The Slave Castle
by Eileen HockerEileen Hocker was recently in Ghana, West Africa. While driving along Ghana’s coastline with Jeannie Musick, their Ghanaian hosts pointed out a castle where the slaves were brought through years ago. Eileen says: “For me this slave history is more than just something to be learned about or looked at. For millions of us of African descent, this history is about our very lives. And so I want to share from my travel journal some of my reflections of the Cape Coast slave castle in Cape Coast, Ghana.
Click Here for Ms. Hocker's pictures from Cape Coast.
Wow. What can I say? Time has come full circle. It’s hard to believe that maybe my great, great, great, great, great grandmother or grandfather
came through this place.
As I first walked in, I felt numb. I wasn’t feeling anything. Then I started feeling angry. As we went through the museum, I saw where they had remnants of the old ropes and chains that were used to bind and shackle the Africans. It was hard for me to touch the ropes. They seemed like old snakes just lying there, lifeless.
And yet these very things were bound around the bodies of my ancient family members. The chains, neck shackles and ankle shackles were there as well. As I looked at these things and lightly touched them, I was just pissed. Pissed! And angry. Jeannie Musick snapped some pictures of me with these objects. I could feel the snarl on my face as the flash went off. The museum had large posters illustrating how the Africans were bound in those ropes and chains. So standing there next to the real objects felt surreal.
At one point Jeannie started crying when she read one of the captions about how the church was involved with the slave trade. Having Sunday school on the castle premises for the kids of the slave traders (or something like that). I was glad Jeannie was feeling the pain of this place. And if the point of her pain came through knowing how the church was involved, so be it. So I was glad. But then, at another level, I didn’t care. I didn’t want to get caught up in Jeannie’s tears. I didn’t care. Because by this time, I was really feeling my anger.
The displays on the walls showed images I had never seen before. Images of people captured and being marched along. Images painted by artists of people gathered (men, women, and mostly children) before the horrors began.
Then there was a section that showed the middle passage; how people were placed on those slave ships. These I had seen before. And then there was the section about the actual slavery in the States. They had pictures of well-known African-Americans, descendants of the slaves. Pictures of Martin Luther King; Malcolm X; Angela Davis; Muhammad Ali; just to name a few – there were many more.
They had the map of Africa with the outlines of the ships’ routes to places in South America, the West Indies, and the United States where slaves were taken. The whole entire decrepit episode was, at both times, fascinating and disgusting.
After going through the little museum, we were taken on the tour of the castle itself. I saw the dungeons where the men and the women were kept. I never knew all the hell, all the agony these people went through before they even got on the slave ships. They were branded with hot irons. They were herded by the hundreds into those dungeon areas. Barely given food. No place to urinate or defecate but on the floor. No place to sleep….but on that same floor. In the women’s area, no place-no way to deal with their monthly periods. So all that blood just got all over them and on the floor. We saw where they put people who disobeyed or tried to escape. In the men’s area, they were left to die. In the women’s area, many of them were raped. (Why do men use a sexual experience as a form of violence?) Then we were shown how the Africans were marched out that door of “no return”, onto small boats which took them out to the main ships docked way out offshore.
So this was it. There it was.
As I leaned against the wall of the castle, looking out at the ocean, gazing up at the moon, then looking over at all the hub-bub of fishing activity along the beach below, tears began to well up in my eyes. This caught me a bit by surprise. Because I had been feeling so numb, so pissed, and so angry. I had a thousand thoughts run through my head at that moment, but I couldn’t articulate a single one.
But as we walked out from the castle as the tour ended, I felt defiant. I wanted to stomp. Because this great, great, great, great granddaughter descendant of one of those who had been dragged through this place, had now returned. Defiantly returned. I felt that my stomping would complete the victory over this place. My return uprooted this ugly, evil episode of history and turned it on its head.
We were told on the tour that the castle room over the men’s dungeon was used for church services. The despicable hypocrisy of this perverted, adulterated Christianity, which had been going on since the Crusades era (1100-1400) and then continued through the slavery, colonial, apartheid, and present day era, speaks for itself. I was appalled at the revelation of this church service happening just above untold horrible evils below. Appalled, but not surprised.
As we walked out of the castle, and into 2005 along the streets of Cape Coast, the tears came back again. Only stronger this time. I began to feel overwhelmed with grief. I kept to myself. Really didn’t want to interact with anyone right then. Jeannie, to her credit, gave me my space. As we sat in the car about to go, “Uncle John” (Our Ghanaian IFES host), asked Jeannie to pray about what we had just seen. And as I closed my eyes, that’s when the flood came. Jeannie prayed about my relatives of long, long ago who possibly passed through here. As she prayed, I envisioned them on that ship. That wretched ship. In all those urinated, fecal-filled tight spaces. Lying there for weeks as that ship crossed the Atlantic. I envisioned them at the plantation in Shreveport, Louisiana. I envisioned the slave master at the plantation in Shreveport, Mr. DeJournette, forcing himself on my great, great, great grandmother – who herself descended from a survivor who had come through these castles.
As Jeannie prayed, I was overwhelmed. And my tears flowed like rivers. Strangely … afterwards, I felt healing.
So that was it. There it was.
Eileen Hocker is on InterVarsity staff and is a frequent contributer to this website. In 2003 she directed the Global Urban Trek project in Cairo, Egypt. She wrote this travellogue during her set-up trip that spring. In 2004 she directed the Pilgrimage for Reconciliation project in South Africa.
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on the urbana.org web site are Copyright InterVarsity Christian Fellowship / USA. All rights reserved.
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