Seven times a day – The Black woman was tortured day and night until she could barely open her mouth!

My name is Célestine. That’s the name they threw in my face like a discarded bone when I was sold at the age of twelve on the docks of Fort-de-France in 1851. Before that, I had another name, a name as soft as the breath my mother used to whisper to me as we huddled together on a tattered mat in the darkness of our distant homeland. But those people erased it, just as they erased our dignity. They said that objects don’t need names; they called me a “piece of merchandise,” a unit on an inventory of assets. I arrived on this island on a ship reeking of death, where death wasn’t just a fear but a constant companion in every breath. We were thrown into the hold, chained together in the thick darkness, where seawater rose to our knees with every crashing wave. The dead lay there with us for days before being thrown into the sea to be devoured by the sharks that always hounded the ship. I was only eleven years old then, and I learned not to cry anymore, because tears were the greatest luxury a slave could have, and they could never change this harsh reality.

When we were dragged ashore, the blinding tropical sun stung my eyes, but that pain was nothing compared to the humiliation of standing in line in the town square. Well-dressed men, fanning themselves and wearing wide-brimmed hats, paced back and forth before us as if they were buying livestock. They pried open my mouth to examine my teeth, felt my arms, legs, and hips. They discussed prices, stamina, and work capacity. A landowner named Victor bought me for 1,400 livres. He looked at me coldly and said that I was young and would last a long time. He took me to the La Rosé plantation, a place whose very name, full of roses, could not conceal the smell of sweat, blood, and despair. For the first few months, I was confined to the kitchen. My work included carrying water from the well, lighting fires, raising pigs, and doing all sorts of unnamed chores. I was small but quick at work, which pleased them. But the real tragedy wasn’t in the heavy loads of water, but in what happened after the white masters finished their dinner.

One night, old Victor walked into the kitchen, his breath thick with the smell of rum and tobacco. He locked the door and ordered me to come closer. I didn’t understand anything at the time; I was simply terrified by the eerie silence of the room. He grabbed my arm so hard it bruised me, then told me to be quiet, that it was normal. From that night on, my life spiraled into a humiliation beyond description. It became a daily routine, or almost so. Sometimes it was him, sometimes his eldest son, or the caretaker when he was drunk. They came after work when the house was quiet, they came in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep, or even early in the morning before the sun had risen. To avoid going insane, I began to learn to count. I lay there, my eyes fixed on the wooden ceiling, and I counted the knots in the wood. One knot equaled one time. I realized that there are often seven knots that appear before the day truly begins. Seven times a day. That number seven has become ingrained in my soul, a measure of the pain I endure.

They came, took what they wanted, and left without a word of farewell, sometimes throwing me a piece of sugar or a scrap of cloth as if those things could cleanse the defilement they had left on my body. But my body remembered it all: the bruises on my arms, the marks on my hips, and a deep, throbbing pain in my stomach that never faded. I walked with my back hunched over from exhaustion and humiliation, trying to hide the blood-soaked pieces of cloth. The other women on the plantation saw it all, but they remained silent. We all had our own wounds, and we all chose silence to survive. When I was fifteen, I gave birth to a daughter. They named her Victoire. I didn’t know who her father was, and to the masters, it didn’t matter. Old Victor looked at the child once and casually said that she would be a good laborer for the next twelve years’ harvest. I held Victoire tightly in my arms and silently promised them they would never get her, never be allowed to torment her the way they had tormented me. But it was a fragile promise, because on this plantation, nothing belonged to us; everything was the owner’s property.

When Victoire was three years old, old Victor decided I was strong enough to work in the sugarcane fields. He said the kitchen didn’t need me anymore. Those first days in the sugarcane fields were an endless nightmare. Before sunrise, we had to line up in the yard, receiving rusty machetes and a small bag of flour for the day. The sugarcane stalks were taller than a man’s head, their leaves razor-sharp, cutting into our flesh every time we swung our arms. The sticky sugar attracted swarms of flies that covered our open wounds. We had to work twelve hours under the scorching sun. If anyone slowed down, the foreman’s whip would crack. If anyone fell, they would leave the body there until evening. I learned how to cut sugarcane without looking at my hands, how to bandage wounds with leaves so the blood wouldn’t stain the produce. Every evening when I returned to the hut, my feet were bleeding, and my back ached as if a thousand needles were pricking it. Victoire would wait for me at the door; she had learned not to cry. She would quietly place her tiny hand on my forehead and whisper that everything would be alright.

But nothing really went away. The hard days of work in the fields couldn’t stop the terrifying nights in the kitchen or the shack. They still came, even when I reeked of sugarcane sap and earth, even when Victoire was sleeping right beside me. I had to cover her mouth so she wouldn’t hear the sounds of the assault. I looked up at the ceiling again and counted the wooden knots. Still seven knots. Once, I witnessed a woman being whipped in front of everyone just for stopping to drink water. The overseer said she was stealing the master’s time. They tied her to a post, and twenty-five lashes came down. The sound of the whips hitting flesh was a harsh, snapping sound. She had no strength left to scream, and in the end, she was just a bloody mass of flesh hanging. She died that night, and they buried her hastily behind the latrines. The next morning, we had to go back to the fields as if nothing had happened. That’s when I understood that they didn’t just want our labor; they wanted to crush our souls, to make us forget we were human beings and become animals that could speak, work, and remain silent.

Even so, in the darkness of the huts, there were always whispers. We talked about those who had escaped to the high mountains, about the free “Marrons” building their own lives. They said that freedom had a very special taste, it tasted of fire and resistance. Victoire, then six years old, heard it all and understood more than I imagined. One night, she asked me if one day we could go to the mountains. I put my finger to her lips and said that it wasn’t the right time yet, but one day we would definitely go. That night, when they came again, I couldn’t close my eyes. I stared at the ceiling and thought that one day, this ceiling would no longer be above my head, and I would never have to count those knots again in my life. The world outside began to change, and we only sensed it through the subtle shifts in the masters’ attitudes. They seemed more anxious, more aggressive, and they pushed us to work even harder to squeeze out as much as we could before the storm of change hit.

As the years passed, the whispers turned into screams of freedom. Finally, the chains were broken, but the scars remained, deep and aching. Victoire grew up, married a fisherman, and lived a much more peaceful life than I did. She told her children and grandchildren about the sugarcane fields, about the songs we sang to forget our weariness, but she never once mentioned those dark nights. She wanted the past buried forever beneath the sands of time. But I couldn’t. Those memories returned in my dreams, when I found myself lying on the tattered mat and counting… one, two, three… then I woke up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding as if the warden were still standing outside with his whip in hand.

One day, my grandchildren came to me. They were children who had gone to school, who could read, who knew about justice and history. The youngest asked me what it was like when I was a child. I looked out at the vast ocean, took a deep breath, and for the first time in my life, I decided to break the silence. I told them about the ship, the chains, the whips, and the cruel number seven every day. I told them about the humiliation that gnawed at my soul and about the small but tenacious flame that helped me survive. They cried, asking why I didn’t tell them sooner. I said that I was afraid those words would hurt me again, and I was afraid they would be ashamed of their grandmother. But now I know that silence is heavier than words. I don’t want my children and grandchildren to carry that silence as a genetic burden.

Now I am old, my body is frail and my hands tremble, but my heart feels relieved because I have passed on the truth. Victoire no longer has to bear this pain alone. If you are listening to this story, I thank you for choosing to listen. As long as there are people listening, I will no longer be alone in that dark shack. As long as there are people remembering, the chains will never have a chance to return. Tell your children, tell your friends, tell the world that we were once real people, with names, with feelings, and with an unbreakable will. We survived not to be silent, but to speak out, so that no child will ever again have to lie counting the knots on the ceiling to get through the darkest nights of their life.

Freedom is not just about being free from shackles, but about being able to tell one’s own story without fear. Every word I utter is a blow against the oblivion they longed for. They wanted us to vanish into nothingness like dust in a sugarcane field, but we have become witnesses to history, carrying within us the memory of an entire tormented people. I look at my grandchildren, see the light of knowledge and self-respect in their eyes, and I know I have won. Old Victor and the La Rosé plantation may have taken possession of my body, but they never touched the deepest part of my soul, where the name my mother whispered years ago remains a sacred treasure.

My life is an epic of endurance and overcoming. From dark ship holds to blood-soaked sugarcane fields, and finally to the shores of peace where I can sit and recount it all. I bear no resentment, for resentment would only rot my heart once more. I only want the truth to be respected. As the sunset descends upon the sea at Fort-de-France, I see the silhouettes of those who fell, as if smiling at me. They have not been forgotten. Their story lives on in my story, and now it lives on in your minds. Keep this flame burning, cherish the freedom you have, for it was bought at a price no film or book can ever fully capture.

I am Célestine, and this is my truth. A truth that needs no historical milestones to prove its weight. It exists in every breath, in every scar, and in every story I am sharing. I hope that after listening, you will see this world through a different lens, one of greater tolerance and understanding of what people can do to each other, and what people can endure to reach the light. Never let silence win, for silence is the accomplice of evil. Speak, write, and remember, for that is the only way we can truly be free.