In the complex and often brutal reality of 17th-century slavery across the Mediterranean, a surprising thread of religious toleration occasionally emerges. Nowhere is this paradox more vividly illustrated than in the Barbary States—specifically Algiers, Tunis, Tripoli and Morocco—where European Christian captives, despite their dire circumstances, maintained an active, and at times elaborate, religious life.
This article delves into the spiritual resilience of those captives and the unique ways religious material culture became both a symbol and a medium of endurance, identity, and even negotiation.
Worship behind bars
Despite the enslavement of European Christians in North Africa, historical records—both Christian and Muslim—reveal a counterintuitive reality: Christian captives were not entirely deprived of their religious expression. On the contrary, places of worship, sacred processions, and active religious fraternities thrived within prison compounds known as bagnos. Accounts from prisoners and observers describe chapels richly decorated, processions vividly attended, and feast days celebrated with a ritualistic fervour that rivalled celebrations in Christian Europe.
In Meknes (Morocco), for example, lay confraternities organised monthly and annual processions. During Corpus Christi, captives decorated the prison courtyard with flowers and herbs, erected triumphal arches, and paraded with banners, crosses, and candles. The holy sacrament was carried under a canopy of fine damask, evoking the pageantry of Catholic festivals in Spain. A Franciscan missionary in Algiers even remarked that the decorations rivalled those in Spanish cities during Holy Week.
This seeming contradiction—slaves engaging freely in Christian ritual—presents a nuanced picture. While physical suffering and coerced labour were inescapable, the space for spiritual expression offered a small yet powerful form of autonomy and dignity.
Toleration or tolerance?
Scholars have long debated whether this religious permissiveness constituted “tolerance” or “toleration.” The distinction matters. “Tolerance” suggests a degree of acceptance; “toleration” implies begrudging allowance, often under specific conditions. The latter better describes the state of affairs in the Barbary States. As the character Vivanco in Cervantes’ Los Baños de Argel sneers, “these faithless dogs let us keep our religion,” implying a freedom permitted, not embraced. This pragmatism, while far from true freedom, allowed Christian material culture to flourish in unexpected ways behind bars.
Indeed, this conditional toleration could be revoked. During a 1579 famine in Algiers, local Muslim religious leaders persuaded authorities to suspend Christian liturgical services—possibly due to sensitivities surrounding the use of bread and wine. Such episodes reveal the precariousness of spiritual life in captivity.
Yet tolerance had its utility. Captors, both Muslim and Christian, recognized that allowing slaves to practice their religion served pragmatic ends: it pacified captives and preserved their market value. Religious leaders, particularly priests and friars, played a key role in maintaining morale and social cohesion among prisoners. As a result, they were often granted privileges, including exemption from manual labour, gifts, distinctive clothing, and stipends. The catch? The more effective they were in maintaining order, the less likely they were to be ransomed. The governor of Tunis once declared that no ransom could match the worth of Father Gracián, who “makes my Christians obedient.”
Reciprocity and reprisals
The religious forbearance in the Barbary States was not one-sided. In Christian territories like Livorno and Valletta, Muslim captives were similarly granted access to mosques and religious rites. When such freedoms were curtailed, retaliation was swift. After the Genoese executed a renegade Algerian corsair, the Algerian authorities ordered the destruction of Christian churches in local bagnos.
While apostasy occurred on both sides, it was neither encouraged nor always sincere. Inquisitorial records are rife with stories of converts who feigned devotion. One Greek renegade, once Pasha of Tripoli, reportedly remained Christian at heart and sought to defect to Malta with his family and followers. Though the plan failed due to mistrust, it highlights the fragile loyalties and complex identities forged in captivity.
Material faith and spaces of worship
Across North Africa, Christian captives often transformed makeshift spaces into elaborate chapels. European reports identify chapels in Algiers dedicated to St. Catherine and St. Roch, and in Tunis to the Holy Trinity and the Holy Cross. As early as 1551, Algiers had a chapel named Iglesia de Santa Cruz. By the 1620s, chapels outside urban centres, such as the one near Tunis mentioned by Venetian envoy Giovanbattista Salvago, were expanding and embellished, often due to the efforts of missionaries.
Religious orders like the Franciscans, Mercedarians, and Trinitarians played a pivotal role. With the establishment of the Congregation of the Propaganda Fide in 1622, formal missions to the Barbary States began, providing both spiritual care and material resources. Missionaries conducted inspections of chapel inventories to ensure proper liturgical functioning, while ambassadors and consuls also helped facilitate worship. In 1640, the French consul in Algiers offered property for Jesuit priest José Tamayo to conduct religious services—adding to the city’s already eight established bagnos with chapels.
Sacred suffering and ritual practice
Holy Week and the feast of Corpus Christi held particular significance for Christian captives. These were not only central to Catholic worship but also symbolically resonant in captivity. The narrative of Christ’s Passion mirrored the captives’ own suffering, transforming physical pain into spiritual redemption. This theology of redemptive suffering, embedded in Catholic catechesis, explains the persistence of intense devotional practices even in chains.
The ritual of disciplina de sangre, or self-flagellation, was maintained during Lent. One missionary, Father Monroy, observed captives in Algiers performing this rite by candlelight after gruelling days of labour—an act that even garnered the fascination of their Muslim guards. Even while facing hard labour, beatings, and isolation, captives embraced religious suffering as a form of spiritual redemption. Their faith mirrored Christ’s Passion, turning captivity into a direct channel for the salvation of their souls.
Decorations for religious festivities were often elaborate, funded by donations and contributions from various sources: jailors, merchants, missionaries, ambassadors, and even the ruling Beys. Captives earned small salaries for extra tasks and could contribute to the church fund.
Brotherhood in captivity
Fraternal organisations known as confradias played a central role in sustaining religious life. The Trinitarians established the Confraternity of the Holy Trinity in Algiers in 1594, which quickly attracted over 700 captive members. By 1639, seven such confraternities existed, functioning much like their European counterparts, collecting membership fees, organising rituals, and fostering community.
These associations were not merely spiritual collectives—they were also engines of solidarity, helping captives navigate the emotional and social toll of enslavement. They brought familiarity and ritual order into an otherwise chaotic and degrading environment.
In summary
The story of Christian captives in the Barbary States is one of profound contradiction: spiritual liberty amidst physical bondage. Their religious practices—lavish in ceremony, rich in symbolism, and astonishing in scale—revealed a complex relationship between captors and captives. Toleration was never absolute, but its very presence speaks volumes about the entwined worlds of power, piety, and human resilience in early modern North Africa.
Rather than undermining the grim reality of slavery, this religious materiality adds depth to our understanding. It illuminates how, even in the harshest conditions, faith provided captives with a means of agency, identity, and hope.
This article was kindly provided by and Maria Dobos Falzon and Dr Matthias Ebejer, Senior Collections Officer, Archdiocese of Malta. It is based on a talk Religious materiality by Dr Matthias Ebejer and Maria Dobos Falzon at il-Haġar Museum, Victoria on May 10 2025:
