Naima B. Robert – From Scholar to Slave
AI: Summary ©
The speaker describes a story of old people in Africa, where they lived as merchants, farmers, blacksmiths, and students. They discuss the struggles of living in a new land with lots of violence and constant violence. The speaker emphasizes the importance of remembering the stories of old people and feeling proud of their actions.
AI: Summary ©
This is a story,
a story of old.
It is our story,
A story untold.
Once upon a time in a land far
away,
Africa,
we lived free.
Our griots sang our stories. We're
Pio, Pula. Our griots sang our stories
of kingdoms and cities,
and the coming of Islam
that united our hearts.
For we were Muslims.
African Muslims.
Following the call of the Arabian prophet,
we spoke Arabic and wrote it. We read
Quran and taught it.
We traveled across the deserts and into trade
routes. We passed peasants and sultans as we
journeyed to Mecca.
We were farmers
and blacksmiths.
We were merchants and weavers.
We were students and teachers. We were princes
and leaders.
But that was all in a land far
away,
Africa.
When we were free.
For in many different ways,
through kidnap and war,
We found ourselves
shackled
and cast out to sea.
And in ships thick with bodies,
with tears, and with filth,
we called out to God, Allah,
to free us from our chains.
Long days
and long nights,
we rot in those slave ships.
Some died of diseases.
Some met death in the water.
But some of us survived.
Our fate was to make it.
To these lands far away, the new world
as slaves.
So
on slave auction blocks,
our captors renamed us,
stripped us, and sold us
to work the plantations
so far from home,
where they beat us and lynched us,
shamed us and cursed us
as savages
to this civilized
land.
And yet,
through the terror,
the pain, and the darkness,
a bright flame flickered.
A flame strong and proud.
The memory of Africa and what we had
seen and where we had come from and
who we had been. Songs of childhood
still beat in our blood.
The words of the Quran
engraved in our hearts
as we traced its letters
with sticks in the sand.
And we would pray Pray in brief stolen
moments,
washing with water, facing the qibla.
We remembered the fast and the ways of
our people
and we clung to who we knew we
still were deep inside.
4,
inside, we were scholars,
students,
teachers,
traders,
and weavers,
princes, and leaders.
And in this new land,
our fortunes
differed.
Some of us run away.
Some died while trying.
Some lived as maroons.
Some died as slaves.
Some became famous.
Still more were unknown.
Some stayed in the new world.
Still others went home.
Those of us who stayed
toiled and struggled,
sweated and labored to build our new homes.
The lands called Trinidad,
Jamaica, and Cuba,
Brazil and Antigua,
Virginia, and Georgia.
We had children and families
that went to our graves.
And to our dark graves,
we took that proud flame.
And the memory of whom
we had been long ago.
For we had been scholars,
students, and teachers,
traders, and weavers, princes, and leaders.
We left barely a
trace. Just a memory,
a name,
and the shadows of our way
in an
old creole prayer.
But that was all in a time long
ago
when we were slaves.
And you are our children
and the children of our children. Blue, black,
deep brown, brick red, and sat.
You met,
multiplied,
and covered the land.
Fulani.
Mandinkke,
Puel,
and Pulaj.
You will again sing our stories
and remember the tales
of when you were scholars, students, and teachers.
Traders, and weavers, princes, and leaders.
This is a story.
A story of
old. And it is our story.
Your story.
A story now told.
For this is a story, a story of
old, and it is your story, a story
now told.