When Jadir Agung Marcelle left Dominica two decades ago, he was a teenager steeped in the traditions passed down by his grandfather – rituals, stories and the spiritual roles of the Kalinago people. Like his grandfather before him, Marcelle was entrusted with the roles of shaman, a priestly guide, and piaye, a traditional healer, in the Kalinago community, whose history predates European colonisation of the Caribbean.
Now 36, Marcelle’s sense of identity remains unshaken. If anything, he says, he is more conscious than ever of how Indigenous Caribbean culture has been quietly erased, generation by generation. What hurts, he says, is that so many people may be unaware of their Kalinago lineage, or rather don’t represent it like other ethnicities.
Though Dominica remains home to the region’s only officially recognised Kalinago Territory, Marcelle insists the Indigenous presence extends far beyond its borders.
“When I am in Saint Lucia, or go to Saint Vincent, I see people who look like me. I’m like, ‘Whoa. The Kalinago are still here’,” he tells St Lucia Times.
He gestures toward his face: “You see it in the eyes, the cheekbones.” He traces the contours of his own features, describing flat cheekbones, a low forehead and small eyes. Holding out his arm, he notes the deep brown of his skin and its reddish undertone, leading to a smooth, coppery palm. “Where else you going to get that?”
But recognition, he says, is not just about facial features. It’s also about land, history and presence.
“The Kalinago lived in coastal areas because of fishing,” he says. “But they’ve taken that land. And now, where there’s forest, they want that too. It’s always a fight to keep what little we have. And we don’t get the right kind of funding to develop ourselves. So, we’re constantly being held down.”
He referenced places like Choiseul in Saint Lucia, one of the places believed to have been home to indigenous people and where Marcelle says he still sees familiar traits in locals.
He says Indigenous people are often spoken about as relics, as if their time has passed.
“It’s like, ‘Yeah, they’re almost extinct.’ It’s as if we’re living artefacts, you know? But we’re still here. We’re alive.”
Marcelle hopes to see a regional holiday honouring indigenous people.
In the meantime, he is keeping Kalinago culture alive through his work as a healer. For years, he has been helping Saint Lucians manage chronic pain and physical ailments through a traditional Kalinago therapy known as Nocobou Pijat.
“It resembles physiotherapy,” he explains, “but where physiotherapy focuses only on the body, pijat addresses the mind, body, and spirit.” The treatment involves techniques designed to work on muscles and organs at a deeper level with the goal of “full restoration”.
A young cricketer named Dylan, who sought out a massage treatment tailored to athletes recently, gave St Lucia Times a glowing review of his experience. “It was deeply therapeutic,” Dylan said. “It helped me release muscle tension …and left me feeling balanced, both mentally and physically.”
He said he particularly enjoyed that it was “expert care” that featured evidently traditional techniques.
Marcele is deliberate in how he shares his work. His branding, language and practices are all rooted in Kalinago tradition. He is currently finalising a book with an editor, which he hopes to publish soon. The manuscript outlines the various dimensions of pijat, including its historical use of native South American bees to treat asthma and COPD, bloodletting with leeches, medicinal smoke cleansing, therapeutic baths and the role of the lunar calendar in healing.
Still, he treads carefully.
While he wants to expand his clientele, he is firm about maintaining cultural integrity and preventing appropriation. Pijat, he insists, cannot be detached from its origins.
“A lot of people believe in indigenous healing. They come into the communities, learn what we know, and then register it as their own, create some kind of study. I’m not going to let that happen again,” he says.
