The African roots of abortion in the Americas

Ilustración de Sinay Medouze @sinaycomoelmonte.

Opinion • Génesis Anangonó • September 21, 2023 • Originally published in Spanish by Latfem on July 24, 2023 • Translated by Dariela Terán Ortiz

Before it was feminist, abortion was African. Black women knew how to terminate pregnancies long before feminism taught the world how. In Latin American countries like Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia and Ecuador, seeking out this ancestral inheritance is a form of resistance in the face of colonialism, which turns women’s reproductive capacity into the mainstay of liberal economy.

Ok, but what does this all mean?

In the novel Island Beneath the Sea, Isabel Allende recounts how among enslaved women there were more abortions than births and most children died before they reached three months of age. While the thought of such a possibility horrifies us today, history tells us that, for African women enslaved during the colonial period, abortion was practiced to avoid the racist and classist exploitation that and their children would be subjected to.

“In Latin America, enslaved African women were the first to practice ancestral abortions to defend themselves against the rapes committed by slaveowners and to avoid being turned into slave-producing machines,” according to Naomi Chalá Minda, founder of the La Movida Antirracista Collective (The Antiracist Movement), who explains that abortion was a means to actively reject colonial violence and dispossession. “It was thrust upon them to come up with strategies of resistance, and they found those strategies in ancestral abortion, among the herbs and plants that had marronage written on them.”

Many of these practices have been lost over time and, although today not all women of African descent practice or carry the knowledge of ancestral abortion—mainly due to religion—there are still people who keep this ancestral legacy alive and who help women in their communities gain access to this right. They do this by using plants that, in the West, have been classified as alternative medicine based on ancestral knowledge carried by mamas who, by way of these ancestral secrets and plants, protect the lives of women and dignify life.

***

Marianela* is an elder woman who says she is 77, but appears much younger. “It’s because us Black women age more slowly,” she tells me with a smile. She is one of the women who keeps the ancestral knowledge of abortion. Upon asking when and how she acquired this, she says she doesn’t remember.

“Surely it was with mamita. She talked with her friends in the chacra [a sustainable community garden]. They told each other secrets, shared recipes, and discussed the many uses of plants to heal, protect and to prevent and stop [pregnancies]. I learned a lot there.”

Since the colonial period up until today the use of plants has been a fundamental part of resistance to capitalist and patriarchal exploitation of Black women’s bodies. Black women have and continue to cultivate the land to feed themselves and to obtain certain medicines, which can also have abortive properties.

Doña Marianela says Black women have used plants for abortions since the time of slavery, and that this practice is upheld in some areas:

“Each of the plants has a purpose and, if used properly, can serve many needs that young women might have. They were used before on the plantations, and they’re still used today, even though we’re supposedly free, because plants are a medium by which women avoid pregnancy or obtain abortions.”

When I ask doña Marianela if she can explain the process and tell me which plants are used for abortions, she smiles again, and then immediately furrows her brow and turns serious. She tells me that if I want to know, then I should learn. And if I learn, it should be to help, not to pry.

“The elder mamas and those of us who keep this wisdom must guard these secrets. It’s strategic to withhold this information, to not share it, to keep silent when questions [like yours] are asked.”

This ancestral knowledge is kept in the memory of elder mamas, who conserve this ancestral legacy that was passed on by word of mouth between daughters, mothers and grandmothers in defiance of patriarchal, racist and capitalist mandates. Despite intended genocide, the ancestral knowledge of the daughters of Africa is preserved in order to dignify the life of their descendants.

Secrets keep ancestral knowledge safe—they are a strategy of resistance against dispossession and the commercialization of our knowledge. For this reason, the ancestral practice of abortion is not something that can be found in books, in theses, or in manuals. Nor will it be found in this article.

***

Saying that abortion is feminist is not the complete truth. Before being feminist, abortion is African. Yes, abortion is of African descent, especially that which is demanded on September 28, on International Safe Abortion Day. This day, which is recognized by the Human Rights Council for its importance to women and people who can become pregnant, has its origins in Latin America and, particularly, in Afro-Brazilian history.

On September 28, 1871, Brazil enacted the Law of Free Wombs. This law put an end to inherited slavery and it granted freedom to all children born to enslaved Black women. A century later, in the 1980s following the criminalization of abortion, the daughters of the African diaspora in Brazil discovered Misoprostol—a medicine developed to prevent gastric ulcers—could be used as an alternative. Black women, impoverished and in slums, found Misoprostol also worked as an abortifacient, as it induced contractions and put an end to unwanted pregnancies.

A decade later, in 1990—after having discovered the abortive uses of Misoprostol—Brazilian women proposed that the 28th of September be commemorated as a historic day in the fight for the right to abortion. In Latin America and the Caribbean, this day has been taken up as a fundamental part of the feminist agenda.

Black women of African descent have long been pioneers in the fight for sexual and reproductive rights, although structural racism continues to prevent them from accessing the same rights they’ve fought for. They are left to figure out solutions on their own.

In Ecuador, according to a report titled Why Do They Want to Make Me Suffer Again?, those seeking abortions are for the most part young women of African or Indigenous descent who live in poverty, preventing them from accessing basic rights like health and justice.

In debates concerning the decriminalization of abortion in cases of rape that took place in Ecuador in 2021, Irma Bautista, national representative of the National Coordinator of Black Women (CONAMUNE), said women of African descent don’t make up the majority of those seeking abortions, but they are the most heavily criminalized. This is the reality in Ecuador, where 100 per cent of the women penalized for abortions live in poverty, and 40 per cent are of African descent.

Racialized populations find it necessary to maintain ancestral practices of resistance to provide alternatives in the face of inefficient and, in some cases, inexistent public policies. Limited access to health and justice reveals a racial component that prevents Black girls, women, and people who can become pregnant from gaining access to basic rights that the state, in theory, must guarantee.

The International Afro-Latina, Afro-Caribbean, and Diaspora Women’s Day has been observed every July 25 since 1992, although in Ecuador it’s only been one year since it was officially recognized. Ecuador’s first annual celebration of International Afro-Latina, Afro-Caribbean, and Diaspora Women’s Day happened in the midst of political instability that left Ecuador without a National Assembly as of May 17th of this year.

During Guillermo Lasso’s presidency, there has been no progress with respect to the rights of Afro-Ecuadorian women, despite the fact that in October 2022, he was handed a series of public policy proposals related to identifying mechanisms for the prevention of gender violence, the eradication of racism, and the implementation of culturally specific education.

None of this has come to pass. Nor have there been any advances in sexual and reproductive rights. Austerity measures are palpable in rural communities where there’s no access to sexual and reproductive health services, and where menstrual products, contraceptives, and of course, legal abortions, are inaccessible.

***

Andrea is a 28-year-old Black woman. Today she calls herself a feminist, but at 18, when she performed an ancestral abortion, she didn’t know what feminism was. Andrea discovered she was pregnant when her menstrual cycle suddenly stopped, and she confirmed it with a blood test. Her world began to crumble, but went on to tell a cousin who in turn recommended that she speak with grandmother Marianela, who lovingly supported her by helping her carry out an abortion.

Andrea, like Marianela, keeps information about the process, the plants used, the effects, sensations and the context in which it occurred, a secret. She only tells me that, “it was here,” at her grandmother’s house, “and we buried it there” pointing to a bougainvillea plant.

***

Isolation is not a part of ancestral ways of life, where everything is built and carried out in community. “Abortion, although illegal and clandestine, does not have to be solitary or dangerous, or even necessarily feminist. It does, however, have to be anti-patriarchal, anti-racist, and it is best not done alone”, says Eli, a Black woman who formerly worked as an abortion companion. Eli has accompanied abortions with Misoprostol, and has also seen women seeking abortions opt for alternative methods, including the use of plants.

“Parsley and rue are often used for abortive purposes, and even in the city where I’m from it’s easy to find herbal bundles with the same purpose. You can go to the market and tell the vendors that your period stopped, or plainly say that you need something for an abortion, and they will sell you the herbal bundles—that almost always have rue—and they will tell you, briefly, how to prepare yourself.”

Eli believes that the women who opt to end their pregnancies with plants do so mainly due to lack of economic resources or due to difficulty in acquiring the right medicine. She explains that, even if there are feminist collectives that assist in these processes, the information stays in urban zones where women and people who can become pregnant live in other conditions, which can include access to information, resources, and easily available medicine.

This is not the case in rural areas or smaller cities where girls, teens, women, and persons who can become pregnant live in more precarious conditions. Information regarding accompanied abortions does not circulate, and access to Misoprostol is impeded by the lack of economic resources, clearly putting class privilege in view when it comes to medical abortions.

“Sometimes teenage girls are the ones seeking abortions, so coming up with a certain amount of money to buy Miso [prostol] is already a challenge,” said Eli. “Using plants is much more feasible.”

Abortion is a part of the feminist agenda, or better said, of feminism—but before then, abortion was, is and will remain Maroon and of African descent. It does not and will never obey institutionality, politics or laws, and will always be loyal to liberty and the right to live a dignified life.

For us Black women, ancestral abortion is a part of a historic legacy that must be understood from an anti-racist, anti-colonial and anti-liberal position that takes the daily realities of girls, teens, women, and those who can become pregnant into consideration while prioritizing those whom institutions have left on the margins.

Terminating a pregnancy with plants is a political action that shines a light on hidden strategies that women of African descent practiced, and that are still being practiced today. Today, we don’t have to do it alone. We can participate in this practice in a free, anti-racist and, yes, feminist way, because having autonomy over our bodies is a political and revolutionary act, that is, above all, our right.

The original version of this piece was produced within LatFem’s project, A change in narrative for feminist journalism, and Oxfam’s Power to Choose program, and Global Affairs Canada (GAC).

*Some names have been changed to protect the identity of those interviewed for this story.