by Serdzhan Ibryam Hasan
Via an active, constitutive voice, Tituba leaps into history, shattering all the racist and misogynist misconceptions that have defined the place of black women. —Angela Davis
Introduction
The figure of the “witch” has historically functioned as a socio-political construct used to discipline individuals who threatened dominant religious, patriarchal, and racial orders. In early modern contexts such as the Salem witch trials, accusations of witchcraft operated as mechanisms of social control through which women who transgressed religious and patriarchal expectations were marginalised and punished. As Islam argues, this phenomenon constituted a systematic “campaign of terrorisation against women who exhibited power or defined themselves outside the parameters that patriarchy had set” (14). Similarly, Petterway argues that the label of “witch” functions less as a reflection of actual practices than as a mechanism through which societies project fear onto marginalised individuals: it serves to isolate individuals, particularly women and racialised subjects, as embodiments of societal fears, while simultaneously marking them as bearers of subversive, often feminised, knowledge (1). Within these contexts, the “witch” emerges as socially produced “Other”, whose difference legitimises marginalisation and persecution.
This dynamic is particularly salient in the examination of Black women’s experiences, who, as Beal articulates, endure “double jeopardy” (168) by navigating intersecting systems of racial and gender oppression. Maryse Condé’s I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem interrogates the historical realities of racial and gender exclusion by reimagining the “witch” archetype from a Caribbean perspective, foregrounding female agency and solidarity while critically exposing women’s subjugation within colonial and patriarchal structures.
Situating Condé’s narrative within the broader scope of Caribbean postcolonial literature, the novel reimagines the life of Tituba, a historical figure who appeared in the records of the 1692 Salem witch trials. Beyond the fact that she was an enslaved Black woman from Barbados accused of witchcraft, little is known about her life, leaving significant gaps within the historical archive. As Kaiama L. Glover observes, Condé’s project seeks to recover forms of Black Caribbean womanhood that have been neglected or obscured by dominant historical narratives. Condé therefore employs imaginative revision to reclaim Tituba’s story, granting voice and agency to a figure whose historical representation remains incomplete and distorted (Condé 204). The novel traces Tituba’s journey from her birth as a victim of sexual violence during enslavement in Barbados to her relationship with John Indian. Subsequently, Tituba is transported to Salem after being sold to the Puritan minister Samuel Parris, where her non-Christian identity, spiritual practices, and racial difference render her vulnerable to witchcraft accusations. Upon her eventual release, Tituba is sold once more and ultimately returns to Barbados, where she participates in a failed slave revolt against plantation owners. Although the uprising ends in her execution, Tituba’s narrative persists beyond her death, enduring as a legacy of resistance through her ongoing spiritual presence and connection to future generations.
Condé’s intervention, however, extends beyond mere recuperation. Through first-person narration and magical realism, the novel does not simply reinsert Tituba into the historical record; rather, it reframes how history and identity are understood. In doing so, the text engages with the intellectual and cultural objectives of the Négritude movement, which sought to reclaim Black identity in response to the epistemic and cultural violence of colonialism. Scholars of Négritude have observed that this movement emerged as a “search for identity” among those shaped by the historical trauma of the transatlantic slave trade (Shireen 26), with the aim of restoring dignity, memory, and cultural continuity.
Yet, Condé’s novel does not simply reiterate the ambitions of Négritude; it subjects them to critical examination. In its negotiation of Black identity’s reclamation, the text simultaneously exposes the limitations of earlier anticolonial paradigms by foregrounding the specifically gendered dimensions of oppression and resistance. Through Tituba’s relationships with figures such as John Indian and Christopher, the novel suggests that the reclamation of Black identity cannot be separated from questions of sexuality, embodiment, and gendered power.
In this paper, I argue that Maryse Condé’s I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem restores the figure of the “witch” as a site of Black feminist resistance and subject formation. While the novel draws on the aspirations of Négritude, particularly its project of reclaiming Black identity in the wake of colonial erasure, it simultaneously critiques and expands this project by emphasising the gendered and sexual dimensions of oppression. Through the deployment of first-person narration and magical realism, Condé transforms Tituba from a marginalised “Other” into an agent of historical and personal self-definition. Crucially, the novel illustrates how patriarchal power functions not only through colonial frameworks but also within Black communities.
Négritude and the Gendered Limits of Anticolonial Discourse
To advance the central argument, I draw on the concept of Négritude, particularly its effort to recuperate Black identity and cultural memory as a response to colonial oppression and forced assimilation. Originating within the context of French colonialism, Négritude sought to challenge the dehumanising effects of colonial discourse through the affirmation of Black subjectivity, historical agency, and cultural consciousness. As Shireen maintains, “Négritude was certainly the colonised response to cultural oppression… the search for identity… [for those who] experienced the psychic and physical shock of separation from Africa through the slave trade” (26). Similarly, Oyedele, drawing on Aimé Césaire’s theoretical framing, positions Négritude as “a concept that would be fundamental to the reaffirmation of black identities in the postcolonial context” (125). Condé’s revisionist portrayal of Tituba participates in this ongoing project of historical visibility by granting narrative centrality to a Black woman who had been systematically erased from official historical accounts.
Nevertheless, the novel does not uncritically reproduce the ideological framework of Négritude. Instead, by foregrounding the gendered dimensions of oppression, Condé questions and reconfigures the movement’s foundational assumptions. In an interview, Condé critiques the universalising tendencies of Négritude, asserting that “race does not exist, only culture” (Condé), and drawing attention to the complexities introduced by geography, history, and diasporic experience. She further contends that Tituba’s marginalisation in historical memory is attributable not solely to racism but also to sexism, arguing that “she was forgotten because she was a woman… more than because she was black” (Condé). Therefore, while the novel affirms Négritude’s commitment to restoring Black identity and dignity, it simultaneously exposes the limitations of anticolonial discourses that fail to address the patriarchal structures within Black communities. Through Tituba’s interactions with male figures such as John Indian, Condé demonstrates that racial solidarity alone is insufficient to account for the unique forms of marginalisation experienced by Black women. Thus, the novel reimagines Négritude from an expressly Black feminist standpoint, foregrounding embodiment, sexuality, and gendered violence as essential elements in the process of historical and cultural reclamation.
Magical Realism and Feminist Solidarity
Alongside its engagement with Négritude, the novel deploys magical realism to restore suppressed histories and amplify voices excluded from colonial historiography. Magical realism functions in the text to destabilise rigid binaries between rationality and the supernatural, in doing so legitimising alternative epistemologies rooted in African and Caribbean spiritual traditions. As Bowers observes, magical realism is especially apt for “exploring and transgressing boundaries, whether the boundaries are ontological, political, geographical, or generic” (63). Cooper further asserts that magical realism “opposes fundamentalism and purity,” actively resisting essentialist constructions of identity and monolithic notions of historical truth (22). Thus, in Condé’s work, magical realism is not merely an aesthetic device but a narrative method through which suppressed histories become visible.
Tituba’s ongoing dialogues with ancestral female figures such as Abena and Mama Yaya grant her access to forms of knowledge and solidarity that colonial rationality systematically excludes. Islam contends that magical realism offers marginalised women writers the means “to speak for themselves and their female readers” (10), thereby empowering oppressed subjects to contest prevailing patriarchal narratives. Through the integration of spiritual presences, ancestral memory, and supernatural continuity, Condé’s narrative fundamentally disrupts the authority of official colonial history, which had consigned Tituba to a silenced and distorted presence within the Salem archives. Instead, the novel forges what Davis characterises as “an active, constitutive voice,” wherein Tituba “leaps into history, shattering all the racist and misogynist misconceptions that have defined the place of black women” (Davis x). Thus, magical realism is indispensable to Condé’s critical project of historical reinterpretation from the vantage point of the historically marginalised, enabling Tituba to emerge not as a passive casualty of colonial discourse but as an active agent of cultural memory, resistance, and self-definition.
Reclaiming Voice: Tituba and Narrative Authority
Condé’s most significant contribution in I, Tituba lies in her restoration of narrative authority to a historical figure previously relegated to the periphery. The novel fundamentally interrogates the authority of official historical records by granting Tituba the capacity to narrate her own story in the first person, thereby transforming her from a passive object of representation into an active speaking subject. Through a deliberate emphasis on Tituba’s voice, Condé reclaims agency for a figure systematically erased and misrepresented within the colonial archive. This act of reclamation is signalled from the outset in the title itself, which foregrounds Tituba’s voice and identity through the deployment of the first-person pronoun. As Scarboro notes, the phrase “I, Tituba” constitutes a “claim to a life, an identity,” (213) permitting Tituba to emerge “as a survivor rather than a victim” (213). In this manner, the novel actively contests the silences imposed upon Black women in dominant historical narratives, reconfiguring Tituba not as a mere object but as a fully articulated protagonist capable of recounting her own lived experiences.
Through Tituba’s narration, Condé exposes the mechanisms by which colonial and patriarchal regimes construct Black women as “Others.” Tituba persistently articulates her experiences of invisibility, isolation, and dehumanisation as consequences of her racial and gendered position. For instance, in the early chapters, when Tituba returns from cleaning the home of Susan, an elderly white widow, she encounters a group of white women who discuss her as if she were not present. Tituba observes, “They were talking about me and yet ignoring me. They were striking me off the map of human beings. I was a nonbeing. Invisible” (Condé 24). This passage powerfully articulates the psychological trauma of racial othering, demonstrating how Tituba is denied subjectivity and reduced to an object through which racial difference is dehumanised. Rather than being recognised as a speaking person, Tituba becomes the repository for white fears and biases.
Simultaneously, Condé asserts that Tituba’s subjugation cannot be understood solely through the prism of race, as the novel consistently foregrounds the gendered dimensions of suffering. Early in the narrative, Tituba recalls, “My mother sorely regretted that I was not a boy. It seemed to her that a woman’s fate was even more painful than a man’s” (6). This reflection positions female suffering as a transgenerational phenomenon shaped by the intersecting forces of enslavement, colonial violence, and patriarchy. In a similar vein, Mama Yaya cautions Tituba against reliance on men, insisting, “Men do not love. They possess. They subjugate” (14). These admonitions serve as a prelude to Tituba’s subsequent experiences with John Indian, underscoring one of the novel’s central critiques: patriarchal oppression persists within marginalised Black communities. bell hooks similarly argues that racial solidarity does not eliminate gendered domination within Black communities, where Black women continue to experience forms of patriarchal oppression (hooks 91).
This tension is rendered particularly salient through Tituba’s relationship with John Indian. Although he initially emerges as a source of emotional and sexual fulfilment, his actions ultimately perpetuate structures of patriarchal dominance. Significantly, John Indian is the first to label Tituba a “witch,” asking, “Tituba, you know what they say about you, they say you’re a witch!” (18). This assertion reduces Tituba’s spiritual authority to a precarious societal role, thereby exposing the extent to which female knowledge is cast as dangerous within patriarchal frameworks.
Moreover, John Indian increasingly aligns himself with the colonial apparatuses that underpin Tituba’s subjugation. During the Salem trials, Tituba learns that he is actively complicit in the prosecution of other women, assuming the role of one of the most fervent advocates of the “witch” outcry (Condé 119). His involvement illustrates how internalised colonial ideology enables oppressed individuals to perpetuate colonial power structures. Thus, Condé interrogates the notion of a unified Black identity by exposing the ways in which Black women remain susceptible to both white colonial oppression and patriarchal subjugation within their own communities.
Magical Realism and Female Resistance
Through the strategic employment of first-person narration, Condé enables Tituba to reclaim narrative agency, thereby subverting the silencing mechanisms of colonial discourse. At the same time, Condé’s deployment of magical realism serves not only to critique the epistemic authority of colonial knowledge institutions but also to articulate concrete modalities of female resistance. Rather than portraying magic as malevolent or irrational, the novel constructs spiritual knowledge as fundamentally intertwined with healing, ancestry, and collective survival. From her earliest years, Tituba is initiated into medicinal and spiritual practices by Mama Yaya, “who teaches her about herbs,” (Condé 9) capable of curing wounds, alleviating suffering, and restoring emotional stability. Tituba’s explicit declaration—“I was born to heal, not to frighten” (Condé 12)—constitutes a direct repudiation of the colonial stereotype of the “witch” as a figure of danger and malice (Petterway 15). In contrast, magical knowledge in the novel is inextricably linked to practices of care, protection, and female empowerment.
Magical realism functions as a narrative strategy that enables marginalised women to articulate experiences effaced by dominant historical narratives. In Condé’s novel, the protagonist’s communication with ancestral figures such as Mama Yaya and Abena institutes an alternative epistemology that fundamentally subverts colonial rationalism and Puritan religious authority. For instance, Tituba’s reflections on her solace after communing with Abena and Mama Yaya underscore the restorative power of these interactions: “Mama Yaya brought me hope and Abena, my mother, tenderness… I needed closer communication. With words. Sometimes, nothing can replace words. Often deceitful, often treacherous, they nevertheless have an invariably soothing effect” (Condé 84). These spiritual networks constitute a transgenerational matrix of female solidarity that persistently sustains Tituba in moments of adversity and displacement. The persistence of ancestral women’s guidance and protection beyond death signals that Black female resistance is not circumscribed by temporal or physical limitations. Bowers contends that magical realism is particularly effective at “transgressing boundaries,” (63) both political and ontological. By employing this narrative technique, Condé destabilises the binary oppositions between life and death, history and memory, hence challenging the epistemic legitimacy of colonial accounts that seek to marginalise Black women’s experiences.
Condé, however, expands this critique to address not only colonial oppression but also the persistent influence of patriarchy within Black communities. Mama Yaya’s admonition that “Men do not love. They possess. They subjugate” (14) acquires greater significance through Tituba’s interactions with both John Indian and Christopher, each of whom exemplifies forms of domination that reflect colonial structures. As previously noted, John Indian is the first to designate Tituba as a “witch,” transforming her healing expertise into a stigmatised marker and a tool for social exclusion. His attempt to render Tituba acceptable through Christianity demonstrates his internalisation of colonial and patriarchal ideologies, while Tituba’s subsequent acknowledgement— “I knew I should have fled” (Condé 18)—signals her growing awareness of gendered power dynamics embedded within shared racial experiences. In the midst of these tensions, Condé intensifies the Négritude movement’s emphasis on collective Black identity by demonstrating that racial solidarity alone is insufficient to remedy the gender-based oppression confronting Black women. Through magical realism, Condé ultimately allows Tituba to survive beyond the limitations of colonial history, transforming her from a persecuted “witch” into a continuing voice of Black feminist resistance.
Conclusion
Maryse Condé’s I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem recuperates a historically marginalised figure to interrogate the racist and patriarchal structures that have systematically silenced Black women. Through the strategic use of first-person narration, Condé reclaims Tituba’s narrative agency, transforming her from a passive subject of colonial discourse into an active agent capable of articulating her own experiences. The novel reconceptualizes the figure of the “witch,” framing it as a site of healing, cultural memory, and resistance, rather than as a marker of deviance or malignity.
By engaging with the intellectual tenets of Négritude, Condé aligns her project with broader efforts to restore Black identity and historical agency in the wake of colonial erasure. However, the novel simultaneously exposes the limitations of anticolonial discourses that fail to address gendered oppression within Black communities. Through Tituba’s interactions with figures such as John Indian, Condé demonstrates that racial solidarity alone is insufficient to dismantle the enduring patriarchal norms that shape Black women’s lives. The narrative reframes Négritude from a distinctly Black feminist perspective, foregrounding embodiment, sexuality, and gendered violence as critical axes of analysis.
Furthermore, Condé employs magical realism to challenge colonial epistemologies that dismiss African and Caribbean spiritual traditions as irrational or dangerous. Tituba’s encounters with ancestral figures like Mama Yaya and Abena impart spiritual knowledge that functions as a resource for healing, remembrance, and resistance, rather than as mere superstition. The presence of Mama Yaya and Abena enables Tituba to sustain connections to memory, restoration, and collective female solidarity, thus transcending the confines of colonial history. Magical realism, therefore, becomes integral to the novel’s political and feminist aims, enabling the articulation of suppressed histories and marginalized voices beyond the constraints of official historiography.
Consequently, I, Tituba, not only reinterprets the history of Salem through the lens of a Black woman but also interrogates the broader structures through which race, gender, and power are constituted. By rendering Tituba a persistent voice of resistance, Condé confronts the historical effacement of Black women and underscores the necessity of reclaiming marginalized narratives through a Black feminist literary praxis.
Serdzhan Ibryam Hasan is currently pursuing a Research Master’s in Literary Studies at the University of Amsterdam. His academic interests include gender and feminism in relation to revisionist myth-making; queer studies, particularly queer gothic theory and its relation to the uncanny and abjection; and monstrosity studies, with a focus on how cultural constructions of the monstrous intersect with questions of identity, power, and representation.
References
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