Fresh Air - The collapse of Freedman’s Bank / Remembering Abdullah Ibrahim

Episode Date: June 19, 2026

‘In Savings and Trust,’ historian Justene Hill Edwards tells the story of the Freedman's Bank. Created for formerly enslaved people following the Civil War, its collapse cost depositors millions. She spoke with Tonya Mosley about how this part of history reverberates today.Also, we remember South African pianist, composer and bandleader Abdullah Ibrahim. He died Monday, at age 91. His song “Mannenberg” was an anthem during the fight to end apartheid. Jazz historian Kevin Whitehead shares an appreciation, and we listen back to Terry Gross’s 1989 interview with him. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for sponsorship and to manage your podcast sponsorship preferences.NPR Privacy Policy

This is Fresh Air. I'm David B. Incouly. Today is June 10th, named for the day in 1865 when enslaved people of African descent in Galveston, Texas, finally learned of their freedom from the system of slavery, effectively ending slavery in this country. We're going to listen to Tanya Mosley's 2024 interview with Justine Hill Edwards about the story of a bank established in 1865 for formerly enslaved people. Here's Tanya. July of 1874, waves of Black Americans rushed to their local bank branches to find out if the news they were hearing was true. The Friedman's Savings and Trust Company, a bank for newly emancipated Black Americans, was abruptly shutting down, and patrons at bank branches throughout the country were met with locked doors and cashiers who had to break the news. Most of their savings were gone. The rise and fall of the Friedman's Savings and Trust Company is the subject of a new book, by my guest, historian Justine Hill Edwards. In the years after the Civil War, tens of thousands

of formerly enslaved people deposited millions into the Freedmen's Bank with high hopes that as free people, they too could create a piece of the American dream for themselves. Abolitionist Frederick Douglas even encouraged Black Americans to trust the banking system, but even his leadership as the president before its collapse could not save it. Hill Edwards' book documents how the bank's white trustees drove the bank to the ground by lending out millions and loans to white financiers and businessmen. Justine Hill Edwards is a historian and associate professor of history at the University of Virginia. Her research explores the intersection of African American history, the history of slavery, and the history of American capitalism. Her book is called Savings and

Trust. Justine Hill Edwards, welcome to fresh air. Thank you so much for having me, Tanya. The freedman's bank, let's get into how it was established. So white abolitionists established it in 1865. Take us back to that time period. Who were these abolitionists and why was a bank for newly freed black people a priority? So the freedman's bank was established by, well, it was really the brainchild of a white abolitionist minister named John Alvord. He was from Connecticut. And he lived in New Jersey during the Civil War.

And in 1864, he was traveling with the Union Army in the South, especially in the summer and fall of that year, following Union General William Sherman on his famed March to the Sea from Atlanta to Savannah. And he took the opportunity to talk to recently freed African Americans. And what he found, what he gleaned from his conversations with them is that, They wanted a few things during this new and ripe period of freedom. They wanted their families because a lot of them had been torn away from their families during slavery. But they also wanted the opportunity to live independently. And importantly, they wanted the opportunity to buy land. And so he figured that he could really contribute to their experience.

He could help them in this, again, new period of freedom by establishing a bank for them. And so he gathers in New York in January of 1865 with a group of about 50 white prominent abolitionists, philanthropists, bankers, and politicians. And they came up with the idea for the Friedman Savings and Trust Company. John Alvert, he actually wrote letters talking about his fears around the future of freed people and the nation. But one of the things that you say is that he didn't under. understand that while black people had little experience with investments and the like, they did know about money. They earned it and they saved it through their experiences as enslaved people. In what ways did they know that?

Absolutely. I think even though most enslaved people didn't have access to banking accounts, for example, or savings accounts, most Americans didn't in the 19th century, the enslaved understood what money meant. They understood the value of their bodies because capital was held in their bodies, right? They were legally property. They understood what their work could garner, what they could be paid. They often worked for money, if possible. It was not uncommon for the enslaved to bargain with poor whites, with other enslaved people, even with their enslavers. And so this idea that the enslaved and the newly free kind of enter the period of freedom without knowledge of money or savings or thrift, as they called it, was not true and really incompatible with the ideas that

the white founders of the Friedman's Bank held at this time. What standards were created at the start to ensure people's money was secure? How were they telling them that they would be able to do that? Well, this was one of the supposed benefits. of creating a savings bank. And so the Friedman Savings and Trust Company, what we call the Friedman's Bank, was established as a simple savings bank. The bank was supposed to operate with the least amount of risk as possible. The bank administrators were supposed to invest depositors' money in government-backed securities and bonds, which again, were seen to be the lowest risk possible.

financial product. And depositors, if they kept their money in for a specific period of time, about six months, then they would get a small amount of interest back on their money at this time. It was between 4 and 6%. And so it was seen to be very low risk, very low cost, and the best way to help African Americans in their transition to freedom. What was the average sum that people were depositing at the opening? Small amounts of money, a few dollars. So we're not talking about hundreds of thousands of dollars. We're talking about thousands of Americans depositing money. And I think it is worth saying, too, that one of the kind of seed funds for the Friedman's bank came from the military savings banks established in 1864 for black soldiers. And so even though most of the first depositors, were depositing small amounts of money. A few of the bank branches,

especially the ones in Norfolk, which was the first branch. Beaufort, South Carolina in New Orleans, kind of got their seed funding from the military banks established for black soldiers in 1864. You can't really tell this story without talking about the specter of white supremacy and violence at that time, too, because black people were free, But what were some of the ways some white Americans struggled to cope with this new landscape of black freedom, which also included earning, having money, and saving money?

Yes, absolutely. The reality is that reconstruction, although a period filled with the ideas of freedom, the expansion of the franchise to black men, citizenship rights, the end of legal slavery, there was also white pushback. White violence against African Americans was rampant, especially in states such as Louisiana and Mississippi. And so the reality was that African Americans with money, African Americans exercising their own independence, especially financially, was a real threat, especially in the former Confederate South, where the Civil War was fought over the future of slaves. in the nation. And white Americans in the South had a hard time letting go of the idea of Black Americans as not being slaves, but being free, as having the autonomy to live and choose to work where they want, the ability for especially black women to decide not to work and to take care of their families. And so this resulted in a often violent struggle between white, white Americans who had not fully accepted that slavery was over, and black Americans who were

excited to exercise their newfound autonomy and freedom. You tell the story of a Houston branch of the bank from 1866. Someone documented all of the murders and brutal beatings that were happening, and basically how freed people were afraid of retribution for any number of things from white perpetrators. It's always remarkable when we see documentation like this because, you know, it was pre-everything. We're just talking about things being written down. Where was this document? Who was this person writing to from the Friedman's Bank?

Sure. There is a great kind of digest of sources. It's called the records of murders and outrages. And when we talk about the violence of reconstruction, you can go to these records and read about the sheer scale. and the sheer severity of violence against African Americans. I think it's apt to call it white terrorism. And so there is this compendium of records composed by Friedman's Bank and Friedman's Bureau officials. And it details the fact that in some places like Houston, for example,

one of the reasons why the Houston branch was closed within a year, was that white Americans begin to harass and vandalize the bank branch, and white Americans begin to harass the black depositors who were using the bank for perhaps economic uplift purposes. And so, and so again, one of the reasons why I use the term economic violence here is because economic violence is part and parcel with physical violence. And again, I think it's important to underscore for the fact that, again, reconstruction was a period of extreme hope, politically, economically, and legally. But African-Americans were under, especially in the former Confederate South, were under constant fears of white retaliation for their willingness to exercise their newfound rights. So, Justine, this was a bank for black people, but the people in charge, like the trustees,

Were any of them black? At first, no. When the bank was established in March of 1865 and opened its first branch in April of 1865, all of the bank's trustees and the first cashier were white. They were a who's who of abolitionists and politicians and bankers and philanthropists, mostly from New York. And it didn't take long, but it did take a couple years. It took two years for the first black trustees to accept appointments to the bank's board of trustees. All right. Now let's get into the mismanagement and ultimate demise of the bank.

Take us to March of 1870. Friedman's total deposits at the time, according to your book, equaled out to about $12 million. That's about $292 million in today's money. How did the idea come about to loan out the money to white businessmen and investors? Well, the bank was incredibly successful in its first few years. African Americans were depositing hundreds of thousands and then millions of dollars into their bank accounts. But in 1867, John Alvord, who at that time was working with the bank as one of the administrators, he had convinced other trustees that it would be a great idea to move the bank's main office from New York City to Washington, D.C. And at the same time, while he was encouraging

the trustees to embrace this idea, he invited a group of bankers onto the board that would dramatically shape its history. Led by banker Henry Cook, the brother of Jay Cook, who founded Jay Cook and Company, the nation's first investment bank. He was invited onto the board and accepted a board appointment and more. He accepted the chairmanship of the bank's financial committee, the committee who decided what to do with the bank's deposits in terms of investments. He brought with him two of its colleagues who worked at the Washington, D.C. branch of J. Cooking Company, First National Bank. And these three men decided to kind of shift the bank's investment strategy. And so in 1869, Cook embarks on a lobbying campaign to members of Congress,

many of whom were his friends. And he convinced them to support a bill, an amendment, to change the bank's charter, to allow the bank to transition from being just a simple savings bank to essentially a commercial bank, which meant that the bank could then make loans and specifically make business loans. And so the members of Congress who were kind of on the bank's side or on Cook's side decided to approve the amendment. And so in 1870, the bank started to legally make loans. And that would dramatically change the ways that the bank's investment portfolio would kind of shake out, but it also shifted the bank's major foundational goal, which was to support the economic aspirations of newly freed African-Americans.

Right, and a lot of the loans went to real estate ventures, which is ironic because owning land and property was a major goal for many of the formerly enslaved and many people who had invested their money in this bank. Absolutely. the bank started to make hundreds of thousands and then millions of dollars in loans to businessmen, even to politicians in and around D.C. to buy land, to buy property, and to make those types of real estate investments. And a minuscule volume of loans went to African Americans. and this dramatically reshaped, again, the bank's fundamental mission.

What made getting a loan from Friedman's Bank enticing to these white guys? Because I would assume that they could get loans from other banks, too, right? Was it the ease of them being able to get the money, the percentage on, like, the interest? What was it? Yes, exactly. it was the ease with which they could get loans. The fact that the majority of the loans went to colleagues and business partners of members of the board of trustees. And so the loans had variable interest rates, oftentimes very low or no interest, would accrue on the bank loans. The borrower

could write a letter or physically ask a member of the board of trustees if they'd could have an extension and those extensions would be granted. The amendment approved by Congress required that borrowers have collateral worth at least two times the loan amount and oftentimes those who borrowed money wouldn't have to give collateral. And so the kind of foundations of these loans, the creditworthiness of those who wanted to borrow money was not fully evaluated or vetted by members of the Finance Committee. And so millions of dollars were just flooding out of the bank to these businessmen at the expense of the formerly enslaved who were putting their money in the bank. How did people find out that their bank branch was going under? Well, I think

this is where the famed Frederick Douglass comes in. He is, he's asked in 1874 after John Alv Ward steps down at the beginning of that year, he's asked in March to become the bank's president. And he is, he has a bit of trepidation, but he also understands the importance of the institution. and his family, he and his sons were depositors. And so once he gets into the role of the presidency, he accepts. And in April of 1874, he sits down for his first trustee meeting. And he learns that the bank's finances were in horrible shape. He learns that the bank is over leverage.

There are millions of dollars unpaid in loans. that the loan terms had been extended, that interest was not being collected, that black depositors were not having access to their money, which was a problem for him. And news reports are starting to come out that the bank is underwater, that they cannot fulfill their obligations to depositors. And so while Frederick Douglass is figuring this out, depositors are starting to realize that, hey, I can't go to my bank branch and withdraw my money. I have to wait 60 or 90 days to withdraw the few dollars that I have in my account. And so this terrifies not only Douglas,

but the tens of thousands of bank depositors across the country. And as he writes in his autobiography that he publishes in 1881, it was one of the worst decisions of his life. And I think that is saying a lot, given what he had been through in his life, fighting for his freedom as an enslaved young man. Right. He actually writes, despite my efforts to uphold the freedman's savings and trust, it has fallen. It has been the black man's cow, but the white man's milk. Bad loans and bad management have been the death of it. I was ignorant. I was ignorant. of its real condition till elected as its president. Justine Hill Edwards, speaking to Tanya Mosley in 2024.

More of their conversation after a break. And jazz historian Kevin Whitehead has an appreciation of South African jazz pianist and composer Abdullah Ibrahim, who died Monday at the age of 91. We'll listen to an archive interview with him as well. I'm David B.in Cooley, and this is Fresh Air. What did he do to try to save the bank, though? Because really, even after finding out all of that information, initially he wasn't telling people to, hey, pull out your money. And he did not even pull out his money initially, right? No. When he gets to that first Board of Trustees meeting, he is flanked by John Al Ward, who was the outgoing president and the bank's actuary. George Stickney, and he is basically shown the books and kind of looks in horror at the state of the

bank's finances, and Alvord kind of jumps on him and says, well, there is a run on one of our branches, and so we need you to deposit $10,000 of your own money in this bank account. And when I first read that, I was stunned. I was shocked because I'm thinking about Douglas. He's sitting there with the trustees at that time. There are two other black trustees. And he is looking around, I imagine, at the white faces and saying of all of these men, none of whom have my background, minus the African American trustees. But the white men in this room could all gather money to loan.

And they're asking me the former slave to do it. I just think about that and it's kind of mind-blowing. Did he feel overall that he had been used? I think so. I think he comes to that point fairly quickly and essentially tries to write the ship. And what he does is he writes to try to assure depositors that their money is still safe and essentially not to pull their money out from the bank. And he ends up depositing $10,000 of his own money in the bank as a show of his confidence.

This went before Congress, I should say, and you got a hold of some of the testimony. Douglas really showed a lot of anger towards John Alvord, who was responsible for actually founding the bank. Unfortunately, no one was brought on charges, and the bank's depositors, when the bank failed, were left to deal with federal authorities to hopefully they hoped to get their money that they still have. had in the bank when it failed in July of 1874. Did they ever get money back from those that they loaned to? Well, there were five disbursements. The first disbursement was about 10%, and then it went up to like 10%, 10%, 10%, 15%, and then 5%. And so there was a very complicated process, though, for depositors to get money.

Congress appointed three commissioners to figure out how to liquidate the bank's assets and to figure out how to repay the depositors. They had a hard time selling off the bank's assets, the buildings that they had purchased for bank branches across the country, the commissioners themselves were getting paid. And so all of this kind of chipped away at the money that African Americans could claim. So at the end by 1900, black depositors had to be. claimed about 48, 49% of what they had in their accounts. And so nowhere near the full amount of money that they had when the bank collapsed. Have you charted just how much wealth many of these people might have had if they hadn't lost their money? It's in perhaps a trillion dollars. I mean,

it's really hard to say. When the bank failed, their depositors had about $2.9 million. in their accounts. At its height, though, the bank had taken in about $57 million, and now that's about $1.5 billion. And the math on this is not exact, but if we think about how that money could have accrued, how interest could have accrued on that, we are talking about billions, if not trillions of dollars

in wealth that African-Americans. could have now, if not for the failure of the bank. Are you making the case for reparations? That is a good question. I think so. I think there needs to be a reckoning. I think one of the major aspects of not just this work, but longer, broader conversations about the continued influence of slavery is that African Americans have been stripped of wealth, and that was strategic. It wasn't just with the failure and plunder of the Friedman's Bank. We're talking about discriminatory housing practices, lack of access to credit, being credit invisible, not trusting

financial institutions. And so taking yourself out of the traditional financial marketplace and research shows that having and maintaining a relationship with a financial institution and trusting that your money will be safe with that financial institution is a vehicle to build wealth. And so if African Americans historically have both been left out of, and on the other side, don't trust these institutions, we're talking about one of the origins and roots of the racial wealth gap in America. Justine Hill Edwards, thank you so much for this book and this conversation and your research. Thank you so much.

This was wonderful. Justine Hill Edwards, talking with Tanya Mosley in 2024, about her book, Savings and Trust, the Rise and Betrayal of the Friedman's Bank. Coming up, jazz historian Kevin Whitehead has an appreciation of South African jazz pianist and composer Abdullah Ibrahim, who died Monday at the age of 91. This is fresh air.

South Africa-born pianist, composer, and bandleader Abdullah Ibrahim died Monday at age 91. He began recording in South Africa in the 1950s when he played with a pioneering band called the Jazz Epistles alongside trumpeter Hugh Massacela. Abdullah Ibrahim left South Africa in 1962 and spent most of his life away, though he did play at President Nelson Mandela's inauguration in 1994. Abdullah Ibrahim, in his travels, recorded dozens of albums for dozens of labels around the world. Jazz historian Kevin Whitehead has this appreciation. Cherry by Abdullah Ibrahim, who wrote many hypnotic piano pieces that roll on and on. It's named for Don Cherry, a fellow jazz globetrotter.

Abdullah Ibrahim was born in Cape Town in 1934 as Adolphus brand. His early records were under the name Dollar Brand. Grandpa and mom played piano in the family church. gospel music cadences and tin whistle Cape Town street music melodies left permanent marks on Abdullah's composing. But the land of apartheid was no place for black self-expression. In his late 20s, he moved to Switzerland where Duke Ellington heard his trio in 1963 and recognized a kindred spirit. Luckily, a few days later, Duke was producing some recording sessions at Paris and made room for Abdullah's South African trio. This is Dollars Dance.

His mature piano style is not quite there yet. He's still digesting influences like Duke and Monk with their own percussive keyboard attacks. The resulting album Bannered Duke Ellington Presents brought him international attention. But Abdullah's late 60s and early 70s solo records really made his reputation. Here's another catchy one, Tintayana, with a persistent, tumbling bass figure. A couple of minutes later, the left hand stubbornly sticks to that bass part while his right hand goes. wherever, although the hands check in with each other periodically. There's a suggestion of all manner of African percussion ensembles with their layered contrasting rhythms. You might think of it as

Africanized boogie-woogie. By the late 1970s, Abdullah Ibrahim was recording all over, from Toronto to Tokyo, in Europe and in New York, where he lived off and on, and even in South Africa. He recorded some traditional chants from back home alongside a fellow refugee, bassist Johnny Deani. In that duo, Ibrahim also played a bit of flute, echoing those childhood tin whistle tunes. By 1980, now based in New York, Abdullah Ibrahim put together some larger ensembles that eventually led to his working septet, Akaya. Like Ellington, Ibrahim wasn't just a dynamic pianist or wrote steamroller tunes. He composed beautiful ballads, none more so than The Wedding, a song you could play in church.

Saxophonist Carlos Ward takes the lead, but don't miss the horns, in the background. The Wedding from Abdullah Ibrahim's 1985 album, Water from an Ancient Whale. In later decades, he toured widely and kept making solo and small combo albums. He'd do guest appearances with European radio orchestras and big bands and played lots of jazz festivals.

He slowed down some in his 80s when he became an NEA jazz master, but he could still keep a band on its toes. Jabula, recorded by a late version of his band Akaya in 2018. In the end, the pianist divided his time among the U.S., South Africa, and Germany, where he passed away on June 15th at 91. Abdullah Ibrahim was a citizen of the world who always remembered where he came from. Jazz historian Kevin Whitehead.

That's Manningberg Revisited. Coming up, we listened back to our 1989 interview with Abdullah, Ibrahim. This is fresh air. As a young man, Abdullah Ibrahim listened to jazz on Voice of America broadcast in South Africa. Before he converted to Islam, he was known by the nickname Dollar, a name given to him by American soldiers stationed in Cape Town during World War II, who sold their latest jazz recordings to him. Ibrahim later recorded dozens of albums of his own for dozens of labels around the world. pianist and composer Abdullah Ibrahim died Monday at the age of 91. His song, Manenberg, became the theme of the 1976 Soweto Uprising, and his composition Mandela

was written for Nelson Mandela. Apartheid drove Ibrahim out of South Africa in 1962, and he lived in exile for many years in the U.S. and Europe. Terry Gross spoke with Abdullah Ibrahim in 1989. His parents wanted him to become a doctor, but blacks were refused entry in the medical school, another of the limits placed on his life under apartheid. In terms of the music, it was probably for me,

the only means of escape, because at least we could play in our own environment. So I grew up in playing dance bands, behind vocal groups, playing variety concerts. but the main halls or arena of activity on a social, economic and political, from those aspects were completely denied to us. What was it that finally made you decide to leave South Africa? Was there a last straw or a breaking point?

They have vivid images and memories of confrontation with apartheid and being subjected to its brutality. So one has decision to make. Either you stay there and tell the line or you leave and try to carry on or play the music or you stop. We just stop and giving like

has happened to so many of our talented people. After you left South Africa, you returned again in the mid-70s and recorded some sessions there. And one of the pieces that has recently been reissued is your piece, Cape Town Fringe. And I know that this is very popular in South Africa at the time of the Soweto uprising.

Can you tell me about writing and recording this piece? Yes. It was after deep contemplation being out of all those years that we decided to go back, but it was at the time when I took Shadha, when I became Muslim. And that was on the way to making Hajj, going to Makah for pilgrimage. And I needed to do it from home. It was at that time that I got together this group of young musicians. and we recorded a lot of music.

The song Cape Town Fringe was recorded in Cape Town. The original title is called Manenberg. Manenberg is a township on the outskirts of Cape Town, the counterpart of Soweto, perhaps. When the album was released in this country, the marketing people decided to call it Cape Town Fringe, which I think was agreeable because the township, or just the word Manningburg was completely, I think, foreign to people here.

I've always, as always, in any struggle, and especially in southern Africa, the music has played a very important role. We recorded this, we were in a studio in Cape Town, and this piece of music came in the studio. busy recording some other pieces. And we recorded it just one take and left it, but we all felt so elated because we felt that we had captured the mood of the people

at that time. On the original recording of Menonburg, recorded in the mid-70s, you're playing electric piano, which I don't think you play anymore. No. How does it sound? you listening back to it, the electric piano. Sounds good.

But the reason for doing that was because we needed to take the music out to the people, I mean, live. And sometimes it was problematic to have an acoustic piano, let alone a grand piano. So we utilized the electric piano. That was really the only reason for you.

That's interesting. When you left South Africa, you met Duke Ellington, and he was very helpful for you. In fact, I think he was responsible for your first recording outside of South Africa. I think your music still sounds very influenced

by Ellington. Do you feel that way? How can we escape Ellington? Who would want to? Exactly. Even if people want to deny, there's no way. And we do not just mean jazz musicians, but contemporary 20.

century music, any way and anywhere that it is played, how can you escape Wellington? When you are holding a rehearsal with your musicians and you're teaching them or giving them a new piece of yours, how do they learn it? Do you give them music? I mean, do you write it down for them? Do you sing it to them, play it for them? What do you do? Well, the musicians have a saying when we say, we're going to. to have rehearsals and they say, where's the paper? Because I asked them to notate the basic skeleton of the piece first. So what I would do is when there's a new piece, the piano is like command post.

And I just come into the studio and start playing, even while they're busy setting up and talking about fried chicken they had or where they visited the night before and whoever he is at first will pick it up and so the song is built around that person, the first one who picks it up and finds an interest Oh really?

So what do you mean it's built around them? Like they'll get the first solo or? No, not the first solo but perhaps the lead Oh, I see. Uh-huh. Yeah. What a really nice interaction.

I guess also it makes, it's kind of something of an incentive to make sure people pick up on it really quickly, because then they'll be more prominent. Yeah, because the idea is really not to write notes and give it to people to play. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. It's the other way, it's the other way around. And that's why the so-called jazz music is so precious. It is so precious. It is perhaps the last bastion of, uh,

of human creativity. Abdullah I thank you so much for speaking with us. You're welcome. Thank you very much. Abdullah Ibrahim, speaking with Terry Gross in 1989. The South African pianist and composer died Monday at age 91. On Monday's show, Laverne Cox. For a decade, she's been one of the most visible trans women in America, but she spent most of her life keeping herself hidden.

We talk about her new memoir, her childhood in Mobile, Alabama, and the current political backlash against transgender people. Hope you can join us. Fresh Air's executive producer is Sam Brigger. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham, with additional engineering support by Joyce Lieberman, Julian Hertzfeld, and Diana Martinez. For Terry Gross and Tanya Mosley, I'm David Bean, Coole.