Nou pral nan Kanaval*

On Monday, I smiled with relief when I read the announcement of the return of the Caribbean carnival to Montreal in the form of the Carimas Festival, next July. Because as far as I remember, carnival has always been, for the African diasporas, much more than a simple celebration, an important place of communion beyond the challenges.

Throughout the world, Carnival, which heralds the start of Lent, is widely associated with the Catholic religion. Ironically, it is also an opportunity to subvert the oppressive systems in which the hegemony of the Church is enmeshed. Rio’s carnival is often seen as the best carnival in the world, while others prefer that of Jacmel. Both are tinged with a decolonial spirit.

In Haiti, carnival is an opportunity to parody daily life and exorcise the misfortunes of the past year in a colorful universe, which does not fail to subtly recall voodoo rituals and deities that have long been demonized. I perceive there a phenomenon which blurs the structures and modes of thought of the modern era.

In pain, through celebration, we free ourselves from oppression.

In a way, carnivals as we know them in these countries of the Global South are, in my opinion, part of a post-tragic sensibility, which is defined according to the author, educator and futurist Zak Stein as an ability to recognize tragedy as an essential part of life, but not as a determining or debilitating element. The most deprived people are particularly called upon to cultivate this quality of consciousness, which is noticeable among others among artists such as the blues musicians of yesteryear.

Around me, I noticed sparks of this quality from my childhood. Good year, bad year, illnesses, tragedies, it’s the party in every family of the Haitian community when the first sounds of the classic thunder Kè m Pa Sotand of the Boukman Eksperyans group.

Even in her late 90s, my phlegmatic grandmother would stand up to show how much money James Brown had to eat.

The famous Haitian group owes its name to Dutty Boukman, a voodoo priest who led the famous Bois Caïman ceremony, a sort of catalyst for the Haitian revolution. Word for word, the title of the song Kè m Pa Sote translates to “my heart does not jump”, which means “I am not afraid”. The song is part of a movement to denounce the living conditions of Haitians after the dictatorship, all in a highly carnivalesque spirit.

Kè m pa sote ané sa
Boukman nan kanaval
Kè m pa sote wo^**

Where are our carnivals in this time of incessant crises?

In particular, I observe with sadness to what extent these crises contribute to increasing migrations around the world. I note that Western countries, often the first responsible for these crises, are not ready to welcome those they push into exile. I am also outraged by all these political and media discourses which make migrants look like scoundrels. The result of these phenomena is not encouraging.

Last year, the announcement of the closure of Roxham Road on the same day that Justin Trudeau received Joe Biden in the presence of all the Canadian elite gave this group the appearance of an infamous aristocracy.

I had a fit of rage that still haunts me. So, are we going to the cinema?

Henri Pardo, known, among other things, for directing and writing the documentary Dear Jackie dedicated to Jackie Robinson and the documentary series Afro-Canadapresent with Kanaval his first fiction in a feature film format.

Maybe I’m influenced by my friendship with the filmmaker, but I had the opportunity to see the film, and believe me, it’s quite one. This drama, starring the young Rayan Dieudonné in the role of Rico, begins precisely in the euphoria of the Haitian Kanaval. The action takes place in 1975, in the midst of a dictatorship, and the exile of Rico and his mother will lead them into the solidly snowy Quebec winter.

Faced with misfortune, Rico and his mother plunge into adventures that explore the themes of immigration and reception, family, mythology, identity. In Kanaval, there is no great heroic struggle, no great winner or great loser. Rather, the film reflects the complexity of life. With characters who love, hate, suffer, cause pain, laugh, search through ups and downs for home.

Kanaval is a well-chosen name. Beyond the festive scenes in the film, the more dramatic ones are rarely Manichean, reminding us that relationships are always dancing, in movement. A character who we guess is indigenous, moreover, is emblematic of this wisdom.

I particularly bow down to the quality of Rayan Dieudonné’s acting, who brings his rich experience in real life to shine through his character of Rico. If only to do justice to this child’s performance, this film is worth seeing.

At a time when the need for liberating carnival spaces is felt, and when cinemas deserve a little help, I want to invite you to reserve your May 3 for the release of the film: we pral nan Kanaval^*.

^⁠* We are going to Kanaval.

^⁠** My heart is not jumping this year / Boukman is in the carnival / My heart is not jumping this year oh

What do you think ? Participate in the dialogue