themselves. If the sciences have an inherent universal claim, the location and positionality of the sites of knowledge production may result in the introduction of biased knowledge. For the greater part of its modern history, the Caribbean has been understood as an exotic object of study by outside researchers and not as a site of theorising discourse or knowledge-producing voices. Why does the history of knowledge production matter when thinking about the ecological crisis in the Caribbean? It matters because it points to the historical and ongoing silencing of Caribbean voices in ecological thinking and ecological movements. This is evident in two fields. FACING THE ECOLOGICAL CRISIS IN THE CARIBBEAN 223 Even though, as Richard Grove pointed out, Caribbean colonies—as well as Mauritius in the Indian Ocean—have been the places of the first environmental policies, the Caribbean and its peoples have been left out of the history of environmentalism.3 To this day, many environmentalist thinkers in the United States and Europe cultivate the idea that concerns for the environment originated in the minds of solitary walkers and nature lovers such as Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Henry Thoreau, two White men in (post)slavery societies.4 With concepts such as the “wilderness” still very present in environmental thought, one was led to believe that neither Native Americans nor enslaved Black Africans had developed practices or knowledge regarding environmental preservation. Furthermore, this racially charged conception of nature conservation was explicitly implemented in many parts of the world, including Africa, on the condition of the removal of indigenous peoples.5 Essentially, environmentalism has been constructed to a fault to be a White male and middle-class affair. How many times have we heard environmental NGOs whose headquarters are based in Europe or the United States state that they aim to preserve the environment in the global South but that the population is not receptive or is too poor or is lacking in some other way to support their endeavours, thereby implying that the people in the South do not care? This biased constitution of environmentalism has led to numerous blind spots in the conceptualisation of ecological issues. It is quite remarkable that in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, in an era marked by the rise and fall of imperialism and the statutory decolonisation of countries in the Americas, Africa, Asia, and Oceania, it became self-evident to conceive of environmental issues as distinct from the history of colonialism and the myriad resistances to it and the need to preserve the cultural heritage of these resistances. Conversely, it has become equally self-evident to conceive anticolonialism, anti-slavery resistance, and struggles for postcolonial emancipation as completely distinct from environmental issues. This separation between the history of environmental damage caused by humans and the history of colonisation, slavery, and imperialism constitutes the double colonial and environmental fracture of modernity.6 This divide is problematic because of the dualistic ontology separating the fate of humans from the fate of the environment, but most of all because it silences the colonial and slavery roots of the ecological crisis. One telling example concerns the recently introduced concept of the “Anthropocene” as promoted by, among others, Dutch chemical scientist and Nobel Prize winner Paul Crutzen. In his effort to encompass the recent history of the globe and humanity and its geological consequences with this term “Anthropos,” the geological era of humanity, Crutzen overlooks the history of slavery and colonisation in his own country, the Kingdom of the Netherlands. This is a country whose colonialisms and slavery from South America (Surinam) to Indonesia via South Africa and back to the Caribbean 224 STACEY MAC DONALD AND MALCOM FERDINAND (Curaçao, Sint Maarten, Bonaire, Saba, Sint Eustatius, Aruba) has also contributed to global environmental destruction. In fact, colonisation, slavery, and imperialism have been the conditions for the destructions of environments. While such blind spots may go unnoticed in Europe, it becomes detrimental when such a perspective is adopted in the Caribbean.7 Policies and practices that focus solely on the environmental preservation or management of the islands not only run the risk of overlooking the often precarious social conditions, lack of food sovereignty, and health problems caused by different sorts of pollution, but also may fail to consider the different kinds of emancipation aspired to by Caribbean people in the wake of colonisation and slavery. This is one more reason why Caribbean ecological issues must be understood “beyond sand and sun.”8 Moving beyond this double fracture also requires moving beyond a damaging misunderstanding between disciplines within the field of human and social sciences and the field of Earth and life sciences. On the one hand, it has become common for scholars in social and human sciences to study the complexities and pluralities of issues regarding the social, cultural, political, and psychological realities of societies while assuming a very homogenous and often unchanging background called the environment. On the other hand, it similarly remains common practice by scholars in Earth and life sciences to study the complex elements Banana plantation in Marinique (photo Malcom Ferdinand) FACING THE ECOLOGICAL CRISIS IN THE CARIBBEAN 225 of the Earth, its flora and fauna, the chemical and physical cycles of life from its origin in the geological past to the effect of solar flare and greenhouse gas emissions, while considering the resulting gross impact on the planet of the human population as if it were a single unit. In sum, scholars tend to study the Earth in all its heterogeneity but consider the human population as a single homogeneous whole. Engaging comprehensively with ecological issues requires engaging with the complexities on both sides of the divide, to tell the stories of how different actions by different groups of humans following particular ideologies—for instance capitalism—impacts different elements of the web of life. Such complexities allow us to steer away from the oversimplifying statement “humans should preserve the environment,” and delve more concretely and minutely into all the actions, big or small, which are conducive to the building of a common world, with dignity, justice, equality, care, and consideration for humans and non-humans. Environmental Preservation and Cultural Heritage Preservation The double divide of modernity between environmental issues and histories on the one hand, and (post)colonial issues and histories on the other hand, lies at the root of the opposition between environmental preservation and the needs and interests of developing countries and/or poor populations. At first, such opposition seems to be obvious. An ecosystem is threatened by a human activity, such as fishing or pollution, and a part of the local population or industry is responsible for this degradation. Yet this is only a small part of the picture. The problem arises when that simplistic opposition is held as the whole and only narrative about the ecological crisis by a sociologically specific group of people who seldomly include the local peoples, who are perceived as being at fault. This particular conceptualisation of ecological issues separates nature and culture, or environment and society. In other words, ecosystems, the so-called natural spaces, are conceived of as independent of human societies and cultures, the latter often included in environmental narratives only as foreign and threatening elements. In the Caribbean, this modern divide between nature and culture reinforces the historical colonial process whose main action has been and is precisely to separate (local) indigenous peoples from their lands. The problem with the historical and colonial silencing of Caribbean voices is not just the absence of local perspectives. It is also the absence of the participation of local Caribbean voices in the conceptualisation of the ecological issues, problem definition, and narratives. Who gets to decide how an ecological issue should be understood, narrated, and mitigated? What is the real extent of participation? While today many ecologists hastily acknowledge the need for consulting local inhabitants, there often remains a condescending and disciplinary chauvinistic 226 STACEY MAC DONALD AND MALCOM FERDINAND core belief that their analysis of the issue is the most important one. As a result, the voices and participation of the local others are considered only as long as they do not fundamentally challenge the already established narrative on ecological issues. However, conceptualising Caribbean ecological issues in a manner that includes a wider range of people from more diverse backgrounds and social positions—and not just the scientific “experts” —is not a miracle “solution.” In fact, evaluating such democratization of ecological issues’ conceptualisation and management only in terms of their “efficacy” misses the point, because it falls back again on the notion of including the local population only to solve a problem that has been predefined without that population, without the possibility of another view of environmental issues. Paradoxically, in such instances, the inclusion of local communities still maintains a form of silencing of local voices. A true democratization of ecological issues is not only necessary for its own sake, as a principle guiding the way a society collectively chooses to inhabit the Earth, but also for the way it often makes other kinds of conceptualisation of ecological issues visible—kinds that very often do not follow the same divide between nature and culture. Such conceptualisations include those where it is no longer possible to separate livelihood and culture needs, social justice, gender equality, demands for (post)colonial emancipation, humane treatment, and dignity from the evolution of the ecosystems. Such an entangled sociopolitical and environmental understanding of ecological issues does not mean that all problems will be solved instantly. It mostly means that whatever decision or environmental policy is chosen, it is one that would intricately and openly associate both the environmental and sociopolitical dimensions of the experience of life on Earth. The problem is then no longer about such ecosystems, or such conservation zones per se, but rather about the type of world and relationships with humans and non-humans that is sought or made possible by such conservation practice. Case Studies: Bonaire’s Fishery; Martinique and Guadeloupe Pesticide Pollution One case where the oversimplification “humans should preserve the environment,” the silencing of Caribbean voices, and the tensions between nature conservation and cultural heritage are visible is in the fisheries sector of Bonaire. Bonaire’s fisheries sector is a small-scale, artisanal, low-value, multispecies fisheries sector in which little technological development or growth has ever occurred.9 Despite its relatively low economic value, the sector is greatly valued within the local community. In Bonaire, fishing is one of the oldest professions and means of livelihood. The historic and cultural value of Bonaire’s fishers is strongly visible on the island. Fishers are celebrated every September 8 during the festival of the virgin del Valle (Virgin of the Valley), the patron saint of the fishers and other seafarers. FACING THE ECOLOGICAL CRISIS IN THE CARIBBEAN 227 During the weekend close to the saint’s day, the fishing community gathers to ask for her blessing. Not only do fishers and their families and friends participate in the celebrations, but also the coastguard and government representatives. Long before colonial times, fishery practices took place in the waters surrounding the island. Still today, legacies from the Amerindian periods, from 1370–1325 BC onwards,10 form part of Bonaire’s culinary heritage and rapport with sea creatures. Fishing has been a form of food provision for residents through the centuries but never developed into a true industry for the island.11 There have always been (professional) fishers (in 1975 about 6% of the working population was employed in fisheries or agriculture, often both.12 While there are no recent official numbers, today it is estimated that Bonaire has approximately twenty full-time fishers and several dozen part-time fishers.13 Over the years, the sector has gained increasing attention from a nature conservation perspective, as marine resources are one of Bonaire’s biggest economic assets in terms of (dive) tourism. There have been several notable changes in the marine environment and stocks of certain species surrounding Bonaire. While Bonaire’s coral reef ecosystem is in better condition than in most places in the Caribbean, it too has degraded substantially.14 Despite the argument brought forward by some policymakers that fishing has remained artisanal and is ‘therefore’ not harmful to the environment per se, certain targeted species have visibly declined.15 While it cannot be concluded that the decline of pelagic, seasonal, migrating fish species is due solely to overfishing by Bonairean fishers, it is true that the decline of targeted reef species, such as the Nassau Grouper, Queen Conch, and Snappers, is at least partially due to fishing activities by Bonairean fishers.16 Fishers tend to be reluctant to admit that certain species are no longer present in large numbers, especially when they believe this will directly affect them. A former marine park manager explained that the reluctance of fishers to admit that they are responsible for declining fish stocks is because they are poor. Because many of Bonaire’s (commercial and subsistence) fishers live in poverty, they need to cover the basics before they can collectively worry about the environment. The manager explained: It takes intellectual advancement to understand that all other basic needs are easier to fulfill if your environment is in check. The number one element for the problem with the environment and environmental protection, especially [protection of] coral reefs, is poverty. You cannot expect people to understand the power of conservation when they are surviving.17 When asked, some fishers confirm that making a living from fishing has become more challenging due to fewer and smaller catches, and a few fishers even openly 228 STACEY MAC DONALD AND MALCOM FERDINAND admit they are (in part) responsible for this decline.18 Most fishers, however, also rightfully emphasise other factors, such as climate change, changes in currents, pollution, and industrial fishing practices. The past three to five years you don’t see the big fish anymore. In the past ten to fifteen years, you could easily catch ten of the big fish in one go. Now you should be happy if you only catch one or two. How did this happen? Well, they say the temperature of the water and the currents. But what we also see here are the big industrial Japanese and Korean fishing boats who fish on the borders of our waters.19 Non-fisher stakeholders (e.g., marine park officials, scientists, and consultants) share these beliefs. They too argue that the diminishing fish stocks and general degradation of the marine environment are not the fault of the fishers, even though their fishing activities also contribute to this. Instead, they claim that pressures such as coastal development, increasing amounts of sunscreen in the waters, wastewater, and pollution cause detrimental damage to the ecosystem, affecting fish stocks. However, the lack of consistent monitoring of fish landings and fish Old fisherman’s hut on Bonaire “Rancho Ilse”, with signs stating, ‘Fishermen’s Heritage Bonaire’ (middle), ‘Back to Nature’ and ‘Don’t abuse our hospitality’ (left). All signs indicating the complicated relationship between fishermen and nature (photo Stacey MacDonald 2012) FACING THE ECOLOGICAL CRISIS IN THE CARIBBEAN 229 stocks does not mean that fishing is a negligible pressure on the ecosystem and does not require managerial attention, especially fishing that takes place on the reefs.20 Generally, the voices of the Caribbean fishers are silenced or dominated by those of nature conservationists, divers and diving operators, and scientists who argue for the preservation and conservation of nature in favour of the tourism sector. This is also evident in the island’s policy, for example, as stated in the Nature and Environment Policy Plan (NMPB) 2020-2024 highlighting the growth and importance of “nature tourism” (i.e., tourism wherein nature is central). The policy plans of the Tourism Corporation Bonaire also emphasised the importance of nature (see Strategic Tourism Plan Bonaire 2017-2027). These strategic policy plans also clearly state that nature is not only important for the economy in relation to tourism, but also for the general well-being of the community and the preservation of culturally relevant professions such as fisheries. However, the concrete actions derived from these policies tend to (financially) neglect the immediate needs of the fishers and their livelihoods. This phenomenon reflects the silencing of Caribbean voices pointed out in the introduction of this chapter. Cultural heritage presents a paradox regarding the present ecological challenges and the need/willingness to address these. It appears this debate is twofold. On the one hand, there is a strong belief and consensus that traditional fishing practices are sensitive to and wary of sustainability to ensure the health of fish stocks and ecosystems. As one fisher explained: Back in the day we saw corals and could catch fish everywhere. There used to be so many corals. There used to be so many fish in the past and we don’t see that anymore … We didn’t harm our environment; we took care of our environment because that is our livelihood … We only caught what we needed and left the rest in the ocean to catch another day.21 At the same time, the fact that the fishery is seen as a significant part of Bonaire’s heritage creates resistance among government officials and fishers to change even the more harmful practices, even though these changes are believed to be required to preserve the sector. Moreover, cultural practices underscore a belief that people used to live in harmony with nature; some practices do require a change to safeguard the ecosystem. Fishers clinging to culture and cultural heritage refuse to think about change or solutions (e.g., fishing spawning aggregations of certain fish species). Thus, the importance placed on the retainment of local cultural practices can be detrimental to the environment and illustrates that the relationship between environmentalism and cultural heritage complicates the struggle towards climate justice. The factor that drives this divide and reluctance among stakeholders to address the challenges Bonaire’s fishery sector faces seems to lie in the participation or lack 230 STACEY MAC DONALD AND MALCOM FERDINAND thereof of local Caribbean voices both informing and deciding the measurement measures required. Another fisher stated: But they [the government] have come up with certain measures because of the system of the Netherlands. And that is where the problem lies. Because in the Netherlands you have a lot of pollution and overfishing going on … and they damaged the entire ecosystem there. And then they came here [on Bonaire] and they saw a beautiful place and they want to protect it. But if you want to protect it you shouldn’t just do whatever. You have to go in the field and get your information there. Only then you know why fishers do certain things. But now they are protecting so much that they are damaging the survival of the livelihood of the Bonaireans themselves.22 The key is that measures and management must be developed and implemented with caution, by considering visible and essential differences between resource users.23 As one fisher shared: If you want your kids to also fish, you must participate in certain things. If just keep fishing and fishing and don’t take into consideration that they are no longer there, well maybe not in the entire world, but around Bonaire for sure. I don’t think fishers will get angry, but they just must get used to measures because we never had them.24 Fishers are generally poorer than, for example, divers and diving companies, which comprise a critical stakeholder group in the tourism economy, and conservation measures tend to negatively affect the income of fishers—for example, prohibiting or limiting the catch of certain species. A final difference pointed out by the researchers was the visible racial difference between resource users: fishers tend to be Black and Antillean, whereas divers or tourists are white and foreign. Giving the latter “privilege use” of the resources based on the presumption that they contribute more to the economy and cause minor damage—the latter not necessarily true25—exacerbates the pains of colonialism that exist on the island.26 Besides overfishing and climate change, pollution in the Caribbean is a major issue. While often associated with tourism industry waste, container ship malpractice, and the emission of islands that are still heavily dependent on fossil fuels for energy, there is also significant pollution associated with agriculture-intensive countries that make heavy use of chemicals. Evidently, such pollution is not specific to the Caribbean, but there is something specific to enduring pollution on small and densely populated Caribbean islands. In contrast to the images of large, far-removed plantations, agriculture in the Caribbean often adjoins residential areas, schools, and other urban spaces. FACING THE ECOLOGICAL CRISIS IN THE CARIBBEAN 231 One of the most notorious examples of this is the contamination of the French islands Martinique and Guadeloupe with an organochlorine compound called chlordecone, which is an endocrine disruptor and a carcinogenic agent. This chemical compound was used as a pesticide in banana plantations from 1972 to 1993, which caused long-lasting, generalised, and harmful contamination. One sixth of the world’s global production of this toxin was used on twenty thousand hectares of land on the two densely populated islands. Parts of Martinique and Guadeloupe may be contaminated for up to seven centuries. Today, it is estimated that more than 90% of the inhabitants of Martinique and Guadeloupe are contaminated. Furthermore, the contamination has been proven to dangerously reduce pregnancy length, slow infant motor, cognitive, and visual development, and increase the chances of prostate cancer.27 As a result, many farmers and coastal fishermen had to stop their activities or go into early retirement because the land they farmed or the inland and coastal water was polluted. Being on an island, it is not possible to move to another space. While it was known at the time that this compound was toxic, dangerous to both the environment and human beings, it was knowingly authorised by the French Ministry of Agriculture, which prioritised the financial interest of a few banana producers over the care of the population and their environment. To this day, almost fifty years after the toxin was first used, no person or company has been indicted. Justice is still denied to Antilleans. While this case is one of the many unjust treatments of the people of Martinique and Guadeloupe, where the health and environmental state agencies of France turned a blind eye, it also resulted in one of the most remarkable social mobilisations regarding environmental issues on the islands. In February 2021, more than ten thousand people marched in Fort-de-France, the capital of Martinique, to denounce a potential non-judgment in the chlordecone case. How is it that local social mobilisation on ecological issues occurred on this island and less so on other Caribbean islands?28 For more than forty years a fairly important ecological movement in Martinique led by local inhabitants achieved numerous victories regarding the preservation of mangroves and the denunciation of pollution.29 The scale of contamination is not sufficient to explain the development of a social protest movement. One of the keys has been recognising the relationship between environmental preservation and postcolonial equality, human rights, and the preservation of cultural practices. Local activists recognised that the struggle against pesticide pollution is not only important for the environment and public health, but also to assert equal citizenship in the postcolonial relationship between the former colonised and the former coloniser. As such, the struggle for the environment becomes an integral part of the struggle for dignity in the aftermath of colonisation and slavery. In other words, it is the “un-separation” of nature and culture, of ecology and politics, that has made possible the birth 232 STACEY MAC DONALD AND MALCOM FERDINAND of a local movement concerning various ecological issues including pesticide pollution. While this movement by itself did not stop the pollution, it did manage to force the French government to allocate funds for depollution, environmental and health research, and ensure that food consumed on the island was not contaminated. More than a classic story of corruption, capitalism, and green revolution (i.e., the rise of industrial agriculture, using intensive methods, high yield crops, lowering biodiversity and increasing pesticides that led to similar chemical pollution around the world), the cases of Martinique and Guadeloupe are also the story of a particular way of inhabiting these islands: a colonial inhabitation. This violent way of inhabiting the Earth exploited both the environment and humans—women in particular—to the benefit of a few shareholders. Since their French colonisation in the seventeenth century, these islands have been conceived of as plantations, providing exotic products for the French mainland market, such as bananas. While numerous social, economic, and political changes have taken place since the seventeenth century, the most fertile ground of these islands is still home to sugar cane and banana plantations. This has been going on for so long that doing otherwise seems inconceivable. Yet uprooting such an exploitative colonial inhabitation of the islands, the cause of many environmental and social issues, is one of the islands’ most important ecological and political challenges. All in all, these two case studies confirm that the Caribbean is of particular importance in considering historic events that shaped local culture and examining how individuals and groups perceive and act to solve environmental problems. There is no place in the world that has been shaped by its colonial history as much as the Caribbean, and every social and cultural trait is related to colonialism.30 Gregory Rabess described the Caribbean as “an artificially created society made to fit the design of colonial expansionism and economic imperatives. It is still in the process of decolonialisation, identity formation or consolidation.”31 Similarly, Jaffe, de Bruijne, and Schalkwijk pointed out that “[g]lobal flows and colonial powers that shaped the Caribbean in the past are continued in the form of present-day dependencies”.32 Consequently, just as it is impossible to categorise Caribbean culture as either “Western” or “Non-Western,” the distinction between global versus local processes is not clear-cut in the Caribbean.33 To this day, the environmental legacies of colonialism (i.e., the long-term socioecological and psychological consequences of human interactions with the environment during the colonial era) continue to shape modern social and environmental challenges. These legacies have been neglected. Yet the specific history that shaped the culture of the Caribbean is essential in explaining what efforts are made or are not made and by whom to mitigate the ecological crisis the region faces. FACING THE ECOLOGICAL CRISIS IN THE CARIBBEAN 233 Key Challenges Moving Forward Rather than focusing on specific environmental issues or consequences of global warming, we want to highlight three key challenges regarding the ability and capacity of Caribbean countries to act: 1. Seeking global environmental justice; 2. Fighting disaster capitalism; 3. Recognising Caribbean ecologies. Seeking Global Climate Justice While Finding Local Solutions As small island states and/or non-sovereign territories, Caribbean countries are particularly impacted by climate change. They are facing the ecological tempest of the twenty-first century from subaltern positions with little ability to apply economic/political pressure. This is particularly the case in the aftermath of category 4 or 5 hurricanes. Many environmental issues cannot be mitigated solely by actions of Caribbean countries but require the active engagement of countries larger in both population and area and with greater economic, military, and political power. It is a dire reality that the Caribbean region is dependent upon the engagement of other governments regarding global warming. Pursuing a stronger form of solidarity (like the Green Climate Fund—a global platform established to respond to climate change by investing in developments focused on limiting or reducing greenhouse gases) and stronger commitments to reduce GHG emissions are steps toward global climate justice.34 However, it would be naïve to think that the only solution will come from the global community. There are many actions and initiatives that can be undertaken to mitigate the impacts of the climate crisis, including revising urban planning, protecting coasts, and implementing insurance plans at the local and regional levels. It is imperative to work on the global community level while fostering local and regional initiatives, as was illustrated in the case of the fisheries sector in Bonaire. Prey of Disaster Capitalism While the need for economic development of small island states and territories is well recognised, neoliberal markets and capitalism are not the answer. Indeed, capitalism, particularly racial capitalism, is one of the major drivers of climate change and other environmental, social, and sanitary ills. Caribbean islands are vulnerable to disaster capitalism, the practices by which disasters such as the destruction caused by hurricanes become profitable for a number of companies and multinationals.35 While the temptation may be strong to rebuild as quickly as possible after a disaster, how can one ensure that such processes do not give in to greedy privatisation and still protect public services such as access to water, 234 STACEY MAC DONALD AND MALCOM FERDINAND education, and food? Evidently, this challenge is not just a matter of Caribbean government attitudes but also those of global communities, their institutions (UN, IMF, World Bank, EU) and the way solidarity and relief funds are channelled.36 It would be very imprudent to blindly follow the very economic agenda that has led the Caribbean to being overly exposed to the consequences of climate change. Towards Caribbean Ecologies Echoing the late Sylvia Winter’s work, “ecology,” much like “humanity” or “man,” is a word that has been occupied by a particular group of people who get to define it. With the privilege of defining ecological and environmentalist practices comes the silencing of local and historical practices and discourses that, although they are not called ecological per se, do provide ecological wisdom. It is time to move away from a dangerously homogenous way of thinking about ecologies, and to recognise, document, and advance the different varieties of Caribbean environmentalism that have long been in place. This is not a chauvinist call, but the pragmatic realisation that an ecology that is embedded in the cultural and even mythical stories of a society becomes much more powerful and operational than a mere wishful injunction expressed from a distant abroad. Cultural heritage and ecological policies should no longer be thought of separately, as the modern divide between nature and culture has led many to do.37 What is culture other than a set of relationships among humans, non-humans, and the environment, including the spirits and ancestors? Does this not mean that traditions or cultural practices should be taken as ecologically embedded? In fact, consumption patterns and rituals may need to be critically examined in light of the need to preserve the web of life in the Caribbean. It means, most of all, that ecological practices and policies should not be considered exterior to the cultural imaginary of societies. It is precisely the dialogue between nature and culture, environment and society, ecology and politics that can not only ensure a place to live for future generations but also lay the ground for a common world vibrant with plural histories and cultures. It is precisely from this line of reasoning that demands for reparations for slavery should be taken up with the same level of attention as demands for environmental justice. CHAPTER 13 Digital Humanities, Social Justice and the Pluricultural Realities of Dutch Caribbean Heritage Archives Margo Groenewoud Heritage preservation in the Caribbean has over the years become an area marked by the pushes and pulls of international organisations, agreements, and treaties. In the postwar decades the international agenda for peace resulted in pushes for decoloniality, democracy, and solidarity, with strong forces fighting for social justice and civil rights. This was globally supported by transnational regulatory bodies such as the United Nations. An inherent element of the changing paradigms was a universal call for the democratisation of culture. This broad normative concept implied that policies and agreements relative to heritage were to support the universal causes of human rights and social justice by guaranteeing inclusiveness. In the 1970s and 1980s, organisations such as UNESCO became increasingly concerned with these social and political realms of culture and heritage. The promotion and preservation of heritage defined and framed with a monocultural focus was to become a thing of the past.1 This shift in perspective has had a lasting impact on international treaties and agreements affecting the Caribbean, as we can still see in the SAMOA Pathway (2014) for Small Island Developing States (SIDS) and in the Agenda 2030 Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) from which the SAMOA Pathway is derived. Under the ambitious umbrella statement “Transforming our World,” the United Nations committed to the SDG agenda as a “plan of action for people, planet and prosperity,” which “seeks to strengthen universal peace in larger freedom.” The determination to comply with the SDGs implied a commitment to innovation and the development and use of new tools and methodologies. One of these methodologies is the use of digital humanities. This chapter studies the use and impact of digital humanities in heritage preservation in the Caribbean, specifically looking at heritage preservation praxis of the Dutch Caribbean islands of Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao (ABC) within the frame of cultural democracy and social justice.2 First, I reflect on the overarching theme of heritage and nation-building, by linking it to cultural human rights. Next I will analyse heritage and digital humanities praxis on the ABC islands from a 236 MARGO GROENEWOUD comparative Caribbean perspective, looking in particular at the richness of pluricultural realities. In my analysis I focus on two elements of our tangible and intangible cultural archives: language and diaspora. The pluricultural realities of these heritage archives imply threats to and opportunities for social justice. By studying this link, I aim to explore how digital humanities plays, or can play, a role in the advancement of social justice in this part of the Caribbean. Nation-Building and Human Rights Nation-building usually encompasses elements of state intervention in a quest for unity and cohesion. Though nation-building may be focused on a wide range of development areas, culture is always part and parcel of it, since unity and cohesion can neither be addressed nor achieved without taking into account aspects of cultural identity. For this reason, some definitions even centre a quest for cultural unity on their conceptualisation of nation-building. Precisely this is a contested area in Caribbean and Atlantic Studies. In his seminal The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (1993) Paul Gilroy addresses this contestation as a starting point for his research, referring in general to a “fatal junction of the concept of nationality with the concept of culture.”3 In a transnational postcolonial context, according to Gilroy, a tendency of ethnic absolutism and ethnocentricity can be found in all ethnic groups. A subsequent risk of this tunnelled approach is that of theorising absolute senses of ethnic differences within ideas of national belonging, often used in strategies supporting aspirations to nationality or to local forms of cultural kinship.4 In the Dutch Caribbean, the use of the Curaçaoan identity marker “Yu di Kòrsou” (child of Curaçao) can be considered a manifestation of cultural kinship aspiration and illustrates the surrounding complexities of kinship strategies in today’s society. The use of the term Yu di Kòrsou is controversial and disputed when and where it refers to—in short—the alleged implicit tendency of Afro-Curaçaoans to exclusively claim this title. This bypassing or excluding others, amongst whom are citizens with a long heritage line on the island, could be seen as a form of ethnic absolutism and ethnocentricity, as profoundly discussed and challenged by Gilroy. Anthropologists Rose Mary Allen and Francio Guadeloupe wrote a constructive essay on this dilemma, in which they focus on the pragmatic hybridity often seen in societies such as ours, in which people tend to change identity focal points according to their specific situation. “Like all people who have been on the losing end of the last 500 years of global interrelations, [Afro-Curaçaoans] are pragmatists,” they claim. As a consequence, “Yu di Kòrsou for Afro-Curaçaoans is a matter of negotiation that is dependent on where they are, who they are speaking DIGITAL HUMANITIES, SOCIAL JUSTICE AND HERITAGE ARCHIvES 237 to, what they daydream of, and what they want to achieve at any given moment in time.” In their conclusion, Allen and Guadeloupe add the interesting perspective that “negotiation does not imply a free-for-all, as there is always a slower-changing context—society understood as a changing same—that cannot be denied.” This approach is meaningful when discussing nation-building, as it not only contextualises the multidimensional reality of identity formations, but also sustains efforts to understand and explain behavioural aspects relative to national identities and nation-building on this Caribbean island. In his Black Atlantic Gilroy makes another point relevant to this article. He argues that processes of claiming and excluding based on some form of ethnocentricity result in mutations of identification and nationalism. Instead of trying to prevent or change these dynamics in order to forge unity, Gilroy pleads for overcoming nationalistic perspectives at large, claiming that “modern nation states are no longer exclusive political, economic and cultural units.”5 A range of much later studies elaborate on manifestations of political unity in the Caribbean that in a similar way call for a more open approach. In our region, it is generally agreed, the nation-state cannot be considered a default, normative or simply existing condition.6 Not only on a state level, but also in island societies and institutions, political communities and pragmatic forms of active citizenship in the Caribbean developed in a hybrid way, at various scales, and in a blurry area between state and non-state.7 This is no different in the Dutch Caribbean. Since the constitutional changes of October 2010, Curaçao and Sint Maarten have been autonomous countries within the Kingdom, the same status that Aruba acquired in 1986. The three smaller islands of the former Netherlands Antilles—Bonaire, Sint Eustatius, and Saba—are now overseas “special municipalities” directly administered by The Hague. With this new constitutional order, thoughts and attitudes about identification, belonging, and active citizenship are likely to be subjected to individual and collective reconsideration, doubt, or confusion. How can we link this post-2010 situation to nation-building? For Dutch Caribbean citizens the actual and pressing reality today is what van der Pijl and Guadeloupe aptly phrase as a “complexity of political subjectivity, nationness and belonging within the context of Caribbean non-sovereignty.”8 This observation alone gives a rich ground for problematising nation-building. Nation-building is an ambition and action program at the state level, rooted in acknowledged commonalities relative to national identifications, which are both socially constructed and individually defined. A program aimed at finding commonality in the Dutch Caribbean inevitably draws attention to missing components or a weak foundation—exactly those elements that van der Pijl and Guadeloupe addressed in their observations of national identity in the post-2010 Windward island reality. 238 MARGO GROENEWOUD In such fluent and hybrid realities, alternative frameworks for building strong Caribbean societies, such as the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), seem much more attractive and fitting. And even more relevant are the adaptations made to these SDGs specifically for Small Island Developing States, the Samoa Pathway agreed by all SIDS heads of state in 2014.9 Being part of an archipelago, having to deal with centuries of intense migration, very often in a postcolonial and diasporic sociohistorical context—these aspects impact how a transnational focus translates into an intranational or local grassroots focus that applies to and fits within our small islandic communities. Specifically, addressing citizenship and cultural identity, as Gilroy, Allen, van der Pijl, and Guadeloupe have argued, calls for a grassroots and regional approach. It is noteworthy in this context that the Samoa Pathway specifically, though not exclusively, calls attention to the importance of intangible cultural heritage as a powerful instrument to unite through cultural heritage. The Samoa Pathway agreement claims in paragraph 80 that these elements are nothing less than “a driver and an enabler for sustainable development.”10 Aimed at the operationalisation of this ambition, paragraph 81 pushes for efforts by small island developing states on various levels, including both tangible and intangible heritage practices.11 The vision and ambition conveyed through these articles is coherent and radical. When culture is approached as a driver for the sustainable development of just societies, the active promotion of heritage preservation by definition should be about promoting inclusivity, democracy, and human rights. Inclusivity and Heritage Archives of the ABC Islands The impact of looking through an inclusivity lens at heritage archives is that we no longer focus on known heritage remains, or known heritage manifestations, but on the expressions and bodies behind these cultural expressions. First, people are the primary archives of heritage, by thinking, speaking, and writing primarily in their mother tongue. Rarely is this documented in print or other media. Second, people move, travel, and migrate, taking their embodied archives with them, leaving traces in new places. If we want to be inclusive in our heritage policies and praxis, there is much more work to do outside the walls of our institutions, archives, formal language spheres, and even borders, than there is to do within them. This is where digital humanities enters the field. Digital humanities (DH) can be roughly defined as the use of digital resources, tools, and applications in the disciplines of the humanities, both in education and research. Digitisation of sources and making collections online available through digital libraries are essential first steps. Beyond this, the added value of digital DIGITAL HUMANITIES, SOCIAL JUSTICE AND HERITAGE ARCHIvES 239 humanities lies in new forms of co-creation, data generation, data analysis, storyline presentation, and data-enrichment, to name a few actions. A growing body of practices—some of which will be presented later in this article—gives insight into how working cooperatively and digitally implies that institutional, geographical, and disciplinary borders are much easier to cross. The current status of digital humanities in the Dutch Caribbean can be best described as a colourful quilt of digitisation initiatives, each fitting a specific purpose or developed as part of a specific opportunity. Digital humanities initiatives on the ABC islands have built on the legendary work of dedicated pioneers in heritage preservation, public history, and oral history, going back as far as the late 1950s. The works of these pioneers—such as Ito Tromp (Aruba), Elis Juliana (Curaçao), and Boi Antoine (Bonaire)—are now key treasures in local digital collections. The National Library of Aruba, the Bonaire Archives, the Dutch Caribbean Digital Platform, the Mongui Maduro Library, and the National Archives of Curaçao are the most advanced in their digitisation projects. Furthermore, in specific areas such as law and language, databases have been developed, and most archival institutes and specialised libraries have started digitisation of photograph or document collections. Digital humanities as a cooperative effort for and within the Dutch Caribbean has taken shape on two platforms. Through “Wiki goes Caribbean” a substantial number of lemmas about the Dutch Caribbean in Dutch, English, and Papiamentu are added to Wikipedia by a transnational writers collective that will continue this work beyond the initial project phase.12 A second DH initiative is the development of the Dutch Caribbean Digital Platform (DCDP),13 specifically designed for co-creation and data enrichment. It is a community repository for the University of Curaçao (UoC) and for content partners and educators in the Dutch Caribbean in which teachers and researchers, including supervised students, can enrich source material and upload new material such as transcripts, papers, and learning material. The DCDP’s mission is to bring local sources into the classroom to increase historical awareness and decolonise education. The first DH project in education at the UoC was “Introducing Digital Humanities in Creole Language Teacher Education on Curaçao,” using and enriching the Zikinzá oral history collection in the DCDP.14 This course assignment started in 2019 with three objectives: catalysing innovation in the language education of Papiamentu; introducing a basic set of DH teaching tools to new Papiamentu teachers; and observing and analysing students’ readiness to innovate their education. By using and studying oral history recordings of Curaçaoan elders of the 1950s and 1960s, the students opened up a language archive—and through this a whole world—unknown to them. A first evaluation showed that students generally enjoy working with local sources and seemed to embrace using digital material, though with a tendency to approach this primarily as something of added value for them 240 MARGO GROENEWOUD in the role of teachers. The course—which will continue with an increased use of DH elements—perfectly qualifies as a “micro digital humanities approach” and testifies to the benefits of a small, local, bottom-up approach for developing digital humanities in heritage education. How do cultural democracy and inclusion connect to this? In her seminal work on postcolonial digital humanities, the Indian-American scholar Roopika Risam boldly concludes, “A digital cultural record that puts social justice at its center … is a matter of cultural survival.” Dramatic as this may sound, the important message for the Caribbean is that if the intention of digital humanities is to empower communities through digitised heritage archives, the impact will not only be in the actual use of the digital source material, but also in a sustainable preservation of marginalised and erased cultural expressions. Digital humanities thus provides scholars and practitioners in the cultural field with a context, platform, and tools to “reshape the dynamics of cultural power and to reclaim for individuals and communities the humanity that is routinely denied.”15 With this provocative outlook as a starting point, I will now look deeper into heritage archives that carry a history of marginalisation and erasure in the ABC islands: creole language and people in the Diaspora. In the next paragraphs, I link the current status of (digital) heritage to digital humanities projects in the wider Caribbean, in search of opportunities that support and empower our pluricultural social realities. Listening to Silenced Voices: Language as Archive The oldest known document in Papiamentu is a letter that dates from 1775 and was sent by the Sephardic Jewish trader Abraham Andrade to his mistress Sarah Vaz Parro on Curaçao. A more recent discovery is the 1783 letter sent by Anna Charje in the name of her baby Jantje to her husband Dirk Schermer in Rotterdam. Both letters confront us with the rich multiculturality of Papiamentu and the importance of space in Dutch Caribbean heritage. In colonial times, European ruling classes generally imposed a single national set of norms and ideas of a single culture and a single language on Caribbean territories. The seminal work of the Trinidadian scholar Mervyn Alleyne (19332016) has been particularly instrumental in the recognition of Creole languages in general, and in the appreciation of Caribbean culture and languages as intrinsically plural. Papiamentu—the primary language of Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao, fits well within this framework of appreciating Creole plurality. This language was developed to be understood by all Creole speakers, whether of European, Jewish or African descent, and for centuries has been the primary language of all classes and ethnicities on the ABC islands and of their extensive diasporic communities.16 DIGITAL HUMANITIES, SOCIAL JUSTICE AND HERITAGE ARCHIvES 241 Catecismo Corticu, a Catholic catechism, the first printed book in Papiamentu, 1837 Nevertheless, Papiamentu’s history contains narratives of and testaments to oppression and empowerment, of survival against the grain and survival as the grain.17 Since the late nineteenth century Papiamentu has been used for a substantial production of poetry and prose, accompanied by a growing body of educational material and linguistic literature.18 In the 1980s and 1990s, government bureaus for language development, supported by the University of the Netherlands Antilles (now University of Curaçao) and a group of smaller language organisations on Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao, as well as in the Netherlands, laid the foundation for Papiamentu study, standardisation, and teacher education.19 Nowadays, Papiamentu is a prestigious language, thanks to the efforts of activists in the Caribbean, the Netherlands, and beyond. It is used on the ABC islands in all media and in politics, civil society, and the public sector, as well as in theatre, film, and music productions. Not only is it the dominant language in daily communication, it is also incorporated in all primary school curricula, as an optional primary 242 MARGO GROENEWOUD instruction language in public education and as the only Creole language that can be studied on all academic levels. Papiamentu is a key aspect of cultural identity for a majority of citizens and is formally acknowledged as cultural heritage of the ABC islands and their Diaspora. As a deeply rooted language, Papiamentu has stood the test of time, yet it is also under pressure. The most powerful impositions to use the language in education took place in the early and mid-twentieth century—imposed by colonial elites protecting growing economic interests through social order. Even though permission to use Papiamentu in the Netherlands Antilles Parliament was granted in 1958, it took Aruba until 2003 and the Netherlands Antilles until 2007 to declare Papiamentu an official language. The need to protect Papiamentu gained urgency in the past decade, not only because of constitutional changes in 2010, but also because of an ongoing diversification of the islands’ populations and (sub)cultures due to migration. In March 2021, the government of Bonaire—the only Dutch Antillean Windward Island falling under the rule of The Hague—signed an agreement with the Dutch government to proactively protect the use of Papiamentu. The agreement aims at the establishment of a joint transnational organisation that should commit to the preservation and the further development of Papiamentu as well as the culture that is connected to it.20 A most curious and interesting aspect of Papiamentu as archive is that the language is both vividly alive and productive, as well as under pressure. A wealth of sources could enrich educational, cultural, research, and language development. At the same time, the fact that the language is alive and productive does not mean that the knowledge produced in the language is valued and incorporated on equal terms as knowledge produced in Dutch, English, or Spanish. As a relatively small language spoken on relatively small islands with limited resources, language development, preservation, and improved accessibility to Papiamentu literature and knowledge has taken place on a limited scale and is vulnerable to political and economic tides. The organisation of language planning by Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao governments has suffered from both changes in political agendas and a continuous lack of funding; they can never find an efficient way to cooperate inter-regionally. Digital humanities may be used in this context to overcome some of these challenges to the benefit of preservation in general and language education and research in particular. Digitisation provides first and foremost opportunities for improved representation in source material and improved access to primary and secondary literature. This is of particular importance for systematically excluded forms of knowledge, such as knowledge available in small and oppressed languages.21 A growing body of Caribbean DH projects provide us with interesting best practices, though it is quite clear that there is not a single best practice roadmap. DIGITAL HUMANITIES, SOCIAL JUSTICE AND HERITAGE ARCHIvES 243 Some major DH projects relative to Caribbean culture and language are realised by an affiliation with, or as an initiative of, larger non-Caribbean institutes. An example is the Duke University trilingual project “Radio Haiti Archive: Audio from Radio Haiti-Inter, documenting Haitian politics, society and culture from 1957 to 2003.”22 From the early 1970s until 2003 Radio Haïti-Inter was the voice of the Haitian people, especially those excluded from public discourse and power. The force behind this station was the exiled journalist Jean Dominique, who developed the station with a commitment to democratic principles and social change. The audio collection is considered the single most important archive of twentieth-century Haitian history. When Duke University Library acquired this collection, they acknowledged the responsibilities attached to this, and thus vowed to create a multilingual digital archive truly accessible, first and foremost, to Haitian people in Haiti. This meant that a vast body of expertise and capital could be channelled not only to the benefit of the research community but also to Haitian communities in the US, at home, and in the Diaspora elsewhere. The most experienced local Caribbean digital humanities initiative to date is the Create Caribbean Research Institute in Dominica. This is a multidisciplinary organisation affiliated with Dominica State College and dedicated to community-based projects in digital humanities. Working with a “sustained engagement with an ever-widening community of regional cultural and political actors,” their projects are all set up with what Risam calls a “micro digital humanities approach.”23 This grassroots, imaginative, and resourceful digital humanities practice avoids what Risam summarises as “a directional politics of knowledge that flows from the top down, where the biggest digital humanities centers or best-funded universities are the ones articulating what ‘good’ practices for digital humanities look like.” Instead, local practices are the good practices in micro DH. Create Caribbean Research Institute in Dominica built a track record in local DH activities. A well-documented example is the Cariseasland project, based on a social activist agenda to transform paradigms towards a sustainable future for the Dominica community. Participants work collaboratively, using local knowledge, creating new knowledge, and imagining new practices for complex issues, all from an interdisciplinary local perspective. In this practice, teams obviously work with limited resources, and may progress relatively slowly, but, optimally, they tap into local resources and wisdom, creating digital products with sustainable impact.24 In the field of literature, no examples are known of Creole language literature digital humanities, other than the UoC initiative to start small DH projects in the field of Papiamentu education. Some of the known Caribbean literature and language DH projects in the coloniser languages of English, French, Spanish, and Dutch have chosen a broad approach, reaching out to a large public, whereas others chose a narrower approach, aiming at more concise and profound research 244 MARGO GROENEWOUD and education. An example of a narrower initiative is “Digital Grainger: An Online Edition of ‘The Sugar-Cane’ (1764).” This project is inspired by Caribbean traditions of critical postcolonial scholarship.25 The website presents readers with the original full-text edition of James Grainger’s famous poem “The Sugar-Cane” paired with a section entitled “counter-plantation,” comprising excerpts that highlight counter-plantation themes within the poem. This “counter-plantation” presents elements of agency and emancipation. By presenting the poem in this way, with additional study texts and questions for further discussion, the reader is inspired and equipped to read and process the contemporary portrayal of plantation life from various angles and viewpoints. It thus uses the flexibility of the digital platform to present text in a new order and with cross-references, stimulating critical and multidimensional study of the images of plantation life in the eighteenth-century Caribbean. The approach used in Digital Grainger could serve as an interesting example for Papiamentu literature, for example to study the critical nineteenth-century publications of Abraham Mendez Chumaceiro, or the early twentieth-century Papiamentu writings published under the guidance of an enlightened Catholic bishop, Monseigneur Verriet. Both can be considered testaments to the social complexity of the small colonial society, and could well serve as a digital playing field for young generations to identify conflict and resistance, related to the past, and “talk back to history.” In literature and language education digital humanities entices new pedagogy. An inspiring example is portrayed in the article “Teaching without a Text: Close Listening to Kamau Brathwaite”s Digital Audio Archive,”26 in which Jacob Edmond argues “for a larger overturning of critical, pedagogical, and essayistic conventions in literary studies through a methodological turn away from the page.” What Edmond discovered while teaching Caribbean poetry to undergraduate students in New Zealand was that the close listening approach empowered students “to be From left to right: digital stories on a Bonairean neighbourhood, an anthropology of Curaçao beaches, an oral history of a migrating family and a video report of a process of social dialogue in Curaçao DIGITAL HUMANITIES, SOCIAL JUSTICE AND HERITAGE ARCHIvES 245 not just better listeners but better readers.” Furthermore, in the particular case of teaching the work of Caribbean poet Kamau Brathwaite, close listening enabled students “to explore Brathwaite’s intertwining of performance, versioning, sound, music, and vernacular with his political, historical, and social concerns.” This pedagogy of moving away from the text seems in many ways relevant to the teaching of Caribbean literary works in general. It brings to mind the qualities of what Gilroy calls the “self-consciously polyphonic” of black literary modernity. Writers in this tradition express free of form, easily combining poetry, biography, and history in one coherent text.27 Edmond points at a wide range of perspectives and elements that come to life when listening closely to text, drawing attention to all of the dynamics taking place in speaking and listening, invoking all senses to participate. As is often the case, the DH element in this best practice is not hightech, expensive, or otherwise difficult to develop, obtain, or apply. What stands out and makes a difference is the teacher’s receptiveness and reflexivity to address the classroom’s needs and explore available means not only in the interest of that particular course, but in the interest of heritage education at large. People on the Move: Diaspora as Archive Just like Caribbean people and history, Caribbean heritage is defined by movement and migrations. Whether looking at artifacts from Pre-Columbian times, ego documents such as letters, or contemporary music styles from the islands, they all testify to a history and culture that can only be understood in a context of people on the move. With migration being a defining sociocultural phenomenon for the region, and with diasporic connections everywhere, the Caribbean as a field of study expands beyond geographical boundaries. Likewise, Caribbean studies inherently takes an interdisciplinary approach in order to profoundly address languages, histories, and relationships. Because of this, and given the wide spatial and disciplinary distribution of scholars and librarians, collaboration in Caribbean studies is key. These circumstances and this hybridity set the scene for Caribbean heritage archives and Caribbean digital humanities. The beauty of having this open field is that whatever lens is used will reveal a pluricultural mosaic. Digital humanities gives ample opportunity to discover this mosaic and enhance the picture by filling in missing pieces, finding new relationships, and uncovering purpose and meaning. This can be done through infrastructural enhancements, digitisation programs, and regular education programs, but can also take the shape of special courses, research initiatives, extracurricular projects, and cultural activities. The relevance of this work for cultural identities and cultural expressions of the Dutch Caribbean on a global diasporic scale cannot be underestimated. In our 246 MARGO GROENEWOUD discussion of Allen and Guadeloupe’s take on the complexities of kinship strategies in today’s Curaçaoan society, we have seen the pragmatism surrounding identities as areas for negotiation. Exactly because of this hybridity and fluency, there is as much richness to be discovered as there is a risk of losing aspects of heritage. How could a DH approach support the Dutch Caribbean transnational cultural field to prevent loss, explore and preserve richness, and create new textures in the cultural landscape? Over fifteen years of DH experiences in the region has produced examples that could serve as best practices, illuminating the path and highlighting opportunities as well as warning signs. The “Panama Silver, Asian Gold: Migration, Money, and the Making of Modern Caribbean Literature” project is one of the earliest education-oriented Caribbean studies digital humanities initiatives. The project started in 2012 and was framed as “an experiment in decentralised, collaborative, blended learning using technology and open-access resources.” As University of Florida scholar Leah Rosenberg recalls, it was Rhonda Cobham-Sander, a leading scholar of early Caribbean literature and a professor at Amherst College, who suggested “develop[ing] a course that would teach students how to use archival materials in analyzing literature and how to produce digital scholarship that would explicate the holdings and increase the visibility of the collection.”28 The project centred on the migrations of indentured Asians to the Caribbean (1838–1917) and that of Caribbean individuals to Panama to work on the US-owned Panama Canal (1904–1914). Both migrations were part of a larger pattern of migration on a very large scale, involving hundreds of thousands of people, and both were transformative not only for the Caribbean but also for the societies of origin. Crucial to choosing these migrations as a central topic was that scant digitised literature and archival material existed for either. Therefore, a key objective was to produce more inclusive narratives of Caribbean literary and social history. Looking back on the project, Rosenberg identifies as a major added value that “we were not teaching students to critique the colonial archive as a fixed object; rather, we were in an ongoing relationship and negotiation with the archive which supported the class in manifold ways even as it imposed its imperial framework and gaze on the subjects we sought to make visible.” The first course, “The Panama Silver, Asian Gold: Migration, Money, and the Making of the Modern Caribbean,” was collaboratively created and taught in 2013 at Amherst College, the University of Florida, and the University of Miami. In 2016 a new course version, entitled “Panama Silver, Asian Gold: Reimagining Diasporas, Archives, and the Humanities” was developed and taught, this time also with the University of the West Indies, Cave Hill, Barbados. The project today is still a major focal point for digital humanities in the Caribbean, setting an example with its transnational collaborative approach and its distinct focus on breaking archival DIGITAL HUMANITIES, SOCIAL JUSTICE AND HERITAGE ARCHIvES 247 silences. Students enrolled in “Panama Silver, Asian Gold” used the collections of the Digital Library of the Caribbean (dLOC), hosted by the University of Florida. In 2011–2012 the university’s George A. Smathers Libraries, which houses the dLOC’s administration, acquired the Panama Canal Museum Collection (PCMC). Upon this acquisition, the library digitised material, collected and digitised additional items, and entered into the “Panama Silver” project in which students would enhance and deploy the material within the context of their research assignment. The project, which has since ended, is well documented online. Its syllabi offer “multiple points of entry into the study of transnationalism, intersectionality, and cross-institutional collaboration through digital pedagogy.”29 When incorporating the Diaspora in a heritage project, it is easy to get overwhelmed. Precisely because of this, as we have seen, micro digital humanities is put forward by some as the best approach for small communities with a potentially extensive reach. This way they can at least begin to experience at the grassroots level the potential impact of digital humanities on heritage preservation and education. However, there is much more to say about how to deal with the largeness of scale. Practitioners have emphasised the importance of “thinking big,” precisely because of the potential size of transnational heritage archives. This was the experience of the Slave Societies Digital Archive (formerly the Ecclesiastical and Secular Sources for Slave Societies). The archive currently holds more than 700,000 digital images drawn from nearly 2,000 unique volumes dating from the sixteenth century through twentieth century, which document the lives of an estimated four to six million individuals.30 Facing many negative consequences of explosive growth a few years into the project, the team planned to transform the platform in order to improve functionality, sustainability, and accessibility. As Angela Sutton shares in Archipelagos, the platform’s transformation sparked conversations that were not only about size and scale.31 The group started to look, for instance, at using technology in a way that would centralise underrepresented historic actors. In hindsight, according to Sutton, thinking big and anticipating the best possible scenarios would have been the optimal approach. This would have allowed the team not only to plan better and apply optimal uniformity but empower them to reach out with confidence to new sources and partners. In general terms it can be concluded that if inclusion is central to a DH project, then scalability is a basic project need. This may come at great cost in terms of money, time, and expertise, as was the experience of Duke University when digitising the Radio Haiti archive.32 Several extra steps were made here to make the archive as accessible as possible to as many people as possible, particularly in Haiti. All digitised files were divided into small MP3 files, obtainable on small devices with low internet bandwidth. Next, a relatively high level of description was used with not only rich but also trilingual metadata. This was done because of 248 MARGO GROENEWOUD the importance of the archive: it contains first-hand accounts of events that are not documented elsewhere as well as the voices of underrepresented people. In making historical records and other heritage items available to the communities of origin, as the Radio Haiti project did, archives no longer serve only research communities. They become involved in travail de mémoire (memory work), which in theoretical discourses is often positioned in relation to identity and oppression. In this context the historian’s work is closely linked to, or can be actively pursued as, social activism. As Jacques Derrida argues: “Effective democratization can always be measured by this essential criterion: the participation in and the access to the archive, its constitution, and its interpretation.”33 Duke University’s Radio Haiti project, as Wagner reflects, aspired to Derrida’s ideal imperfectly, “since the day-to-day function of a university library is by its nature hierarchical, placing the power of description and naming in the hands of very few.” Not all memory work projects are radically following Derrida in his quest for democracy through the archives. Mostly, as is the case in Aruba, Curaçao, and Bonaire, a repository is set up as a branch of a larger platform. Addressing a larger scale by joining a larger platform implies concessions concerning control over stored files and metadata. Again, pragmatism and negotiation prove to be central to surviving small-scale realities. Just as technology, content, and metadata are of major importance, so is usability within the local context, which is what Ramble Bahamas set out to prioritise. A platform of The Oral and Public History Institute at the University of The Bahamas, it was designed specifically with the Bahamian user in mind, inspired by the concept of rambling: a meandering and unhurried journey of discovery. It invites the audience to explore via multiple paths. Like many smaller DH projects in the region, Ramble Bahamas’ aspiration to bring heritage “home” inspires and gets things moving, resulting in feasible small-scale projects driven by less lofty but nonetheless laudable ambitions and strategies. An Agenda for Social Justice and Digital Humanities Pluricultural realities of heritage archives in the Caribbean imply threats to and opportunities for social justice in the Caribbean. We have seen in the Caribbean studies digital humanities projects studied and presented here that the room for experimentation in digital form is often used to break with dysfunctional, unwanted, and even oppressive barriers of a physical, mental, or emotional nature. This results not only in interesting collections and presentations, but in particular in new pedagogy and engagement. DIGITAL HUMANITIES, SOCIAL JUSTICE AND HERITAGE ARCHIvES 249 Community-based approaches, sensitivity to language, and actively reaching out to underrepresented and silenced groups are crucial elements to success in our Caribbean pluricultural postcolonial context. As most Caribbean DH projects are initiated outside the Caribbean, these elements as yet seem to be less prominently developed. DH initiatives in the Caribbean can and must engage with this reality. They can aspire to fix and heal what went wrong in the past, by adding material, contextualisation, and narratives to the collections, or projects can be set up to just “do it right this time” from the start—thinking and acting big and inclusively. A growing body of Caribbean DH projects provide us with interesting best practices, though it is quite clear that there is not a single best practice roadmap. The instant and empowering gratification of a successful micro digital humanities approach—working with and for the community—justifies prioritising such projects in all educational institutes throughout the region. It should furthermore be recognised on the other end of the spectrum that the Caribbean region holds many audio and video collections that should be digitised with exactly the same rigour as the Radio Haiti archive, for exactly the same reasons. It seems pointless to design a roadmap excluding either the small or the large, the local or the foreign—what is needed is a broad and clever approach. The mosaic landscape of digital humanities on the ABC islands could be analysed as a manifestation of nationalism—or at least island pride. Of course, even on this level, heritage digitisation and other DH projects may very well be approached by the state as efforts in support of nation-building. This, however, is hardly the case, if only because of scarcity and small scale. Current DH initiators are operating resourcefully at the institutional level with the support of external nongovernmental funds, introducing transnational actors and long distance forms of nationalism to their island realities. In all these cases, attempts to address and overcome silences in the archives are nevertheless made, contributing to the reimagination of the past and the creation of new narratives. Thus digital humanities collections and activities on the ABC islands are supporting, and may further support, social justice causes, both on a large scale and in micro DH projects. However, as we have seen in various practical examples from our region, to move to the heart of attaining and experiencing equity through heritage praxis, a radical change of pedagogy will prove crucial. CHAPTER 14 Caribbean Diasporas, Metropolitan Policies, and Cultural Heritage Francio Guadeloupe and Gert Oostindie Caribbean popular arts, and cultural heritage writ large, emerged in unique processes of creolisation marked by, but in many ways also side-stepping and overcoming, the oppressive realities of colonialism, racism, and particularly slavery. Migratory flows to the region were central to this process, but with interregional migration and sojourns out of the Caribbean to Europe and elsewhere in the Americas, Caribbean communities became more transnational, and so did their cultural heritage. In this chapter, we will discuss the divergent patterns of Caribbean migrations, cultural orientations, and the popular arts, with a focus on the Dutch Caribbean islands and their Diaspora in the Netherlands. In addition, we will explore the contents and consequences of the British, Dutch, and French cultural policies. In the final section, we discuss one specific and vibrant field of culture, music, as a case study of whether and how transnationalism and metropolitan policies matter. The Caribbean: A Region Marked by Transnationality and Migration Immigration may be the dominant characteristic of post-World War II Caribbean history, but the intraregional migrations that emerged after the abolition of slavery and indenture, followed in the twentieth century by migrations from the wider world, continue to play a major role today. As we will see, this is particularly the case for the Dutch Caribbean islands.1 Today, 70 percent of the population on Sint Maarten are of recent immigrant stock, and the other Dutch islands are following suit. The percentage of immigrants in Aruba in 2005 was 34 percent, with the latest prognoses of the Central Bureau of Statistics indicating that soon at least half of the 115,000 people residing on the island will be migrants. On Bonaire this is already the case, as in 2017 only seven thousand of the nineteen thousand inhabitants were born on the island.2 The tourist economy’s need for cheap labour, the relative affluence and investment opportunities in comparison to the wider Caribbean basin, and the de facto laissez-faire policies in issuing permits and controlling the border are all contributing factors, even in comparison to the wider region’s remarkable demographics.3 252 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE AND GERT OOSTINDIE A further factor is the fact that many of the more settled Arubans and Curaçaoans are also of immigrant stock, arriving on the island in the 1920s to work in the Shell and Lago Oil refineries, then the largest and most productive of their kind.4 Some of the offspring of these migrants to Aruba and Curaçao have gone on to occupy influential positions in government and industry. With their Saban and Sint Maarten roots, former prime ministers of the Curaçao-based Netherlands Antilles government Leo Chance and Maria Liberia Peters are examples, as are others such as the Aruban born Grenadian former Prime Minister Maurice Bishop. This only demonstrates that transnationality is a way of appreciating the Dutch Caribbean.5 Exogamy, meaning marriage outside of one’s ethnic group, also defies any neat statistical delineation between “true belongers” to the island and persons hailing from elsewhere.6 We mention these peculiarities of demographics and migration in the Dutch Caribbean islands because it is of consequence in appreciating the input and participation of the Dutch Caribbean Diaspora in the vibrant cultural scene in the Netherlands. As transnationality and creolisation characterised their social life on the islands, it is unsurprising this is manifested in their cultural life in the Netherlands as well. The Dutch Caribbean Diaspora—and actually all Caribbean Diasporas residing in North Atlantic polities—urge us to critically rethink cultural heritage in the sense of popular arts, or simply popular culture, as a strictly insular or national affair. Thus while our focus is on the Dutch Caribbean Diaspora in the Netherlands, the aim of this chapter is also comparative in the sense that we bear in mind the migratory dynamics of peoples of Caribbean extraction residing in Western Europe, the US, and Canada. We therefore begin by presenting some general patterns of outmigration. It is evident that over the past half-century or so, most migration out of the Caribbean was directed towards the US, and to a much lesser degree Canada. This certainly is the case for the Spanish-speaking Caribbean, where Puerto Ricans had the unrestricted right of abode because of their US passport, where Cubans after the revolution could count on privileged access, and where also millions of Dominicans were able to secure entry, a green card, and in many cases citizenship. The combined number of people of Spanish Caribbean background in North America is nearing ten million and dwarfs the Spanish Caribbean community in Spain. Much the same goes for Haitian migration, with well over one million Haitian Americans and over one hundred thousand Haitian Canadians as against probably no more than seventy thousand in the former colonising state, France. As US passport holders, the peoples of the US Virgin Islands exhibit the same tendency as Puerto Ricans. Migration for the former British West Indies in contrast has long been characterised by its bifurcation, both towards the United Kingdom and North America. As access to the UK has been virtually blocked since the early 1960s, the CARIBBEAN DIASPORAS, METROPOLITAN POLICIES, AND CULTURAL HERITAGE 253 Christina Ravel & family in 1960, born in Suriname, raised in Curaçao, migrated to Rotterdam, the Netherlands growth of the Commonwealth Caribbean community was most pronounced in the US and Canada (well over 1.5 million), as against over half a million in the UK. Emigration from the non-sovereign Caribbean, in contrast, continues to be heavily directed towards the respective metropolitan states. This is the case for Puerto Rico and the US virgin Islands, but equally for the French overseas departments, the Dutch Caribbean islands, and the few remaining British overseas territories. In spite of the fact that all of these territories have higher standards of living than the rest of the Caribbean, leading to inward migration, which we accentuated above for the Dutch Caribbean, figures for outmigration from primarily the “oldcomers” of these islands have been and continue to be high. Numbers are 254 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE AND GERT OOSTINDIE difficult to establish as none of these communities, by now in their second, third, or subsequent generations, have remained endogamous. Nevertheless, the estimates are telling. The Puerto Rican community in the US outnumbers the insular population. The total number of inhabitants of the French Caribbean departments is about one million, and the Caribbean community in France is not that much smaller. The number of Antilleans living in the Netherlands is about 160,000, as against 300,000 on the islands. The number of citizens originating from the non-sovereign British Caribbean is much lower, also because free entry was only re-established two decades ago; but then again, the total number of inhabitants of the British Overseas territories in the Caribbean is a little over one hundred thousand. With these emigrations came new cultural orientations. But to complicate matters, substantial intraregional migrations have also affected the demography and social fabric of many Caribbean societies, with additional consequences for cultural outlook. Going back as far as the migrations of recently emancipated people from the British West Indies to new sugar frontiers such as British Guiana and Cuba in the mid-nineteenth century, Haitians working in the Dominican sugar industry in the twentieth century, the tens of thousands of Caribbean labourers toiling on the construction of the Panama Canal and later in the oil industries of Aruba, Curaçao, and Trinidad, this trend has continued up to the present. In recent decades, the tourism industry has become the prime pull factor, drawing tens of thousands of labour migrants from the poorer parts of the Caribbean to booming places elsewhere in the region. These migratory trends have had a deep impact at the receiving end—and the Dutch Caribbean islands are a major case in point, to the effect that as we mentioned earlier first and second generation immigrants now make up from one-third to over two-thirds of the population of these places. Cultural Orientations of the Caribbean Diaspora What does all of this mean for cultural orientations? It is a truism that throughout the colonial period, the dominant standard of civilisation was European—even if citizenship and real access to this allegedly superior culture was negated to all but a few. Equally a truism is that the process of emancipating from the colonial mindset and redefining national identities took a long time, far longer than the formal process of decolonisation. This is, of course, not unique for the Caribbean case. But perhaps no colonised region in the world was so deeply reshaped as the Caribbean, and one may argue that contemporary cultural frames of reference continue to reflect the webs spun in the colonial era.7 We can see some different patterns here. Spanish Caribbean cultures both in the Caribbean and the Diaspora seem to have a broader Latino identification CARIBBEAN DIASPORAS, METROPOLITAN POLICIES, AND CULTURAL HERITAGE 255 that serves to differentiate them from both other Caribbean nations and from North American culture. Sociological and statistical studies, however, show that this pan-ethnic label, whether it be Latino, Latinx, Latino/a or Hispanic, is not the preferred form of self-identification for most Americans of Caribbean Spanish descent. In addition, with the second and third generations, the idea of a pan-ethnic Hispanic commonality fades significantly. It only exists somewhat in the realm of music, such as urban salsa and reggaeton, but even here islandic specificities continue to matter. Puerto Ricans, Cubans, and Dominicans exemplify the mismatch between self-identification and the categories that the US census and policy papers produce to manage its diversity.8 The terms that self-identified Hispanics use to describe themselves can provide a direct look at their views of identity and the link to their countries of birth or family origin. Among all Hispanic adults, for example, half say they most often describe themselves by their family’s country of origin or heritage, using terms such as Mexican, Cuban, Puerto Rican, or Salvadoran. Another 23 percent say they most often call themselves American. And another 23 percent most often describe themselves as “Hispanic” or “Latino,” the pan-ethnic terms used to describe this group in the US, according to the survey of self-identified Hispanics.9 The Haitian Diaspora exemplifies a similar complexity. Because of their specific historical trajectory and their French-based Creole, Diasporic Haitians seem to be a case apart. In Canada 83 percent reside in Québec, whereas most of the Caribbean Diaspora from the former British West Indies live in Toronto. In Francophone Canada, however, Diasporic Haitians are one of the ethnic groups that binds the two linguistic Canadas, as they are proficient in both French and English. In the US the same holds, as Haitian Kreyol is merged with American English, creating a Haitian-American identity in New York and especially Miami. In the world of culture, hip-hop artist Wyclef Jean represents one side of the spectrum, while Carimi exemplifies the other side, with kompa music interlaced with American English and swing marking transnationality. After Cuba, the Dominican Republic, and Jamaica, Haiti is the largest source country of Caribbean migration to the US.10 Despite the internal class differences, in comparison with other Caribbean Diasporas, Haitian-Americans are faring relatively well. In the Caribbean the Haitian Kreyol only has parallels in the French departments and collectivités and some former British colonies such as Dominica Saint Lucia, and Grenada where it is a second tongue. As full-fledged French citizens, Guadeloupeans, Martinicans, Saint Martinois, Guyanais, and Barthélemois, continue to be critically oriented towards France—if only because the entire educational system points to the Hexagon as the shining example. Studies show that like their Spanish-speaking Caribbean peers, the French Caribbean Diaspora is increasingly orienting itself to France without losing sight of island specificities.11 256 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE AND GERT OOSTINDIE With the shifting migratory patterns, the former British West Indies have increasingly traded the colonial orientation towards British culture in exchange for North American culture. Political stalwarts such as Colin Powell and Kamala Harris exemplify this, but the same goes for the great number of artists with a West Indian background. To give just this one example, it is impossible to fathom the emergence of American hip-hop without the input of the British Caribbean Diaspora. Most recently this has been overtly acknowledged in the acclaimed documentary, “Founding Fathers: The Untold Stories of Hip Hop.” The recognised pioneers of hip-hop such as DJ Kool Herc and King Charles (Jamaica), the Amazing Bert and Luke Skyyywalker (Bahamas), Grandmaster Flash, Dough E. Fresh (Barbados), and Afrika Bambaata (Jamaica/Barbados) attest to the importance of British West Indians in the making of American hip-hop in the 1970s. In the world of hip-hop, the Caribbean presence—predominantly British West Indian, but also rappers with Spanish and Haitian roots—remains very visible. The predecessors of the aforementioned West Indian legends sell millions of albums, therewith conquering billboard charts and global fame. Some examples are: Will.i.am, Busta Rhymes, Sean Kingston, Tyga, Swizz Beatz, and Biggie Smalls (Jamaica); LL Cool J, A$AP Rocky, and Rihanna (Barbados); Foxy Brown and Nicki Minaj (Trinidad and Tobago); Cardi B and Fabolous (Dominican Republic); Fat Joe and Jennifer Lopez (Puerto Rico); Kodak Black, Wyclef Jean, and Jason Derulo (Haiti). By consequence, parallel to the force of its Diaspora in the realm of popular culture, US cultural influence matters in the wider Caribbean basin. Marked by its transnational constitution, the Dutch Caribbean Diaspora presents us with a truly pan-Caribbean outlook of diversities when one focuses on their cultural works in the Netherlands. Salsa, soca, zouk, bachata, kompa, hip-hop, and EDM are as much authentically Dutch Caribbean as the mazurka, tambú, and kaha di orgel that cultural heritage specialists delineate as the “real culture” of the Dutch Antilles. These traditional forms of heritage, beloved by middle-class elites, are also marked by transnational flows, as they emerged from earlier migrants’ inputs. The same holds for the Simadan, the Ponum Dance, and other such respectable Afrooriented cultural practices, far removed from what is most popular on the islands. Cultural heritage specialists’ delineation and defence of “real” versus “imported” Dutch Caribbean culture is in line with a wider politics of ethnic absolutism among some sectors of the Diaspora. Ethnic-oriented politics of identity instrumentally employs the “real” culture of the islands, thereby constructing a “real” people of the islands, in their politics of recognition. The line between many cultural heritage specialists belonging to the Diaspora and these ethnic-oriented politics of identity is blurred. Government funding mechanisms for culture in the metropole that favour ethnic tradition also partly explain why cultural heritage specialists focus on CARIBBEAN DIASPORAS, METROPOLITAN POLICIES, AND CULTURAL HERITAGE 257 authenticity. A grant for reggae as authentic Curaçaoan culture is a hard sell to state agencies. Conversely, it pays to promote tambú in the arena of official culture— museums, galleries, and theatres—where few would be interested in an expensive ticket to enjoy an evening of Aruban breakdance. There is also the influence of ideologies of cultural exclusivity hailing from the islands. Notwithstanding the polyethnic and heterocultural reality on the islands, ethnonationalists, many of whom hold political office or occupy positions of authority in the civil corps, symbolically privilege “oldcomers”: Dutch Caribbean islanders who trace back their ancestry to the island in colonial times. What this group of citizens deems culturally important is considered more legitimate than the views of those deemed “newcomers.” Hence the “authentic” cultural heritage of the islands in policy papers, laws, official ceremonies, and transnational organisations such as UNESCO is connected almost exclusively to the privileging of what oldcomers deem bona fide. Cultural heritage specialists in the Diaspora engaging with their counterparts on the islands, and the aforementioned realities in the Netherlands, virtually neglect the thriving popular culture that refuses the neat boundaries of ethnic absolutism. Blackness as a Unifier of the Popular? We now turn to those practices marked by the vernacular and hyper creolised Presence Africaine. In discussions of culture heritage, popular culture, and the Caribbean Diaspora, pride of place should be given to the powerful concept of a “Black Atlantic” first coined by Paul Gilroy in his seminal 1993 book bearing that name.12 This interpretation seeks to restore and strengthen the links between Black people on both sides of the Atlantic who have all gone through the ordeal of the slave trade, slavery, the broken promises of emancipation, and ongoing civil rights movements. With the exception of Brazil, no other region of the Americas received as many sub-Saharan Africans during the transatlantic slave trade as the Caribbean. Focusing on that history of Black subordination, activists have contributed to presenting Blackness and Caribbeanness as synonyms. However, the ethnic diversity of the region—if you take the British, French, Dutch, and Spanish Caribbean as a conglomerate—does not fare well in these types of analyses. In personal conversations Gilroy explained that his concept of the Black Atlantic was not intended to contribute to this obfuscation, aware as he was of Caribbean diversity not the least occasioned by Stuart Hall’s theorising of identity in the region.13 It is important to recognise that Gilroy’s Black Atlantic is part of a transdisciplinary paradigm producing social theory that interrogates how race is made. As such, Gilroy and others like him, such as David Scott, Katherine McKittrick, Christine 258 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE AND GERT OOSTINDIE Chivallon, and Edouard Glissant, do not posit or presuppose an essential Black subject, let alone the Caribbean as an exclusively Black region.14 In fact “Black” in this body of work points on the one hand to an operation in which le devenir nègre of Africans—the sale of primarily wartime captives and undesirables to Europeans by rogues and potentates ruling Africa, the Middle Passage, slavery in the Americas, and racial science—was coterminous with the making of the Atlantic world and by extension globalisation.15 On the other hand, however, what makes this paradigm appealing is the recognition of the critical gaps of signification between the names and treatment meted out to these oppressed populations and the names and cultural expressions they gave themselves and the world. Nègre, Nèg, neger, “Negro,” neger, “nigga,” nikker, “nigger,” zwart, swart, preto, skur, neger, “negro,” Negão, noir, renois, blaka, “Black,” and “black” all refer to contestations about further downgrading or conversely asserting the humanity of the formerly enslaved and their descendants. Location, local histories, contingencies, and interventions seeking to exorcise colonial traces are of utmost concern. For instance, the term Nèg in Haitian Kreyol is a resignification of the French word nègre, enslaved African, into a generic term for a human being undone of racial categorisations. Nègre in turn in the French urban context is giving way to the verlan term renois (for noirs), as the former is considered by many youths as too tied to the experience of slavery and not deemed representative of all peoples of sub-Saharan descent. Interestingly, even the same term can be resignified, as in Aimé Césaire choosing to call himself a Nègre and coining Négritude as a term of pride. At times subtle resignifications in changing a few letters and intonation make a world of difference: in hip-hop circles “nigga,” a term for those who have a cool demeanour, is not to be confused with “nigger,” which is a derogatory term employed by white racists.16 In analysing the Dutch—including Dutch Caribbean—world, such caution and eye for detail is of consequence. It would be a mistake to think that any translation of, say, US significations of Black identity into zwarte mensen or hende koló skur, the terminology used by Afro-Antilleans from the ABC islands in the Dutch world, happens without remainders—without, in other words, missing something crucial. For one, hende koló skur is usually employed as a less expansive category than the US term Black often beholden to the one-drop rule. Blue-eyed Walter White of the NAACP would not be considered a hende koló skur, for the latter is not referring to a political identity but to physiognomy. The Black Atlantic, Gilroy’s conceptualisation, is alive to such subtleties. Instead of conceiving the Black Atlantic as an identity for all Caribbean people descended from the enslaved (which he never claimed it to be), it is best understood as a heuristic device pointing to the ongoing encounters, travels, letters, and contingent solidarities in the Atlantic space that makes translations such as Black into zwart CARIBBEAN DIASPORAS, METROPOLITAN POLICIES, AND CULTURAL HERITAGE 259 temporarily cogent. We do well to remember the poignant phrasing of Stuart Hall: “their histories [meaning the descendants of those who survived transatlantic slavery] are in the past, inscribed in their skins. But it is not because of their skins that they are Black in their heads.”17 The way they get Black in their heads, Gilroy avers, is through cultural and artistic expressions. He terms this a politics of transfiguration that he argues “exists on a lower frequency where it is played, danced, and acted, as well as sung.” In line with earlier work of Caribbean scholars such as Rex Nettleford, and the aforementioned Stuart Hall, Gilroy points to the work of culture that from the inception of slavery and colonisation has worked against racial scripts that posited Black subordination.18 Particularly significant for the theme of this chapter, Gilroy gives us clues with which to appreciate the success of the Black Lives Matter movement, with its stunning chain reactions reverberating from the US to Europe, Latin America, and indeed the Caribbean. While BLM is foremost a political call against enduring racism and White privilege, we may also observe that the movement is transmitted, negotiated, and thus transfigured by a variety of musical genres first developed in Black communities on both sides of the Atlantic. This is unsurprising, as aesthetics is politics in the Black Atlantic paradigm. Yet not all politics can be defined as promoting transfiguration that is open to nonracialism. Popular Black Atlantic music aesthetically induces members of the Diaspora facing anti-black racism to become Black in the head politically, rather than in terms of essence, as they join many ethnic (gendered and sexual) others in BLM campaigns. Stuart Hall reminds us that Blackness as a political identity came about to undo racism and racial lore. This is where Paul Gilroy identifies a particular politicisation of Blackness emerging through and in popular culture. We have here, following Gilroy, an identity formation that is never static, always becoming. Given that most of the Caribbean Diaspora in England, and the Netherlands too, dance, play, and sing with members of other ethnic groups as they struggle against racism, a politics of transfiguration takes place: the identities of all who participate are constantly being modified and transformed in ongoing aesthetic exchanges. Herein politicised Black identities become less susceptible to racial lore. However, not all who become politicised and promote a political Black identity are fully immersed in popular culture. Next to a politics of transfiguration, there is also what Gilroy terms a politics of fulfilment. This is a politics wedded to an essential understanding of Blackness, thereby re-signifying Blackness from the ciphers of ugliness, ignorance, and laziness, into symbols of endearment, excellence, and even racial superiority. Activists of Dutch Caribbean extraction who are into a politics of fulfilment are usually university educated professionals whose politics boils down to pushing The 260 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE AND GERT OOSTINDIE Hague and municipalities to fulfill the liberal ideals the Kingdom of the Netherlands is legally committed to: nondiscrimination, diversity and inclusion, and other civil and political rights. Theirs is a form of interest group activism hardened into a race-based identity politics that seeks a racial settlement: a politics of multiracialism grafted on the ideal of multiculturalism. It is all about representation and countering statistical disparities between the Caribbean Dutch and middle-class native Dutch. In its politics of multiracialism as multiculturalism is where this group of activists meet the cultural heritage specialists promoting the “real” culture of the islands. Both racialise and essentialise culture. It is in fact a small step for them to articulate the “Afro” in Afro-Curaçaoan culture to the “Afro” in Afro-Surinamese culture, re-signifying both as African and part of an abstract racial category of Black African world heritage. This politics of “race” through culture is far removed from what most of the Dutch Caribbean Diaspora is busy with. We cannot forget that a politics of transfiguration next to a politics of fulfilment characterises the Europe that the Caribbean Diaspora is comaking. The unruly multicultural mixing in the Netherlands resembles the polyethnic and heterocultural reality of the Dutch Caribbean islands. Dutch Caribbean Cultures But first let us briefly return to the Dutch Caribbean islands. Every Caribbean island is a place of its own, and yet it is conventional to think of the entire region in subsets, referring in the first place to the legacies of colonial history and especially the languages introduced by European states—hence the commonsensical categorisation of the British, French, and Spanish Caribbean. The Dutch Caribbean has never fit well into this mold. Throughout the period of slavery, hence up to 1863, Dutch was a marginal language both in the Guianas and the Caribbean islands. The lingua franca in Suriname was Sranantongo, an English-based Creole; in the three southern Caribbean islands Papiamentu, a mainly Portuguese-based Creole; whereas a creolised English was the vernacular in the three northern islands. For a variety of reasons, and in an increasingly idiosyncratic variant, the Dutch language did replace Sranantongo in twentieth-century Suriname as the nation’s first language. In contrast, Dutch never became the first language of the six islands and local language became a central element in the rhetoric and practices of insular nation-building. A geographical distance of eight hundred kilometres separates the three northern Caribbean Dutch islands from the three to the south, just off the Venezuelan coast. It has become a bit of a commonplace to state that apart from a shared coloniser, these two groups of islands have little in common. This is too crass a generalisation, particularly because with the establishment of the oil refineries in the CARIBBEAN DIASPORAS, METROPOLITAN POLICIES, AND CULTURAL HERITAGE 261 1920s and the start of the tourist industry in the 1960s, internal labour migrations have brought the insular populations closer to one another than ever before—and this is an ongoing process. But one cannot escape the fact of a real divide, exacerbated by the political decision enforced by the islands themselves to break up their shared constitutional status as a six-island non-sovereign state, in 2010. The one place where it makes most sense today to speak of “Antilleans” as an entity rather than Arubans, Statians, and so on is in the Netherlands—though in reality three-quarters of the Antillean community in the metropolis hails from Curaçao. When asked to define their local culture, inhabitants of all six islands are usually quick to invoke their language, alongside a colonial history and pride of place as defining traits. Asked about places they relate to most, inhabitants of Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao will refer mainly to the other two southern Caribbean islands, not to Sint Maarten, Sint Eustatius, or Saba, and the same holds the other way around. Even the identification with the faraway Netherlands is deemed more important—but tellingly this identification is not often invoked, and this has not even changed now that a significant proportion of all Antilleans have taken up residence there.19 So much for a shared Dutch Caribbean identity, one may conclude. And this fragmentation is only compounded by a tradition to emphasise internal differences rather than similarities. This tendency lies at the root of insular rivalries and in the end also caused the dismantlement of the six-island Antilles. In each of these islands, those engaged in debates about local identities have to deal with two challenges. For one, there is the lure of nostalgia, obviously not for slavery and colonialism, but for romanticised old times. So all islands consider agrarian and fishery traditions as typical, as well as oral traditions going back to the times of slavery. But the contemporary meaning of this cultural heritage is not evident. What is, just to give this example, the meaning of agrarian traditions such as harvest celebrations on islands that for generations now have imported all of their foodstuffs? More appealing are elements of heritage that refer to resistance to slavery and colonialism, and here of course the Black Atlantic is of evident relevance. At the same time, significant changes in insular demographics complicate the question of what local identity really means. Migrations have dramatically impacted local populations. On all islands, one-third to over three-quarters of the local population was born elsewhere. Curaçao may be the most complicated case. Over one-third of the insular population has settled in the Netherlands since the 1990s, yet after a temporary decline, the current number of inhabitants is roughly the same again, also because of circular migration between the island and the Netherlands. As immigrants mainly from Colombia, Venezuela, and the Caribbean moved in, their share rose, if we take the first and second generations together, and this proportion continues to rise particularly because of illegal migration from Venezuela. Aruba and the other islands witnessed far less migration to the 262 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE AND GERT OOSTINDIE Netherlands, but did experience rapid demographic growth mainly because of regional immigration, in some cases also from the Netherlands (Bonaire) or the US (the northern Dutch Caribbean islands). Cultural heritage depends on perceptions of the past, but whose past is this, who can lay legitimate claims?20 Throughout the colonial period, Dutch officials and local elites defined what was valuable. It is not particularly surprising that this framing departed from the promotion of white Dutch culture and resulted in a denigration of most things local, particularly Afro-Caribbean heritage. It may be more remarkable that in spite of this mindset, local elites in Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao did not part with Papiamentu even if they, other than the majority of the population, also spoke Dutch and other European languages. The virtual unconditional praise for this Creole language as central to local identities, however, dates only from the last half century or so, and may more recently be seen as a form of protest against Dutch “recolonisation.” Looking back, Aruba was the first island to develop identity politics, as early as the 1930s, and its separatist rhetoric had a clear ethnic, supposedly mestizo frame, both antagonistic to “Black” Curaçao and exclusionary towards the local, recently established Afro-Caribbean community. Curaçao, in contrast, started developing identity discourses from the late 1960s onwards in which Black heritage predominated. The dynamics of nation-building have not stagnated since, and we may observe that contemporary definitions of cultural heritage have become more inclusive. But at the same time, a certain unease persists when it comes to accepting the cultural consequences of more recent migrations, particularly immigration from the region, and outmigration to the Netherlands. Thus when asked to define the cultural heritage of their islands, experts in both islands do mention the impact of recent migrations, but nonetheless tend to heavily focus on older local traditions.21 The same observation may probably be made for the other islands. Precisely the challenge of having to cope with recent, rather massive migrations tends to elicit a certain nostalgia for local traditions. This is certainly the case in Bonaire, where this approach is undoubtedly also a reaction against “recolonisation.” Unfortunately, we have not done extensive research on this issue in the northern Dutch Caribbean islands, but impressionistic evidence points to the same slightly chauvinistic mechanism—“typical” heritage goes a long way back and has local roots, and what outsiders add takes decades to become accepted as, well, local too. While much of this discussion is about what new immigrants add to the insular cultures, another elephant in the room is the significance of the seventh Antillean island in the Netherlands. This is particularly relevant for Curaçao, but increasingly for the other islands as well. Antilleans in the Netherlands change, increasingly so with the passing of generations. How does the decision of so many Antilleans to leave impact insular identities in the first place? What does the increasingly CARIBBEAN DIASPORAS, METROPOLITAN POLICIES, AND CULTURAL HERITAGE 263 transnational character of the Antillean community, backed up not only by the migratory process itself but also by the new social media, mean for insular identities and the definition of heritage? There is not much public debate about this—yet as we will see in the section on music, these are increasingly central questions. Do Constitutional Models and Metropolitan Policies Matter? Colonialism left different legacies in the Caribbean, and these were compounded by widely divergent trajectories and outcomes of decolonisation. As a result, while most former colonies opted for independence, a minority of some fifteen percent of all inhabitants of the region still live in non-sovereign jurisdictions. Within the latter category, there is a range of constitutional arrangements, ranging from near complete integration (the French departments and after 2010 also the Dutch municipalities, including Bonaire) to some sort of conditional autonomy (Puerto Rico, and also Aruba, Curaçao, and Sint Maarten). The costs and benefits of sovereignty have been much debated, and equally the issue of which arrangement of non-sovereignty is optimal for whom. We will leave this debate aside, and will focus on one specific question instead: do differences in constitutional models impact practices of nation-building and heritage formation? There is no obvious answer to this question. If we first focus on the contrast between sovereign and non-sovereign states, it seems clear that nation-building in the former category is in a sense an easier project, with independence as a cathartic break with an oppressive colonial past. All Caribbean states modelled their national narratives on this sequence and hence also in opposition to the former colonial oppressor. This is a more complicated project in non-sovereign states. They may share a similar colonial history and may therefore also nurture a strong oppositional, anticolonial element in nation-building. But this somehow sits uneasily with the refusal to break away. The alternative then becomes the demand for “true equality,” or similar such desires, within some sort of postcolonial arrangement—but this remains a far more ambiguous message.22 Nation-building is not built on anticolonial struggles alone, and here sovereign and Caribbean states face very similar challenges. For one, there is the uneasy fact that large proportions of nearly all Caribbean populations, whether sovereign or not, decided to move elsewhere, an implicit expression of a shared predicament. The transnational character of nearly all Caribbean communities may be hailed as the creative force it indeed is—but then we should ask where the centre of cultural gravity is today in the Caribbean or rather in North America or Western Europe? More to the core of our present concern is the question of how various models of non-sovereignty impacted Caribbean heritage, and what role transnational 264 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE AND GERT OOSTINDIE Caribbean communities play in this process. Perhaps the most important observation in this regard is that there is a sharp contrast when it comes to linguistic divides, and that this does not reflect recent policies but rather a much older colonial history. The languages spoken in the French Caribbean departments, the US Virgin Islands, and the UK Overseas Territories are clearly creolised, Caribbean variants of French and English, respectively, but the fit with the metropolitan language is clear. This is absolutely not the case in Spanish-speaking Puerto Rico nor in the Dutch Caribbean islands, where Papiamentu and English are the first languages. Neither 120 years of American nor four centuries of Dutch (neo)colonialism made the metropolitan vernacular the lingua franca in these territories. So much for the argument that colonialism effectively destroys all things local, one might conclude. The more relevant observation may be that the survival of these local languages testifies to a strong local resistance to conforming with metropolitan models, and that under the present constitutional arrangements, it is not up to Washington, D.C., or The Hague to decide which language is the vernacular in their Caribbean jurisdictions. The challenge to the preferred local language may actually come from elsewhere, from the Diaspora. For over half a century now, neorriqueño or Nuyorican culture evolved in the Big Apple and increasingly all over the US, and today the continental Puerto Rican community outnumbers the insular population. This, of course, makes it increasingly problematic to think of one single diasporic community using the same language and nurturing the same ideas about issues such as cultural heritage. Instead, there is growing differentiation. The Puerto Rican case suggests vexing parallel dilemmas for the Dutch Caribbean and particularly Curaçaoan transnational communities. There is no doubt that the Antillean community in the Netherlands greatly values its cultural heritage, and particularly Papiamentu. At the same time—and this is a significant contrast with Spanish in the US—their mother tongue has no resonance outside of their own, in the end, small community. This does not bode well for the survival of Papiamentu in the Netherlands, particularly with the passing of generations, as is evident from the diminishing use of Sranantongo in the Surinamese community in the Netherlands. And this, in turn, raises all sorts of questions about the long-term prospects of a shared diasporic Antillean community. What seems to transpire already is that Dutch citizens of Antillean background become activists for struggles that speak to broader race-related issues instead—think slavery, Zwarte Piet, Black Lives Matter. Finally, did and do cultural policies matter, particularly for the non-sovereign Caribbean? For the Dutch Caribbean, again, Puerto Rico seems to be the closest fit. Cultural policies are a local rather than metropolitan responsibility, so whatever direction is taken, whatever support is given to, or withheld from, local initiatives in cultural heritage is decided primarily on the islands. The flipside is that local CARIBBEAN DIASPORAS, METROPOLITAN POLICIES, AND CULTURAL HERITAGE 265 finance is restricted, which obviously limits the room for an actual active cultural policy. Where the metropolis does step in, both in Puerto Rico and in the Dutch Caribbean, this is mainly in the sphere of restoration of colonial architecture and terrestrial and maritime landscapes, not precisely the things that local activists in cultural heritage would define as central to local identities. One may wonder about the effects of the opposite, French departmental model. No doubt, the French tradition is heavily centralised and top-down in all matters, cultural policies included. Yet the mere fact that in the French model there is far more budget available for cultural policy has enabled more generous funding for all kinds of local cultural projects in recent decades—one may only think of the ways Aimé Césaire, as mayor of Fort-de-France, stimulated French Caribbean art in Martinique. Likewise, the 2015 establishment of the monumental slavery museum Mémorial ACTe in Pointe-à-Pitre, Guadeloupe, was only possible thanks to substantial French funding. In this respect, the contrast with the situation in the Dutch Caribbean islands is clear. There is no dearth of local initiatives, but only very limited local budgets, while metropolitan cofounding has been notably meagre. In this sense, Dutch Caribbean autonomy has not paid off well. Postcolonial Melancholia: A Politics of Fulfilment and Conviviality While we may deplore this lack of funding, we may also take an altogether different perspective and ask ourselves to what extent this really matters. Much of the local cultural heritage survives anyway—think only of Papiamentu—and in spite of everything there is no dearth of debate and practice in most of the islands. Perhaps an equally important question is to what extent these debates are really relevant to contemporary realities, particularly if we bring diasporic dynamics back into the discussion. So let us return now more explicitly to the Dutch Caribbean Diaspora in the Netherlands. Despite structural barriers, most of the Dutch Caribbean Diaspora who reside primarily in the metropolitan cities of the Netherlands—The Hague, Rotterdam, Amsterdam, Eindhoven, Nijmegen, and Tilburg—are integrating relatively successfully with the rest of Dutch society, in spite of a range of obstacles including racism.23 This holds for both genders. Unfortunately, however, this success story is rarely acknowledged due to a combination of heuristic and negativity bias, meaning our panhuman psychological predilection to store negative experiences that elicit a stronger neural impulse in readily available areas of our cognition when conceiving reality.24 The sensationalism and spectacle of the agents d’éclat, mass media, and its social offshoots produce an epistemic violence whereby Dutch Caribbean people disproportionally receive a bad press: poverty, criminality, school dropouts, and dangerous minorities. 266 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE AND GERT OOSTINDIE Unwillingly, activist voices among the Dutch Caribbean Diaspora, who themselves have achieved a solid middle-class status and present themselves as the cultural vanguard, contribute to this obfuscation, even if their aim is a politics of fulfilment, a concrete liberalism predicated on racial justice. Activists with an insular Dutch Caribbean background such as Quinsy Gario, Kunta Rincho, and Naomi Pieter are household names, winning awards, grants, and fixtures on national Tv. Many are united in the Kick Out Zwarte Piet and Black Queer and Trans Resistance social movements. The general picture of the Dutch Caribbean Diaspora faring fairly well is questioned by these activists. Visibly descended from the enslaved Africans brought to the Caribbean, they emphasise that they have witnessed or personally experienced discrimination, and as such they are rightfully seeking to fully rid the Netherlands of racism. The Black Lives Matter protests in the Netherlands were spearheaded by this group, building on their earlier work against the Blackface tradition/Zwarte Piet in the Netherlands. The latter refers to the traditional Dutch celebration on December 5 when a Catholic Saint Nicholas, helped by his helpers, Zwarte Pieten played by pinkish-skinned Dutch painting their faces black, bring gifts and sweets for children who have behaved throughout the year. For obvious reasons, the blackface, the fact that those playing Zwarte Piet try to emulate a stereotypical Surinamese accent, and historical works showing the character’s relation to transatlantic slavery, raised the ire of Black activists.25 Today Kickout Zwarte Piet (KOZP), the organisation they helped found, is a household name and many white Dutch are beginning to grudgingly accept that Zwarte Piet has to be reformed. In many cities Zwarte Piet is being replaced by helpers with some soot on their face. Even the Dutch Prime Minister Mark Rutte, who at first would have nothing of the likening of Zwarte Piet to blackfacing, has made an about turn and, after the BLM movement invited KOZP for a meeting, stated that he too stands for a country with zero tolerance for racism.26 In their activist work, many of the leaders of Kickout Zwarte Piet take on a Black identity, and create the impression that generic Blackness undone of ethnic particularity is on the rise in the Dutch Caribbean Diaspora. No study, however, corroborates this idea, and more than likely Blackness, like the Latino or LatinX identity, is but one of the contextual ways the Dutch Caribbean Diaspora identify. The cause of having the ideals of liberalism be fulfilled for all in the Netherlands is perfectly justified, but the one-to-one link to Blackness is another question.27 Perhaps this flirtation appeals due to the fact that a discussion of “postcolonial melancholia” in the Netherlands is missing. The term, borrowed again from Paul Gilroy, speaks to how in most Western polities work has not been done to decolonise the minds of the “oldcomers.”28 The lure of autochthony, ethno-racial chauvinism under the guise of nativism, and the implicit idea of being a European colonial CARIBBEAN DIASPORAS, METROPOLITAN POLICIES, AND CULTURAL HERITAGE 267 Black Lives Matter protests in the Netherlands 2020 (photo Melvi Lando) power remains potent.29 Edifying, however, is the fact that the BLM protests in the Netherlands were polyethnic events. Caribbean Diaspora stood hand in hand with white Dutch (“oldcomers”), Moroccan, Turkish, Somali, Kurdish, Jewish, and every other imaginable ethnic group in the Netherlands protesting the continuing existence of anti-Black racism. The multicultural conviviality in the Netherlands, 268 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE AND GERT OOSTINDIE the fact that in public institutions and quotidian life ethnic difference is a habitual fact for many, the reality of transfiguration, was in plain sight during these protests. Here we return to the question of Black Atlantic music cultures in the Netherlands. In the 1980s, after the oil refineries on Aruba and Curaçao closed, there was a mass exodus to the Netherlands. In the working class neighbourhoods of cities such as Rotterdam, Amsterdam, The Hague, Eindhoven, Nijmegen, Heerlen, and Groningen, Caribbean Dutch citizens fell into an emerging urban popular culture based on Black Atlantic aesthetics. From sports to music to dance to fashion to visual culture, a new conception of Dutchness was being born that was heavily indebted to the creolised art that was the miraculous outcome of slavery, genocide, and bondage. This new Dutchness marked by Blackness was from its inception a convivial transculture. Dutch citizens of Surinamese, Moroccan, Indonesian, Moluccan, Turkish, Cape Verdean, Somali, Iranian, Ghanaian, Antillean, and native extraction were all part of its coming into existence. In this sense, the first Dutch hip-hop album produced by D.A.M.N. (Don’t Accept Mass Notion) reflected this polyethnic constitution. Rapper L-Rock, fresh out of Aruba after the Lago refinery closed, teamed up with DJ Bass, who had spent his teenage years as a pink-skinned son of native Dutch emulating the turntable skills of New York rap groups. This Caribbean and native Dutch duo were accompanied by a crew consisting of Surinamese-Dutch dancers and Indo-Dutch mixers and rappers. D.A.M.N. and the other pioneering hip-hop group 24K were quite explicit that it was about the embrace of the multicultural conviviality and not an exclusive Black identity politics. In a recent interview L-Rock continues to promote conviviality. “We Have no Enemies,” the first professional hip-hop video by 24K, another first involving an artist born with roots in the Dutch Caribbean isles, made clear that racism and the lure of racial difference had to be transcended. ENB, one of the lead rappers of the band, was actually born in New York from Aruban parents. He explained that while 24K, D.A.M.N., Osdorp Posse (the third pioneering group during the 1980s and 1990s), and others were fans of Public Enemy, NWA, and LL Cool J, there was no way that they were enticed by American racial politics. ENB said he knew from first-hand experience how extremely different the racial politics of the US and the Netherlands were, even while 24K was clearly and explicitly critiquing global racism in their music and public performances. Theirs was a politics of transfiguration. In fact, most Dutch hip-hop has evolved in a genre that dominates the Dutch charts. Eight of the ten most downloaded songs in the Netherlands in 2018 were performed by Dutch rappers.30 Many of the artists are actually part of a European tribe whereby collaborations between Dutch rappers with their peers in England, France, Germany, and Turkey are not rare. Dutch hip-hop concerts are always packed. The Rotterdam hip-hop group BroederLiefde, consisting of youngsters CARIBBEAN DIASPORAS, METROPOLITAN POLICIES, AND CULTURAL HERITAGE 269 with Cape Verdean, Curaçaoan, and Dominican roots, have broken various records, including when in 2016 the group’s album remained number one in the Dutch Album 100 charts for fourteen consecutive weeks.31 In the summer months a similar tale can be told about the world of festivals. There too Black Atlantic music styles dominate. A pan-European network of salsa, bachata, zouk, kizomba, and soca dance venues and concerts exists, with the Netherlands as an important node. Here again the Dutch Caribbean Diaspora play important roles, with XX and the Bonairean born Ir-Sais belonging to the kizomba elite.32 Noteworthy is also the soca vs. dancehall parties and events organised by the Aruban duo DJ Bryan D’Soca Lyon and his wife Saira Koolman. D’Soca Lyon and his wife have gathered a set of soca and dancehall DJs and promoters from across Europe, enabling them to co-organise parties in England, France, Germany, Spain, Poland, and the Netherlands. Every summer a “soca train” of soca and dancehall lovers tours by bus across the Netherlands, but also across Europe to attend such festivals as the Antilliaanse Feesten in Hoogstraten (Belgium), Carnaval Tropical in Paris (France), Karneval der Kulturen in Berlin (Germany), and the Notting Hill Carnival in London (England). A high point in the series of soca and dancehall parties coincides with Rotterdam Unlimited, which is the annual Rotterdam Summer Carnival (23–27 July). A transplantation of Caribbean Carnival in order to meet and merge with the Carnivals of Cape Verde, Brazil, and Bolivia, Rotterdam Summer Carnival is the largest oneday festival in the Netherlands, attracting one million visitors and broadcast live on national television. D’Soca Lyon and Koolman personally knew the deceased Marlon Brown, the Aruban-born founder of the Rotterdam Summer Carnival.33 For them he was an inspiration, who chose to highlight unity rather than national exclusivity. Marlon was the embodiment of a creole cosmopolitanism in the sense that his Aruban belonging was easily articulated relative to belonging of those hailing from the other Dutch islands, the wider Caribbean, and the Netherlands. He had lived in the Caribbean, the US and the Netherlands, and travelled widely, which enabled him to experience the commonalities between cultures. Marlon’s openness to cultural influences from outside the region infused Carnival, making it more appealing to a wider audience. This often put him at odds with Dutch Caribbean Diasporic organisations who sought to police the boundaries of culture. He saw such attempts at restriction as extensions of the Dutch state and avatars of Antillean elites that had not represented the rights of struggling Caribbean people. Equally telling is that most of the producers and promoters of urban popular culture in the Netherlands emerged at arm’s length from the Dutch state, its Antillean counterparts, and diasporic group politics. Neither Marlon, L-Rock, ENB, or Ir-Sais had any strong ties to activist groups or politicians claiming to represent the Diaspora. As expressions of what Paul Gilroy theorised as the Black Atlantic, in 270 FRANCIO GUADELOUPE AND GERT OOSTINDIE this Dutch/Dutch Caribbean case, too, urban popular culture was and is transnational, and in many ways a mirror of the polycultural reality on the islands and in the metropole that is obfuscated by talk of nationally exclusive cultural heritage. To conclude, the articulation and equation of cultural heritage with nationalism, folklore, and cataloguing the past is a recipe for autochthony and exclusion. Such a focus in the hands of nativist cultural heritage specialists begets ethnic absolutism and an obfuscation of the ongoing creolisation on the islands and the Netherlands. Cultural heritage that neglects popular culture is too restrictive. The solution is not to be found in employing newfangled terms in diversity and inclusion. It is not about including popular culture in the study of traditional cultural heritage and adding some urban expressions in selected (highbrow) folklore presentations favoured by those with a taste for “authenticity.” At their best, these are noble efforts that seek to present a more truthful account of Dutch Caribbean nations or the Netherlands. As enticing as this solution may seem, it is reminiscent of the creole national model highlighting the “many in the one” that every scholar of the Caribbean knows was shot through with power differences and a hardening of ethnic boundaries. Popular culture cannot be added to the ethnonational imaginary of the Netherlands and the Dutch Caribbean. Popular culture and how it signals ongoing creolisation and transnational flows is a rather permanent negation of ethnonational stasis. Popular culture reminds us that the only form of national imaginary that does not easily succumb to the ideology of those who belong more and those who belong less is a civic nationalism that has no need for a culturally proper heritage. Perhaps it is time to rethink cultural heritage free of ethnic ownership and racial particularity. Might this not be what popular cultures produced by the people inhabiting the Dutch Caribbean isles and the Diaspora in the Netherlands are inviting us to consider? Not diversity and inclusion, not a reinvented politics of multiculturalism as respect for multiracialism, but a recognition of creolisation in the continuing quest for justice. Epilogue Alissandra Cummins Stuart Hall once observed that ‘People are not only legal citizens of a nation; they participate in the idea of the nation as represented in its national culture.’1 One key notion about a nation is that it should have a history, a national narrative to which all citizens subscribe. Even though there has been a broad orientation away from the primacy of the nation-state unit over the last three decades, this volume acknowledged the continuing resonance of these concepts, particularly amongst the Papiamentu/o speaking people of Aruba, Bonaire and Curaçao—the ABC islands—who engage with what the editors termed ‘the question of the nation’. What do/es the nation/s stand for? How is it/are they constituted? What implicit/ explicit meanings do/es it/they hold? And: how does the nation speak itself in the light of tourism and diasporic identity politics? Benedict Anderson notably argued that ‘nationality … as well as nationalism, are cultural artifacts of a particular kind. To understand them properly we need to consider carefully how they have come into historical being, in what ways their meanings have changed over time, and why, today, they command such profound emotional legitimacy’.2 This book, gathering together experiences from multiple perspectives in the ABC islands and their Diaspora represents a critical moment for the rest of the region to take stock and reflect on their own involvement in ‘participating in the idea of the nation’ through the uncertain steps towards nation-building and nation-branding, particularly in the post War period of the 1940s onwards. Ultimately what this publication has offered is a compilation of contextual frameworks and distillations of evaluations by a group of knowledgeable authors by examining what (might) actually constitute ‘Dutch Caribbean’ nationality/ies (or perhaps more to the point— Dutch/Caribbeanness) in which the population ‘believes and identifies with’ and/or is satisfying a ‘need to at least be seen and recognised by others’. The contributors addressed the development of ‘national’ ideologies and identities through multiple mirrors and research methodologies in both social history, memory and heritage tourism research. In an attempt to comprehend the inherent intricacies of identity in the present Caribbean state, these were measured against the largely independent Hispanophone and Anglophone Caribbean (and to a lesser extent the largely territorialised Francophone countries). 272 ALISSANDRA CUMMINS The preceding fourteen chapters of the book offered compelling case studies and comparative analyses to interrogate the constructs and the perceptions of nation and nationhood, and examined this key question through the framework of a plethora of markers and signifiers: through nation branding for tourism (Baud and Hoefte; Ridderstaat); the slavery and reparations debate (Allen, Oostindie and Smeulders, van Stipriaan); archaeology (Sankatsing Nave et al.); arts (Perrée and van Stipriaan); language (Pereira and Alofs), literature (Florian); music (Granger), sports (McCree, Guadeloupe), nature preservation (Mac Donald and Ferdinand); the archive(s) (Groenewoud); and migrations and heritage politics (Guadeloupe and Oostindie). The authors presented themselves variously as dis/passionate observers, neutral analysts, or determined activists, whose varying positionalities produce an effective mélange of strategies when it came to addressing the central questions of the volume. This volume provided the basic infrastructure of an interdisciplinary exposition of Dutch Caribbean identity/ies and its/their dilemmas. Commodification And On a Happier Note Ironically as a result of the twentieth century experience of extractive industrial production, the three Dutch Caribbean islands, like many of their southern neighbours, Trinidad and Guyana in particular, find themselves caught in a “Bermuda” triangle of disappearing resources, following the implosion of their industrial sector/s. This has left these formally strong economies with a high social index and standard of living with virtually nowhere to go once global markets no longer needed them. The loss of both human and financial resources within this spiralling process has forced the islands into ‘performances’ of different kinds which also permeate chapters focused on nation-branding and tourism by Baud and Hoefte and also Ridderstaat. On a happier note perhaps, other contributors contemplated the importance of the ‘performance’ of music (Granger), sports (McCree), and baseball (Guadeloupe), as part of both activities of nation-branding and nation-building within these tiny territories. Punching above our weight has sometimes been a phrase admiringly applied to island nations in relation to various factors, yet the undertones of wonderment are alternately gratifying and grating in their insinuation. As Lilian Guerra posits: “While countries of the Caribbean may be geographically tiny, their impact on the development of global economies and political thought has been fundamental.”3 The continued tension between commercial interests and the potential commodification of these phenomenal figures, often runs counter to local efforts to support intergenerational memorialising and mentorship, a process which requires sustained socio-political policy and practice to achieve desired results. EPILOGUE 273 Narratives and Silences Michel-Rolph Trouillot’s thesis was that: “Silences enter the process of historical production at four crucial moments: the moment of fact creation (the making of sources); the moment of fact assembly (the making of archives); the moment of fact retrieval (the making of narratives); and the moment of retrospective significance (the making of history in the final instance)… To put it differently, any historical narrative is a particular bundle of silences, the result of a unique process, and the operation required to deconstruct these silences will vary accordingly”4. The processes of narrativising Caribbean identity and memorialising Dutch Caribbean identity are subjected to critical introspective analyses of power, hegemony, and the historical and continuing dynamics of internalised and systemic oppression which often results in the reproduction of colonial logics of commodifying human beings, labour, space, and knowledge. These issues were explored in differing contexts in chapters on indigenous and African heritage. Notwithstanding the insistence on a primordial indigenous heritage, Sankatsing Nava et al. discussed the exclusion of African-Caribbean and Asian presences in archaeological research and archaeological museums. This argument speaks volumes about the persistence of racialising archaeological practices and identity policies within the region and the deliberate silencing of significant evidence to the contrary. More or less in contrast Allen, Oostindie and Smeulders scrutinised the multiple islands’ slavery past linked to ‘contemporary problems of racism and white privilege’ mainly through the lens of intangible heritage of carnivals and commemorations which exposes the incipience of the (both European and Caribbean) Dutch’s self-image still struggling as it does with the incompatibility of exemplars such as Zwarte Piet. Pereira and Alofs documented the suppression of public education systems and defining the struggles and survivals of the nation Language Papiamentu/o against obstructionist colonial and postcolonial metropole state policies. Guadeloupe and Oostindie confronted issues of identity through the lens of migration and diaspora. The tensions that arise between what persons and polities variously consider the artificial and the authentic, as played out in the genealogies of multigenerational families are defined firstly by processes of inter-regional and intra-regional migration, of deliberate deculturation and at the same time acculturation, or cultural change defined as “those phenomena which result when groups of individuals having different cultures come into continuous first-hand contact with subsequent changes in the original pattern of either or both groups”.5 From yet another angle, Florian discussed similar insular and metropole identity ambiguities in Dutch Caribbean literature. Moving back into the arena of the museum, Van Stipriaan drew comparisons with the representation of slavery, already acknowledged as central to the national 274 ALISSANDRA CUMMINS hi/stories of the Anglophone and Francophone territories. The author referenced the lack of ‘a coherent narrative of slavery’. He concluded that this is due to the potential risks ‘to national cohesion and the tourist industry’. However, another argument can be made for what Mary Louise Pratt has observed. ‘In the last decades of the twentieth century, processes of decolonisation opened the meaning-making powers of empire to scrutiny, as part of a largescale effort to decolonise knowledge, history, and human relations.’6 The reality is that many of these Caribbean institutions were born of the concept of the modern museum institution as a colonial inheritance. Historian Richard Drayton was prescient in his rumination on this consideration observing that: “Time is of the essence of the colonial idea. The time of colony condemns the colonised, to a perpetual anachronism, always out of time with the mother/master time, of being ‘late’ to history, to science, to art, with lateness taken always as a condition of inferiority. The non-white, lined up in a queue behind the chariot of history … is perpetually delayed … and so long as they accept this location, they are simultaneously out of place in the country they inhabit”.7 Ariese and Wróblewska have articulated six areas where changes must be made in order for decolonisation to take place (and take hold) in the museum, including creating visibility, increasing inclusivity, decentring, championing empathy, improving transparency, and embracing vulnerability as the pathway to effective decolonisation.8 These criteria might serve as a draft design brief for the next stage in this process. This accords well with Groenewoud’s perspectives on the value of digital humanities, which through educative and creative practices can serve as a means of reinvigorating UNESCO’s mission to utilise culture as a part of a reparative justice framework.9 In much the same vein was MacDonald and Ferdinand’s approach to addressing the global ecological crisis in the French and Dutch Caribbean. Primacy of place must be given back to local communities by ‘unsilencing’ and revalidating their voices, so long ignored in the debates and decision-making process around these issues. A New Narrative So how can the ABC islands construct a new narrative of the past that imagines the future? Art historian Grant Kester has opined (though in a different context) that “Knowledge is reliable, safe and certain as long as it is held in monological isolation and synchronic arrest. As soon as it becomes mobilised and communicable, this certainty slips away and truth is negotiated in the gap between self and other, through an unfolding, dialogical exchange.” He finds hope in Avant Garde art, which for him, “…constitutes a form of critical insight; its task [being] to transgress EPILOGUE 275 existing categories of thought, action and creativity… to constantly challenge existing boundaries and identities.” Affirming the continued importance of remembering Papiamentu/o through continuous usage in the ABC islands (and amongst their diasporic communities), I subscribe to the position taken by Rickford and Rickford in Spoken Soul: “… As the African concept of nommo asserts, spirits are conjured by the saying of words. Ancestors are invoked by the speaking of words. If our enemies can make us forget these words, and then make us forget that we have forgotten, they will have robbed us of our ability to honor and summon our ancestors, whom we so desperately need now more than ever.”10 And further, as Cándida González-López has asserted regarding the use of traditional and creolised Caribbean languages, particularly in the context of spiritual power as a way in which “… enslaved Africans and African descended peoples have had recourse in order to empower themselves and resist oppression” and goes on further to affirm that “such cultural and linguistic resistance was also present in the plantations in the covert form of spiritual practices, a sort of spiritual marronage which included dance, music, singing and special uses of language that have been preserved in today’s African descended spiritual practices all over the Americas”.11 In recognising that today’s society “faces a broad and complex set of urgent socio-environmental challenges that have no easy solution and are difficult to govern” and that “these challenges, as well as the strategies that the international community have developed to tackle them—Agenda 2030 and the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) —are characterised by complexity, uncertainty, disputed facts, conflicting values, high stakes and a pressing need to act”, in an insightful analysis of these issues Joosse and her fellow scholars called for an entirely different governance approach, one that is critical, engaged and change-oriented scholarship which promotes “the idea of research as an embedded and reflexive practice that cannot stand on the sidelines of society.”12 They aim at contributing to a methodological discussion, by presenting “six methodological dilemmas as reflexive devices for thinking about what critical, engaged and change-oriented Eastern Caribbean scholarship might entail in practice. These dilemmas are (1) grasping communication; (2) representing others; (3) involving people in research; (4) co-producing knowledge; (5) engaging critically; and (6) relating to conflict. Rather than offering solutions, we present dilemmas and suggest that they can be used to think through critical, engaged and change-oriented research practice.”13 One key point that these authors highlight is “that when we aim to give voice, we also risk silencing perspectives and experiences that do not fit the categorisations and process of our research. Discursive colonisation, i.e. the reproduction of the interests of the powerful through certain forms of knowledge and scholarship …also remains a risk when Eastern Caribbean scholars challenge flawed representations. Indeed, 276 ALISSANDRA CUMMINS any representation of, and mediation on behalf of, others risks subjectification and exclusion in processes of knowledge production. One way to address this dilemma is to involve people through collaborative research or action research. Such involvement presupposes relations of trust and engagement.”14 In their analysis of what these perspectives have to offer I find many resonances with this book, its agenda, its agency and its authors’ activism in their various fields. However, in creating/disseminating what Aja Martinez terms the Counterstory, which recognises the need for educators and academics to struggle through narrowly defined forms of knowledge and scholarship, she articulates a “methodology that functions through methods that empower the minoritised through the formation of stories that disrupt the erasures embedded in standardised majoritarian methodologies.”15 In this respect the suggested six dilemmas posited by Joosse et al. “as reflexive devices with which to think through what such scholarship can mean in our research practice, and a set of questions to help translate the dilemmas to the specificities and contingencies of research projects” may sustain and support such methodologies, in that they opine that “There is still much to explore, for example from what position we are critical (of what and what is our role?), engaged (for and with whom?) and change oriented (what and whose imagined futures do we aim to support?)”16 The final answer may lie within the transgression (or the potential for it) of thought, action and creativity, and challenging the boundaries and identities where, as Stuart Hall already posited in 1990 “Identity is not as transparent or unproblematic as we think. Perhaps instead of thinking of identity as an already accomplished fact, we should think, instead, of identity as a dynamic ‘production’, which is never complete, always in process, and always constituted within, not outside, representation. This view problematises the very authority and authenticity to which the term “cultural identity” lays claim”.17 Hall was inviting the Caribbean to do critical work on the idea of the nation. As he challenges us to find sustainable ways of living with difference, Hall gives us the concept of diaspora as a metaphor with which to enact fresh possibilities for redefining the project of nation building and branding in the twenty-first century Caribbean. The chapters in this book dedicated to the ABC islands and their Diaspora recognise Hall’s call as they foreground the incomplete and dynamic nature of the question of the nation in the Dutch Caribbean. Notes Introduction 1 Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies, Leiden University and Erasmus University Rotterdam. 2 The University of Curaçao, Dr. Moises Da Costa Gomez and the University of Aruba, as well as the Bonairean Association for History and Culture (FuHiKuBo). 3 For a list of these see Oostindie & van Stipriaan (2021), Antilliaans Erfgoed, the last page of both volumes. 4 The project is mainly funded by the Dutch Research Council NWO. See also https://www.kitlv.nl/ traveling-caribbean-heritage. 5 From the 1930s to the 1960s particularly the Curaçaoan and Aruban oil industry attracted many tens of thousands of migrants from all over the Caribbean, Suriname, Guyana, Madeira, the Netherlands and the U.S. Today, 25-35% of the three islands’ population are migrants who were born elsewhere, working in tourism, households and construction, and/or had fled (undocumented) their home countries, particularly Venezuela. 6 Today some 160,000 first- or second-generation migrants originating from the Caribbean part of the Kingdom live in the Netherlands, the majority coming from Curaçao. 7 It is one and the same language, but their orthographies differ: Papiamento in Aruba, Papiamentu in Curaçao and Bonaire. Cf. Pereira and Alofs in this volume. 8 Alofs (2021), Goddelijk Zoals Gewoonlijk. 9 Allen & Richardson (2021), “Antilliaans Carnaval in viervoud.” 10 Franken (2021), “Het Landschap van Nederlands-Caribisch Erfgoed.” 11 Allen et al. (2017), “Traveling Caribbean heritage.” 12 See Oostindie et al. (2020), A Global Comparison; veenendaal & Oostindie (2018), “Head versus Heart”; veenendaal (2015), The Dutch Caribbean Municipalities; Oostindie (2005), Paradise Overseas; de Jong (2009), “Implosie van de Nederlandse Antillen”; de Jong & Kruijt (2005), Extended Statehood in the Caribbean. 13 Ibid. 14 See Roe (2016), The Sound of Silence; Arrindell (2014), Language, Culture, and Identity; Allen (2012), What is Curaçaoan Culture?; Ansano (2012), “To Question Identity”; Brison (2005), “The Kingdom’s Charter.” 15 Anderson (1983), Imagined Communities; Gellner (1983), Nations and Nationalism. There are theorists of course who still wish to promote a kind of longer history whereby nations are peoples, such that there is a Greek or English nation that goes back millennia. It is about common ancestry and irrational psychological bonds whereby ethnicity mutates into ‘race.’ On this account the ABC islands, poly-ethnically and hetero-culturally constituted in ways that defy easy racial classifications, could not possibly be conceived as nations for those who claim the existence of primordial nationalism. These so-called primordialist and perennialist accounts need not be further engaged. On a defense of primordialism and perennialism, see among others van den Berghe (1995), “Does Race Matter?” For general critique of primordialism in studies on nationalism, see among others Maxwell (2020), “Primordialism for Scholars Who Ought to Know Better.” 278 NOTES ON CHAPTER 1 16 Anderson (1983), Imagined Communities, 6. 17 For the Caribbean, see, Allen & Guadeloupe (2016), “Yu di Kòrsou, A Matter of Negotiation”; Bonilla (2015), Non-Sovereign Futures; Lewis (2013), Caribbean Sovereignty; Watson, “Globalization, liberalism and the Caribbean.” 18 For debates on undoing classical sociological conceptions of society as a whole see Marcus (1998), Ethnography Through Thick and Thin; Long & Moore (2012), “Sociality Revisited, Setting a New Agenda.” A similar approach particularly for the Caribbean can be found in Hall (2017), The Fateful Triangle or Gilroy (2000), Against Race. 19 Sociality does not limit itself to human beings, but encompasses extra-human critters, landscapes, seas, rivers, waters, and objects. 20 Anholt (2007), Competitive Identity; Kaneva (2011), “Nation Branding”; volcic & Andrejevic (2011), “Nation Branding in the Era of Commercial Nationalism.” 21 [https://www.vakantie-aruba.info/one-happy-island/] 22 Cf. Moufahim et al. (2007), “Interpreting Discourse.” 23 https://www.sponsorreport.nl/sportcuracao-tourist-board-nieuwe-partner-ajax/ en https://www.ad.nl/ nederlands-voetbal/ajax-sluit-sponsordeal-met-curacao~a79be845/?referrer=https%3A%2F%2Fwww. google.com%2F 24 Dinnie (2016), Nation Branding, 41–49. Chapter 1. Nation-Building and Nation-Branding in the Caribbean: Comparative Reflections on National Imaginaries and Their Consequences 1 Aronczyk (2013), Branding the Nation. 2 Anderson (1983), Imagined Communities. 3 Joseph & Nugent (1994), Everyday Forms of State Formation. 4 Brereton (2007), “Contesting the Past,” 193. 5 Anholt (2002), “Foreword,” 233. 6 Aronczyk (2007), “New and Improved Nations”; Aronczyk (2013), Branding the Nation; Jansen (2008), “Redesigning a Nation.” 7 Bonilla (2015), Non-Sovereign Futures; Oostindie, Ferdinand & veenendaal (2020), “A Global Comparison.” 8 Prashad (2007), The Darker Nations, xv. 9 James (1963), Beyond a Boundary. 10 Bolland (2001), The Politics of Labour; Oostindie (1999), Curaçao, 30 mei 1969; vermeer (2021, “Welga! Welga! Welga!” 11 Hobsbawm (1990), Nations and Nationalism, 46ff. 12 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IvpL9MbMIq4, accessed December 15, 2020. 13 Baud (1996), “‘Constitutionally White’.” 14 Alvarez (1995), In the Time of the Butterflies. 15 Torres-Saillant (1999), Retorno de las Yolas. 16 De Maeseneer (2014), “Nobody’s Nation.” 17 https://www.newsweek.com/talking-junot-diaz-85723, accessed December 15, 2020. 18 https://www.foxnews.com/world/dominican-american-author-junot-diaz-in-a-war-of-words-over- 19 In the words of Emjay Rechsteiner, the film’s curator, “You rarely find a film, made during a histor- countrys-citizenship-ruling, accessed December 15, 2020. ical event—the birth of the Surinamese state—that so strikingly reflects that process and then plays a leading role in it again.” Quoted in Sheila Sitalsingh (2019), “Is Wan Pipel.” NOTES ON CHAPTER 1 279 20 Gangaram Panday’s life was inextricably intertwined with her one and only movie character. For more on Gangaram Panday’s life, see De Jong (2018), “Diana Gangaram Panday.” 21 “One tree/So many leaves/One tree … One Suriname/So many hair types/So many skin colors/So many tongues/One people,” www.surinamewebquest.nl/wan_bon.html, accessed December 2, 2020. 22 De Kom’s book was first published in 1934; in 2020 the 16th edition appeared. It was banned in Suriname and rediscovered by Surinamese students in the Netherlands in the 1970s. In 2020 De Kom, as the first from the Caribbean, was chosen as one of the 50 subjects in the official Canon of Dutch History. 23 Adhin (1957), “Eenheid in verscheidenheid.” 24 Mahabier (2020), “Sarnámi Yátrá.” Mahabier was active in the Kollektief Jumpa Rajguru that aimed at the emancipation of Hindustani popular culture and social-democratic or socialist political reforms. Like Wie Eegie Sani, Jumpa Rajguru was founded in the Netherlands. 25 Ramsoedh (2018), Surinaams Onbehagen; Sedney (1997), Toekomst van ons verleden, 37–39. 26 Ramsoedh (2016), “Democracy and Political Culture,” 36. 27 E.g., Ramdas (1992), De Papegaai, 98. He criticises the lack of self-refection and labels “Wan” patronising propaganda. Ramdas was a prolific Surinamese intellectual and writer living in the Netherlands. 28 Borger Breeveld, Wan Pipel’s male lead, was an official spokesperson for the regime. 29 Hoefte & veenendaal (2019), “Challenges of Nation-Building and Nation-Branding.” 30 St-Hilaire (2001), “Ethnicity, Assimilation and Nation in Plural Suriname.” 31 Washington Times, Suriname Special, October 10, 2014. 32 Ganga (2004), “Contemporary Theatre in Suriname,” 7-8. 33 Mylonas (2012), Politics of Nation Building, 22. 34 This section is strongly inspired by a visit to Jamaica in 2015 in the context of the project ‘Slum Tourism in the Americas: Commodifying Urban Poverty and violence’, funded by the Nederlandse Organisatie voor Wetenschappelijk Onderzoek (NWO, The Netherlands). 35 Patterson (2019), Confounding Island, 324. 36 Hall (2017), Familiar Stranger, 20–21. 37 Thomas (2004), Modern Blackness. 38 Doyle (2012), “Rastafarianism & Michael Manley,” 118. 39 Hall (2017), Familiar Stranger, 42. 40 Patterson (2019), Confounding Island, 323. 41 Meeks (2000), Narratives of Resistance. 42 Doyle (2012), “Rastafarianism & Michael Manley.” 43 Giovannetti (2005), “Jamaican reggae,” 214. 44 Moore and Johnson (2011), “They Do as They Please.” 45 Bogues (2006), “Power, violence and the Jamaican ‘Shotta Don,’” 25. 46 Thomas (2004), Modern Blackness. 47 Bogues (2006), “Power, violence,” 26. 48 James (2014), Brief History of Seven Killings; Saint-Loubert (2019), “An (Un)Easy Sell,” 94. 49 Kwang, Fernandez & Tan (1998), Lee Kuan Yew; Lee (2000), From Third World to First. 50 Loh, Thum, & Chia (2017), Living with Myths; Tan (2017), Governing Global-City Singapore; Tan (2018), Singapore: Identity, Brand, Power. 51 E.g., Altink (2021), “Out of Place”; Pattullo (1996), Last Resorts; Taylor (1993), To Hell with Paradise; Sheller (2003), Consuming the Caribbean; Wilkes (2016), Whiteness, Weddings, and Tourism. These authors discuss the centrality of Whiteness in Caribbean tourism. Sheller underlines that tourism development is based on the exploitation of a supposedly subservient local non-White people and 280 NOTES ON CHAPTER 2 the local environment by White visitors. Similarly, Wilkes connects the growth of so-called location weddings in Jamaica to narratives and visual representations of the region as a place of White lavish behavior and Black servitude. 52 In 2019, the relative contribution of tourism to GDP in the Caribbean was the highest in the world, at 13.9%. Globally, in the period 2014–2019, one in four jobs created was in the travel and tourism industry, see https://wttc.org/Research/Economic-Impactm, accessed January 27, 2021. 53 https://www.godominicanrepublic.com/beaches/, accessed December 12, 2021. 54 According to the World Travel & Tourism Council (2020), the total contribution of tourism to Suriname’s GDP in 2019 was 2.6%, thus well below the Caribbean average, while tourism’s total contribution to employment was 5,700 jobs or 2.8% of total employment, https://wttc.org/Research/ Economic-Impact, accessed January 27, 2021. 55 Baud & Ypeij (2009), Cultural Tourism in Latin America. 56 Johnson and Gentles-Peart (2019), “Introduction,” xxvii; our emphasis. 57 Aronczyk (2007), “New and Improved Nations.” 58 Johnson & Gentles-Peart (2019), “Introduction,” xxviii. 59 https://www.godominicanrepublic.com, accessed February 7, 2021. 60 Gregory (2007), The Devil Behind the Mirror, 154. 61 Kempadoo (2004), Sexing the Caribbean, 125. 62 Sex tourism is considered an undesirable part of Caribbean tourism and is for obvious reasons ignored in branding efforts, just like other problems, such as pollution or crime. Yet it can be seen as an integrated part of the image of servility and hospitality of the local population (see also note 50). Ever since Franz Fanon called the Caribbean the “brothel of Europe” (Kempadoo (2004), Sexing the Caribbean, 115) in the 1960s, sex tourism, both hetero- and homosexual, has been part of the informal package of tourism. 63 Gregory (2007), The Devil Behind the Mirror, 52-60. 64 Tourism Foundation Suriname, “Suriname, The Green Caribbean”. 65 Tourist Foundation Suriname, “Suriname: A colorful experience”, 5. 66 Hoefte & veenendaal (2019), “Challenges of Nation-Building and Nation-Branding.” 67 https://en.travel2latam.com/nota/63602-dominican-republic-will-change-its-country-brand-logo, accessed January 20, 2021. 68 For more on this campaign see Hoefte (2020), “Suriname: Nation Building”; unfortunately, the URL for the video has been removed. 69 Aronczyk (2013), Branding the Nation, 132. 70 Jansen (2008), “Redesigning a Nation,” 121. Chapter 2. Tourism Development and Nation-Building: The Case of Aruba 1 UNWTO (2008), International Recommendations for Tourism Statistics. 2 Page (2019), Tourism Management. 3 Pattullo (1996), Last Resorts: The Cost of Tourism in the Caribbean. 4 Ridderstaat (2021a), “Beyond income,” 23. 5 Song, Witt, & Li (2009), The Advanced Econometrics of Tourism Demand; Ridderstaat (2021b), “Households’ Net Financial Wealth.” 6 Lindsay (2019), Magazines, Tourism, and Nation-building in Mexico. 7 Ford & Sturman (2020), Managing Hospitality Organizations. 8 Fleming (2022), “How Does Heritage Help Nation Building?” 9 Bourgon (2010), “The History And Future Of Nation-Building?” NOTES ON CHAPTER 2 281 10 Lindsay (2019), Magazines, Tourism, and Nation-building in Mexico. 11 Ford & Sturman (2020), Managing Hospitality Organizations. 12 Almeyda-Ibáñez & Babu (2017), “The Evolution Of Destination Branding.” 13 Scott et al. (2011), “Tourism Branding and Nation Building in China.” 14 Hoefte & veenendaal (2019), “The Challenges of Nation-Building and Nation-Branding.” 15 e.g., Page (2019), Tourism Management; Timothy & Boyd (2006), “Heritage Tourism in the 21st Century.” 16 Fleming (2022), “How Does Heritage Help Nation Building?” 17 United Nations (2014), World Economic Situation and Prospects 2014. 18 Nelson (2007), “Traces of the Past.” 19 Pattullo, Polly (1996), Last Resorts, 13 20 Cf. Stupart & Shipley (2013), “Jamaica’s Tourism”; Rutty & Richardson (2019), “Tourism Research in Cuba”; Wong (2015), “Caribbean Island Tourism”; Monzote (2013), “The Greater Caribbean”; Williams (2012), “Tourism as a Neo-Colonial Phenomenon.” 21 Ridderstaat & Nijkamp (2016), “Small Island Destination and International Tourism.” 22 Croes (2011), The Small Island Paradox. 23 Ascaniis et al. (2021), “Tourism Management at UNESCO World Heritage Sites: vol. 2.” 24 Wong (2015), “Caribbean Island Tourism,” 8, (see also chapter 5 in this book). 25 Zappino (2005), “Caribbean Tourism and Development.” 26 A referendum on March 25, 1977 indicated that 95.2 percent of all votes cast (70.1 percent turnout) were for independence rather than remaining in the Netherlands Antilles (4.8 percent) (Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1977_Aruban_independence_referendum). The referendum question was deficient, and the “independence” was subject to multiple interpretations. 27 Cited in Ridderstaat (2007), The Lago Story, 175. 28 Independence would later be scrapped and Aruba remains nowadays part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. 29 Ridderstaat (2007), The Lago Story. 30 Bongers (2009), Creating One Happy Island. 31 Ridderstaat (2007), The Lago Story. 32 International Monetary Fund (1995), Kingdom of the Netherlands-Aruba. 33 Ridderstaat (2007), The Lago Story. 34 The distinction between nominal and real growth rates is that price developments are included in the nominal gross domestic product (GDP), while in the real GDP, the effects of ongoing price developments are eliminated to describe the production effect better. 35 Central Bank of Aruba (2001), Annual Report 2000. 36 Henny Eman would lose the prime minister function between 1989–1994, but would continue his vision between 1994–2001. 37 Aruba Tourism Authority (2018), “Towards a Happy Future for Tourism.” 38 It is important to note that the survey data are before the COvID-19 pandemic, and some (shortterm) changes may have occurred. 39 The AZV would prove to be financially unfeasible over time, with adverse consequences for government finances, and subsequent erosion of the package of goods and services provided to Aruban residents. 40 Central Bureau of Statistics Aruba (2016), Happiness and Important Life Domains. 41 Ridderstaat & Nijkamp (2016), “Small Island Destination and International Tourism”; Ridderstaat et al. (2016), “The tourism Development-Quality of Life Nexus.” 42 Croes et al. (2017), Happiness and Tourism. 282 43 NOTES ON CHAPTER 2 Bongers (2009), Creating One Happy Island. 44 Parke Nacional Arikok (2018), Annual Report 2018. 45 Bongers (2009), Creating One Happy Island. 46 Dobson (2021), “The Future of Aruba.” 47 The construction boom also spilled over to other economic sectors. For example, (Chinese) superand mini-markets have grown rapidly over the years. Many residents appear to have developed a love-hate relationship with these businesses. They complain about there being too many of them, but at the same like the convenience of having such a store within reach. 48 Overheid.aw (2019), “Ruimtelijk Ontwikkelingsplan.” 49 I Love Aruba 2 Team (2010), “Peaceful Sunset Watch Held in Aruba.” 50 visit Aruba (2007), “Stimaruba very Concerned on Reports About Plans to Build a Hotel near Arashi.” 51 Peterson (2018), “Nature conservation court case number 9.” 52 Committee Economic Recovery and Innovation Aruba (2020), Repositioning our Sails. 53 Central Bank of Aruba (2001), Annual Report 2000. International Monetary Fund (2013), Kingdom 54 Ridderstaat (2005), Aruba: Causes and Effects of Excessive Immigration. 55 The first one was related to the demand for labour from the Lago refinery, and to a lesser extent the 56 Sociaal Economische Raad (2019), “Migration in Aruba.” 57 International Monetary Fund (2013), Kingdom of the Netherlands-Aruba. 58 Allen et al. (2017), “Traveling Caribbean Heritage.” 59 . International Monetary Fund (2013), Kingdom of the Netherlands-Aruba. 60 Increasing immigration led in the early 1990s to shortages in adequate housing, which was reflected 61 No beds for so many people. 62 Henriquez (2020), “Nieuwe Regels op Aruba.” 63 Chávez & Godoy (2020), “Boats over Troubled Waters.” 64 International Monetary Fund (2013), Kingdom of the Netherlands-Aruba. 65 Hassink et al. (2015), “De Economische Consequenties van de verdwijning van Natalee Holloway.” 66 Mohl (2006), “Aruba Increases Effort to Boost Tourism.” 67 Matthews (2018), “Separating Fact from Fiction.” 68 On the other side, many people still approved the government’s handling of the crisis. Similar to of the Netherlands-Aruba. Eagle refinery; see Mijts (2021), The Situated Construction of Language Ideologies in Aruba. in a surge in rent and other prices on the island; see Ridderstaat (2005), Aruba: Causes and Effects. 1985, there was an election during the ongoing crisis. This time, the MEP, led by Aruba’s prime minister together with a niece of Betico Croes, managed to maintain the number of seats, and the party lost only slightly more than 1,300 votes, allowing it to continue governing the island. It would be unfair, though, to continue to compare both election results, as they are contextual to different times, crises, leaders, and voters. 69 Back then, our knowledge about branding was not as sophisticated as it is now. An advertisement for the Aruba Caribbean Hotel of that time, found in Bongers (2009), also described Aruba as “LITTLE DUTCH ISLE … CARIBBEAN STYLE” and “ON THE ISLAND OF ARUBA-NETHERLANDS WEST INDIES.” 70 A study by Croes et al. (2017) revealed that seventy-nine percent of the respondents in Aruba were happy in 2016, providing evidence that the brand’s value is still largely valid. 71 Aruba Tourism Authority (2018). “Towards a Happy Future for Tourism” 72 (www.aruba.com/us). 73 Allen et al. (2022), “Traveling Caribbean Heritage.” NOTES ON CHAPTER 3 283 74 Croes & Semrad (2013), “The Relevance of Cultural Tourism as the Next Frontier.” 75 Aruba Tourism Authority (2018), “Towards a Happy Future for Tourism.” 76 Ibid. 77 Ibid. 78 Committee Economic Recovery and Innovation Aruba (2020), Repositioning our Sails. Chapter 3. Slavery and Debates about National Identity and Nation-Branding 1 In this chapter, we will limit our discussion to the slavery past and contemporary memory-making in Aruba, Bonaire, Curaçao, and the Netherlands, leaving aside the other former Dutch Caribbean colonies of Guyana and Suriname and the three Northern Dutch Caribbean islands of St. Maarten, St. Eustatius, and Saba. 2 Broek, Joubert & Berry-Haseth (2006), De kleur van mijn Eiland, 171. 3 Rutgers (1996), Beneden en Boven de Wind, 276. 4 This also entails a rethinking in other spheres, e.g., in December 2010, the Curaçaoan government decided to replace the name of a public secondary school from Peter Stuyvesant College to Kolegio Alejandro Paula, after a local intellectual. Peter Stuyvesant (1610–1672) was seen as a symbol of Curaçao’s colonial heritage; his statue near the entrance of the school was removed from the school’s premises. 5 Smeulders (2013), “New Perspectives in Heritage Presentations,” 156. 6 For a critical assessement of the Kura Hulanda Museum, see Haviser (2005), “Slaveryland”; for a comparison between Curaçao and other countries and their presentation of slavery history, see Smeulders (2012), “Slavernij in Perspectief”; and for an overview of museums in Curaçao, see Benett & De Wildt (2021), “Museale Meerstemmigheid.” 7 Including Allen (2007), “Di ki Manera?”; Cain (2009), De Slavenopstand van 1795; Jordaan (2013), Slavernij en Vrijheid; Klooster & Oostindie (2011), Curaçao in the Age of Revolutions; Rupert (2014), Creolization and Contraband; Do Rego (2009), Slavery and Resistance in Curaçao. 8 Rosalia (1997), Tambú. 9 Allen (2021), “Constructing Collective Memory.” 10 For the canon of Curaçao see https://canoncuracao.cw/. 11 E.g., https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LSoC1PaSqbQ. 12 Walcott (1990), Omeros, 111. 13 Benett & De Wildt (2021), “Museale Meerstemmigheid”; Smeulders (2012), “New Audiences at Sites Of Colonial Slavery.” 14 Tenekyah (2018), “Monuments of Rebellion Against Caribbean Enslavement,” 21, 13. 15 Cain (2021), “Musea, Monumenten en het Arubaans Identiteitsbesef.” 16 Alofs (2009), Publicacion Exposicion, Herencia di Sclavitud Aruba. 17 De Geus et al. (2021), “Bonaireaans Erfgoed.” 18 Allen (1984), Verslag Cultureel-Antropologisch Onderzoek op Bonaire. 19 Antoin (1997), Lantamentu di Katibu na Boneiru; De Geus et al. (2021),“Bonairiaans Erfgoed.” 20 https://caribischnetwerk.ntr.nl/2013/06/28/meer-interesse-in-slavernijverleden-op-bonaire/, accessed May 8, 2021. 21 Oostindie (2011), Postcolonial Netherlands. 22 Martinus (2011), “Un Beau Geste.” (English translation, French title maintained). 23 Smeulders (2021), “Postkoloniale Onderhandelingen”; van Stipriaan (2014), Slavernij Daar Willen we Meer Van Weten; Regiegroep Nationaal Trans-Atlantisch Slavernijmuseum (2021), Met de Kracht van de Voorouders. 284 NOTES ON CHAPTER 4 24 Hondius et al. (2019), Slavery Heritage Guide; Brandon et al. (2020), De Slavernij in Oost en West; 25 Wekker (2016), White Innocence. 26 In 2016, a teaching package on slavery and human rights in Sint Maarten was compiled to be used Oostindie (ed.) (2021), Colonialism and Slavery; van Stipriaan (2020), Rotterdam in Slavernij. in primary schools in all countries of the Kingdom. The focus is not on the suffering during the transatlantic slave trade and slavery, but on the deeds and traditions of the enslaved. This teaching package has been developed by the University of Utrecht, the University of Amsterdam, and the University of Sint Maarten, in collaboration with PABO students from the Iselinge Hogeschool in Doetinchem, see https://caribischnetwerk.ntr.nl/2016/05/18/les-over-slavernij-vanuit-caribisch-oogipunt/. 27 Sint Nicolaas & Smeulders (2021), Slavery. 28 For the survey see https://www.ioresearch.nl/actueel/nederlanders-voelen-weinig-voor-excuses-slavernijverleden/. 29 Bloembergen & Eickhoff (2014), “Een Klein Land dat de Wereld Bestormt”; Smeulders (2021), “Postkoloniale Onderhandelingen.” 30 Raad voor Cultuur (2020), Koloniale Collecties en Erkenning van Onrecht. 31 Quoted from the committee chair, former prominent politician Sybrand Van Haersma Buma. 32 https://www.raadvoorcultuur.nl/actueel/nieuws/2021/02/08/tussenadvies-commissie-collectie-nedd - 33 For statistics and figures revealing this difference, consult the museum association’s online report erland, accessed May 6, 2021. https://www.museumvereniging.nl/media/2017_museumcijfers-nieuw.pdf. 34 Smeulders (2021), “Postkoloniale Onderhandelingen.” 35 Cf. Van Stipriaan, “Representations and Reparations” in this volume. 36 Benett & De Wildt (2021), “Museale Meerstemmigheid op Curaçao.” 37 See also Guadeloupe and Oostindie, “Caribbean Diasporas, Metropolitan Policies, and Cultural Heritage” in this volume. Chapter 4. Representations and Reparations of Slavery in the Caribbean 1 E.g. the islands, the three Guyanas and Belize. Calculation based on an internet search (Wikipedia and Tripadvisor), https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Lists_of_museums_in_the_Caribbean; Ariese (2018),“The Social Museum in the Caribbean,” 59. 2 https://www.museumpeil.eu/hoeveel-musea-er-eigenlijk-nederland/, accessed March 15, 2021. 3 Cummins (1992), “Exhibiting Culture Museums,” 212. 4 Ibid.; Cummins (1996), “Caribbeanization of the West Indies.” 5 https://www.tripadvisor.nl/La_Isabelica_Museum-Santiago_de_Cuba_Province_Cuba.html, March 17, 2021. 6 http://antislavery.ac.uk/”Legacies+on+Display:+Slavery+in+Museums”; https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Lists_of_museums_in_the_Caribbean, accessed March 17, 2021; list of 198 social museums in the Caribbean, composed by Ariese (2018), 59; individual searches per country via Wikipedia and Tripadvisor. 7 http://www.antislavery.ac.uk/solr-earch?facet=collection%3A%22Legacies%20on%20Display:%20 Slavery%20in%20Museums%22, accessed March 17, 2021. 8 I should add here that most of the information was gathered via the internet; just a minority of Caribbean museums were visited by the author. 9 http://www.antislavery.ac.uk/items/show/2047, accessed March 17, 2021. 10 https://stchristophernationaltrust.kn/national-museum/, accessed March 17, 2021. NOTES ON CHAPTER 4 285 11 It is owned and managed by the Suriname Museum Foundation, but the fort is state property and some of the staff are on the government payroll. 12 https://www.facebook.com/surinaamsmuseum/about/, accessed March 21, 2021. 13 Winkels (1983), De Toover-Lantaarn van Mr. Furet. 14 Reeser (2012), Verzamelaars en Volksopvoeders, 241. 15 https://www.afar.com/places/pompey-museum-of-slavery-and-emancipation-nassau, accessed March 17, 2021. 16 The Fort Charles Museum in Port Royal forms part of the National History Museum of Jamaica. 17 http://jamaica-gleaner.com/article/commentary/20160804/devon-dick-jamaica-needs-slave-muu seum, accessed March 17, 2021. 18 https://www.france24.com/en/20200718-racism-in-cuba-banned-by-law-alive-on-the-streets, accessed March 17, 2021. 19 https://www.visitarcuba.org/museo-nacional-ruta-del-esclavo-matanzas, accessed March 17, 2021. 20 http://www.antislavery.ac.uk/items/show/1781, accessed March 17, 2021. 21 Hernández de Lara & Rodriguez (2017), Castillo de Museo de la Ruta del Esclavo San Severino. 22 http://www.antislavery.ac.uk/items/show/1624, accessed March 17, 2021. 23 He was president of the Regional Council of the French overseas department of Guadeloupe from 24 Based on an interview with Jean-François Manicom, artistic curator of MACTe, who, disappoint- 2004 until 2015, and a member of the Socialist Party, like President François Hollande. ingly, left the museum right before its opening. In van Leeuwen (2019), “Het slavernijmuseum komt er.” 25 http://us.media.france.fr/en/node/5552, accessed March 20, 2021. 26 Frith & Hodgson (2015), “Slavery and its Legacies,” 10. 27 Smeulders (2012), “Slavernij in Perspectief,” 57. 28 Cf. https://terramarmuseum.com/, accessed June 28, 2021. 29 http://www.voyagerbonairetours.com/voyager-bonaire-tours.html, accessed June 28, 2021. 30 Cf. van Stipriaan et al.,(2007), Op Zoek naar de Stilte, 117–124. See also Orphelin (2021), “Het Slavenverleden.” 31 The main exception to this was the temporary exhibition Legacy of slavery/Herensha di Sklabitud in the old plantation warehouses of Sta. Martha in 2006, which attracted in five months almost ten percent of Curaçao’s population. 32 Adviescollege Dialooggroep Slavernijverleden (2021), Ketenen van het Verleden. 33 Benett & De Wildt (2021), “Museale Meerstemmigheid op Curaçao.” 34 That budget is only allotted to to the Curaçao Museum, NAAM, and the Monument Board. 35 https://caricomreparations.org/, accessed April 15, 2021. 36 https://thevoiceslu.com/2021/02/dr-june-soomer-says-caricom-reparations-quest-has-wider-caribbee - 37 https://triunfodisablika.wordpress.com/category/reparations-2, accessed April 15, 2021. 38 “A repatriation program must be established and all available channels of international law and an-support/, accessed April 15, 2021. diplomacy used to resettle those persons who wish to return. A resettlement program should address such matters as citizenship and deploy available best practices in respect of community reintegration.” 39 Cf. McKeown (2015), “Reparations for Caribbean Slavery.” 40 https://www.reuters.com/article/us-caribbean-slavery-idUSBREA2525520140306, accessed April 15, 2021. 41 https://www.reuters.com/article/us-caribbean-slavery-idUSBREA2525520140306, accessed April 15, 2021. Author’s emphasis. 286 NOTES ON CHAPTER 5 42 http://www.antislavery.ac.uk/items/show/1624, accessed April 15, 2021. Author’s emphasis. 43 http://memorial-acte.fr/the-founding-acte-memory-holds-the-future, accessed April 15, 2021. 44 http://memorial-acte.fr/the-founding-acte-memory-holds-the-future, accessed April 15, 2021. 45 http://us.media.france.fr/en/node/5552 accessed April 15, 2021. 46 Personal email information by the Department of Foreign Affairs (DBB) and the Department of Culture (DCA), d.d. June 11, 2021. 47 Nevertheless, when dialogues on the effects of the slave past were organised in Bonaire in 2021, participants were very outspoken about the still very unequal relations between their society and the Dutch as well as Dutch arrogance and alleged superiority with which Bonaireans are still treated, all of which should be repaired. Cf. Adviescollege Dialooggroep Slavernijverleden (2021), Ketenen van het Verleden, 5B. 48 https://nl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Statenverkiezingen_Cura%C3%A7ao_2021, accessed June 3, 2021. 49 Among whom are chairman and sociologist Frank Quirindongo (also Kirindongo), historian Jeanne Henriques, writer and theatre director Gilbert Bacilio, and consultant Henry vijber. Personal information on the Plataforma and the general state of the debate in Curaçao by Jeanne Henriques. See also the extensive interview with Frank Kirindongo, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6T7aKOIBds&ab_channel=Kafesito%27sTv, accessed July 3, 2021. 50 CPAN is a mechanism to facilitate collaboration among Caribbean and international Pan-African formations, the African Union, and the African continent. It was established in Barbados, 2004. 51 Cf. van Stipriaan (2001b), “The Long Road to a Monument.” 52 Arion (2005), “Naar Nieuwe Overzeese Betrekkingen,” 55. 53 Adviescollege Dialooggroep Slavernijverleden (2021), Ketenen van het Verleden, 5B. 54 Except for Haiti, of course. However, Haiti is too poor and too crisis-stricken to have a strong voice here, although it was one of the initiators of UNESCO’s International Slave Route Project. Chapter 5. Aruban Archaeological Heritage: Nation-Building and Nation-Branding in a Caribbean Context 1 Fortenberry (2021), “Heritage Justice, Conservation, and Tourism in the Greater Caribbean.” 2 Oostindie and van Stipriaan eds. (2021), Antilliaans Erfgoed. 3 Siegel et al. (2013), “Confronting Caribbean Heritage in an Archipelago of Diversity.” 4 Dijkhoff & Linville (2015), “Achieving Sustainable Heritage Management in Aruba.” 5 Dijkhoff (2004), “The history of Archaeological Research in Aruba.” 6 Dijkhoff and Linville (2015), “Achieving Sustainable Heritage Management in Aruba.” 7 Hofman and Haviser (2015), Managing our Past Into the Future. 8 Dijkhoff and Linville (2015), “Achieving Sustainable Heritage Management in Aruba.” 9 Hofman et al. (forthcoming), “Connecting Stakeholders.” 10 Interestingly, Europeans first invaded the island around AD 1500, and not 1499. 11 Richardson (2020), “Sweet Breakaway.” 12 versteeg & Kelly (2019). The Archaeology of Aruba. Volume 3. 13 Razak (1997), Carnival in Aruba; Pereira (2018), Valorization of Papiamento. 14 Franken (n.d.), “Using Music to Shift the Narrative in our Community”; Dijkhoff (1997), Tanki Flip/ 15 Erasmus et al. (1998), Een Tijdvonkje. 16 Alofs (2003), “The Peasant and the Rebel.” 17 Central Bank of Aruba (n.d.). “Banknotes and Coins.” 18 Galloy (2000), “Symbols of Identity and Nationalism in Mexican and Central-American Currency.” 19 Hymans (2010), “East is East, and West is West?” Henriquez. NOTES ON CHAPTER 5 287 20 Alofs (2003), “The Peasant and the Rebel”; Sankatsing (2004). Craft Development in Aruba; ToroLabrador et al. (2003), “Mitochondrial DNA Analysis in Aruba.” 21 Personal communication, R. Gutiérrez. 22 Allen (2001). “Song Texts as Literature of Daily Life in the Netherlands Antilles”. 23 Jeon & Rincon Boysz (2020). “Ta Mi Hendenan.” 24 Curet (2011), “Colonialism and the History of Archaeology in the Spanish Caribbean.”; Haber & Gnecco (2007), “virtual Forum: Archaeology and Ecolonization”; Pagán-Jiménez (2004), “Is all Archaeology at Present a Postcolonial One?”; Pagán Jiménez & Rodriguez-Ramos (2008). “Sobre Arqueologías de Liberación en una ‘Colonia Postcolonial’”; Ulloa Hung (2009),“Patrimonio Arqueológico e Identidades en la Republica Dominicana”; valcárcel Rojas (2014), “Arqueología en un Ambiente de Ciencia en la Periferia.” 25 Curet (2011), “Colonialism and the History of Archaeology in the Spanish Caribbean.”; Pagán Jiménez & Rodriguez-Ramos (2008), “Sobre Arqueologías de Liberación en una ‘Colonia Postcolonial.’” 26 Pagán Jiménez & Rodriguez-Ramos (2008), “Sobre Arqueologías de Liberación en una ‘Colonia Postcolonial’”. 27 Curet and Hauser (2011), “Migrations, Seafaring, and Cultural Contact in the Caribbean”; Pestle et al. (2013), “New Questions and Old Paradigms Re-Examining Caribbean Culture History.” 28 Ulloa Hung (2018), “Legado Indígena”. 29 García Arévalo (1988), Indigenismo, Arqueología e Identidad Nacional.; Jacobson (forthcoming), “Jeu d’Argile.”; Ulloa Hung (2018), “Legado Indígena.” 30 Hofman & Ullloa Hung (2019), “NExUS 1492”; valcárcel Rojas & Ulloa Hung eds (2018), De la Desaparición a la Permanencia; Pesoutova (2019), Indigenous Ancestors and Healing Landscapes. 31 Pagán-Jiménez (2007), “De Antiguos Pueblos y Culturas Botánicas en el Puerto Rico Indígena”; valcárcel Rojas et al. (2018), “Arqueología en Managuaco.” 32 Pesoutova (2019), Indigenous Ancestors and Healing Landscapes; Pesoutova & Hofman (2016), “La Contribución Indígena a la Biografía del Paisaje Cultural de la República Dominicana.” 33 Barreiro & Hartmann, “De la Desaparición a la Permanencia”; García Molina et al. (2007), Huellas Vivas del Indocubano. 34 Deive (1979), Las Devastaciones. 35 García Molina et al. (2007), Huellas Vivas del Indocubano. 36 Pesoutova (2019), Indigenous Ancestors and Healing Landscapes. 37 Boomert (2000), Trinidad, Tobago, and the Lower Orinoco Interaction Sphere; Hofman & Hoogland (2011), “Unravelling the Multi-Scale Networks of Mobility and Exchange”; Pagán-Jiménez et al. (2015),“Early Dispersals of Maize and Other Food Plants.” 38 Boomert (2016), The Indigenous Peoples of Trinidad and Tobago from the First Settlers until Today. 39 Ibid. 40 Forte (2005), Ruins of Absence, Presence of Caribs. 41 Central Statistical Office (2012). Trinidad and Tobago 2011 Population and Housing Census 42 Brereton (2007), “Contesting the Past.” 43 Forte (2013), “Carib Identity, Racial Politics, and the Problem of Indigenous Recognition.” Demographic Report. 44 Pemberton et al. (2018), Historical Dictionary of Trinidad and Tobago. 45 Rouse & Allaire (1978), “Caribbean Chronology.” 46 Reid (2018), An Archaeological Study of the Red House. 47 Delpuech (2013), “Sur la Constitution des Naturels du Pays.” 48 Jean et al. (2020),“Haitian Archaeological Heritage.” 49 Charlier-Doucet (2005), “Anthropologie, Politique et Engagement Social.” 288 NOTES ON CHAPTER 6 50 Ibid. 51 Jean et al. (2020), “Haitian Archaeological Heritage.” 52 ISPAN (2010), Le Parc National Historique Citadelle, Sans-Souci, Ramiers. 53 ICOMOS (1982), “National History Park-Citadel Sans-Souci, Ramiers.” 54 Jean & Hofman (2018), “Dynamiques Interculturelles des Traces Mémorielles Amérindiennes d’Haïti.” 55 Wernet-Paskel (1992), Ons Eilandje Aruba. 56 Jean et al. (2020), “Haitian Archaeological Heritage.” 57 Ulloa Hung (2018), “Legado Indígena.” 58 Curet (2015), “Indigenous Revival, Indigeneity, and the Jíbaro in Borikén.” 59 Phulgence (2016), “Monument Building, Memory Making and Remembering Slavery.” 60 veloz Maggiolo (2003), La Isla de Santo Domingo antes de Colón; Pagán Jiménez and RodriguezRamos (2008), “Sobre Arqueologías de Liberación en una ‘Colonia Postcolonial”; Rangel Rivero, ed. (2018), Cuba: Arqueología y Legado Histórico. 61 Hofman & Ulloa Hung (2019), “Nexus 1492”; Pagán Jiménez & Rodriguez-Ramos (2018), “Sobre Arqueologías de Liberación en una ‘Colonia Postcolonial’”; veloz Maggiolo (2003), La Isla de Santo Domingo antes de Colón; Ulloa Hung (2005), Una Mirada al Caribe Precolombino; Hérnández Godoy (2003), “Arqueología e Historiografía Aborigen de Cuba en el Siglo xIx.”; Domínguez et al. (1994), “Las Comunidades Aborígenes de Cuba.” 62 Ulloa Hung (2018), “Legado Indígena.” 63 Alvarez (2021), “From Closed Museum Spaces to Inclusive Cultural Meeting Points”; Ariese (2018), “The Social Museum in the Caribbean”; Con Aguilar (2019), “Heritage Education”; Jean & Herrera Malatesta (fortchoming), “Local Voices, Global Debates.” 64 Hofman et al. (forthhcoming),“Connecting Stakeholders”; Hofman & Hoogland (2016), “Connecting Stakeholders”; Sankatsing Nava & Hofman (2018),“Engaging Caribbean Island Communities with Indigenous Heritage and Archaeology Research.” 65 Pagán Jiménez & Rodriguez-Ramos, “Sobre Arqueologías de Liberación en una ‘Colonia Postcolonial’”; Hofman and Hoogland (2016) “Connecting Stakeholders”; Hofman and Haviser (2015), Managing our Past into the Future; Hofman et al. (forthcoming), “Connecting Stakeholders.” Chapter 6. Four Islands: Contemporary Art in Suriname, Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao 1 Grantsaan & Jungerman (2009), Wakaman. Participating artists: Gillion Grantsaan, Remy Jungerman, Patricia Kaersenhout, Iris Kensmil, Charl Landvreugd, Kurt Nahar, Marcel Pinas, Ori Plet, and René Tosari. 2 An expression used by several artists and collectors in Suriname. 3 Cf. http://www.nolahatterman.com/onderwijs/ and https://www.facebook.com/pages/NolaHatterman-Art-Academy/350437178322342, accessed July 30, 2021. 4 Stated in a film documentary celebrating the academy’s fortieth anniversary (2021), https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=TIn2-L7yW-Y&t=296s&ab_channel=AHKCOInstitute, accessed July 30, 2021. 5 Cf. Meijer zu Schlochteren & Cozier (2010), Paramaribo Span. 6 Among which the Mondriaan Fund is the most prominent. 7 After almost two centuries of imports of enslaved Africans followed more than half a century of imports of indentured labourers from Asia. 8 Cf. vlasblom (2006), “Kibri a kulturu”; Perrée (2011), Marcel Pinas. 9 Cf. Mijnals & Mulder (2015), George Struikelblok. NOTES ON CHAPTER 6 289 10 visser & Reeder (2007), Talent, 20. 11 van Stipriaan (2001b), “Roads to the Roots or Stuck in the Mud?,” 287. 12 https://srananart.wordpress.com/about/, accessed July 10, 2021. 13 https://siaf.sr/siaf/, accessed July 10, 2021. 14 van Binnendijk (2005), Zichtbaar. 15 Cf. visser & Reeder (2007), Talent. 16 visser & Reeder (2007), Talent, 21–22. 17 https://Curaçao-art.com/artists/tony-monsanto/, accessed June 8, 2021. 18 van Buiren & Ernst (2019), Kerncijfers Caribisch Deel Koninkrijk. 19 https://chata.org/Curaçao-tourist-board-launches-new-global-branding-campaign-feel-it-foryourself/, accessed July 12, 2021. 20 Cf. Hengeveld (2018), Het Curaçaosch Museum 70 jaar. 21 Cited on Sharelly Emanuelson’s website, https://www.sharellyemanuelson.com/continuing-withuniarte-at-new-location-in-otrobanda/, accessed August 1, 2021. 22 Basic information and news on the Curaçao art world can be found at https://Curaçao-art.com/ artists/. 23 See his published columns from the Antilliaans Dagblad (Antillean Daily): Gulmans (2019), Beeldende 24 https://institutobuenabista.com/, accessed August 1, 2021. 25 http://www.caribbeanelections.com/eDocs/budget/cw_budget/cw_begroting_2019.pdf, accessed kunst van Curaçao. August 3, 2021. 26 https://www.mcb-bank.com/about-us/mcb-and-our-community/art-and-culture, accessed August 2, 2021. 27 Cf. https://m.facebook.com/cbcscur/posts/88927569847247, accessed August 3, 2021. 28 https://www.marliesschoenmakers.com/art-consultancy, accessed August 3, 2021. Cf. Gulmans (2019), Beeldende kunst van Curaçao, 15–17. 29 https://terramarmuseum.com/exhibitions/temporary-exhibitions/, accessed August 3, 2021. See also 30 Almost 1.1 million stay-over tourists and 0.8 million cruise ship tourists before the Covid-19 pan- Van Stipriaans chapter in this volume: “Representations and Reparations.” demic, van Buiren & Ernst (2019), Kerncijfers Caribisch deel Koninkrijk. For statistics and figures see: https://www.tweedekamer.nl/sites/default/files/atoms/files/kerncijfers_koninkrijk_definie tief_19022019.pdf, accessed August 1, 2021. 31 https://www.aruba.com/nl/activiteiten/kunst-en-cultuur/galerieen, accessed August 3, 2021. 32 https://africanah.org/osaira-muyale/, accessed August 4, 2021. 33 https://ateliers89.org/about/, accessed August 3, 2021. 34 Martis & Smit (2002), Arte: Dutch Caribbean Art, 134. 35 file:///C:/Users/gebruiker/Downloads/Memorie%20van%20Toelichting%20begroting%202020.pdf, accessed August 3, 2021. 36 https://arubaartfair.com/, accessed August 3, 2021. 37 visser & Reeder (2007), Talent, 21–22. 38 “The Gerrit Rietveld Academie is an international university of applied sciences for Fine Arts and Design in Amsterdam (NL). It is home to a close-knit community of international students from across the world. Students and teachers jointly create an environment for learning that brings together thinking and doing. This is where unexpected, innovative ideas are born” (https://rietveln dacademie.nl/en/, accessed August 10, 2021). 39 Cf. his biography: Alofs (2021), Goddelijk Zoals Gewoonlijk. 290 NOTES ON CHAPTER 7 Chapter 7. Papiamento: An Official Caribbean Creole Language from Legal Repression to Full Recognition 1 Severing (2021), “Het Papiaments”. 2 DeGraff (2009), “Creole Exceptionalism and the (Mis)Education of the Creole Speaker.” 3 Paula (1968), From Objective to Subjective Social Barrier. 4 Cooper (1989), Language Planning and Social Change, 111; Phillipson (2007), “Linguistic Imperialism.” 5 Martinus (1996), “The Kiss of a Slave,” 19–37. 6 Fouse (2002), The Story of Papiamento, 83. 7 Papiamento was not the only oppressed Afro-Caribbean slavery heritage in the colony. For a study of the legal and religious repression of the Tambú, see Rosalia (1997), Tambú. 8 van Paddenburgh (2012), Beschrijving van het Eiland Curaçao en de Onderhoorige Eilanden. 9 Bosch (1985), Reizen in West-Indië. Eerste Deel, 212–219 10 Teenstra (1977), De Nederlandsche West-Indische Eilanden in Derzelver Tegenwoordigen Toestand, 7–8 11 Alofs (2011), Onderhorigheid en separatisme, 46; Pereira (2018), Valorization of Papiamento; Donk 12 Rutgers (1996), Beneden en Boven de Wind; van Putte (1999), Dede Pikiña ku su Bisiña. (2019), Beschaving, Bekering en Bevoogding. 13 Prins-Winkel (1975), Kabes Duru?; Prins (1975), Latent Taaltalent. 14 van Putte (1999), Dede Pikiña ku su Bisiña;van Putte (1997), “De Nederlandse Koloniale Taalpolitiek op de Benedenwindse Eilanden.” 15 Eerste Kamer der Staten-Generaal (2012-2013), “Samenwerkingsprotocol”. 16 Pereira (2018), Valorization of Papiamento. 17 UNESCO (2016). “If You Don’t Understand?” 18 Taalunie (2014). Nederlands op z’n Best. 19 The Rijksoverheid.nl website has two contradicting texts on the same page about the languages on the BES Islands. “Sign language (NGT) and the Frisian language in the province of Friesland are both recognized by law in the Netherlands. Frisian is the second official language in the province of Friesland. On Bonaire, St. Eustatius and Saba (BES islands), Papiamento and English are recognised as official languages in addition to Dutch. Through European agreements, the Netherlands has recognised Limburgish, Lower Saxon, Yiddish (Jiddisj) and Sinti-Romanes as regional or non-territorial languages.” Retrieved 18-2-22. 20 Faraclas et al. (2022), “Moving Beyond ‘Chambuká.’” 21 Aruba organized a pilot census in 2019. Therefore, Aruba has recent population data. Bonaire and Curaçao have not released new data since 2011. 22 Lauffer (1971), Di Nos. 23 Rutgers (2016), Balans: Arubaans Letterkundig Leven. 24 Allen & Richardson (2021), “Antilliaans Carnaval in viervoud.” 25 Racoma (2021), “The Role of Languages in Cultural Heritage.” 26 The NGOs working for Papiamento on the islands and in The Netherlands are: Aruba: Fundacion Lanta Papiamento; Bonaire: Fundashon Akademia Papiamentu; Curaçao: Instituto Alsa Papiamentu; The Netherlands: SPLIKA and Levende Talen Papiaments. These NGOs joined together to establish the Plataforma Union di Papiamento, devoted to the recognition of Papiamento in all the territories of the Dutch Kingdom. 27 Directie Onderwijs Aruba (1988), Pa un Enseñansa Bilingual na Aruba, 17–22 28 The Cadushi di Cristal was awarded to people who have excelled in Papiamento in the fields of literature, linguistics or research. 1997: Digna Laclé-Herrera; 1999: Ernesto Rosenstand; 2001: Hubert “Lio” Booi; 2003: Ramon Todd Dandaré; 2006: Grupo di Teatro Mascaruba; 2008: Mario Asintho Dijkhoff. NOTES ON CHAPTER 8 291 29 Bambergen et al. (2016), “The Languages in Aruba’s Linguistic Landscape.” 30 Baldauf Jr. (2004), “Language Planning and Policy,” Table 1. 31 Cooper, Language Planning and Social Change.; Baldauf Jr. (2004), “Language Planning and Policy”; Baldauf Jr., “Rearticulating the Case for Micro Language Planning.” 32 Cooper (1989), Language Planning and Social Change. 33 Ibid. 34 Kaplan & Baldauf Jr. (1997), Language Planning, from Practice to Theory; Baldauf Jr. (2004), “Language Planning and Policy”; Ruiz (2019), “Language Planning in Multilingual Contexts”; Ruiz (2010), “Reorienting Language-as-Resource”; Spolsky, ed. (2012), The Cambridge Handbook of Language Policy. 35 Spolsky (2009), Language Management. 2009. 36 Already in 1988 the report document about bilingual education (Directie Onderwijs Aruba, 1988-EB) concluded that the promotion of Papiamento is one of the priorities for the development of LPP. 37 Skutnabb-Kangas (2009), “The Stakes”; Mufwene (2008), Language Evolution. 38 Pereira (2010),“How to Begin Healing a Long Festering Wound.” 39 Ministers van Onderwijs Aruba, Bonaire en Curaçao (2019), Samenwerkingsovereenkomst. Chapter 8. Nation-Building and Nation-Branding: Aruban, Bonairean, and Curaçaoan Writers between the Caribbean and the Netherlands 1 Nydia Ecury (1984) referred to the kantikanan in Kantika pa Mama Tera/Song for Mother Earth. 2 See UNESCO, “UNESCO – What Is Intangible Cultural Heritage?” https://ich.unesco.org/en/ what-is-intangible-heritage-00003, accessed October 19, 2020. 3 Castiglioni & Mariotti (1966). Vocabolario della Lingua Latina, 673. 4 Rocci (1993), Vocabolario Greco-Italiano, 382. 5 Fokkema, & Grijzenhout, eds (2004), Dutch Culture in a European Perspective: Vol. 5, 230. 6 Lamming (2009), Sovereignty of the Imagination: Conversations III, 59. 7 Gupta (2009), Globalization and Literature, 86. 8 Bhabha (1999), “DissemiNation,” 215–216. 9 Rutgers (2007), De Brug van Paramaribo naar Willemstad, 43. 10 Alofs, e-mail to author, April 27, 2021. 11 Jacobs (2009),“The Upper Guinea Origins of Papiamentu,” 319–379. 12 Rutgers (2007), De Brug van Paramaribo naar Willemstad, 215; Phaf-Rheinberger (2007), “The Crystalline Essence of Dutch Caribbean Literatures,” 35–46. 13 Alofs (1990),“van Separación tot Status Aparte,” 519. 14 Oostindie & Klinkers (2003), Decolonising the Caribbean. 15 Arbino (2013), “Finding the Dutch Caribbean with ‘Mijn Zuster de Negerin’”, 71–87; Rutgers (1996), Beneden en Boven de Wind, 165-166; Nicolaas (2013), “Caribbean Literature from the ABC-Islands in the European Netherlands,” 221. 16 For references to chiaroscuro and Rembrandt in this novel, see Menno ter Braak (1949), “Zekerheid– Onzekerheid.” 17 Homesickness was the main theme of Debrot’s first poetry collection Heimwee (1918), see Rutgers (2007), De Brug van Paramaribo naar Willemstad, 21. This feeling also prompted Arion to write his novel Dubbelspel, see Jansen van Galen (2006), “Frank Martinus Arion over Curaçao.” 18 van Kempen (1999-2000), “Dutch-Language Caribbean voices in English,” 281–282; see also Broek (2001), “Ideological Controversies in Curaçaoan Publishing Strategies (1900-1945),” 375–386. 19 Koch (2003), “Identiteit en Lokaliteit in Mijn Zuster de Negerin van Cola Debrot,” 193. 292 NOTES ON CHAPTER 8 20 Ibid., 197. 21 Broek (1995), “Reviewed Works,” 406–410; Gyssels (2000), “La Migration des Mots et le Néerlandais,” 22 Nicolaas (2016), Met Open Ogen, 12–13. 186; De Roo (1980), Antilliaans Literair Logboek; De Roo (2020), “Jean Rhys: Hopen tegen Ervaren in.” 23 Alofs (2018), Koloniale Mythen en Benedenwindse Feiten, 128–129. 24 van Neck-Yoder (1986), “Words and Deeds in Cola Debrot’s ‘De vervolgden’,” 48. 25 Alofs (2018), Koloniale Mythen en Benedenwindse Feiten, 125–126. 26 See Kril (2018) Rhythms and Caresses, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b3FY0k5xn5U, accessed October 18, 2020. 27 Severing (2013), “Recurrent Themes in the Work of Frank Martinus Arion,” 285–294. 28 Coseriu (1981), Sincronia, Diacronia e Storia, 47, note 33. 29 De Roo (1980), Antilliaans Literair Logboek, 73. 30 See vpro cinema’s interview (2017), https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=3MENC-WnFbU, accessed November 7, 2020. 31 Ibid. 32 E.g., Rutgers, Van Kempen, De Roo, etc. 33 van Kempen (1998-1999), “Icarus op Curaçao Over Dubbelspel van Frank Martinus Arion,” 45–48. 34 See van der Sijs (2010), https://etymologiebank.nl/trefwoord/dubbel, accessed May 28, 2021. 35 Hambuch (1998), “Rereading the Caribbean through Dubbelspel by Frank Martinus Arion,” 55–58. 36 See a reference to Chango in an anonymous public diagram on Dubbelspel. Coggle.it. (s.d.), “Dubbelspel”, https://coggle.it/diagram/xib77CTykP1O7qTg/t/dubbelspel-frank-martinus-arion, accessed October 24, 2020. 37 The governor did the same to Padre Rojas in Debrot’s De Vervolgden (348). 38 Nicolaas, WhatsApp message to author, January 25, 2021. 39 De Roo (1980), Antilliaans Literair Logboek, 76. 40 See Coomans-Eustatia et al. (1991), “Frank Martinus Arion,” 56–62. 41 wabi, watapana, kibrahacha, 287–288. 42 Rutgers (2007), De Brug van Paramaribo naar Willemstad, 130. 43 Coomans-Eustatia et al. (1991), “Frank Martinus Arion,” 62. 44 Walcott (1990), Omeros. Book IV, chapter XXXVI. 45 See Does’s documentary (2013), Poetry is an Island, https://vimeo.com/74510013, accessed May 22, 2021. 46 Both quotations from Walcott (1979), “The Schooner Flight,” 346, 350. For Caribbean writers Patke speaks of a “symbolic voyage” toward Africa and of a “literal voyage … toward the metropolitan centre”, see Patke (2006), Postcolonial Poetry in English, 208. 47 Nicolaas (2013), “Caribbean Literature from the ABC-Islands in the European Netherlands,” 223–226; Nicolaas (2016), Met Open Ogen, 85. 48 Arion (2003), “Creole Identity through Chinese Wall,” 151–165. 49 Nicolaas, e-mail to author, December 12, 2020. 50 Nicolaas (1990), Eclips Politico, 10. 51 Rutgers (2016), Balans: Arubaans Letterkundig Leven, 243. 52 Nicolaas (1995), Ilusion Optico, 44. 53 On that occasion, the former Dutch Speaker of the House of Representatives Gerdi Verbeet recited some poems from this collection. Nicolaas, e-mail to author, January 25, 2021. 54 See Senior (2005), Gardening in the Tropics. 55 See Instituut voor de Nederlandse taal, https://gtb.ivdnt.org/iWDB/search?actie=article&wdb=WNv T&id=M008025&lemmodern=betreuren&domein=0&conc=true, accessed November 17, 2021. NOTES ON CHAPTER 9 293 56 Nicolaas (2011), Bos pa Planta, 9. 57 Nettleford (2003), “The Caribbean’s Creative Diversity.” 58 Rodríguez (2012), Crónicas Caribeñas, 27. 59 Lamming (2000), Sovereignty of the Imagination. Conversations II, 32. 60 Rutgers (1994), “Schrijven is Zilver, Spreken is Goud.” 61 See CBS StatLine (2022), “Bevolking, Geslacht, Leeftijd, Generatie en Migratieachtergrond”, https:// opendata.cbs.nl/statline/#/CBS/nl/dataset/37325/table?fromstatweb, accessed October 27, 2020. 62 Nicolaas (2013), “Caribbean Literature from the ABC-Islands in the European Netherlands,” 222. 63 Alofs, Zoom meeting with author, April 23, 2021. 64 Sekou (1991), Mothernation, 50. 65 Ibid., 82-83. 66 van Stipriaan (2016), “Caraïbisch Erfgoed in de Nederlandse Black Atlantic,” 11–38. Chapter 9. Radical Imagining in Dutch Caribbean Music 1 Walcott (2004), “The Antilles: Fragments of Epic Memory,” 73. 2 Kaba (2021), We Do This ‘Til We Free Us, 129. 3 Lorde (1978), “Solstice.” 4 Lorde (2007), “Poetry is not a Luxury” and “Learning from the 60s.” 5 La Croes (n.d.), Seú ta Muzik Kultural. I acknowledge here my gratefulness to and appreciation of Vernon Chatlein for sharing this literature with me and for abiding with me in conversation. 6 “The government of Curaçao and elementary schools must declare kuarta, tambú, chapi (agan), wiri, and kachu as important musical artifacts of our cultural inheritance. Because youths are continuing the performance traditions, we have today cultural groups of Venezuelan gaita, Boneirian simadan and drum, and Aruban dande, aguinaldo, and gaita. We have national music, performed by the youths of the respective communities. These musics fall in the genre of traditional music of the Caribbean and Latin America. Such practice has the potential to prevent criminality amongst youths … the government must invest greatly in this cultural sector” (translation by author). 7 Nettleford (2009), “Decolonizing the Spirit.” 8 Ibid., 36. 9 Ibid. 10 My thoughts depart from and are informed by the following: Lorde (2007), “Uses of the Erotic”; Allen (2011), Venceremos?; Gill (2014), “In the Realm of our Lorde”; Sheller (2012), Citizenship from Below. 11 Lorde (2007), Sister Outsider, 56. 12 Ibid., 57. 13 Blades (2018), “Pedro Navajo,” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UibAE_x6NM8, accessed June 6, 2021. 14 Glissant (2010), Poetic Intention, 201. Also see p. 199. 15 A praxis of being intimate with all that lives and enabling livingness. 16 Arroyo (2009), “No le Pegue a la Negra,” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PqmLPeL8aj4, accessed June 6, 2021. 17 Glissant (1997), Le Discours Antillais, 63–64. 18 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z7mvFjkgvvs&ab_channel=vprovrijegeluiden. 19 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TlvseMwypco&ab_channel=vprovrijegeluidenvprovrijegeluu iden. 20 Rosalia (1997), Tambú, 67. 21 Lorde (1978), The Black Unicorn, 117. 294 NOTES ON CHAPTER 9 22 Brand (2012), The Map to the Door of No Return, 25. 23 “Rei ta duna libertad,” Zikinzá, recording no. T1015. 24 “Danki Wilmu den derdu,” Zikinzá, recording no. T0730. 25 Tambú and tumba are two music styles from the Papiamento-speaking islands within the Dutch Caribbean. In Curaçao, tambú, which refers to the drum, dance, rhythm, and event, is intensely practiced during the end-of-year festivities, while tumba is performed during carnival festivities. Each has accompanying dances and instrumentation. 26 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FjJHPJfYqKI. 27 Lorde (2007), Sister Outsider, 54. 28 Ibid., 56. 29 Schappell and Lacour (1993), “Toni Morrison: The Art of Fiction No. 134.” 30 Ibid. 31 Small (1998), Musicking. 32 Fanon (1967a), Black Skin, White Masks, 204. 33 Bogues (2012), “And What About the Human?” 34 Fanon (1967a), Black Skin, White Masks, 206. 35 McKittrick (2020), “Pastel Blue”. https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/pastel-blue-a-promising-inacrcuracy/. 36 Kelly (2002), Freedom Dreams, 9. 37 Thomas (2006), “PROUD FLESH Inter/views: Sylvia Wynter.” 38 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EcYnJvJUnjc&ab_channel=MiamiFilmFestivalMiamiFilmFestiival. 39 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjn6nsw4QSo&t=117s&ab_channel=HFordHFord. 40 Small (1998), Musicking. 41 Wynter (2003), “Unsettling the Coloniality of Being/Power/Truth/Freedom.” 42 Bogues (2012), And What About the Human?, 45. 43 Lorde (2007), Sister Outsider, 58. 44 Bogues (2012), And What About the Human?, 45–6. 45 Jocelyne Clemencia at the Tula Herdenking, Ninsee Amsterdam, 2010. 46 McKittrick (2020), “Pastel Blue.” 47 Lorde (1978), The Black Unicorn, 117. 48 Gansemans (2007), “Musical Traditions in Aruba, Bonaire and Curaçao.” 49 In Emanuelson’s Yamada (2017), a film documentary that features Grupo Serenada, the oldest functioning choir on Curaçao, celebrating the choir’s longevity and music philosophy. Cofounder and Musical Director Harry Moen notes that he is invested in the work of the choir because it is of himself, part of his being—“e ta parti di mi ser.” 50 https://dcdp.uoc.cw/zikinza_collection, accessed June 6, 2021. 51 bell hooks (2001), All About Love. 52 Gilman-Opalsky (2020), The Communism of Love; Also see hooks (2001), All About Love. 53 Gilroy (1993), The Black Atlantic. 54 Lorde (1978), The Black Unicorn, 31. 55 See hooks (2001) and Gilman-Opalsky (2020). 56 https://pbccaribbean.com/afro-caribbean-samples-loops/ 57 Scott (2000), “The Re-Enchantment of Humanism.” 58 Franken (n.d.), “Using Music to Shift the Narrative in our Community,” https://www.arubatoday. com/using-music-to-shift-the-narrative-in-our-community-a-best-practice-case-of-the-leerorkestin-the-netherlands/, accessed June 6, 2021. NOTES ON CHAPTER 10 295 59 Emphasis mine. 60 Lorde (2007), Sister Outsider, 38. 61 Hartman (2019), Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments, 33. 62 Patterson (2018), Slavery and Social Death. 63 Kaba (2021), We Do This ‘Til We Free Us, 129. 64 Lorde (1978), Black Unicorn, 117. 65 Streitfeld (1983), “The Laureates’s Life Song,” https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/lifeo style/1993/10/08/the-laureatess-life-song/10d3b79b-52f2-4685-a6dd-c57f7dde08d2/, accessed June 6, 2021. Chapter 10. Sport Heritage, Nation-Building and Nation-Branding in the Anglophone an Dutch Caribbean 1 UNESCO (1972), Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage; Alofs (2003-2008), The Aruba Heritage Report; Ansano (2017), “What is Central to Curaçao’s History”; Siegel & Righter (2011), Protecting Heritage; Siegel et al. (2013),“Confronting Caribbean Heritage.” 2 UNESCO (1999), “Third International Conference of Ministers and Senior Officials Responsible for Physical Education and Sport (MINEPS III)”, https://en.unesco.org/themes/sport-and-anti-doping/ mineps, accessed March 2, 2021. 3 UNESCO (2011), Basic Texts of the 2003 Convention. 4 Yin (2014). Case Study Research. 5 UNESCO (2011), Basic texts of the 2003 Convention; Alofs (2003-2008), The Aruba Heritage Report, 8-11; Siegel et al. (2013),“Confronting Caribbean Heritage”; Antczak (2018), “Unpicking a Feeling,” 18. 6 Ansano (2017), “What is Central to Curaçao’s History,” 60. 7 Ibid., 3. 8 Ibid., 5, 12. 9 Allen (2012), “What is Curaçaoan Culture?”; Siegel et al. (2013), “Confronting Caribbean Heritage”; Antczak (2018), “Unpicking a Feeling.” 10 Alofs (2003-2008), The Aruba Heritage Report, 10. 11 Ansano (2012), “What is Central to Curaçao’s History,” 4. 12 Kerr and Wiseman, cited in Ansano (2017), “What is Central to Curaçao’s History,” 5. 13 CARICOM stands for the Caribbean Community. It is a regional grouping that was established in 1973 and now consists of twenty countries drawn from the English, Dutch (Suriname) and Frenchspeaking (Haiti) Caribbean. The majority of the countries (thirteen) are former British colonies and comprise the original group. While the population of the entire bloc amounts to sixteen million inhabitants, among the original thirteen it varies from 52,000 in Saint Kitts and Nevis to 2.9 million in Jamaica. After Jamaica, the largest country is Trinidad and Tobago with a population of 1.3 million followed by Guyana (800,000) and Barbados (285,000) (CARICOM). 14 “Member States and Associate Member States”: https://caricom.org/member-states-and-associ:- 15 Ibid., 7, 10. 16 Ibid., 31–40. 17 Ibid., 31–32 ate-members/, accessed March 1 2021; CARICOM (1997), Regional Cultural Policy. 18 CARICOM (1997), Regional Cultural Policy, 52. 19 West Indian Commission (1992), Time for Action, 328; author’s emphasis. 20 Ibid., 275. 296 NOTES ON CHAPTER 11 21 James (1963), Beyond a Boundary; Beckles (1998), The Development of West Indies Cricket; Sandiford 22 Singh (2009), “Cricket Museum Launched at Oval”. 23 CARICOM (1997), Regional Cultural Policy, 53; West Indian Commission (1992), Time for Action, (1998), Cricket Nurseries of Colonial Barbados; Seecharan (2009), From Ranji to Rohan. 286–289. 24 25 Ibid., 333. Levy (2020), “Hero CPL had Record Economic Impact of US$136m Across the Region,” in Sportsmax, January 24, 2020. https://www.sportsmax.tv › cricket-regional › item, accessed November 24, 2020. 26 Haviser & Gilmore (2011), “Netherlands Antilles,” 140. 27 https://www.worldometers.info/world-population/aruba-population/, accessed March 15, 2021; https://www.worldometers.info/demographics/curacao-demographics/, accessed March 15, 2021. 28 CBS (2014), Demography of Curaçao; Allen (2013), “Cultural Adaption,” 36. 29 Allen (2013), “Cultural Adaption.” 30 CBS (2014), Demography of Curaçao; CBS (2010), The Foreign Born, 8. 31 Alofs (2003-2008), The Aruba Heritage Report, 11, 57, 58. 32 Haviser & Gilmore (2011), “Netherlands Antilles,” 137. 33 Ariese (2018), “The Social Museum.” 34 CBS, “Participation Survey”: https://www.cbs.cw/participation-survey, accessed May 20, 2021. 35 https://www.fifa.com/fifa-world-ranking/ranking-table/men/, accessed May 1, 2021. 36 Belson (2017), “With Talent From Two Small Islands”; Waldstein (2014), “A Speck on the Map Gushes.” 37 Lianne Leonora, email message to author, March 9, 2021. 38 https://sportmuseumcuracao.com/, accessed March 14, 2021. 39 Ariese (2018), “The Social Museum.” 40 https://sportmuseumcuracao.com/, accessed March 14, 2021. 41 Alofs (2003-2008), The Aruba Heritage Report. 42 Ibid., 23–24. 43 Ibid., 26. 44 Interview with ASU President Gerald Franca, May 24, 2021. 45 https://www.baseball-almanac.com/players/birthplace.php?loc=Aruba, accessed May 24, 2021; Waldstein (2014), “A Speck on the Map Gushes Talent”; Belson (2017), “With Talent From Two Small Islands.” 46 Guadeloupe, “Exploring the nation” in this volume; Oostindie, “The study of ethnicity.” 47 Phone interview with author, May 24, 2021. 48 James (1963), Beyond a Boundary; Mangan (1986), The Games Ethic. 49 Guttmann (1978), From Ritual to Record. 50 Ibid. 51 Beckles (2017), Cricket without a Cause. 52 Ibid. 53 Ansano (2017), “What is Central to Curaçao’s History,” 4. Chapter 11. Exploring the Nation through the Lens of Baseball: A Popular Culture Perspective on National Belonging in the Dutch Caribbean 1 Hall (2018), “Popular Culture, Politics and History.” 2 Interview by Sean Illing with David Graeber, see Illing (2014), “Bullshit Jobs”; Glaser (2014), “Beyond Bullshit Jobs.” 3 Coleman (1988), “Social Capital in the Creation of Human Capital.” NOTES ON CHAPTER 11 297 4 Guadeloupe (2008), Chanting Down the New Jerusalem. 5 On the weapons of the weak, see, Obadare (2009), “The Uses of Ridicule.” 6 For a general history of the Dutch Antillean islands and their relationships see, Oostindie & Klinkers (2012), Gedeeld Koninkrijk. 7 Goffman (1959), The Presentation of Self; Goffman (1982), Interaction Rituals; Bock (1982), “The importance of Erving Goffman”; Rapport, Transcendent Individual. 8 Goffman, The Presentation of Self; Goffman, Interaction Rituals; Bock, “The importance of Erving Goffman”; Rapport (2002), Transcendent Individual. 9 10 Walmsley (2018), “Deep Hanging out in the Arts.” The concept of outernational is borrowed from the Caribbean sound system culture. In its original formulation according to Prasad Bidaye “outernational” signified the opposite of national and international: “If ‘international’ suggests a relationship between subjects at the national level, ‘outernational’ is one that takes place outside of state and metropolitan centres of power. It signifies a dialogical relationship from the chronotope of one margin to another. Outernationalism is thus a synthesis of transnational and translocal modes of consciousness, the global awareness of the former and the dialogical intimacies of the latter. It is also a type of attitude: a sense of disregard for nationalism, internationalism, and other political processes that exercise a more systemic disregard for minorities (who are technically majorities) marginalized on the borders of a seemingly borderless world.” Bidaye (2012), “Outernational Transmission.” In my usage of the term here, I recognise that many of the artists and Black Atlantic art forms that operated to some extent outside of the ambit of nation-states and their metropolitan centres of power, were co-opted by the culture industry that emulated the strategy of the activist musicians that Bidaye and others write about. Outernationality, hence, in my usage of studying Black Atlantic popular culture in its hyper-commercial format, is expressive of capitalism’s Anglo-inclined global reach as opposed to more regional and national cultural industries (think for instance of Bollywood and Nollywood). 11 In this coronavirus era, the Reggae Sunsplash has gone digital. Via their computers fans the world over will be able to virtually attend the festival. See https://goreggaesunsplash.com/. The question however remains how this and other Caribbean states will adapt to the virtualization of tourism. 12 Nurse (2002), “Bringing Culture into Tourism.” 13 Belson (2017), “With Talent from Two Small Islands”; Waldstein (2014), “A Speck on the Map Gushes Talent.” 14 See Martijn Zeven (2020), “Dit Zijn de 11 rijkste Nederlandse Sporters van 2020,” in the Dutch 15 James (1963), Beyond a Boundary. magazine Quote of June 13, 2020. 16 Ledgister (2010), Only West Indians; Thomas (2004), Modern Blackness. 17 CBS (2020), Aruba 50 jaar Sociaal Demografische Ontwikkeling; Central Bureau of Statistics Curaçao (2015), Sociaal Economische Kenmerken van Migranten in Curaçao. 18 Sharpe (2014), “Race, Color, and Nationalism”; Sharpe (2005), “Globalization and Migration.” See also the classic by Green (1974), Migrants in Aruba. 19 Doherty (2012), “The Cause of Baseball”; Gems (2006), The Athletic Crusade; Brown (1990), “Waging 20 There are of course other markers including carnival. See on the matter Razak (1997), Carnival in Baseball, Playing War.” Aruba. The latter, including its transnational dimension binding the Diaspora in the Netherlands, is discussed in the co-authored chapter with Oostindie in this volume. 21 The love that Curaçao has for the “kid from Curaçao,” as they lovingly call Andruw Jones, is huge. He is a boy from Brievengat who never forgot where he came from. We are proud of him and happy that he continues to encourage the youngsters to make something of themselves. 298 22 NOTES ON CHAPTER 12 You are in your yard and you see the Haitian man passing by asking, “Good day Miss can I clean your yard for twenty-five Antillean guilders.” You [native Curaçaoan] accept and he comes and cleans it, using your tools and accessories. A year later, the Haitian passes with a rake on his shoulders and plastic bags, and asks, “Miss can I clean your yard for thirty Antillean guilders.” You accept. The following year he has all his own tools, and asks you for fifty guilders. The year after that he comes in a pick-up truck and asks you for seventy-five guilders. Today the Haitian owns his own company, and his children have master’s degrees and are managers of big local companies where the natives have to seek employment. And still, we native Curaçaoans look down on the Haitians. Chapter 12. Facing the Ecological Crisis in the Caribbean 1 Mac Donald (2017), “Nature Conservation in Times of Natural Disaster.” 2 Quijano (2010), “Coloniality and Modernity/Rationality”; Kilomba (2008), Plantation Memories. 3 Grove (1995), Green Imperialism. 4 Bourg & Fragnière (2014), La Pensée Écologiquee; Nash (1967), Wilderness and the American Mind. 5 Blanc (2020), L’ Invention du Colonialisme Vert; Neumann (2008), Imposing Wilderness in Africa. 6 Ferdinand (2019), Une Écologie Décoloniale, 12-47. 7 Scobie (2019), Global Environmental Governance and Small States. 8 Baver et al. (2006), Beyond Sun and Sand; Campbell & Niblett (2016), The Caribbean; Jaffe (2016), Concrete Jungles; Stancioff (2018), “Landscape, Land-Change and Well-Being in the Lesser Antilles”; Baptiste & Rhiney (2016), “Climate Justice and the Caribbean.” 9 Graaf et al. (2016), “Status and Trends Reef Fish and Coastal Fisheries Bonaire.” 10 Haviser (1991), The First Bonaireans. 11 Hartog & Gideon (1975), Bonaire: Short History; de Wit (2015), Suriname en de Nederlandse Antillen. 12 Hartog & Gideon (1975), Bonaire: Short History. 13 Pakus & Wayaka Advies (2014). Beleidsvisie Landbouw Veeteelt Visserij Bonaire 2014-2029. 14 Jackson et al. (2014), “Status and Trends of Caribbean Coral Reefs.” 15 Eilandsgebied Bonaire (2008). Evaluatierapport Natuurbeleidsplan Bonaire 1999-2004. 16 Graaf et al. (2016), “Status and Trends Reef Fish and Coastal Fisheries Bonaire”; Debrot et al. (2011), Preliminary Overview of Exotic and Invasive Marine Species in the Dutch Caribbean. No. C188/11. 17 Ramon de Leon (former Marine Park Manager, STINAPA, Bonaire), interview by Stacey Mac Donald, April 2016. 18 Johnson & Jackson (2015), “Fisher and Diver Perceptions Of Coral Reef Degradation.” 19 Interview with fisher Jan Hendrik Emerenciana by Stacey Mac Donald, November 2017. 20 Debrot et al. (2011), Preliminary Overview of Exotic and Invasive Marine Species in the Dutch 21 Interview with fisher Eddy Christiaan by Stacey Mac Donald, November 2017. 22 Interview with fisher Eddy Christiaan by Stacey Mac Donald, November 2017. 23 Johnson & Jackson (2015), “Fisher and Diver Perceptions of Coral Reef Degradation.” 24 Interview with fisher Fokke-Jan Havedings by Stacey Mac Donald, November 2017. 25 Jackson et al. (2012), “Status and Trends of Caribbean Coral Reefs.” 26 Johnson & Jackson (2015), “Fisher and Diver Perceptions of Coral Reef Degradation.” 27 Ferdinand (2017), “Living in Contaminated land.” Caribbean. 28 Jaffe (2016), Concrete Jungles. 29 Ferdinand (2016), “Ecology, Identity, and Colonialism in Martinique.” 30 Trouillot (1992), “The Caribbean Region.” 31 Rabess (1998), “Popular Media and Policy in the Eastern Caribbean,” 453. NOTES ON CHAPTER 13 299 32 Jaffe et al. (2008), “The Caribbean City: An Introduction”, 1. 33 Slocum & Thomas (2003), “Rethinking Global and Area Studies.” 34 See International Climate Justice Network (2002). “Bali Principles of Climate Justice,” https://www. corpwatch.org/article/bali-principles-climate-justice. 35 Klein (2007), The Shock Doctrine. 36 Klein (2018), The Battle for Paradise. 37 Descola (2005), Par-delà Nature et Culture. Chapter 13. Digital Humanities, Social Justice and the Pluricultural Realities of Dutch Caribbean Heritage Archives 1 2 DiGiovine (2017), “UNESCO’s world heritage program,” 83. I am deeply indebted to the work of the Digital Library of the Caribbean (dLOC), both its founding members and its compassionate staff, as well as to the valuable resources on digital humanities in the Caribbean collected by Duke University in Small Axe Archipelagos, and those on DH praxis collected by the NEH Caribbean Studies and Digital Humanities Institute hosted by the University of Florida. 3 Gilroy (1983), The Black Atlantic, 2. 4 Ibid., 3. 5 Ibid., 7. 6 Bonilla (2017), “Freedom, sovereignty, and other entanglements”; Bonilla (2013), “Ordinary Sovereignty”; veenendaal & Oostindie (2018), “Head versus Heart”; Hinds (2019), Civil Society Organisations. 7 Isin & Turner (2007), “Investigating Citizenship”; Koning et al. (2015), “Citizenship Agendas in and Beyond the Nation-State”; Hinds (2019), Civil Society Organisations. 8 van der Pijl & Guadeloupe (2015), “Imagining the Nation in the Classroom.” 9 “The SAMOA Pathway.” 10 SAMOA Pathway paragraph 80 reads: “We recognize that small island developing states (SIDS) possess a wealth of culture, which is a driver and an enabler for sustainable development. Indigenous and traditional knowledge and cultural expression, which underscores the deep connections among people, culture, knowledge and the natural environment, can meaningfully advance sustainable development and social cohesion.” 11 And paragraph 81 reads under c, d, and e: “(c) to develop and strengthen national and regional cultural activities and infrastructures … enhance tangible and intangible cultural heritage, including local and indigenous knowledge, and involve local people for the benefit of present and future generations; (d) To develop cultural and creative industries, including tourism, that capitalize on their rich heritage of and have a role to play in sustainable and inclusive growth; (e) to develop domestic mechanisms to conserve, promote, protect and preserve their natural, tangible and intangible cultural heritage practices and traditional knowledge.” 12 13 Supported by the NWO funded Traveling Caribbean Heritage project. The foundation for DCDP (http://dcdp.uoc.cw) was laid when in 2013–2015 the University of Leiden, the Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies (KITLV), and the University of Curaçao (UoC) cooperated in the digitisation of 4,833 collection items from the former KITLv Library with relevance to the Dutch Caribbean and published before 1954. In this project, the UoC library provided local expertise on language, legal and user-related issues. DCDP was developed in parallel to this digitisation project as a digital platform for providing optimal accessibility to this collection specifically for users in the Dutch Caribbean. DCDP is an offshoot of the Digital Library of the Caribbean, dLOC, developed with the support of and in connection with dLOC. 300 14 NOTES ON CHAPTER 14 Initiated as part of the Caribbean Studies Digital Humanities Institute funded by the National Endowment for the Humanities 15 Risam (2019), New Digital Worlds, 143. 16 Faraclas (2021), “From a Creole Past to a Plurilingual Future.” 17 Pereira (2018), Valorization of Papiamento. 18 Ibid., 67; 94-100. 19 Standardisation developed in the 1980s and 1990s through the Instituto Lingwistiko Antiano (ILA) for the Netherlands Antilles and its sister-organisation IDILA on Aruba. Educational material in Papiamento is currently developed by the Fundashon Planifikation i Idioma (FPI) on Curaçao and by the Department of Education in Aruba. Teacher education is offered through the University of Curaçao and the Instituto Pedagogico Arubano. 20 BZK (2021), Bestuursafspraak voor het Papiaments op Bonaire. 21 Risam (2019), New Digital Worlds, 82. 22 Wagner (2017), “Nou Toujou La!” 23 Risam (2019), New Digital Worlds, 143. 24 Esprit (2020), “Digital projects.” 25 Takahata (2020), “A Caribbean Counter-Edition.” 26 Edmond (2020), “Teaching Without a Text.” 27 Gilroy (1993), The Black Atlantic, 115. For historical context: Groenewoud (2021), “Decolonization, Otherness, and the Neglect of the Dutch Caribbean in Caribbean Studies.” 28 Rosenberg (2016), “Refashioning Caribbean Literary Pedagogy in the Digital Age.” 29 https://hcommons.org/deposits/item/hc:31065. 30 https://www.slavesocieties.info/. 31 Sutton (2017), “The digital Overhaul of the Archive.” 32 Wagner (2017), “Nou Toujou La!” 33 Derrida & Prenowitz (1995), “Archive Fever,” 11. Chapter 14. Caribbean Diasporas, Metropolitan Policies, and Cultural Heritage 1 For a general introduction to the Dutch Caribbean islands, see Oostindie (2005), Paradise Overseas. 2 All figures are based on data provided by the various statistical offices of the islands. 3 For statistics and figures revealing how much the Dutch islands differ in terms of migrant population from others in the region, consult the Aruban CBS online paper: https://www.cepal.org/sites/ default/files/presentations/icpd15_p3-4e.pdf. 4 Green (1974), Migrants in Aruba; Razak (1997), Carnival in Aruba; Alofs & Merkies (1990), Ken Ta Arubiano?; Sharpe (2014), “Race, Color, and Nationalism.” 5 For an early attempt at analysing Aruba transnationally, see Guadeloupe (2009), “Their Modernity Matters too.” 6 E.g., of all marriages registered in Aruba in 1999, only twenty-nine percent were a union between 7 Lewis (1983), Main Currents; Mintz (1996), “Enduring Substances”; Mintz (2012), Three Ancient 8 For a thorough account of how the Latino and Hispanic label was pushed and created by American two people both born on the island; see Timmer (2018), “Aruba,” 3. Colonies. policymakers, based on cultural nationalist ideals, see Francis-Fallon (2019), The Rise of the Latino Vote. 9 Lopez et al. (2017), “Hispanic Identity Fades Across Generations,” https://www.pewresearch.org/hispanic/2017/12/20/hispanic-identity-fades-across-generations-as-immigrant-connections-fall-away/. NOTES ON THE EPILOGUE 301 In an August 11, 2020 NPR online article, Shereen Marisol Meraji corroborates these recent Pew findings, see https://text.npr.org/901398248. 10 https://www.migrationpolicy.org/article/haitian-immigrants-united-states-2018, accessed September 8, 2021. 11 Giraud (2004), “The Antillese in France.” 12 Gilroy (1993), The Black Atlantic. 13 Gilroy has reiterated this point in several interviews and other books. For a clear articulation, see Shelby (2008), “Cosmopolitanism”; Gilroy (2000), Against Race. For Stuart Hall’s deconstruction of the Caribbean as solely a region marked by Black culture, see his article Hall (1994), “Cultural Identity and Diaspora.” 14 Scott (1997), “An Obscure Miracle of Connection”; McKittrick (2006), Demonic Grounds; Chivallon (2008), “On the Registers of Caribbean Memory of Slavery”; Glissant (2000), Poetics of Relation. 15 For a more general recent argumentation of the deconstruction of the idea of an essential Black subject, see also Mbembe (2017), Critique of Black Reason. 16 The American comedian Eddie Griffin has made a career explaining these shifting significations. See his “Different Kinds of Black people”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sAGkdQvGAeE. 17 Hall (2000), “Old and New Identities, Old and New Ethnicities,” 53. 18 Nettleford (1970), Mirror Mirror. 19 https://www.kitlv.nl/research-projects-confronting-caribbean-challenges-opinion-survey/, accessed September 12, 2021. 20 Extensive discussions may be found in Oostindie & van Stipriaan (2021), Antilliaans erfgoed. 21 This is one of the conclusions we drew from a series of workshops and other exchanges organized by the Traveling Caribbean Heritage team on the ABC islands in the late 2010s. Cf. Franken (2021), Het Landschap van Nederlands-Caribisch Erfgoed. 22 Oostindie et al. (2020), “A global comparison of non-sovereign island territories.” 23 CBS (2018), Jaarrapport integratie 2018; e.g., Engbersen et al. (2019), “Maasstad aan de Monitor.” 24 Yamashiro & Roediger (2020), “Biased Collective Memories.” 25 Hermes & Hillhorst (2015), “We Have Given Up So Much”; Rodenberg & Wagernaar (2016), 26 Roetman (2020), “Rutte Wil Naar een ‘Land Met Nul Racisme’.” “Essentializing Black Pete”; Ceupens (2018), Pietpraat. 27 Guadeloupe (2022), Black Man in the Netherlands. 28 Gilroy (2004), Postcolonial Melancholia. 29 Geschiere (2009), Perils of Belonging. 30 https://www.rtlnieuws.nl/nieuws/nederland/artikel/4506021/nederlandse-hiphop-domineert-topliijstje-spotify, accessed October 12, 2021. 31 https://www.npo3fm.nl/nieuws/3fm/fb2fe8c7-4d98-4843-83e0-8d1414251b26/broederliefde-heeft-hetrecord-van-frans-bauer-verbroken, accessed October 12, 2021. 32 Jessica Roiz (2020), “From Bonaire to the World.” 33 On the Rotterdam summer festival and the role played by Marlon Brown, see Guadeloupe et al. (2020), “Indische Foto’s, Zomercarnaval en Kapsalon.” Epilogue 1 Hall (1994), ‘Cultural Identity and Diaspora’. 2 Anderson (1983), Imagined Communities. 3 Compare Guerra (2014), “Why Caribbean History Matters.” https://www.historians.org/publicab tions-and-directories/perspectives-on-history/march-2014/why-caribbean-history-matters. 302 NOTES ON THE EPILOGUE 4 Trouillot (1995), Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History. 5 Redfield et al. (1936),“Memorandum on the Study of Acculturation.” 6 Pratt (2008), Imperial Eyes. 7 Drayton (2016), “Review of Art in the Time of Colony by Khadija von Zinnenburg Carroll.” 8 Ariese & Wroblewska (2020). Practicing Decoloniality in Museums. 9 Article 27 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 1948, https://en.unesco.org/human-rights/ cultural-life declares that: Everyone has the right freely to participate in the cultural life of the community, to enjoy the arts and to share in scientific advancement and its benefits. 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National Archives Curaçao p. 244 Coll. Alex van Stipriaan p. 253 Coll. Christina Ravel p. 267 Coll. Francio Guadeloupe The Authors Rose Mary Allen (University of Curaçao Dr. Moises da Costa Gomez) is an anthropologist, with extensive expertise in oral history, particularly in Curaçao. In 2021 she was appointed Extraordinary Professor in the field of Culture, Community and History. She has (co-)published and edited several books and a number of articles on the cultural and social history of the Dutch Caribbean. She was a member of the Traveling Caribbean Heritage research team. She is a member of the steering group installed by the Dutch government, coordinating a national inventory and research agenda of the Dutch history of slavery. She is also one of the project leaders of the ‘Church and Slavery in the Dutch Empire: History, Theology and Heritage’ project funded by the Dutch Research Council. Luc Alofs (University of Aruba) studied cultural anthropology and obtained a PhD as historian. He is senior research lecturer at the Faculty of Arts & Science and senior researcher at the Aruba Institute for Good Governance & Leadership. He is program coordinator of the master program Governance and Leadership. He published on a wide variety of topics, which include ethnicity & nation building, colonial governance & decolonization, intangible cultural heritage, and civil society studies in the Dutch Caribbean. He was a member of the Traveling Caribbean Heritage research team. He is currently member of the inter-insular consultation platform on the impact of slavery in the Dutch Caribbean. His latest book is the (auto)biography of Aruba born artist Mo Mohamed (2021). Michiel Baud is emeritus Professor in Latin American Studies at the University of Amsterdam. He did extensive research in the Dominican Republic and some other Latin American countries. His research interests are the historical development of national politics and the influence of nationalist ideologies on present-day academic interpretations in Latin America. He is author of Peasants and Tobacco in the Dominican Republic, 1870-1930 (1995) and recently published Modernidad y luchas sociales en la sociedad dominicana, siglos XIX y XX (2020). He co-edited the volumes Popular Intellectuals and Social Movements: Framing Protest in Asia, Africa, and Latin America (2004) and Cultural Tourism in Latin America (2009). Alissandra Cummins is a Caribbean Art and Museum historian. She is the Director of the Barbados Museum & Historical Society as well as a lecturer in museum/ heritage studies for the University of the West Indies (UWI). Cummins has 334 THE AUTHORS published widely on Caribbean museums and heritage. She served in a number of prestigious positions both nationally and internationally including: Founder President, Museums Association of the Caribbean (MAC), 1989-1995; President, International Council of Museums (ICOM, 2004 – 2010); Chairperson, International Advisory Committee, UNESCO Memory of the World, 2007-2009; Chairperson, Executive Board of UNESCO (2011-2013); Editor in Chief, International Journal of Intangible Heritage (2011-2020); Principal Investigator (UWI) of the international consortium, EU-LAC-MUSEUMS (2016-2020). She currently serves as the President of the International Coalition of Sites of Conscience, the Chairperson of the Barbados National Commission for UNESCO as well as the Barbados National Gallery. She is a Fellow of The Museums Association of the Caribbean, UK. Raymundo A.C.F. Dijkhoff (National Archaeological Museum Aruba, NAMA) graduated in 1997 for his Master’s degree in Archaeology and Culture History of Indigenous America at Leiden University (the Netherlands).Since 1999 he works at NAMA as Head of the Collections and Research Department and for two periods functioned as Deputy Director of this institution. He is author and editor of archaeological publications and is currently focusing his research on the Santa Cruz 35 site cemetery of the Historic Period which will be the basis of his PhD. At present he is the coordinator of Aruba for all Underwater Cultural Heritage matters. Malcom Ferdinand (CNRS, IRISSO/University Paris Dauphine). He is an environmental engineer from University College London and doctor in political philosophy from Université Paris Diderot. At the crossroad of political philosophy, postcolonial theory and political ecology, his research focuses on the Black Atlantic and particularly the Caribbean. He explores the relations between current ecological crises and the colonial history of modernity. He published a book based on his PhD dissertation: A Decolonial Ecology: Thinking from the Caribbean World (2021). Sara Florian (Yong Siew Toh Conservatory of Music, National University of Singapore) is a researcher and a poet. Her Ph.D. research was chiefly carried out in Italy and at the University of the West Indies (Jamaica, Barbados, Trinidad), after which she obtained a Post-Doctoral Fellowship at Singapore Management University. Florian currently lectures Italian and co-lectures ‘Text and Music’. She has mainly studied the Anglophone, the Francophone and the Dutch Caribbean. In 2019 her Caribbean Counterpoint was published by House of Nehesi Publishers; Caribbean Counterpoint II is forthcoming. Her essays, reviews, interviews and poems appeared in World Literature Today, Caribbean Quarterly, The Caribbean Writer, Small Axe, The Jamaica Observer, among others. Her poems and art have been featured and/or presented in Singapore, Malaysia, Italy, USA, Colombia, the Caribbean. THE AUTHORS 335 Pancho Geerman is a development sociologist and jurist. He has occupied leadership positions in governmental and non-governmental organizations in Aruba since 1982. His trajectory is in development and spatial planning, education, culture, and legislation. Charissa Granger (University of the West Indies, Trinidad) is a scholar of Caribbean music, performance, decoloniality and Caribbean diasporic cultural thought. She holds a doctorate in cultural musicology from Georg-August Universität Göttingen (Germany), and was the 2018-2020 Marie Skłodowska-Curie Leading Postdoctoral Fellow at Erasmus University Rotterdam (Netherlands), Granger is also postdoctoral researcher in the NWO-funded Island(er)s at the Helm research project that works on co-creating research on sustainable and inclusive solutions for social adaptation to climate challenges in the (Dutch) Caribbean. She is co-editor of Music Moves: Musical dynamics of relation, knowledge and transformation (2016). Margo Groenewoud is 2022-2023 Fulbright Scholar-in-Residence at The City College of New York and the CUNY Dominican Studies Institute. Based in the Dutch Caribbean since 2008, she obtained her PhD degree in Caribbean history at Leiden University and the University of Curaçao. Recurrent themes in her scholarship are social exclusion, citizenship, migration and radicalism in the transnational Caribbean. Her current projects focus on Dutch-Spanish Caribbean Engagements and Digital Humanities relative to Caribbean migration. Groenewoud recently published in Clio. Women Gender History, Small Axe and the Journal of Caribbean History. She is consultant for the Digital Library of the Caribbean (dLOC) and member of the editorial boards of CSA’s Caribbean Conjunctures and of the Brill Caribbean Studies series. Francio Guadeloupe (KITLV-KNAW and University of Amsterdam, UoA) is an anthropologist senior researcher at KITLv-KNAW and an associated Professor in the Department of Anthropology at UoA. He has also served for four years as the President of the University of St. Martin in the Dutch Caribbean. Guadeloupe’s principle areas of research have been on the manner in which popular understandings of national belonging, ethnic diversity, cultural heritage, religious identity, and mass media constructions of truth, continue to be impacted by colonial racisms and global capital. His latest books are So, how does it feel to be a Blackman in the Netherlands: an Anthropological Account (2021) and, with Yvon van der Pijl, Equaliberty in the Dutch Caribbean; Ways of Being Non/Sovereign (2022). Guadeloupe supervises the transdisciplinary research program ‘Island(er)s at the Helm’ which studies sustainable and inclusive solutions to climate challenges in the Dutch Caribbean. 336 THE AUTHORS Rosemarijn Hoefte (KITLV-KNAW and University of Amsterdam) is a senior researcher at the Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies (KITLV-KNAW) in Leiden and professor of the history of Suriname after 1873 at the University of Amsterdam. She published several articles on nation branding in Suriname, including in the edited volume Nation Branding in Modern History (2018) and with Wouter veenendaal in the journal Nationalism and Ethnic Politics (2019). Hoefte has furthermore published extensively on a number of subjects regarding Caribbean social history. In 2018 she was elected president of the Association of Caribbean Historians. She is Editor-in-Chief of the New West Indian Guide. Corinne Hofman (Leiden University) is professor of Caribbean archaeology at the Faculty of Archaeology, Leiden University and senior researcher at the KITLVKNAW. Major themes of interest are indigenous archaeology and legacies, mobility and exchange, colonial contact, inter-cultural dynamics, landscape transformation, heritage management, archaeology of climate change and community engagement. Hofman is particularly interested in the development of new tools and techniques for humanities research. Her motivation and current interest lay in the protection and preservation of the Caribbean’s heritage and the resistance of its contemporary communities in the vein of the current climate change debate. Jorge Ulloa Hung (Instituto Tecnológico de Santo Domingo (INTEC) is a research professor affiliated with the CaribTRAILS Project at Royal Netherlands Institute for Southeast Asian and Caribbean studies (KITLV-KNAW), and adjunct professor of the Anthropology Department in the University of Miami. His current topic of research is archaeological landscapes on the island of Hispaniola. He is also interested in the transformations, interactions, and continuity of Indigenous cultural legacies in the current regional cultures of Dominican Republic and the wider Caribbean and its impact on the formation of Creole society through material culture, the transmission of experiences, and symbolic aspects. Joseph Sony Jean (Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies KITLv-KNAW) is a Haitian archaeologist. He holds a PhD in archaeology at Leiden University, and he is researcher in Caribbean Studies at KITLV. He leads the annual seminar “Patrimoine archéologique” for the Master program Histoire, Memoire et Patrimoine at the Université d’Haiti. His archaeological research focuses on the long-term landscape transformation of Haiti combining ethnographic, historical, oral history and ethnohistoric sources. He is interested in critical heritage studies, particularly the politics of heritage and relationships between contemporary societies and heritage. THE AUTHORS 337 Stacey Mac Donald is an environmental psychologist who studied at Leiden University. Her PhD research formed part of the KITLv-KNAW research project ‘Confronting Caribbean Challenges’. She conducted research into the societal challenges of nature and nature conservation in the Caribbean Netherlands. In 2022 she obtained her PhD. Now Mac Donald has her own consultancy for NatureBased Solutions. She currently works for the World Wildlife Fund for Nature – The Netherlands (WWF-NL), based on Bonaire as an advisor for the WWF-NL Caribbean program. Roy McCree (University of the West Indies, Trinidad) is a sociologist and Senior Research Fellow attached to the Sir Arthur Lewis Institute of Social and Economic Studies (SALISES). He lectures in the sociology of sport, sport and public policy, public policy and qualitative research. His research interests include sport development, sport for development, youths, community development and monitoring and evaluation. He published among others in The International Journal of the History of Sport, Sport in Society, Journal of Sport and Social Issues and the International Journal of Sport Policy and Politics. Ashleigh John Morris is a cultural heritage management professional, an affiliated research fellow at CaribTRAILS, a project of the KITLv-KNAW, and a PhD candidate in Archaeology at Leiden University. He has been involved in several international research projects, including the European Research Council-Synergy-funded Research Project: Nexus 1492. His work focuses on safeguarding the archaeological heritage of Trinidad and Tobago. Gert Oostindie (KITLV-KNAW and Leiden University) was until his retirement late 2021 Director of the Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies (KITLv-KNAW), and Professor of Colonial and Postcolonial History at Leiden University. Over the past decades, he was active in a number of research projects with a major societal impact, particularly on Dutch Atlantic slavery, Caribbean decolonization, Dutch extreme violence in the Indonesian War of Independence (1945-1949), and on the impact of postcolonial migrations in the Netherlands on debates about Dutch national identity. Together with Alex van Stipriaan he initiated and supervised the Traveling Caribbean Heritage project. Oostindie is presently directing a research project on the colonial history of the Dutch monarchy. Joyce L. Pereira is a retired teacher and lecturer in the Creole language Papiamento and in the Dutch language and literature. She has taught at the Aruban teacher training college, Instituto Pedagogico Arubano, and as a researcher at the University of Aruba. She was also a guest lecturer at the University of Curaçao. Her special 338 THE AUTHORS attention is paid to Papiamento and the position of Papiamento in education and society. Pereira helps the NGO Fundacion Lanta Papiamento with the realization of several short and long-term projects related to Papiamento. Rob Perrée Studied Dutch Language and Literature and Art History at the University of Amsterdam. He works as an independent writer and curator, with a focus on contemporary African American, African and Caribbean art and media art. Perrée published books on video art, artist’s books, African American art, was the editor of books on Marcel Pinas, Tirzo Martha, Remy Jungerman and René Tosari and published many articles in catalogues, books, magazines and newspapers. He curated among others Postcards from Black America (1998/1999), What about Africa? (2016) and TELL ME YOUR STORY. 100 Years of Storytelling in African American Art (2020). Perrée is the founder and editor of the online magazine Africanah.org. He lives and works in Amsterdam and Brooklyn (NY). Jorge Ridderstaat (University of Central Florida) is an Associate Professor at the UCF Rosen College of Hospitality Management since 2016. Between 1996-2016, he worked as an economist (1996-2008) and Research Manager (2008-2016) at the Central Bank of Aruba. His primary research interest focuses on investigating novel factors that impact tourists’ demand for goods and services. Ridderstaat specializes in secondary time series and panel data applications. He has a Bachelor’s Degree in Accounting (The Hague University of Applied Sciences, The Netherlands), a Master’s Degree in Economics (Erasmus University Rotterdam, The Netherlands), and a Ph.D. Degree in Tourism Economics from the Free University of Amsterdam (The Netherlands). Valika Smeulders is head of the Department of History of the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. She specializes in the colonial past and its representation, museum collections, their social relevance, and restitution policy. While working on the Rijksmuseum’s exhibition on slavery (2021) she was part of the Traveling Caribbean Heritage project as a postdoc researcher. She has published on the Dutch slavery past in the Netherlands and Curaçao and on Caribbean heritage in Dutch museums. She was a member of the UNESCO Memory of the World Committee in the Netherlands, of the Dutch advisory commission on policy for colonial collections, and is currently a member of the research commission for colonial heritage in the Dutch royal collections. THE AUTHORS 339 Tibisay Sankatsing Nava is a researcher and community engagement coordinator from Aruba. She works at the Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies (KITLV) in the Netherlands, as part of research programs focused on Caribbean islands, such as Island(er)s at the Helm and CaribTRAILS. Her research focuses on how co-development can contribute to research practices in the Caribbean and how different communities engage with science throughout the research process. Tibisay works with the Dutch Research Council (NWO) to strengthen research infrastructures in the Dutch Caribbean. She is also an advisor for cultural funds such as the Mondriaan Fonds and the Fonds voor Cultuurparticipatie. Alex van Stipriaan (Erasmus University Rotterdam) was until his retirement late 2020 professor of Caribbean History and Culture. He published extensively on (slavery) history, cultural heritage, and artists of Suriname and the Dutch Caribbean. Van Stipriaan curated several large exhibitions on Maroons, on Slavery, on Black & White relations in the Netherlands, and he co-produced a documentary on Searching for (African) Roots. With Gert Oostindie he initiated and supervised the Traveling Caribbean Heritage project, of which this book is one of the results. His publications and activities can be found at www.alexvanstipriaan.com. Index 1969 rebellion, see May 1969 revolt. Art Rules Aruba, 131. 24K, 268. Art Skalo, 127. Abath, Ciro, 130, 131. Aruba Art Fair, 131. Abath, Giovanni (7.1), 71, 128. Aruba Birdlife Conservation, 61. Academy for Higher Art and Culture Education Aruba Hotel and Tourism Association (AHATA), (Paramaribo), 121. 63. Academy of Fine Arts and Design (Aruba), 131. Aruba Mural Tours, 132. Adhin, Jhan, 35, 37. Aruba Sport Union (ASU), 190, 199. Afrika Bambaata, 256. Aruba Tourism Authority (ATA), 63. Afro Caribbean Samples project, 183. Aruban Cricket Association, 199. Agenda 2030 Sustainable Development Goals Arubanse volkspartij (AvP), 212. (SDGs), 235, 238, 275. A$AP Rocky, 256. Ajax Amsterdam, 15, 16. Ashwood Garvey, Amy, 29. Albies, Ozhaino, 212. Asmoredjo, Reinier, 124. Allen, Rose Mary, 107, 236, 237, 246. Association of Caribbean States (ACS), 95, 98. Alleyne, Mervyn, 240. Ateliers’89 Punto de Beyas Arte Aruba, 131, 133. Alma Blou Gallery, 127, 129, 134. Bacilio, Gilbert, 99. Alofs, Luc, 7, 11, 21, 192, 195, 198, 272, 273. Bade, David, 128, 129. Alvarez, Julia, 32. Badrising, Niermala, 36. Amateur Baseball Bond Aruba, 212. Bailey, George, 111. Amazing Bert and Luke Skyyywalker, 256. Balaguer, Joaquín, 31. Amherst College, 246. Baldauf Jr., Richard B., 149. Amsterdam Institute for Social Science Barbados Museum, 84. Research (AISSR), 8. Barbara, Quentley, 128. Anderson, Benedict, 27, 43, 192, 271. Barrio Project, 131. Andrade, Abraham, 240. Baud, Michiel, 17, 18, 272. Andrea, Laurindo, 174, 176. Bazoer, Riechedly, 15. Anholt, Simon, 28. Beaujon, Frederik, 145. Anita, vurnon, 15. Beckles, Hilary, 99. Ansano, Richenel, 191, 192, 202. Behilia, Oswin Chin, 172, 178, 180, 182. Antilliaanse Feesten Hoogstraaten, 183, 269. Bejarano, Lázaro, 158. Antoin, Boi, 74, 239. Bekita, 174, 177. Arawak Checkers Club, 107. Bhabha, Homi, 154. Archaeological Institute of the Netherlands Biggie Smalls, 256. Antilles, 104. Binda, Aanand, 124. Ariese, Csilla E., 274. Bishop, Maurice, 252. Arion, Frank Martinus, 21, 75, 99, 154, 155, 157, Blaaker, Carlos, 127. 159-162, 165, 166. Black Lives Matter, 80, 95, 123, 259, 264, 266, 267. Aronczyk, Melissa, 41. Black Queer and Trans Resistance, 266. Arron, Henck, 35, 36. Blades, Rubén, 171. Arroyo, Joe, 172. Blokland, Sara, 122. 342 INDEX Blue Bay Resort, 128. Bob Marley Museum, 38. Central Bank (Curaçao and Sint Maarten) [CBCS], 129; Money Museum, 129. Bogaerts, xander (x-Man), 212, 216, 220. Central Bank (Suriname), 124, 133. Bogues, Anthony, 39, 176, 177, 178. Ceque School, 107. Boissevain, Rachel, 163. Cercle des Philadelphus, 113. Bolt, Usain, 37, 38, 42. Césaire, Aimé, 22, 29, 96, 176, 258, 265. Bonaire Archives, 239. Chance, Leo, 252. Booker Prize, 40. Chang, Carlisle, 111. Bosch, G.B., 140. Charje, Anna, 240. Boskaljon, Lucila, 93, 127. Charter for the Kingdom, 9, 165. Bouterse, Desiré (Dési), 36, 119, 133. Chatlein, Allan, 174. Brar, Manpreet, 7. Chatlein, vernon, 171, 172, 174-178, 180, 182, 183, Brathwaite, Kamau, 244, 245. 220. Breeveld, Borger, 34. Chirino, Franciso “Chipen”, 199, 200. Brereton, Bridget, 28. Chivallon, Christine, 258. British Commonwealth (see also Common- Climate Action Summit, 221. wealth Caribbean countries), 29, 199. Club Caquetio, 107. BroederLiefde, 268. Club Caribe, 107. Brown, Marlon, 269. Coastal Aruba Refining Company N.v., 58. Bureau d’Ethnologie, 113. Cobham-Sander, Rhonda, 246. Busta Rhymes, 256. Coffie, Nochi, 130. Byron, George Gordon, 145. Collado, David, 43. Cabenda, Ruben, 122. Collins, Leroy, 198. Caha di orgel project, 183. Commonwealth Caribbean countries, 29, 80, Caiquetio School, 107. Captain Caribbean (see also Tirzo Martha), 128. Caquetio Chess Club, 107. 199, 253. Contemporary Art Museum Moengo (CAMM), 120, 121, 133. Cardi B, 256. Cosway, Antoinette, 158. Caribbean Pan African Network, 99. Council of Europe, 89. Caribbean Premier League (CPL), 23, 194, 202, Create Caribbean Research Institute, 243. 203. Cricket Federation (Aruba), 190. Caribbean Studies Association (CSA), 147. Cricket Heritage Center, 190, 194, 197. CARICOM, 95-99, 192. Croes, Betico, 56, 57, 167. CARICOM Reparations Commission (CRC), 95. Croes, Robertico, 59. Carimi, 255. Crutzen, Paul, 223. Cariseasland project, 243. Cummins, Alissandra, 25. Carnaval Tropical, 269. Curaçao Museum, 93, 133. Carpentier, Alejo, 165. Curaçao Public Library, see National Library of Cas di Cultura [House of Culture], 130. Curaçao. Casa Moderna, 127. D.A.M.N. (Don’t Accept Mass Notion), 268. Catholic Church, 68, 69, 94, 113, 139, 140, 141, 241; D’Leon, Oscar, 183. friars of Tilburg, 140; Dominican nuns, 140. Central Bureau of Statistics (Aruba), 58, 59, 65, 144, 145, 251. D’Soca Lyon, Bryan, 269. Da Costa Gomez, Moises Frumencio, 7, 156. Damberg, Avantia, 127. Central Bureau of Statistics (Curaçao), 145, 196. Dania, Winfred, 130. Central Bureau of Statistics (Netherlands), 54, 145. Datapanik, 183. Central Bank (Aruba), 133. De Bruijne, Aart, 232. INDEX 343 De Kom, Anton, 29, 35, 69, 74, 75, 96. Ecole de Chartes, 89. De la Cosa, Juan, 154. Ecury family, 116. De la Parra, Pim, 34-36. Ecury, Giselle, 162. De Marchena, Pedro Pablo Medardo, 69. Ecury, Nydia, 173, 174. De Monchy, Pieter, 156. Edmond, Jacob, 244, 245. De Ojeda, Alonso, 105, 154. Edna Manley Art Academy, 121. De Palm, Jules, 145. Eman, Henny, 57. De Rooy, Felix, 81, 94, 127. Eman, Mike, 212. De Rooy, René, 145. Emanuelson, Sharelly, 126, 127, 171, 172, 178, 180. De Weever, Perdo, 207. ENB, 268, 269. Debrot, Nicolas “Cola”, 21, 154-160, 162, 163, 165, Engels, Chris, 93. 166. Erasmus University Rotterdam, 7. DeGraff, Michel, 138. European Council Museum Prize, 89, 98. Derrida, Jacques, 248. European Union (EU), 234. Derulo, Jason, 256. Excelsior Steelpan Academy, 185. Desenkadená [Unchained], 71, 99. Exxon, 56, 217. Dia di Lucha pa Libertat [Day for the Struggle Fabolous, 256. of Freedom], 68, 69. Facebook, 28, 129. Diaz, Junot, 27, 33, 34. Fanon, Frantz, 29, 96, 154, 156, 157, 164, 176, 177. Dickerson, Ernest R., 160. Faraclas, Nicholas, 144. Digital Grainger, 244. FARPA, 148. Digital Library of the Caribbean (dLOC), 247. Fat Joe, 256. Dijkhoff, Raymundo, 20, 104. Federashon Beisbol Korsou, 212. Dinnie, Keith, 16, 17. Fédération Internationale de Football DJ Bass, 268. Association (FIFA), 196, 197. Dobru (Robin Raveles), 35, 36, 119. Ferdinand, Malcom, 23, 221, 224, 272, 274. Does, Ida, 161. Fernández, Leonel, 32, 40. Dominica State College, 243. Ferrol, Roy, 34. Dominique, Jean, 243. Fiel, Boeboe (Dubbelspel character), 160. Doorson, Ken, 122. Fingal, Evelino, 106. Doran, Maria, 173, 175, 176. Florian, Sara, 21, 22, 272, 273. Dough E. Fresh, 256. Floyd, George, 95. Doyle, Connor, 38. Fort Zeelandia, 119, 133. Drayton, Richard, 274. Forte, Maximilian, 111. Duke University, 243, 248; library, 243. Foxy Brown, 256. Dumfries, Denzel, 15. Fraai, Manuel, 145. Durgaram, Ralph, 183. Franca, Gerald, 199, 200. Dutch Caribbean Digital Platform (DCDP), 239. Franken, Thaïs, 186, 187. Dutch Museum Association, 78. Fundacion Lanta Papiamento (FLP), 146, 148. Dutch Reformed Church, 139. Fundacion Parke Nacional Aruba (FPNA), 105. Dutch Research Council (NWO), 7. Fundacion Traductor di Papiamento (FCP) Duvalier, Jean-Claude, 114. [Foundation Papiamento Translators], 147. Eagle Petroleum, 217. G-Art Blok, 120. Earlham College, 147. Ganga, Sharda, 36. Ecclesiastical and Secular Sources for Slave Gangaram Panday, Diana, 35. Societies, see Slave Societies Digital Gario, Quinsy, 266. Archive. Garvey, Marcus, 69, 96, 218, 219. 344 INDEX Geerman, Pancho, 20. hooks, bell, 182. Geertruida, Lutsharel, 15. Hoyer, William, 145. Gelt Dekker, Jacob, 94. Instituto Buena Bista (IBB), 128, 129, 133. Genocidio Haitiano, 31. Indian Museum, 113. Gentles-Peart, Kamille, 41. Intangible Cultural Heritage (ICH) Convention, George A. Smathers Libraries, 247. 53, 55, 189. Gilmore, Richard G., 195. Intermediate League Baseball, 212. Gilroy, Paul, 25, 236-238, 245, 257-259, 266, 269. International Art Fair [Paramaribo], see Girigori, Jean, 126, 129. National Art Fair. Glissant, édouard, 165, 170-172, 177, 187, 258. International Linguistic Association (ILA), 147. Gonçalves-Ho Kang You, Lilian, 79. International Monetary Fund (IMF), 58, 63, 234. González-López, Cándida, 275. International Slavery Museum, 80. Grainger, James, 244. Ir-Sais, 269. Grandmaster Flash, 256. Irausquin, Juan E., 57. Granger, Charissa, 22, 272. Irodikromo, Soeki, 124. Green Climate Fund, 233. Isabelica Plantation Museum, 85. Gregory, Steven, 42. Isenia, Elia, 176. Groenewoud, Margo, 24, 272, 274. Jacques, Amy, 29. Grove, Richard, 223. Jaffe, Rivke, 232. Grupo Pa Promove Papiamento (GP3), 147. Jakob (Verborgen Leegte character), 163. Guadeloupe, Francio, 23, 24, 45, 199, 214, 236-238, Jamaica Labour Party (JLP), 38. 246, 272, 273. Jamaica Tourist Board, 211. Gulmans, Jan, 128. James, C.L.R., 29, 96, 213. Guerra, Juan Luis, 42. James, Marlon, 39, 40. Guerra, Lilian, 272. Jansen, Kenley, 212. Habibe, Henry, 160. Jansen, Sue Curry, 44. Hall, Stuart, 25, 38, 154, 259, 271, 276. Jantje, 240. Hall, the (Suriname), 120. Jean, Joseph Sony, 20, 115. Hambuch, Doris, 160. Jeon, 107. Harris, Kamala, 256. John Morris, Ashleigh, 20. Hartman, Saidiya, 187. Johnson, Hume, 41. Harto, Ermilio, 197. Jones, Andruw, 211, 220. Havana Biennial, 134. Joosse, Sofie, 275, 276. Haviser, Jay B., 195. Joseph, Gilbert, 28. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 14. Journal of Caribbean Social Studies, 147. Helman, Albert, 154, 157. Juliana, Elis, 173, 174, 180, 239. Helweg, Karolien, 129. Julio Perrenal, 145. Henriques, Jeanne, 99. Jungerman, Remy, 122. Henriquez, Denis, 162. Junior League Baseball, 212. Henriquez, May, 127. K’Cho, 129. Henriquez, Nicole, 127. Kaersenhout, Patricia, 122. Heyligers, Glenda, 131. KARA (Kambio Rápido), 159. Hobsbawm, Eric, 29. Karel (Mijn Zuster de Negerin character), 156, Hofman, Corinne, 20. 157. Hoefte, Rosemarijn, 18, 37, 49, 272. Karneval der Kulturen, 269. Hollande, François, 89. Karpata, Bazjan, 154. Holloway, Natalee, 63. Kassav, 183. INDEX 345 Kaya Kaya [street street] party, 127. Leiden University Press, 7. Kelly, Robin, 176. Lejuez, Elisa, 130. Kempadoo, Kamala, 42, 44. Leone, Sergio, 160. Kensmil, Iris, 122. Lewis, Arthur, 170. Kensmil, Natasja, 122, 123. Liberia Peters, Maria, 252. Kerr, Pauline, 192. Lie A Fo, John, 121. Kes, 183. Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra, 171. Kester, Ellen Petra, 144. Linger, Jaasir, 122. Kester, Grant, 274. Little League Baseball, 200, 212, 219. Keti Koti [The Chain is Broken], 68. LL Cool J, 256, 268. Kibii Foundation, 121, 133. Loaiza, Jhomar, 127. Kick Out Zwarte Piet (KOZP), 266. Locadia, Jürgen, 15. King Charles, 256. Lopez, Elvis, 130, 131. Kingsale, Gene, 212. Lopez, Jennifer, 256. Kirindongo, Yubi, 72, 128, 129. Lorde, Audre, 22, 169, 171, 174, 178, 182, 187. Knowles, Beyoncé, 210, 211. Luperón, Gregorio, 31. Koch, Jerzy, 157. Lurel, victorin, 89. Kodak Black, 256. Mac Donald, Stacey, 221, 228, 272, 274. Kolegio Erasmo Skol Humanista na Papia- Maduro and Curiel’s Bank (MCB), 129. mentu, 159. Maduro, Calvin, 212. Kool Herc, 256. Maduro, Elogio, 173. Koolman, Saira, 269. Maduro, Hedwiges, 15. Kroon, Willem E., 69, 145. Maduro, Mordi, 197. Krosshart project, 183. Mahawat Khan, Jamal, 199. Kuenta I Tambú, 183. Major League Baseball (MLB) 196, 199, 200, 203, Kuiperi, Stan, 131. Kura Hulanda Museum, 19, 69, 70, 93, 94, 100. Kuwas, Omar, 128. 212, 213. Mangazina di Rei [The King’s Warehouse], 74, 92. L-Rock, 268, 269. Manley, Michael, 39. La Croes, Eric, 169, 170, 182. Mannoni, Octave, 157. La Cruz, Ruben, 129. Manteniendo Herencia Bibo den Tiempo Lago Oil & Transport Company, Ltd. (Lago), 56, 57, 89, 217, 218, 252, 268. project, 116. Marcha, valdemar, 190, 197. Lamming, George, 153, 165. Marchena, Garrick, 127. Landelijk Platform Slavernijverleden Marco, Don, 127. [National Platform (for the) Slavery Past], 75. Maria (Mijn Zuster de Negerin character), 21, Landhuis Bloemhof, 127. 157, 158. Landhuis Knip/Kenepa, 154. Marley, Bob, 23, 37-40, 42, 172, 211. Lando, Melvi, 267. Marsalis, Wynton, 171. Landsverordening Officiële Talen, 143. Martha, Radha, 214. Landvreugd, Charl, 122. Martha, Tirzo, 126, 128, 129. language policy and planning (LPP), 144, 149, Martí, José, 29, 31. 150. Martina, Charles, 71. Language Policy and Planning Institute, 150. Martinez, Aja, 276. Lauffer, Pierre, 69, 137, 145, 159. Martinez, Alida, 131. Leerorkest, 186. Martínez de Ampiés, Juan, 158. Leiden University, 7. Martis, Adi, 130. 346 INDEX Mascaruba, 148. National Library of Curaçao, 166, 196, 197. Maureen (Verborgen Leegte character), 22, 163. National Museum of Ethnography (Nether- May 1969 revolt (Trinta di Mei), 9, 19, 21, 22, 29, 69, 96, 142, 155, 160, 162, 166. McCree, Roy, 22, 23, 272. lands), 104. National Museum of Saint Kitts and Nevis, 85, 86. McKittrick, Kathrine, 176, 180, 257. National Park Foundation (Curaçao), 72. Memorial ACTe Slavery Museum (MACTe), 80, National Platform Slavery Past, 99. 88-91, 97, 98, 265. National Trust of Trinidad and Tobago, 112, 115. Mendez Chumaceiro, Abraham, 244. Nationale volkspartij, 156. Merkies, Rita, 156. Nature and Environment Policy Plan (NMPB) Messengers of Peace Site, 72. 2020-2024, 229. Meulens, Hensley, 212. Nettleford, Rex, 165, 170, 182, 259. Mijts, Erik, 144. Neymar (Neymar da Silva Santos Júnior), 210, Minaj, Nicki, 256. 211. Miss Cynthie, 208-210, 217, 220. Nicolaas, Quito, 21, 22, 154, 155, 159, 161-166. Moengo Festival, 121. Nicolaas, Tatiana (TxN), 130. Mohammed, Mo, 7. Nicolas, Chamon, 160, 161. Mongui Maduro Library, 239. Nijkamp, Peter, 51, 59. Monsanto, Tony, 124, 125, 126. Nita, Amador, 96. Monseigneur verriet, 244. Nola Hatterman Art Academy, 121. Monuments Bureau (Curaçao), 195. Nora (Dubbelspel character), 160, 161. Morrison, Toni, 175, 176, 177, 180. Northern Illinois University (NIU), 185; steel Motley, Mia, 221. Movementu Kousa Promé [The Cause First Movement], 98. band, 185. Notting Hill Carnival, 269. Nugent, Daniel, 28. Movimiento Electoral di Pueblo (MEP), 56, 212. NWA, 268. Musée du Panthéon National, 117. Oduber, Nelson, 58. Museo di Tambú Shon Cola, 93. Oduber, Ryan, 130. Museo Kas di Pal’I Maishi, 93. Olympic Games, 201, 202. Museo Memorial de la Resistencia Dominicana, Oostindie, Gert, 7, 11, 19, 24, 45, 68, 272, 273. 30, 32. Museo Nacional Ruta del Esclavo [Slave Route National Museum], 88. Oral and Public History Institute, 248. Organization of American States, 36. Orman, Olga, 162. Museum of Natural History (Bonaire), 92. Oruba, 183. Muyale, Osaira, 130, 131. Osdorp Posse, 268. NAAM Foundation, 195. Osepa, Kevin, 128. Nahar, Kurt, 122. Pablo, 205-209, 213-216, 220. National Archaeological and Anthropological Padmore, George, 29. Memory Management (NAAM), 93. National Archaeological Museum Aruba (NAMA/ MANA), 20, 104, 106, 107, 116. Padre Rojas (De Vervolgden character), 158. Panama Canal Museum Collection (PCMC), 247. Panama Silver, Asian Gold, 246, 247. National Archives of Curaçao, 239. Paramaribo Span, 121. National Art Fair [Paramaribo], 123, 124. Patterson, Orlando, 38, 188. National Association for the Advancement of Pau, Janchi, 160, 161. Colored People (NAACP), 258. Peña Batlle, Manuel Arturo, 31. National Heroes Park, 40. People’s National Party (PNP) [Jamaica], 38. National Library of Aruba, 239. Pereira, Joyce, 21, 272, 273. INDEX 347 Perrée, Rob, 20, 272. Risam, Roopika, 240, 243. Phillips, Claudius, 216. Robles de Medina, xavier, 122. Picasso, Pablo, 127. Rodney, Walter, 96. Pieter, Naomi, 266. Romney, 209, 220. Pinas, Marcel, 120, 121, 122. Roozendaal, Henk, 130. Pinas, Johan, 124. Rosalia, René, 98, 173. Plataforma Sklabitut I Herensha di Sklabitut Rosenberg, Leah, 246. [Platform Slavery and Legacies of Slavery], Rotterdam Summer Carnival, 167, 269. 99. Roumain, Jacques, 113. Plataforma Union di Papiamentu [Unified Papiamento Platform], 146. Pompey Museum of Slavery and Emancipation, 87. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 223. Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies (KITLv-KNAW), 7. Ruprecht, Alexander, 157. Powell, Colin, 256. Ruprecht, Frits, 21, 155, 157. Pratt, Mary Louise, 274. Rutgers, Wim, 161, 166. Project 3, 127. Rutte, Mark, 99, 266. Provisionele Reglement op het Schoolwezen Said, Edward, 165. [Provisional Regulations on the School Saint Lucia Heritage Tourism Project, 51. System], 139. Saint-Loubert, Laëtitia, 40. Public Enemy, 268. Saint Nicholas, 266. Punda Window Art Project, 127. Salazar, Franscisco, 129. Punta del Este declaration, 192, 201. SAMOA Pathway, 235, 238. Queens Park Cricket Club, 194. Sampethai, valentini, 7. Rabess, Gregory, 232. San A Jong, Cliff, 124. Radio Haiti Archive, 243, 247, 248, 249. Sanantonio, Manchi, 160. Ramble Bahamas, 248. Sandberg, Willem, 127. Ramsamoedj, Dhiradj, 122. Sankatsing Nava, Tibisay 20, 272, 273. Raspá, 137. Savonet Museum, 81, 94. Rastafari, 38-40, 42, 96, 211. Schalkwijk, Aart, 232. Ravel, Christina, 41. Schermer, Dirk, 240. Raveles, Robin, see Dobru. Schoenmakers, Marlies, 129. Readytex Art Gallery, 120, 123, 134. Schoop, Kurt, 127. Rebels Band, 183. Scott, David, 257. Reckman, Piet, 99. Seaga, Edward, 39. Reggae Sunsplash (Jamaica), 211. Sean Kingston, 256. Regional Cultural Policy (RCP), 193. Sekou, Lasana, 167. Rembrandt, 86. Selassie, Haile, 39. Rhys, Jean, 158. Senior League Baseball, 212. Rickford, John R., 275. Seymour, A.J., 165. Rickford, Russel J., 275. Shabine, 161. Ridderstaat, Jorge, 18, 51, 57, 59, 60, 272. Shell (Royal Dutch Shell), 217, 219, 252. Rietveld Academy, 121, 131, 133. Sickman Corsen, Joseph, 145. Rigaud, Tula, see Tula. Simmons, Andrelton, 212. Rihanna, 256. Simon, Nel, 72, 129. Rincho, Kunta, 266. Sint Eustatius Historical Foundation Museum, Rincon Boyz, 107. Rijksmuseum, 75-78. 92. Sint Jacobs, Sorandy, 183. 348 INDEX Slave Route Project, 88. Udenhout, Juhnry, 124. Slave Societies Digital Archive, 247. Ulloa Hung, Jorge, 20. Sling, Francis, 127. UN Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous Sling, Norva, 128. Smeulders, valika, 19, 92, 272, 273. Smit, Jennifer, 127. Peoples, 110. UNESCO, 22-24, 51-55, 72, 86, 88, 114, 146, 153, 189, 191, 192, 235, 257, 274. Society for Caribbean Linguistics (SCL), 147. Uniarte, 127-129, 133. Soekdew, Rubia, 34. UNICEF, 146. Solema (Dubbelspel character), 161. United Nations (UN), 50, 54, 110, 234, 235, 238. Solognier, Lidrich, 183. University of Amsterdam, 7. Soomer, June, 95. University of Aruba, 7, 144. Spijkstra, Ellen, 129. University of the Bahamas, 248. Spolsky, Bernard, 150. University of Curaçao (UoC), 7, 8, 239, 241, 243. Sport Museum Curaçao (SMC), 196, 197, 198, University of Florida, 246, 247. 202, 203. University of Manheim, 147. Sranan Art xposed, 123. University of Miami, 246. State Collection, 124. University of the Netherlands Antilles, see status aparte, 9, 15, 56, 57, 72, 106, 107, 155, 164. University of Curaçao. Stedelijk Museum (Amsterdam), 122, 127. University of the West Indies, 29, 246. Stichting Fonds voor Cultuurparticipatie, 182. Urban Arts Talent Grant, 182. Stimaruba, 61. van der Hoogt Prize, 161. Strategic Tourism Plan Bonaire 2017-2027, 229. van der Pijl, Yvon, 237, 238. Struikelblok, George, 120-122. van Kempen, Michiel, 157. Sukru Oso, 120. van Koolwijk, A.J., 104, 115. Suriel, Miguel, 145. van Paddenburgh, G.G., 140. Suriname Rotary, 124. van Stipriaan, Alex, 7, 11, 19, 20, 45, 87, 93, 132, Surinaams Museum, 83, 87, 120, 133. 179, 181, 272, 273. Surinaamsche Bank (DSB), 124. vaz Parro, Sarah, 240. Sutton, Angela, 247. veenendaal, Wouter, 49. Swizz Beatz, 256. venetiaan, Ronald, 119. TaalUnie [Language Union], 144. verboom, Herman, 127. Tedja, Michael, 122. verboom, Lusette, 127. Teenstra, M.D., 140. verstappen, Wim, 34. Terramar Museum, 92, 130. vespucci, Amerigo, 154. Thalia, 148. vijfhoven, Wilgo, 124. Thierry, Dustin, 128. virgin of the valley festival, 24. Thomas, Deborah, 39. voges, Timothy, 128. Thoreau, Henry, 223. Wagner, Laura, 248. Tjon A Meeuw, Roberto, 127. Wakaman [urban wanderer], 119, 121. Torres-Saillant, Silvio, 32. Trench Town Culture Walcott, Derek, 17, 22, 161, 162. Yard Museum, 38. Wantsjo (Mijn Zuster de Negerin, character), 157. Tromp, Ito, 239. Washington Park Museum, 92. Trouillot, Michel-Rolph, 273. Wekker, Gloria, 76. Trujillo, Rafael, 18, 30-34. West India Company, Dutch (WIC), 139, 154, 155. Tula, 68, 69, 80, 93, 99, 154, 181. West Indian carnival, 183. Tula Museum, 93. West Indian Commission, 193, 194. Tyga, 256. West Indies Cricket Board, 194. INDEX 349 Wever, Alydia, 131. Wong, Alfred, 51. White, Walter, 258. World Bank, 234. Wie Eegie Sani [Our Own Things], 35. World Baseball Classic (WBC), 211. Wikipedia, 11, 54, 239; Wiki goes Caribbean, 239. World Heritage Convention (WHC), 191. Will.i.am, 256. World War II, 84, 110, 145, 155, 195, 210, 217. Willem Alexander, King, 77. Wróblewska, Magdalena, 274. William I, King, 140. Wyclef Jean, 255, 256. Willems, Jetro, 15. Wynter, Sylvia, see Winter, Sylvia. Williams, Frank, 137. xx, 269. Willink, Carel, 127. Zapata, Johanna, 128. Winter, Sylvia, 29, 177, 234. Zeus, 202. Wiseman, Geoffrey, 192. Zwarte Piet, 75, 264, 266, 273. Woei, Paul, 124.

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Chapter 2. Tourism Development and Nation-Building: The Case of Aruba

Chapter 2. Tourism Development and Nation-Building: The Case of Aruba

Chapter 2. Tourism Development and Nation-Building: The Case of Aruba

Chapter 2. Tourism Development and Nation-Building: The Case of Aruba

Chapter 2. Tourism Development and Nation-Building: The Case of Aruba

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