A Pilgrimage to San Malo: Maroonage, Memory, and the Struggle Ahead
The taste of salt lingered in the humid air as we crossed Lake Borgne. As the wind swept over my body, I felt the spirits of the ancestors embrace me and whisper in my ears. As we approached the shores of San Malo, the whisper grew into a voice—a voice of resilience, a voice of liberation, a voice beckoning us to take up a mantle.
One of my greatest inspirations is the maroon leader Jean St. Malo, most commonly remembered as Juan San Malo. San Malo is cloaked in mystery; there is no definitive record of where he was born or how he acquired his name. Taken literally, the Spanish San Malo means “Bad Saint.” Yet he spoke Kreyol French, and the name more likely refers to Saint Malo, the Catholic saint after whom a port in France is named.
In the 1780s, he escaped from the d’Arensbourg plantation in the river parishes north of New Orleans. He journeyed Bas du Flauve (downriver of New Orleans), where he established a maroon settlement called Terre Gaillarde—“the land springing with life.” There, San Malo and his band of maroons built a cooperative economy independent of the slave society that objectified them and extracted the surplus value of enslaved labor. They cultivated crops, raised livestock, fished, hunted, and expropriated supplies from plantations to sustain themselves, while also carving vats to sell for the indigo trade.
San Malo used the money he earned to purchase gunpowder, ammunition, and arms. He was not only creating a cooperative, independent economy—he was preparing to overthrow the slave system itself.
Monique Verdin sharing the plight of the Indiginous people of Southern Louisiana and her ecological work.
I had long desired to travel to San Malo, Louisiana. Thanks to Common Ground Relief, I was given the opportunity. I met comrades at the Station Coffee House in Mid-City, and together we carpooled to St. Bernard Parish. When we arrived to St. Bernard, we visited one of my family’s tombs in the at Terre-aux-Boeufs Cemetery. After sharing some Isleño history with our carpool we went to the property of Native American activist and author Monique Verdin.
Upon arrival, we met the other pilgrims who were part of the journey. To my delight, Toni from N.O. Alliance (New Orleans Alliance Against Racist and Political Repression) was there—right away I knew I was in the right place. I also had the delight to meet Hali Dardar, a tribal member of the United Houma Nation who co-founded the Houma Language Project, and Bvlbancha Public Access.
Monique welcomed us to her property, where she is cultivating native plants, trees, and medicinal herbs. She also shared the struggles of the Native peoples of southern Louisiana—from Pointe-au-Chien, Houma, New Orleans, to St. Bernard Parish. Verdin is a transdisciplinary storyteller, artist, wild gardener, and citizen of the Houma Nation. She serves as the director of the Land Memory Bank & Seed Exchange, a project rooted in community-driven memory, ecological restoration, and Indigenous cultivation of place. She collaborates with Bvlbancha Liberation Radio and supports the Okla Hina Ikhish Holo network—Indigenous gardeners working across the Gulf South. Her work bridges environment, culture, lineage, and climate: she has documented how domestic landscapes, wetlands, coastlines, and communities in southeast Louisiana are entangled in colonial and extractive histories. Extended the upmost hospitality, her family treated us to a magnificent Southern Louisiana meal that was highlighted by freshly caught boiled shrimp.
The BLM (My Carpool)
After visiting Monique’s property, we returned to our carpool. In good humor, the comrades in my car decided to name our cadre The “BLM”—the Bayou Liberation Movement. When we arrived at Shell Beach, our group boarded boats and set out on our pilgrimage. As we navigated Lake Borgne toward San Malo, a profound sense of peace overcame me. I cast my burdens into the waters and left them behind. The crisp September breeze swept over me, and my mind drifted back to the 1780’s, imagining San Malo navigating these same bayous in pursuit of liberation.
Upon our arrival, one of our carpool mates, Daniele Simpson, offered a reflection in Louisiana Kreyol and poured libations to honor the maroons of Terre Gaillard and their pursuit of liberation. Toni and I decided to wade through the waters and step onto the shore of San Malo. Walking upon the shell-formed beach felt like treading on hallowed ground. I had reached the shores of my muse. Together, the pilgrims reflected on the plight of the maroons and the promise of maroonage. Among us was New Orleans born MIT professor Jean-Luc Pietre of the Tunica-Biloxi people, whose presence gave the pilgrimage profound significance.
In the era of maroonage, escaped slaves were often welcomed into Native encampments. To evade capture, some maroons disguised themselves and “masked” as Native people to blend in—one of the roots of the Mardi Gras Indian tradition in New Orleans.
Daniele Simpson, Jean-Luc Pietre, and myself on the shores of St. Malo
At one point, the conversation turned to whether we could survive if left in San Malo. The question struck me deeply. It pushed me to imagine the survival skills of the maroons of Terre Gaillard, who carved freedom from swamp and soil. And it forced me to reflect on what survival means in our own time—within a capitalist order sustained by the 13th Amendment and mass incarceration, one that compels us to compete for jobs, healthcare, and housing.
Slavery may have been abolished with the Emancipation Proclamation, but the capitalist system of domination endures. A small ruling class still extracts surplus value from workers’ labor. Capitalism continues to exploit—it has simply refined its methods. Today, one percent of the population holds more wealth than the bottom fifty percent of Americans combined.
Inequality is not an accident; it is woven into the very fabric of this nation. Our Constitution speaks of equality, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, but these are hollow promises without substance. It guarantees no healthcare, no living wage, no housing. Drafted by a minority of wealthy White men, the Constitution excluded most Americans from its protections at its inception. “All men” referred only to wealthy landowning White men, excluding women, Indigenous peoples, African Americans, and even White men without property. If it truly had teeth, half the population would not live in poverty, nor would the United States preside over the largest prison-industrial complex in the world.
Common Ground Relief leading the conclusion of our pilgrimage.
In this context, it is crucial for us in the 21st century to organize cooperative economic systems alongside the capitalist order that exploits us. And like San Malo and his maroons, we must also prepare for the moment when we can strike at the system itself, so that the entirety of the exploited may one day secure liberation—to live in cooperation to produce an economy that’s planned for the people and the planet.
In San Malo, deep within the bayou, the cypress trees and bayous point the way toward liberation. Juan San Malo was ultimately captured by the forces of Governor Esteban Miró, tried, and executed in Place d’Armes—currently renamed Jackson Square. From the very heart of New Orleans, his voice still cries out to us, calling us to take up the mantle of liberation and make it real. May we heed his voice.
Another World Is Possible,
-Eric Gabourel