Jab Jab to Diablos Cojuelos
On the streets of Grenada, the Dominican Republic, and other Caribbean islands during Carnival season, figures painted head-to-toe and masked run and dance, crack whips and drag chains, not as an embrace of evil but as a centuries-old satire of oppression and a performance of collective defiance.
The Jab Jab of Grenada is a J’ouvert character whose name derives from the French “devil devil” and participants traditionally blacken their bodies with oil or molasses. Similarly, the Diablos Cojuelos of the Dominican Republic are part of a family of “devil” masquerade that developed under colonial rule as embodied parodies of enslavers and colonial authority. Practitioners and researchers say the imagery turns stigmatizing labels inside out: where colonizers once read Black bodies as savage or demonic, freed and formerly enslaved people reclaimed that imagery as mockery and resistance.
Histories that predate modern nation-states help explain why. The figure of the Diablo Cojuelo, the “limping devil” of Dominican Carnival, traces to European carnival forms introduced by Spanish colonists in the 16th century. The figure was adapted and mixed over time with African heritage into a local, satirical character who mocks authority and social elites. Dominican cultural authorities and historians point to that long lineage as evidence that Diablos are a creolized, localized performance rather than a literal invocation of evil.
Yet the spectacle is often misunderstood outside the region, and sometimes even demonized within the culture. Evangelical leaders, conservative commentators and some visitors have described the molasses devil, “Jab Molassie” in French Patois, as “demonic” or “satanic,” which are opinions that repeat the very colonial logic the mas seek to subvert: the association of African-derived spiritual expression and Blackness with moral or spiritual impurity. These critiques, local religious leaders and academic analysts note, are not new: European and missionary discourses historically cast many Afro-Caribbean practices as pagan or devilish, a framing that helped justify racialized domination.
That misunderstanding has political consequences. As Caribbean cultures are packaged for tourism and heritage promotion, the same outsiders who condemn devil mas sometimes become the island nations’ key economic partners: tour operators, foreign visitors, multinational hotel chains and international cultural funders. With that being said, it’s important that the commodification and “heritagization” of Carnival can preserve local practices. State agencies and tourism boards often emphasize a sanitized version of Carnival that appeals to global audiences while marginalizing the deeper historical meanings carried by groups, such as Jab Jab and the Diablos Cojuelos. The result is a washed down, and inaccurate version that falls somewhere between cultural survival and marketability.
Preservation advocates argue the remedy must be both practical and political: documentation, community-led cultural programming and legal recognition of Carnival practices as intangible cultural heritage. UNESCO and regional cultural institutions have promoted inventories of Caribbean cultural resources and urged policies that put practitioners at the center of heritage planning. Preservation that centers local voices can reduce the chance that the most historically meaningful elements of Carnival are sidelined to suit tourist tastes or to placate external critics.
The stakes extend beyond symbolism. In places where Carnival fuels significant tourist revenue, authorities sometimes pressure local groups to modify costumes or choreography for perceived decency or safety. That pressure can be intensified by international media narratives that highlight sensational or out-of-context images, and by faith-based groups who lobby for bans or restrictions. Preservationists say those pressures are best countered with contextualized education for visitors, funding for community storytelling projects, and policymaking that recognizes Carnival’s role in social resilience.
My response to critiques is very simple: keep playing. In Grenada, Jab bands still drag chains and smear themselves at dawn; in the Dominican Republic, Diablos Cojuelos still dance in bright suits and masks while slapping bystanders with vejigas (air-filled bladders) in the tradition. That persistence is itself a form of living history and an embodied classroom teaching generations the story of resistance, ridicule and survival.
As Caribbean nations navigate fragile economies and fraught global politics, the future of masked rebellion depends on local authority over cultural narratives. If governments, tourism agencies and funders respect the historical voice of Carnival communities rather than succumbing to aesthetic tastes or moralizing outsiders, the devil-figures that once marked subjugation can remain, as they have for generations, instruments of laughter, memory and defiance.