THE RASTA WAY Dallas' Rastafarian community steadfastly practices an often-misunderstood religion By Linda Jones Staff Writer of The Dallas Morning News 08/11/96 The Dallas Morning News Under a full moon, in a sweltering back room somewhere in Oak Cliff, a Rastafarian worship service is under way. A solemn circle of men wearing dreadlocks is playing authentic Rasta music. Not the lilting rhythms of reggae, but the slow, steady heartbeat of Nyabinghi drumming. A portrait of the late Ethiopian emperor Haile Selassie is prominently displayed in a candlelit corner. A joint of marijuana ceremoniously makes the rounds, and incense sweetens the air. Karioki Na Uhuru, a willowy Rasta with reed-thin dreadlocks and mahogany skin, presides over the ritual, common among believers. Rastafari has its origins in Jamaica and found its way to Dallas at least 20 years ago, yet it is often misunderstood. Shirtless and sweating, Mr. Uhuru will lead the drumbeat for nearly three hours of nonstop religious celebration and praise to Mr. Selassie, the man they consider God. "Jah Rastafari!" he shouts in a chant familiar to Rasta devotees. Chants and songs mix Christian melodies, Bob Marley reggae lyrics and the lexicon of their chosen faith. "Swing low, sweet Rastaman, coming for to carry I and I home . . . Zion is a holy place no evil can enter here . . . We gon' fly away home to Zion, fly away home . . ." For Mr. Uhuru and dozens of other African-Americans in the Dallas area, particularly those committed to black consciousness, the search for a spiritual home ended when they embraced Rastafari. "I had been through every religion you could think of," says Mr. Uhuru, an artist who was raised in the AME church, dabbled in the teachings of the Nation of Islam, various African religions and even became a Yoruba priest. He says his exposure to Rastafari happened in the early 1970s. Now he is so absorbed that he often attempts to speak in a Jamaican accent even though he was born in America. The Rastafarian religion, named after Mr. Selassie's precoronation name, Ras (Prince) Tafari Makonnen, began in Jamaica in the 1930s. Based loosely on Christianity, it emphasizes the back-to-Africa teachings of Jamaican pan-Africanist Marcus Garvey, and advocates black unity. "It is a movement that grew among people who felt unfairly marginalized," says Jake Homiak of the Smithsonian Institution, who has studied Rasta culture for 17 years. "Its appeal is not only religious but cultural and political. Its elements of pan-Africanism appeal to blacks who felt dispossessed." A distinguishing trait of Rastas is the hairstyle called dreadlocks. The ropelike appearance occurs when the hair is not cut, brushed or combed. Citing biblical passages (Leviticus 21:5), Rastas claim the locks represent a religious vow not to cut their hair. Many also sport the locks, considered "dreadful" by conservative members of society, as a sign of independence and defiance. A controversial Rastafarian practice is the use of marijuana as a religious sacrament. They also draw from the Bible (primarily Genesis 1:12) to defend use of what some call "wisdom weed" or "holy herb." Most serious Rastafarians are vegetarian and live communal or modest lifestyles. They tend to be family--oriented, but most members are male and women play a minor role. Central to the Rasta movement is a belief that Ethiopia, regarded as the world's oldest nation, is also the symbolic kingdom of heaven and Mr. Selassie, its late former ruler, is the deity. It is a belief many native Ethiopians find difficult to grasp. For the past several years, Dallas and Fort Worth Rastas have paid their respects by holding annual Selassie birthday festivals and reggae concerts. The 104th birthday celebration, July 28, drew more than 500 Rastas and reggae music lovers to Beckley-Saner Park in Oak Cliff. Local Rastas also hold full-moon Nyabinghi rituals at locations they do not publicly announce. "It may appear to be a smokeout," says Irungu Bakari, a former Black Panther who grew up in the Holiness Church and says he became Rastafarian 15 years ago. "Nyabinghis are more like a church gathering. We gather with one thing in mind. To praise the spirit of Selassie." Even though Rastas consider their ritual an act of worship, the more organized religious groups in Dallas have not embraced them. Some don't even know they exist. "This is the first time I've ever been stumped," says Elizabeth Espersen, executive director of the Thanksgiving Square Foundation, a multicultural research and education center that comes into contact with a wide range of religious groups. "I haven't heard of their presence here in Dallas." The drug issue It is their philosophy about the use of marijuana that keeps most groups at arm's length. "I don't want to give the impression we are elitist, because we're not," says Colleen Townsley Hager of the Greater Dallas Community of Churches. "But we represent mainstream Christianity. What this religious group espouses is illegal." Marzuk A. Jaami, of the Dallas Masjid, which represents many African-American Muslims, says members of the Rasta community helped Muslims in their efforts to fight the local drug problem several years ago. "They came out to rallies and went to neighborhoods and helped set up patrols," says Mr. Jaami. "We're familiar with them but we don't know very much about them as a working religion." Their view of marijuana, he says, "is the thing that separates us." Rastas object to what they feel is an overemphasis on their use of marijuana. Not everyone who claims to be Rastafarian uses it. "They say they use it for meditation, but I don't need to," says Haggadiah Uhuru, 62, considered one of the elders. "I get what I need from The Source. That's Jah {God}." According to Donald Payton, who researches the history of Dallas' black community, Rastas have been a presence in the Dallas-Fort Worth area for at least 20 years. Exposure to the culture came by way of reggae music, popularized internationally by Rasta musician Bob Marley. Mr. Payton credits white businessman Neal Caldwell, current owner of VVV Records in Oak Lawn and owner of the first reggae record store in the area, with being first to play the music over the radio here. Eventually Rastas began promoting the music and proselytizing on behalf of the culture, among them former musician Nyusi Augustus, whom many considered their mentor. "He was the nucleus of the Rasta community here," says Mr. Bakari. "He played {black} conscious reggae music. He would talk about the Bible and enlighten us about ourselves." Mr. Augustus has less of a profile since suffering a stroke several years ago, but Rastas still visit him and his wife, Haggadiah Uhuru, at their South Dallas home. The home also serves as a haven for Rastas when they fall on hard times. In the 1980s, reggae nightclubs began to open and promoters began booking outside acts providing more exposure to Rasta culture through music. The late Neal Gitten, from Trinidad, opened the first local reggae nightclub, Bob Marley's Hideaway, in a South Oak Cliff bar. It became a popular watering hole for reggae music lovers, but not necessarily the venue for the more serious Rastas who do not consume alcohol or smoke cigarettes. "The real ones don't hang out. They aren't really bar hoppers," says Jamillah Kool, who is not Rasta but identifies with some aspects of the movement. "You got some people who are really serious and others who are putting on a show." For the past year, Ms. Kool has frequented the male-dominated full-moon Nyabinghi sessions, which she says she hears about through the "spiritual grapevine." At a recent gathering, Ms. Kool sat outside and listened to the music. "When I hear the drums, I feel connected," she says. When asked whether she is Rasta, she ponders the question, then shrugs. "I don't think so. But it's something about it. It's definitely spiritual." It is impossible to determine how many Rastas live in the Dallas area, since there is no organized church or official membership. Headdress hardships Many believers are not eager to announce their religious preference, even though their dreadlocks suggest they may belong. (Not everyone who wears dreadlocks is a Rasta; many wear it just for style.) "I don't go around saying I'm a Rasta like some people say, `I'm a Jehovah's Witness,' or `I'm a Christian,' " says Takuma Umoja, who owns Roots 'N Kulture Redemptive Books, a Fort Worth shop full of African artifacts and literature, including a section about Rasta culture. To call less attention to himself, Mr. Umoja tucks his mane of gray dreadlocks under a knitted hat Rastas call a "crown." But even crowns can cause problems for Rastas. In 1993, a Fort Worth couple battled with school officials who suspended their son for wearing his crown. Jameel Moore, a sixth-grader at Glencrest Middle school, was expelled for violating the dress code, which forbids hats. "A crown is not a hat," says his father, Jimmie Moore. "It's a cultural headdress. It's just like the Jews who wear yarmulkes and Hindus who wear turbans." The issue was dropped when Jameel refused to wear the hat to school again for fear it would affect his grades. "They really shook him up," his father said. A clash of Rasta ways and the predominant culture is what Carlos and Dana Jackson feel prevented them from improving deteriorating conditions in their West Dallas neighborhood. The couple, who have eight children, wanted their surroundings to reflect their religion and its emphasis on African culture and natural living. They built an Afrocentric village, painting portraits of Marcus Garvey, Haile Selassie and other black leaders on some of the shotgun homes they acquired and renovated. They grew vegetable and herb gardens and raised chickens, horses and even peacocks and llamas. They also held outdoor Nyabinghi sessions at which participants smoked ganja. The city cited the Jacksons for numerous code violations and, at one point, police arrested him for marijuana possession. He and his wife were prohibited from doing any more renovations, even though the bulk of his citations were dismissed. Mr. Jackson feels they were harassed for their religious beliefs. "I had to stop or I would have lost everything," he says. Dallas police, who had their hands full several years ago dealing with Jamaican drug traffickers, say they aren't as prone to single out Rastas as people may think. "We don't target a group of people because of the way they look," says Detective Russell Graves of the organized crime drug enforcement task force. Despite the challenges of belonging to a religion that is largely misunderstood, for Rastas, their religion has provided cultural connection and inner peace. "It seemed like all my life I was searching for who I was," says Mr. Moore, the father of Jameel who was suspended from school. An unemployed truck driver who earns money making and selling leathercraft, he became Rasta in 1983 after leaving the Nation of Islam. "When it came to having shaved faces and bald heads, I couldn't deal with it. It seemed too much like what I was trying to get away from." Now as a Rasta, Mr. Moore, his wife and seven children proudly sport dreadlocks and live a relatively simple life. "I can't really explain it," he says. "But I feel like I'm the freest man. "It's been a rough life, but as Rastas, we've got to keep on."