"NEVER AGAIN"

Last weekend, NYU took our class to Cape Coast and Elmina for our first excursion. We had been warned countless times about the emotions that would arise during the main event of the trip: the visit to the Elmina slave castle. This is the largest castle in Western Africa. It was the first trading post in the region and is the oldest European building below the Sahara. It stands like a giant, casting a shadow on the huts and slums below its stone walls. It is quite an impressive building, to be sure; at least, it made a deep impression on me.

The neighborhood in Elmina; on the hill, the slave castle.

Elmina Castle

We walked into the center courtyard after four restless hours on the bus. Our guide was introduced to us; he has been giving these tours to NYU since the birth of the program in Accra. We were led up a flight of steep stone steps and under a doorway, a sign over which read, “FEMALE SLAVE DUNGEON.” The giddiness I had felt on the bus with my friends vanished. I felt nothing.

Through the door was another smaller courtyard. On all sides, dungeons. Our guide explained to us what had happened in this place 400 years ago. Women were taken from their homes, their families seized and separated from each other. They were taken here and thrown behind bars. In that courtyard was the largest dungeon in the castle; not twice as large as my bedroom, upwards of 100 slaves were kept there. Here, where we were standing. They were pressed against these walls, laid on this floor.

Given just enough water and food to survive, their strength was subdued. They were not allowed access to toilets or baths. That day, the room smelled. I wrinkled my nose upon entering the chamber, but I had no comprehension of its true stench. Its occupants had sat, crammed together like sardines in a can, in their own feces and vomit, in their own menses. Dehumanized.

Until the governor of the castle desired a woman. A few were led out into the center of the courtyard where I stood. I looked up; the governor would look down and choose his favorite. She was forcibly washed in the courtyard, her humiliation on display for all to see. Soldiers gave her food, enough to make her strong for what she was about to endure. Then she was led through a corridor. I walked her route. Up a winding flight of stairs, into the bedroom of the monster who subjected her sisters to such a fate.

Downstairs to the “MALE SLAVE DUNGEON.” Inside the door is the largest cell for male slaves in the castle. On the other side of the room is the beginning of the slaves’ passage to the sea. From this room, none returned. Males and females met for the first time since arriving to the castle, stepping together into the dark abyss.

Through the cramped passageway, squeezing into small doorways. The design was purposeful, the guide noted. You can’t flee through a door that small.

"The Door of No Return"

The end. The infamous “Door of No Return.” This was the last chamber. The last thing they would feel in Africa: chained. The room smelled musty; the walls were cold and hard. From here, slaves were packed onto ships. They were sold as property. They would never see their homeland again. As each of us stepped in the doorway, the room darkened. Another gone.

Back in the main courtyard. On the opposite side, two dungeons. We stepped into one. There was a window, and bars as the door. This was used for soldiers who had been too inebriated to be allowed to run free. We walked into the second dungeon, its door next to the first. This one was different; the skull and crossbones over the doorway clearly marked it as such. The guide shut the door; it closed with a ringing thud. This door had no bars. This room had no windows. This was where rebels were put. Locked in this lone cell until they died. For days or weeks, their bodies would rot. Another occupant would come, sitting with his brother's corpse until his own inevitable death. On this floor, he starved. Onto this wall, he clutched. In this prison, he screamed. I shook.

Outside, our guide spoke solemnly. This castle stands as an answer to some, whose questions on heritage brought them to this courtyard. It stands as a tribute to those who endured all of the horrors that its walls offered. And it stands as a promise for the future: “NEVER AGAIN.”

Never Again.