The Unseen Voice of Badin: A Black Diarist's Legacy in Sweden
There’s something profoundly moving about a voice that has been silenced for centuries finally being heard. That’s exactly what’s happening with Adolf Ludvig Gustav Fredrik Albrecht Couschi, better known as Badin, an 18th-century Black diarist whose life is now the subject of a groundbreaking exhibition in Stockholm. Personally, I think this isn’t just a story about one man—it’s a mirror reflecting Sweden’s complex relationship with its colonial past and the enduring power of personal narratives.
Badin’s story begins in the most unsettling way: as a child, he was gifted to the Swedish queen like an object, not a person. Born into slavery in St. Croix, he was later ‘donated’ to Queen Louisa Ulrika, a transaction that strips away his humanity in a single sentence. What makes this particularly fascinating is how Badin navigated this dehumanizing system. He wasn’t just a passive recipient of his fate; he became a chamberlain, a court secretary, and even a ballet master. In my opinion, his ability to carve out a space for himself within the rigid hierarchy of the royal court is a testament to his resilience—and perhaps, his strategic brilliance.
One thing that immediately stands out is Badin’s diary. In an era when literacy was a privilege, let alone for someone of African descent, his writings are a rarity. His words offer a window into a world that history has largely ignored. What many people don’t realize is that Badin’s diary isn’t just a personal account—it’s a political act. By writing himself into history, he defied the erasure that so often accompanies colonialism. If you take a step back and think about it, this is a man who was treated as property yet managed to leave behind a legacy that challenges the very systems that oppressed him.
The exhibition, Badin – Beyond Surface and Mask, is more than a collection of artifacts. It’s a reclamation. Artist Salad Hilowle’s film, Maroonen (The Marooned), imagines Badin lecturing modern students, reflecting on how he’s been portrayed over time. Hilowle’s frustration—that Badin’s image has overshadowed his voice—resonates deeply. We’ve seen this pattern before: the Black subject reduced to a caricature, their humanity stripped away. But Hilowle’s work forces us to confront Badin’s complexity. A detail that I find especially interesting is how Hilowle uses opera to amplify Badin’s words, turning his written reflections into a hauntingly beautiful performance. What this really suggests is that art can bridge the gap between history and empathy, making Badin’s story impossible to ignore.
Badin’s position in the royal court was uniquely ambiguous. He was free, yet not part of the royal family. He was educated, yet his name, derived from the French word for ‘joker,’ hints at a role he may have been forced to play. From my perspective, this duality is what makes his story so compelling. Was he a trickster, as Hilowle suggests, hiding his intellect to survive? Or was he a man who found freedom in the very masks he wore? This raises a deeper question: How do we reconcile the roles we’re given with the identities we choose for ourselves?
What’s striking is how little we know about other Black individuals in 18th-century Sweden. Badin is an exception, but his story isn’t representative. Curator Åsa Bharathi Larsson notes his ‘in-between’ status, which highlights the broader erasure of Black experiences in Swedish history. This isn’t just a Swedish issue—it’s a global one. How many voices have been lost because they didn’t have the privilege of literacy or the platform of a royal court?
Badin’s legacy also challenges us to rethink how we approach history. His diary, letters, and autobiography aren’t just relics; they’re acts of resistance. In a time when Black lives were often reduced to stereotypes, Badin’s writings assert his individuality. Personally, I think this is why his story feels so urgent today. In an era of ongoing racial reckonings, Badin reminds us that the fight for recognition is centuries old—and far from over.
As I reflect on Badin’s life, I’m struck by the parallels to contemporary struggles. How many Black artists, writers, and thinkers are still fighting to be heard over the noise of stereotypes? How many are forced to wear masks to navigate systems not built for them? Badin’s story isn’t just history—it’s a call to action. It reminds us that every voice matters, and that the act of listening can be revolutionary.
In the end, Badin’s greatest legacy might be the questions he leaves us with. How do we honor the stories that have been silenced? How do we ensure that the ‘others’ of today are not the forgotten figures of tomorrow? These are questions I’m still grappling with, and I suspect I’m not alone. Badin’s voice, once unseen, is now impossible to ignore—and for that, we should all be grateful.
