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En France, un certain nombre de rappeurs contribuèrent au tournant postcolonial de la France et de son rap. Parmi ces artistes, qui émergent dans les années 2000, se trouvent La Rumeur, qui le premier qualifia sa musique de « rap de fils d’immigré »[2], Casey, Rocé, La Caution ou encore Médine. Les identités plurielles postcoloniales énoncées dans le rap visent, comme l’explique Casey, à faire émerger « le point de vue des damnés des colonies »[3] et à démontrer l’hypocrisie de l’universalisme abstrait de la république qui masque en réalité son ethnocentrisme et, plus encore, sa colonialité[4]. Les « politiques de la ville » contemporaines – euphémisme désignant le traitement spécifique réservé aux banlieues – sont ainsi vécues par les populations ciblées, souvent originaires des anciennes colonies françaises, comme la continuité des politiques coloniales d’hier. Deux ans après les émeutes urbaines de 2005, Ekoué du groupe La Rumeur revenait sur les évènements et donnait voix à un sentiment partagé en pointant que « tout porte à croire que les tiers-quar [quartiers] ont toute la France contre eux »[5]. Puisque de nombreux rappeurs ont grandi dans ces quartiers et/ou sont « fils d’immigrés », ils sont identifiés par les pouvoirs publics et les médias comme les « porte-paroles » de la jeunesse postcoloniale des quartiers (Prévos 1998 : 67-69 ; Béru 2006 : 62-63). C’est à ce titre qu’un certain nombre d’entre eux furent conviés à venir s’exprimer sur les plateaux télévisés lors des émeutes de 2005[6]. Ceux qui refusaient de se plier aux injonctions à la responsabilité furent accusés par des personnalités de droite d’être « hardcore » et de propager un discours haineux « anti-Français ». Comme le notait le journal Le Monde, le rap fut dès lors mis « à l’index » (Le Monde 2005).

C’est parce que le fait postcolonial s’est imposé en France que la critique postcoloniale a trouvé sa place dans le rap françaises mais, dans le même temps, les rappeurs ont été des acteurs de premier plan qui ont contribué, avec d’autres, à ce tournant postcolonial. Dans un premier temps, j’explorerai une généalogie de l’émergence de la critique postcoloniale dans le rap pour en montrer la spécificité. Si les thèmes du rap postcolonial des années 2000 ne sont pas inédits, ils sont énoncés en des termes qui, eux, sont majoritairement absents du discours public. Dans un deuxième temps, je reviendrai sur la répression du rap depuis le procès intenté à Hamé. Je souhaite montrer que l’acharnement du pouvoir contre la critique postcoloniale dans le rap ne fait que donner de la force à cette dernière. Car en poursuivant les groupes de rap « postcoloniaux », le pouvoir affirme sa propre colonialité qu’il entendait pourtant réfuter.

I. Le tournant postcolonial du rap français

Le rap français a-t-il toujours été postcolonial ?

La plupart des universitaires écrivant sur le rap français s’accordent sur la dimension identitaire postcoloniale de cette musique sans pour autant distinguer suffisamment entre les différentes périodes (Prévos 2002 ; Béru 2006). J’affirme pour ma part que cette dimension postcoloniale n’est réellement devenue structurante que dans les années 2000. Cela ne veut pas dire que l’on ne trouve pas de commentaires sur la colonisation, l’esclavage ou l’immigration dans le rap des années 1990 – et notamment chez IAM, le Suprême NTM ou encore le Ministère A.M.E.R., les trois principaux groupes français des débuts[7] du genre – mais plutôt que la perspective adoptée diffère de ce que l’on observe à partir des années 2000.

Nombreux sont les rappeurs qui, dans les années 1990, ont traité dans leurs chansons du harcèlement policier contre les jeunes des quartiers populaires ou de la colonisation notamment. Prenons le Suprême NTM par exemple. Dans « Plus jamais ça », Kool Shen rappe :

• Les honneurs, la patrie, les conquêtes et les colonies
• On a déjà vu le résultat de ces conneries
• Alors va-t-on continuer à se laisser manœuvrer
• Par la haine d’un déséquilibré mental
• Je vous rappelle qu’il prône la ségrégation raciale
• Je vous rappelle encore que cet homme n’est pas normal
• Et ce depuis la déconvenue de la guerre d’Algérie[8]

Il y a ici un commentaire évident du passé colonialiste et impérialiste de la France. Mais cela suffit-il pour faire de « Plus jamais ça » un morceau « postcolonial » ? Le mot d’ordre « plus jamais ça » et la perspective adoptée tranchent avec le rap postcolonial des années 2000. Pour les groupes postcoloniaux, « tout brûle déjà », comme l’affirme La Rumeur qui titre ainsi son dernier album. Alors que la plupart des groupes des années 1990 commentent le passé colonialiste de la France, les groupes postcoloniaux des années 2000 vont plus loin en établissant un continuum entre le passé colonialiste de la France et l’actuelle colonialité du pouvoir. À la différence de ce qu’on observe chez Casey ou La Rumeur notamment, la perspective dans « Plus jamais ça » n’est que peu phénoménologique. Kool Shen décrit des faits plus qu’une condition qui lui serait propre[9]. Il poursuit d’ailleurs :

• Mais nous on s’en bat les couilles, on n’était pas là
• Et on est tous las de ce retour au même schéma[10]

C’est là une différence majeure avec les rappeurs postcoloniaux des années 2000 qui considèrent que leur condition postcoloniale, directement héritée du colonialisme, est inscrite en eux, gravée à même leur corps. Ils n’étaient peut-être « pas là » mais ces évènements, dans leur actualité, continuent de surdéterminer leur existence, qu’il s’agisse des opportunités d’accès à l’emploi ou au logement ou même, plus directement, de leur personnalité.

Dans « Tragédie d’une trajectoire », morceau qui n’est pas sans rappeler les pages autobiographiques de Fanon dans Peau noire, masques blancs, Casey décrit sa propre expérience vécue et les conséquences psychologiques de sa condition subalterne :

• Tout ça n’a pas de sens, mais tout ça laisse des traces
• Et je ne dis rien à ma mère le soir quand elle m’embrasse[11]

La tragédie de Casey, c’est de ne pas maîtriser sa trajectoire parce que surdéterminée par sa condition minoritaire. Dans le premier couplet, cette impuissance est énoncée par une série de questions : « Pourquoi suis-je si radicale ? » ; « pourquoi suis-je si marginale ? » et « pourquoi être stable dans ma tête est impossible ? » Il ne fait pas de doute ici que Casey décrit sa propre expérience vécue  ; bien que l’esclavage et la colonisation soient derrière elle, « tout ça laisse des traces ». C’est cette dimension phénoménologique qui est largement absente des premiers enregistrements du rap français, même si les prémisses d’une critique postcoloniale se font entendre. Les groupes des années 1990, s’ils abordent parfois la colonisation, l’immigration et l’esclavage, n’en font cependant pas des éléments déterminants de leur identité comme le feront les groupes de rap qui émergent dans les années 2000.

Il me semble que l’on peut avancer trois hypothèses pour expliquer cette différence générationnelle. Tout d’abord, le rap français était une musique dont l’imaginaire était encore largement américain. Or, ainsi que le note Laurent Béru, le rap est, aux États-Unis, un art post-ségrégation plus que postcolonial. Il a fallu que le rap français s’émancipe de ses influences pour devenir postcolonial, ainsi que le supposait le contexte français. Ensuite, c’est la construction médiatique du rap comme « expression des banlieues et des minorités » qui va amener les rappeurs, à partir des années 1990, à revendiquer un message directement politique sur la banlieue et les minorités raciales et ethniques. Tout à la fois rejetés et fétichisés, les rappeurs accèdent à une forme de médiatisation ambivalente et sont érigés en porte-paroles de la jeunesse urbaine postcoloniale. Dès lors, leur parole sur la banlieue est paradoxalement légitimée. Karim Hammou observe que « l’assignation médiatique du rap aux banlieues et l’ancrage du hip-hop dans les quartiers de la politique de la ville interagissent ainsi avec l’expérience sociale d’une frange de la jeunesse, dans un contexte de paupérisation des quartiers populaires, de ségrégation spatiale accrue et de tournant répressif dans la gestion des illégalismes populaires. Ils contribuent à légitimer l’élaboration musicale de formes d’écriture, de points de vue et de thèmes nouveaux » (Hammou 2012, 141). Par ce statut nouveau conféré par leur médiatisation soudaine, les rappeurs ont désormais un accès à la parole publique, et une injonction à l’expression d’un point de vue politique sur la banlieue. D’abord ludique, le rap devient politique. Comme l’affirme Mathieu Marquet dans son article sur la politisation de la parole rap, « c’est le fait même de pouvoir dire qui mène vers une envie de dire, et partant, à l’expression du et d’un point de vue politique » (Marquet 2013). Cette envie de dire va progressivement prendre la forme d’un discours postcolonial. Progressivement, car pour que le rap devienne postcolonial, encore fallait-il que le fait postcolonial se soit imposé en France. Cela ne s’est fait qu’au cours des années 2000 alors qu’il était largement ignoré ou minoré avant cela (Smouts 2010). C’est donc la troisième hypothèse que je formule : le contexte était davantage propice dans les années 2000[12]. Cela étant dit, je n’affirme pas, loin de là, que les groupes « postcoloniaux » n’ont fait que s’engouffrer dans la brèche. Au contraire, je pense que la France a effectué sa difficile mue postcoloniale en partie grâce au rap qui, dans le même temps, s’est nourri de la critique postcoloniale et de sa « bibliothèque […] en pleine expansion » (Cohen et al. 2007). Certains rappeurs ont donc été des acteurs qui ont introduit la critique postcoloniale en France, même s’ils ne l’ont bien évidemment pas fait seuls[13].

L’expérience vécue de la condition minoritaire comme fondement de la critique postcoloniale

Dans un article traitant des liens entre la critique postcoloniale et la critique de classe dans le rap français, Marie Sonnette affirme que la critique postcoloniale passe par des modes d’énonciation spécifiques, et notamment par la constitution d’un sujet collectif, un « nous » postcolonial. Pour autant, « derrière les “nous” englobant les minorités issues de la colonisation viennent s’apposer des réalités différentes selon les rappeurs et les morceaux » (Sonnette 2014 :168). Il me paraît nécessaire de préciser ici que cet article ne prétend pas à l’exhaustivité en ce qui concerne la critique postcoloniale dans le rap français. Plutôt, il va s’agir d’étudier quelques groupes et artistes considérés comme représentatifs de la critique postcoloniale ou ayant joué un rôle actif dans le tournant postcolonial de la société française (La Rumeur, Casey, La Caution et Rocé, principalement). Au-delà des différences qui existent entre les rappeurs et groupes étudiés, la critique formulée par les groupes de rap postcoloniaux témoigne d’une prise de conscience de la part des minorités dites « issues de l’immigration » d’inégalités structurelles de représentations culturelles et politiques et de discriminations systémiques à leur égard. Si les rappeurs ont publicisé (et ainsi politisé) les discriminations qui s’exerçaient à leur encontre, ils ont également revendiqué une identité culturelle partagée autour du souvenir de l’esclavage, de la colonisation, de l’immigration et des articulations entre ces trois mémoires. Pour nombre de jeunes dits « issus de l’immigration », seule la culture populaire, et en premier lieu le rap, est à même d’offrir des représentations susceptibles d’être réappropriées. A l’inverse, l’école, en tant qu’appareil idéologique d’État[14], est souvent un passage obligé dans l’apprentissage de la colonialité du pouvoir pour les élèves originaires des anciennes colonies. Dans un entretien, Hamé évoque le sentiment d’humiliation qu’il a souvent ressenti à l’école, depuis le « nos ancêtres les gaulois » jusqu’à l’enseignement de la colonisation et de la guerre d’Algérie (Tévanian 2012). Chez nombre de rappeurs, il s’agit là d’un trauma fondateur qui va nourrir leur critique postcoloniale et qu’ils vont mettre en scène dans leurs chansons. Casey se remémore ainsi ses années collège et le racisme de l’institution à son encontre :

• Au collège, ils me connaissent, se plaignent et ils gémissent
• La proviseure est une connasse qui me vire et me menace
• D’appeler la police pour ma sale tignasse
• Et les profs me provoquent, chaque jour me convoquent
• Et me disent qu’on me scolarise pour les allocs.
• Donc je réplique, moi l’enfant de la république
• Et on me rétorque que tout c’que j’mérite c’est des claques[15].

Dans « Le cartable renversé », paru sur l’album L’être humain et le réverbère, Rocé passe en revue un certain nombre des situations où se joue l’apprentissage des rapports de pouvoir, comme lorsqu’un enfant d’immigrés est pris pour cible par une institutrice :

• Jusqu’à ce jour la voix d’sa mère l’avait bercé
• Sur les bienfaits d’être droit envers l’autorité
• Loin des p’tits cons d’en bas que les emmerdes ont cerné
• En réponse au trama, son cartable renversé[16]

Image 1. La Caution, Peines de Maures/Arc-en-ciel pour daltoniens

Cet apprentissage du racisme et de la condition minoritaire est également évoqué par Nikkfurie, du groupe La Caution, dans « Thé à la menthe » : « Jeune, j’ai l’souvenir d’une « Madame Nicole » / Instit’ qui pensait qu’un bougnoule n’était pas fait pour l’école »[17]. Dans la phénoménologie de la domination mise en scène dans les paroles rap, l’école constitue le lieu premier de la prise de conscience du racisme. D’où la pochette de l’album Peines de Maures / Arc-en-ciel pour daltoniens (image 1) qui représente les deux rappeurs enfants, comme pour montrer que, « pourtant jeunes et innocents »[18], c’est bien à cette époque qu’ils ont pris conscience de leur condition postcoloniale. Bien que nés en France, les rappeurs ne sont pas perçus comme « Français » à part entière puisque « ce pays [la France] est presque le [leur] / Mais seulement presque »[19]. Ne pouvant être simplement Français, c’est dans la réappropriation du stigmate « indigène » ou « issu de l’immigration » que se joue la subjectivation des identités plurielles. Cette stratégie de la réappropriation du stigmate est explicite chez Rocé :

• Il y a un vécu à défendre
• Il y a une vision à répandre
• Et de nous vers eux
• Il y a une étiquette à leur rendre[20]

Pour les groupes et artistes qui portent la critique postcoloniale, le point de départ de leur « trajectoire » (Casey), de leur « identité en crescendo » (Rocé), de leurs « peines de Maures » (La Caution), c’est l’immigration et le souvenir de la colonisation, ainsi que le clame La Rumeur : « C’est une valise dans un coin / qui hurle au destin qu’elle n’est pas venue en vain »[21]. Le rap postcolonial semble avoir fait siennes les leçons de Benjamin dans ses « Thèses sur le concept d’histoire », et plus particulièrement celle-ci :

« Il existe un rendez-vous tacite entre les générations passées et la nôtre. Nous avons été attendus sur la terre. À nous, comme à chaque génération précédente, fut accordée une faible force messianique sur laquelle le passé fait valoir une prétention » (Benjamin 2000 : 428-429)

C’est donc dans l’appropriation du passé que le présent peut s’éclairer. Sans cela, « même les morts ne seront pas en sûreté » (Benjamin 2000 : 431). Et il suffit pour s’en convaincre de se remémorer les débats de 2005, année décidemment charnière, ayant mené à l’adoption d’une loi faisant valoir un prétendu « rôle positif » de la colonisation[22].

 II. Le rap postcolonial exposé, la colonialité du pouvoir démasquée

« Qui sont vos frères ? » : retour sur le procès intenté à Hamé

Image 2. Hamé, « Insécurité sous la plume d’un barbare », La Rumeur Magazine, n° 1, 29 avril 2012.

Depuis ses débuts en France, le rap a toujours été exposé médiatiquement, condamné moralement et poursuivi judiciairement par les représentants des forces de police ou par des politiques (Prévos 1998). Comme cela s’est produit aux Etats-Unis, le rap en France a très tôt été condamné par la classe politique pour la « violence » de ses paroles[23]. Mais alors que le fait postcolonial prend de l’importance dans les années 2000 et que l’écran de l’universalisme abstrait se fissure, le rap est alors dénoncé pour toute autre chose. Désormais, ce sont la critique postcoloniale et la francité même des artistes qui sont dans le viseur des hommes politiques. Initiateur de ce changement est le procès intenté à Hamé par le ministère de l’intérieur.

En 2002, Hamé écrit dans le fanzine du groupe publié à l’occasion de la sortie du premier album un pamphlet intitulé « Insécurité sous la plume d’un barbare ». Dans ce texte, il affirme notamment que « les rapports du ministère de l’intérieur ne feront jamais état des centaines de nos frères abattus par les forces de police sans qu’aucun des assassins n’ait été inquiété » (Hamé 2010). Un constat qu’illustre tristement la relaxe, après dix ans de procédure judiciaire, des deux policiers poursuivis pour non-assistance à personne en danger suite à la mort de Zyed Benna et Bouna Traoré en 2005[24]. À l’époque, celui qui n’était encore que ministre de l’intérieur, Nicolas Sarkozy, porte plainte contre le groupe pour « diffamation publique envers la police nationale » [25]. Le procès va durer huit ans, ce qui est assez exceptionnel pour une affaire de ce type : trois relaxes, deux jugements en appel et deux pourvois en cassation. Aucune condamnation donc, malgré l’acharnement du ministère de l’intérieur[26]. Alors qu’Hamé aurait pu se retrancher derrière la liberté d’expression, il a choisi de porter le procès sur le plan politique, souhaitant « ouvrir publiquement et politiser un débat jusqu’ici confiné dans la sphère de la recherche universitaire » (Monteiro 2008). C’est la colonialité du pouvoir qu’Hamé souhaitait mettre en accusation devant les tribunaux, comme aucun rappeur avant lui. C’est pourquoi Hamé s’est entouré d’experts –historiens, sociologues, enseignants, activistes etc. –, « en mesure de corroborer et d’étayer [ses] propos » (Acontresens 2007).

En amont du procès, l’avocat du rappeur explicitait lui aussi cette ligne de défense en faisant valoir que les témoins-experts allaient l’aider à prouver que « les humiliations policières à répétition font bien partie du quotidien pour un certain nombre de ces jeunes » (Monteiro 2008). La question étant de savoir quels jeunes et sur quels critères : « qui appelez-vous vos “frères”, qui semblent se faire trucider en toute impunité ? » demanda ainsi la juge rapporteur durant le procès (Acontresens 2006). Par son agacement, qui transparaît dans la formulation même de la question, la juge rapporteur sommait Hamé de s’expliquer sur ce qu’elle considérait comme un crime de lèse-majesté contre l’universalisme républicain, son supposé communautarisme. Hamé répondit que « frère » était un « terme usuel » qui revêtait une « charge affective » et désignait une « fratrie avec laquelle on peut se trouver des cicatrices et des espoirs communs » (Acontresens 2006). Pas d’essentialisme ni de communautarisme chez Hamé donc, mais plutôt une politique de la coalition[27]. Les frères d’Hamé sont tous les individus qui se reconnaîtront des cicatrices et des espoirs communs. Toutes ces cicatrices qu’ « on [leur] a demandé d’oublier », comme ce « 17 Octobre 61 qui croupit au fond de la Seine »[28]. Et au-delà, ces espoirs, cette « saleté d’espérance » comme la nomme Rocé[29].

Après huit ans de procès, Hamé sera définitivement acquitté en juin 2010. Plus qu’une histoire de personne, ce procès a été important en cela qu’il a finalement contraint le pouvoir à révéler sa colonialité puisque, ainsi que l’avait noté Hamé, « en nous intentant ce procès on nous signifie qu’on n’est pas autorisé à s’exprimer sur le plan politique » (Monteiro 2008). Récemment, Ekoué et Le Bavar, de La Rumeur, affirmaient dans un entretien ne rien regretter quant à leur engagement politique et postcolonial, allant jusqu’à dire que le procès qui leur avait été intenté « fait partie de l’histoire  de La Rumeur ». Et Ekoué de poursuivre : « on va fêter les 10 ans des émeutes [et] les mecs qui ont fumé Zyed et Bouna, ils sont toujours pas au placard » (Lebonson 2015).

Contraindre au silence les voix dissonantes

Depuis le procès intenté à Hamé et plus encore depuis les émeutes urbaines de 2005, le rap postcolonial est une cible privilégiée des politiques. La plus récente des attaques, toujours en cours au moment où j’écris ces lignes et connue sous le nom de l’ « affaire “Nique la France” », a vu Saïdou du groupe ZEP (« Zone d’Expression Populaire ») être mis en examen pour « injure publique » et « provocation à la discrimination, à la haine ou à la violence » pour un ouvrage co-écrit avec le sociologue Saïd Bouamama (lui aussi mis en examen) qui reprenait le titre d’une de ses chansons, « Nique la France ». Un groupe de députés UMP, parmi lesquels Christian Vanneste, celui-là même qui avait fait inscrire l’expression « rôle positif » dans la loi sur la « présence française outre-mer », avait soumis une question écrite au Ministre de la Culture et de la Communication. Je cite ici un passage éclairant, dans lequel ces députés s’interrogent :

« [Est-ce qu’il] apparaîtrait opportun [à Saïd Bouamama, sociologue algérien résidant en France] que des écrivains français publient, à titre d’exemple en Algérie, un ouvrage s’inspirant avec délicatesse du titre choisi par Saïd Bouamama mais intitulé, cette fois, “Nique l’Algérie” ? »

Ces députés semblaient ignorer dans un premier temps que le titre de l’ouvrage ne doit pas tant à Saïd Bouamama qu’au rappeur Saïdou. Mais la question était malgré tout intéressante par ce qu’elle révélait : en admettant que l’on ait le droit d’affirmer de manière provocatrice qu’on « nique la France », qui donc peut se permettre de tenir ce discours ?

Pour les députés, il était évident que même en acceptant que de tels propos puissent être tenus, ils ne pouvaient absolument pas l’être par un « non-national ». Mais plus que cela, il semblait bien qu’étaient visés tous les français « d’origine ». D’ailleurs, lorsque l’AGRIF (« Association Générale contre le Racisme et pour le Respect de l’Identité française et Chrétienne »), association d’extrême droite catholique, porta plainte contre les co-auteurs, elle ne manqua pas de signifier qu’elle traquait en réalité un prétendu « racisme anti-Français ». Et tant pis si Saïdou est lui-même Français. Plus ironique encore, la chanson qui a donné son titre à l’ouvrage n’est pas chantée par Saïdou lui-même. Ce sont des Français, directement identifiés par l’AGRIF et consorts comme tels car « Blancs », qui rappent sur un air de musette :

• « Nique la France, et son passé colonialiste
• Ses odeurs, ses relents et ses réflexes paternalistes »[30].

Cette subtilité a visiblement échappé aux différents acteurs dans cette affaire puisque seuls Saïdou et Saïd Bouamama furent poursuivis.

Mais en cherchant à étouffer certaines voix dissonantes par la censure, le pouvoir politique révèle les différents degrés de citoyenneté, selon que l’on soit du bon ou du mauvais côté de la « frontière raciale », faisant ainsi la preuve de ce qu’il cherche à taire. Saïdou notait en 2009 :

« Quand tu prends position [sur le « privilège racial blanc en France »] on va te définir comme un arabe issu de l’immigration, pas comme un intellectuel ou un artiste. Alors que si Blanchard [historien – blanc – spécialiste de l’immigration] dit la même chose, tout le monde va dire “Oui, effectivement, c’est indéniable” » (Tévanian 2009).

Soit une illustration de la citoyenneté à deux niveaux dénoncée par la critique postcoloniale. Malgré tout, même si la judiciarisation du rap postcolonial expose au grand jour la colonialité du pouvoir, il n’en demeure pas moins que ce sont autant d’interdictions de se produire sur scène, de censure et de procédures coûteuses qui s’appliquent sur ceux et celles qui dénoncent non seulement le passé colonialiste de la France, mais aussi son actuelle colonialité.

Conclusion

Dans cet article, j’ai souhaité retracer l’émergence de la critique postcoloniale dans le rap français en montrant à la fois que cette dernière n’a été rendue possible que par un ensemble de facteurs convergents mais aussi qu’elle a contribué, à son niveau, à la mue postcoloniale de la société française. Si une certaine dimension critique quant au passé colonialiste de la France et à son racisme structurel existait déjà dans les premiers albums de rap français, il était encore trop tôt pour parler de rap français postcolonial. C’est la polarisation de la société française autour des débats sur le fait postcolonial qui a rendu possible l’émergence d’une critique postcoloniale dans le rap français. Ainsi, ce n’est réellement qu’à partir des années 2000 qu’un certain nombre d’acteurs vont politiser leur condition minoritaire, plurielle et postcoloniale et dénoncer dans leur parole la continuité des pratiques coloniales qui s’appliquent à leur encontre, ce qui leur vaudra de s’attirer les foudres des sphères politiques et médiatiques. Loin d’être une politique isolée, ces attaques portées contre le rap – et plus encore contre les rappeurs et rappeuses – sont à ranger aux côtés des nombreux débats sur la laïcité (en réalité, sur l’islam), le rôle prétendument positif de la colonisation ou encore le caractère supposé « non intégrable » de certaines populations « issues de l’immigration » ou « de confession musulmane ». La condamnation morale du rap et son exposition judiciaire s’insèrent ainsi dans un dispositif de pouvoir plus large que l’on peut appeler racisme structurel ou colonialité du pouvoir.

Constamment ramenés à leur condition minoritaire, les rappeurs vont entreprendre une politique de réappropriation du stigmate en énonçant des identités culturelles articulées autour de la mémoire de l’esclavage, de la colonisation et de l’immigration. Soient des constructions hybrides, provisoires et mouvantes qui revendiquent un « droit à la différence dans l’égalité » (Balibar, 1997). Leur identité postcoloniale étant la raison de leur assujettissement, ils font de sa reconnaissance une condition sine qua non au vivre ensemble en France. C’est ce qu’exprime Rocé lorsqu’il affirme qu’il chantera la France lorsqu’elle le reconnaîtra « comme être multiple » (Rocé, « Je chante la France », 2006).

The post Colonialité du pouvoir, postcolonialité du rap : l’émergence et la répression d’un rap français structuré autour de la critique postcoloniale dans les années 2000 appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

“…the upshot is that while we now feel we know nearly everything that African states societies, economies, are not, we still know absolutely nothing about what they actually are…” (Mbembe 2001:9)

Introduction

This collection of photographs, taken during recent visits to my native Sierra Leone, are part of a continuing effort to help others see a bit more of the everyday in Africa through my subjective eyes –behind the objective lens of a camera, of course.

The images are not intended to (UN)change anyone’s perceptions of the beautiful, diverse, and vibrant continent of over fifty(50) separate, independent countries that constitute AFRICA.

Such (r)evolutions are best left to western media and (ma)paternalistic observers who continue to distill their (in)versions of Africa.

We, Africans, do not often get the opportunity (or take the time?) to interpret the sights or sounds of our countries, as we see fit, in order to resist the uniform exaggerations of an exotic, faraway place ravaged by poverty, starvation, disease and conflict.

As Mbembe asserts, “… there is language that every comment by an African about Africa must endlessly eradicate, validate, or ignore, often to his/her cost, the ordeal whose erratic fulfillment many Africans have spent their lives trying to prevent…” (Mbembe 2001:5).

Everything takes place within the context or contours of the preceding or existing discourse.

Hopefully, these glimpses do not nullify that greater purpose…

********

All photographs courtesy of Fodei Batty

Ships docked at the Queen Elizabeth II Quay in Freetown, Sierra Leone — Freetown, Sierra Leone, July 2015

Any Postcolony without a port to exploit its resources is not worthy of its misery

Although the Queen Elizabeth II quay is said to have one of the world’s deepest natural harbors, the presence of such a fine seaport has only expedited the exploitation of Sierra Leone’s natural resources by various multinational mining companies who use its fine services to ship commodities out of the country.

An Australian’s best friend: Diamonds from Sierra Leone — Bo, southern Sierra Leone

You, too, want a piece of me? An Australia diamond merchant seeks his fortune in the Postcolony.

Winners of Chinese Language Scholarships at the University of Sierra Leone — Mount Aureol, Sierra Leone, July 2015

From North-South to South-South domination? These students at the University of Sierra Leone were the “lucky few” who won scholarships to study the Chinese language at universities across China. They will be excellent speakers of the Chinese language, for the future.

Chinese car dealership in Freetown, Sierra Leone — Lumley, Freetown Sierra Leone, July 2015

The Great Wall goes South: Chinese car dealership in Freetown

Chinese merchants in Freetown, Sierra Leone — Freetown, Sierra Leone, July 2015

The Chinese are busy in Africa. Here a Chinese expatriate family hangs out in front of their store in Freetown as their employees also lounge rather idly nearby

On Umbrellas… — Lumley Market, Freetown Sierra Leone, July 2015

…and on Jerry cans: President Obama is the Midas Touch in Sierra Leone — Construction site, Freetown Sierra Leone, July 2015

Sierra Leone is a place in search of heroes and inspirational figures. Most Sierra Leoneans tend to look elsewhere because examples of good leadership within the country are rare. Hence, President Obama’s popularity across the country. Everything emblazoned with his name is an instant bestseller. The photograph of an umbrella carrying President Obama’s name next to a woman carrying her wares on her head and his name on a jerrycan are all evidence of the president’s popularity.

From Virginia to Sierra Leone: With Love? — Freetown, Sierra Leone, July 2015

A huge market for used cars; you cannot miss America’s finest anywhere you go on the streets of Freetown

Gifts to the Postcolony: Trojan Horses? — Freetown, Sierra Leone, July 2015

A popular sign across the developing world, all USAID-funded projects carry the questionable phrase “from the American People.” This one was stamped on a wall commemorating American support for a project preventing bush fires in the Postcolony.

Warscapes and Mercedes Benzes in Kenema, Sierra Leone — Kenema, eastern Sierra Leone, July 2015

Even though the war ended thirteen years ago, the landscape across Sierra Leone is still littered with the bitter memories of war –warscapes

Headscratcher: Office of Nuclear Safety, in Sierra Leone? — Freetown, Sierra Leone, July 2015

The postcolony is rife with contradictions. The sign on this building made for one head scratching moment. Nuclear energy in a state that has not found a way to provide sufficient thermal or hydroelectric energy to its people a century after the invention of electricity?

The sign on this nearly decrepit building in the heart of Freetown says it all: BE SMART! — Freetown, Sierra Leone, July 2015

Philadelphia Medical Clinic in Sierra Leone: another sign that says it all — Freetown, Sierra Leone, July 2015

Road Crossing Sign on the street of Freetown — Lumley, Freetown Sierra Leone, July 2015

This sign struck me as quite ironic because the constant flow of traffic does not allow children to cross the road safely on this busy street in the west of Freetown.

Total Domination in/of the Postcolony — Freetown, Sierra Leone, July 2015

A Total gas station. Next to residential dwellings…

The lifestyles of the rich and shameless contrast sharply with others: a mansion in Freetown — Freetown, Sierra Leone, July 2012

Hardly do structures such as this make it into the pages of western media. There is, in fact, a direct correlation between the construction of mansions such as this one and the misery of the people. The more mansions rise, the more the misery of the people increases.

Not a mud hut in sight! Juba Hills, Freetown, Sierra Leone — Freetown, Sierra Leone, July 2012

You see what you want to see in the postcolony. There are mud huts, diseases and poverty galore but there is also what you see above. In some cases, those who live here are responsible for the conditions of those who live where capitalist western media would like to divert your attention.

More mansions blend into lush foliage around the hills of Freetown — Freetown, Sierra Leone, July 2012

And then there is this one, also in Freetown, Sierra Leone: Not your average mud hut? — Freetown, Sierra Leone. April 2007.

A street scene in Freetown, Sierra Leone — Freetown, Sierra Leone. April 2007.

There is also the everyday.

Ingenuity — Freetown, Sierra Leone, July 2012.

Ingenuity is evident everywhere on the streets of Freetown. This is the postcolony, after all.

In a mud hut in eastern Sierra Leone – November 2006.

Perception is not reality. I could choose to show you the above…

Beautiful sunset along Lumley Beach, Freetown Sierra Leone — Freetown, Sierra Leone, circa 2007

…this beautiful sunset

*****

So, you see? My photographs have just played tricks on you by showing you the AFRICA that I want to show you! Perception is not reality…

The post (Alter)Native Lens: Seeing my Sierra Leone like a Postcolony appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Ya motivados por dicho estudio, nos interesamos mucho más por el léxico de la política puertorriqueña, en especial, las innovaciones léxicas en cada cuatrienio electoral. Iniciamos, entonces, la recopilación de artículos periodísticos relacionados con dicho tema y en 1984 nos sorprendió la creatividad lingüística en esas elecciones. Para citar un ejemplo simple pensemos en el fenómeno del melonismo o más específicamente el voto melón: Se dice del elector afiliado al Partido Independentista Puertorriqueño (PIP), pero que vota por el Partido Popular Democrático (PPD) para detener la ofensiva anexionista. Se le compara con esta fruta, porque es verde por afuera (color que identifica al PIP) asimismo rojo por dentro (color con el cual se reconoce el PPD).

Otro ejemplo emblemático es  cangrimán. Voz con la cual fueron conocidos un grupo de congresistas estadounidenses que visitaron el País en 1910. Los isleños los llamaron “cangrimanes” por confusión con el inglés “congressman”. En la propaganda política de las elecciones 2004, vuelve a utilizarse el término (Véase el discurso  Ante el engaño y represión, dignidad  y perseverancia, Rubén Berríos).

Aclaramos, antes de pasar al análisis léxico-político, que algunas voces se apartan del tema seleccionado en el título del ensayo: represión, persecución y estrategia de lucha. Las hemos incluido ya que nos parece pertinente por la alta frecuencia de uso y por la trascendencia adquirida en la realidad puertorriqueña.

Sin más preámbulos, recordemos que “tutte le parole possono  diventare termini politici , se sono usate in una situazione politica ” (Maurizio Dardano1981:150).

abstencionismo. Práctica de abstención en el proceso electoral. En algunos partidos y agrupaciones de izquierda, el a. es una forma de protesta al status quo. Puede utilizarse en relación a otras actividades políticas no eleccionarias.

activista comunitario. Oscar López Rivera, el a. c. que el 29 de mayo de 2015, cumplió 34 años de prisión en cárceles estadounidenses;  por el único delito de luchar por la independencia de su País. Oscar, después de su experiencia militar en Vietnam, se convirtió en un luchador muy activo en las comunidades puertorriqueñas  de la metrópolis. En 1981, fue acusado por ser miembro de una organización militar clandestina  independentista. Condenado por ello a 55 años por conspiración terrorista , aún permanece en  prisión.  En estos momentos, es el prisionero político más antiguo del hemisferio occidental. Pero, diversos sectores del pueblo puertorriqueño han emprendido una campaña nacional e internacional por su excarcelación: Se pide el indulto al Presidente Obama.

albizuismo. Ideología y estrategia política-revolucionaria seguida por  Pedro Albizu Campos  y los afiliados al Partido Nacionalista Puertorriqueño en el periodo de 1930 a 1950.

amordazar. (De mordaza). Silenciar o reprimir con violencia actuaciones políticas o sociales en que se usen los símbolos de la Patria. Impedir hablar o expresarse libremente a todas las voces independentistas o nacionalistas del País.

anexionismo criollo. Asimilación e integración (como estado 51) a la federación norteamericana que postulan los simpatizantes del Partido Nuevo Progresista (PNP).  El a. c. propone, además, la preservación de nuestro idioma, cultura e identidad puertorriqueña, los cuales no están sujetos a negociación. En las elecciones de 2004 y 2008, el adjetivo “criollo” fue perdiendo vigencia.

asimilismo colonial. Tendencia política que pretende destruir o sustituir la identidad cultural puertorriqueña por la estadounidense.

antimilitarismo. Oposición a la presencia y al programa militar obligatorio del  ROTC (Reserve Officers Training Course) en las instituciones universitarias del País. Como consecuencia de esta lucha decenas de estudiantes fueron expulsados y suspendidos de sus estudios. Hoy día el ROTC se establece fuera del campus universitario y se ofrece como curso electivo o voluntario.

asistencialismo. Se dice de la dependencia económica impuesta a las masas populares y otros en esta economía colonial  (v. también mentalidad cuponera).

boricua mutante. Dicho de una persona que sufre mutación de identidad. Que por su vehemente y absoluta lealtad al sistema y a la nación norteamericana se aleja de sus raíces; por tanto su sello de identidad tiene muy pocas huellas de puertorriqueñidad  (Juan Mari Brás), (v. también pitiyanqui).

cacería de brujas. Locución que se acuñó para describir la persecución y represión de todo aquél que resultara sospechoso de preferir la independencia. Como consecuencia de dicha cacería, “los candidatos para puestos políticos  se removían a tenor con las reglamentaciones federales. Liberales prominentes, entre los que se contaba Jorge Font Saldaña… , fueron obligados a  abandonar sus cargos por  haber establecido un pequeño grupo con el nombre de Renovación” (Thomas Mathews 1975:266).

cadete de la República. Perteneciente o militante del nacionalismo albizuista. Vestían de negro y recibían un entrenamiento militar.

carpeta. Nominativo con el cual se conoció la práctica del gobierno y la policía de Puerto Rico de crear expedientes a todo aquel ciudadano que por su afiliación o creencias políticas de izquierda se consideraba subversivo. El Tribunal Supremo de la Isla declaró ilegal e inconstitucional tal práctica, pero “la decisión del Tribunal no alcanzó a las agencias investigativas de los EE. UU. en Puerto Rico. En consecuencia, los actos ilegales del FBI y sus colaboradores continúan  impunes” (Luis Nieves Falcón 2009:197).

Cerro Maravilla. El asesinato de los jóvenes Arnaldo Darío Rosado y Carlos Soto Arriví en el C.M. el 25 de julio de 1978, “fue un acto provocado y ejecutado por la policía de Puerto Rico, sin que mediara justa causa y con la intención específica de quitarles la vida. El crimen de Cerro Maravilla fue planificado por miembros de la policía, quienes tomaron la decisión de dar muerte a los jóvenes por la única razón de que éstos fueron vinculados a actividades relacionadas con el movimiento independentista en la Isla” (Nieves Falcón 2009: 158-159).

Claridad. Esta publicación – un pequeño boletín –  aparece en la realidad política de la Isla en 1959. Empieza en forma muy artesanal, esto es, hecho en un mimeógrafo. Se inicia por acuerdo del Comité Organizador del Movimiento Pro- Independencia, y sus fundadores fueron dos grandes de la lucha independentista: César Andreu Iglesias y Juan Mari Brás.

En su primer aniversario, y no obstante las dificultades iniciales, se convirtió en la voz del independentismo tanto en Puerto Rico como en Estados Unidos. Por miles razones, no pudo seguir publicándose diariamente, y en los años setenta se convirtió en semanario.  Recuérdese los intentos que se hicieron para eliminarlo. Pero, Claridad sobrevivió y actualmente es valorizado como “El Periódico de la Nación Puertorriqueña” (v. Paralitici 2004:190;  Mari Brás 2006:135-138).

colonialismo puertorriqueñista. Estrategia de dominación impuesta al colonizado. Consiste ésta en reconocerle su identidad latina, así como idioma, bandera y otros símbolos patrios (Véase el ensayo crítico Posmodernos, neomelones y neoconservadores: respuesta a Carlos Pabón, Ramón Grosfoguel).

colonialismo “light”. Se dice de los sectores del Partido Popular Democrático que en pro de la derrota del Partido Nuevo Progresista piden a todos los independentistas el voto melón. Este sector desea mantener el status quo colonial  (Estado Libre Asociado) o la Libre Asociación Soberana permanentemente, pero exigirán a la metrópolis más autonomía.

confusión permanente. Frase acuñada por Rubén Berríos para describir el sistema colonial del País: dos banderas, dos himnos. Sin embargo, el pueblo escogió curiosamente otros dos himnos: Preciosa  de Rafael Hernández  y  Verde Luz  de Antonio Cabán (El Topo).  Esto es evidente en las actividades deportivas y músico-culturales.

diáspora boricua. Se dice de los tres y medio  o  cuatro millones de  residentes de origen puertorriqueño establecidos en Estados Unidos. También son conocidos como los nuyoricans o niuyoricans;  indiferentemente del estado donde residan.

espanglish. La lengua creada por la diáspora boricua como identidad y signo de resistencia.

espionaje doméstico. Dicho del control que ejercen las agencias federales en la Isla: FBI, CIA  y sus colaboradores.

estadidad jíbara. Sintagma nominal creado por el ex gobernador de  Puerto Rico Luis A. Ferré  en las elecciones de 1976. En las elecciones de 2004 y 2008, el  adjetivo “jíbara” pierde  vigencia (v. también anexionismo criollo).

Frente Puertorriqueñista. Coalición  constituida por sectores independentistas y autonomistas para detener la amenaza del anexionismo: evidente ésta en el triunfo electoral del PNP en 1968 y 1976.

Gran Jurado.  La institución del G. J. tiene su origen en Gran Bretaña. Trasladada  a  Estados Unidos, y después de la independencia , se incluyó dentro de la Quinta Enmienda de la Constitución. “En Puerto Rico …, se  ha utilizado principalmente contra el independentismo desde la década del treinta, cuando Juan Antonio Corretjer fue encarcelado por un año por negarse a entregar documentos del Partido Nacionalista  en 1936” ( Paralitici 2004: 362).

Grito de Lares. La conmemoración  del  Grito de Lares - 23 de septiembre del 1868 contra el imperio español – fue y sigue siendo una ingeniosa táctica que ayudó  a crear continuidad en la lucha por la independencia. Fue el Partido Nacionalista y Albizu Campos quienes iniciaron esta conmemoración.

hoyo. Práctica punitiva en la cárcel federal por parte de la Marina de Guerra  de EE. UU. en Vieques. Consistía en “aislar al preso en una cárcel pequeña y solitaria para castigar aún más los desobedientes  civiles” (Nieves Falcón 2009:203).

indulto incondicional.  Acción mediante la cual se libera a un prisionero antes de cumplir su condena, sin que esta liberación esté sujeta a reglas específicas. El i. inc. fue otorgado, en septiembre 1979, a cinco miembros del  Partido Nacionalista Puertorriqueño: Lolita Lebrón, Rafael Cancel Miranda, Andrés Figueroa, Irving Flores Rodríguez  y Oscar Collazo. Los nacionalistas habían cumplido una larga condena a raíz del ataque, por ellos perpetrado, al Congreso de los Estados Unidos y la Casa Blair en los años cincuenta.

jaibería. Se dice de “la estrategia existencial  para sobrevivir  en una situación de dependencia y marginación” (Juan M. García Passalacqua 1993: 58).

jaula de perro. Práctica punitiva de la Marina de Guerra de Estados Unidos en Vieques. Los desobedientes civiles “fueron encerrados, por largas horas, en jaulas malolientes, con espacios reducidos, sin techos, divididos o separados por verjas de alambre eslabonado” (Nieves Falcón 2009: 202).

Ley de cabotaje. Ordenanza mediante la cual Puerto Rico está obligado a utilizar (para su comercio) barcos de matrícula y construcción estadounidense, los más caros del Mundo.

Ley de Comercio Interestatal. Obstáculo colonial al desarrollo económico nacional, por virtud  de  ésta los centros comerciales se pueden establecer en cualquier lugar. Esta realidad colonial ha provocado la quiebra y desaparición del pequeño y mediano comerciante nativo, ya establecido en zona. Ejemplo fehaciente actual es la lucha de las farmacias de la comunidad  para poder sobrevivir.

Ley Jones (Acta). Política de dominación emprendida por el gobierno norteamericano en 1917: imposición del inglés como idioma único en el sistema educativo, imposición de la ciudadanía y del servicio militar obligatorio.

Ley de la Mordaza. El 21 de mayo de 1948, la Legislatura de Puerto Rico aprobó la ley de la Mordaza, cuyo propósito principal fue silenciar las voces independentistas y nacionalistas. Al amparo de esta legislación se persiguió toda expresión independentista y de afirmación nacional; se encarceló a cientos de puertorriqueños.

Ley 600. Autorización otorgada  a Puerto Rico – por el Congreso de los Estados Unidos – para redactar su propia constitución. Ésta debía estar dentro del ámbito de las leyes de los Estados Unidos.

Ley Servicio Militar Obligatorio. El 18 de mayo de 1917, el Congreso de los EE. UU. impone (a los jóvenes puertorriqueños de 18 años) la ley de S. M.O., mediante la cual fueron obligados a servir en el ejército de los Estados Unidos so pena de encarcelamiento. Esta ley fue abolida después de la guerra de Vietnam.

Ley 7. Ley especial sobre emergencia fiscal en Puerto Rico del 9 de marzo de 2009. Fueron despedidos 30,000 empleados públicos bajo la gobernación del Partido Nuevo Progresista.

macheteros (los). Nombre oficial Ejército Popular Boricua- Macheteros (EPBM). Organización militar clandestina creada en los años ochenta. Su área de acción  fue tanto contra el sistema político y militar estadounidense en Puerto Rico como en cualquier territorio de Estado Unidos. Se ignora el destino de esta organización después del asesinato de su líder Filiberto Ojeda Ríos, por el operativo del FBI y la policía de Puerto Rico en 2005.

Marcha de la Dignidad. Marcha de protesta de los populares (los afiliados al PPD) e independentistas para repudiar la intervención de la Corte Federal en el proceso electoral de la Isla en 2004.

Masacre de Ponce. Nombre con el que  se conoció la masacre de un grupo de nacionalistas desarmados, los cuales celebraban una manifestación política el 21 de marzo de 1937. Como consecuencia murieron 25 personas y más de 150 resultaron heridas.

melonismo. (De melón). Tendencia en el proceso electoral de 1984 seguida por los independentistas y socialistas  a favor del PPD. Consistía ésta en prestar sus respectivos votos a dicho partido para así detener la avanzada de la estadidad. Estos electores ideológicamente continuaban comprometidos con la independencia.

mentalidad cuponera. Se dice de la dependencia económica impuesta a las masas populares en este sistema colonial, la cual ha traído enajenación e impotencia para luchar y mejorar su nivel económico y social.

Monoestrellada. La bandera nacional de Puerto Rico. Fue creada en 1895 por un grupo de independentistas exiliados en la ciudad de New York. Invertido los colores es idéntica a la bandera cubana. Es el símbolo más amado  y el que nos representa en nuestra soberanía deportiva.

Movimiento Pro- Independencia (MPI). Organización  no- partidista, y una de las fuerzas políticas independentistas más influyentes  en el País a finales de los años cincuenta. Evoluciona con el tiempo y se convierte en el Nuevo Movimiento Independentista Puertorriqueño.

Movimiento Independentista Puertorriqueño (Nuevo). Surge como una nueva gran casa independentista. Pero, “la dispersión fue tal que ese mismo año se convoca a otro encuentro amplio del independentismo  con miras a aglutinarlo”. Se crea, entonces, el Congreso Nacional  Hostosiano (CNH). Es la reunión de todos los sectores del independentismo, con excepción del PIP (Jorge Farinacci 2004).

Movimiento Independentista Nacional Hostosiano (MINH). Nueva fusión de los proyectos políticos anteriores (MPI, NMIP,CNH). Actualmente es un organismo amplio policlasista, no partidista  y más unido al Partido Popular Democrático (Véase el ensayo Se organiza el Reformismo melonista, Jorge Farinacci).

neonacionalismo criollo. Nueva ideología puerorriqueñista que apoya la alianza de los independentistas  y socialistas con el PPD. Como se ha dicho , el n. c. es en su vertiente política melonista (v. Grosfoguel 2003:37).

pitiyanqui o pitiyanki. (Del fr. petit y del inglés yanki). Persona que admira e imita todo lo norteamericano. Partidario fanático de la estadidad. Esta voz fue creada por el poeta puertorriqueño Luis Lloréns Torres (1878- 1944).

pivazo. Voto emitido por un sector del  independentismo en las elecciones del 2004. En las papeletas del p., aparecían dos cruces: una debajo de la insignia del PIP y otra al lado del nombre del candidato a la gobernación del PPD.

Proyecto Tydings. Proyecto de independencia para  Puerto Rico propuesto por M. Tydings al Congreso de Estados Unidos. Se consideraba como un castigo a los puertorriqueños, por el auge alcanzado por los independentistas y nacionalistas en la década del treinta (v. Mathews 1975: 254- 258).

puertorriqueñizar. Dar forma puertorriqueña a un vocablo o expresión de otro idioma, especialmente del inglés norteamericano . Introducir elementos puertorriqueños en los arreglos musicales afrocaribeños.

purga. Acción con la cual se conoció la destitución de maestros y profesores puertorriqueños opositores al programa de americanización en el sistema educativo del País en los años treinta. El despido que ocasionó mayor protesta fue el de Inés Mendoza, profesora de español y luego esposa del primer gobernador elegido por el pueblo: Luis Muñoz Marín.

Revuelta Nacionalista. Se inicia probablemente en octubre de 1950, ya que “el directivo militar del Partido Nacionalista, parece que había dado orden de empezarla en ocho pueblos del País. Se inicia formalmente en la residencia de Blanca Canales, en el Barrio de Coabey, donde se decide tomar el cuartel de la policía de Jayuya, y junto a otros nacionalistas ocupan el pueblo y declaran la República de Puerto Rico. Pero, al otro día 31 de octubre de 1950, Jayuya es bombardeada …”  (Nieves Falcón 2009: 120-121).

sedicioso (terrorista). Dicho del liderato nacionalista “encarcelado por s. y desterrado a cumplir largas condenas en cárceles norteamericanas “(Nieves Farcón 2009: 69).

Vieques. Isla-municipio puertorriqueña  que – después de 60 años de bombardeos – logró sacar de su territorio  la Marina de Guerra de los Estados Unidos. Con la participación de los pescadores viequenses, de diversos sectores de la sociedad puertorriqueña, la diáspora boricua y otros ciudadanos extranjeros se logró (a través de la desobediencia civil) impedir los ejercicios bélicos. No obstante los actos punitivos a los que fueron sometidos los desobedientes civiles, la Marina de Guerra tuvo que abandonar el territorio viequense en mayo de 2003. Pero dejó graves daños, por ello se le exige la rehabilitación  ecológica de las tierras y playas.

voto melón. Elector independentista que presta el voto.  Llámese también voto derrotista, voto flotante, o voto periférico.

zona restringida. Se prohíbe la entrada, so pena de encarcelamiento en la zona de prácticas bélicas de la Marina de Guerra norteamericana.

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By the end of the 18th century, the French were proud to own the richest colony in the world, Saint-Domingue, where tens of thousands of enslaved Africans were disembarked off ships every year, most of them with a life expectancy of less than five years. The enslaved revolted in 1791, gained their freedom in 1793, and eventually declared national independence in 1804 after the French sent an expedition to re-establish slavery. Haiti was born.

In 1804, it was shocking that a group of formerly enslaved Africans and their descendants dared to form their own nation founded on the abolition of slavery. By this time, to be enslaved was a social status associated with people of African descent in the Americas, so fighting slavery required fighting the racism intrinsic to the institution. Haiti’s existence challenged the narrative that the West told itself: certain people were meant for enslavement and exploitation; therefore, the system of inequality foundational to the Americas was simply normal, not unjust. The West, faced with the shock of Haiti’s existence, worked hard to keep that narrative alive.

In order to promote that story, Haiti was maligned. Haitians were considered violent, barbaric, and incapable of running a nation. Actions such as Haiti’s 1825 agreement to pay France billions of dollars in exchange for recognition, which weakened the Haitian economy from the start, were used to prove that Haiti couldn’t stand—not to show that the West in fact needed it to fail. This attitude, this desire to prove true the “doomed to fail” narrative, is alive and well two centuries later and it’s closely related to the story that we tell about protests in Ferguson, New York, and Baltimore.

In 2010, the day after an earthquake in Haiti killed over three hundred thousand people, Pat Robertson announced that Haitians were paying for their “pact with the devil.” What was this “pact” exactly? Robertson suggested that in order to gain their freedom, Haitians needed the help of an evil force, to which they still owed their independence today.

Let’s break down this absurd accusation—Haitians’ ancestors dared to assert that they were not property; they dared to assert that their lives mattered. What made their freedom and eventual national independence possible? Their determination? Their inner sense of humanity? Their dream of a better life? No, says Robertson, opposing the institution of slavery was the “devil’s” work. And what’s worse, Robertson suggests that hundreds of thousands of people deserved to die two hundred years later because of it. Yet the most detrimental part of this accusation is that it props up the idea that violence belongs to and embodies Haiti and Haitians—not to the institution of slavery that offered misery and death to some and wealth and prosperity to others.

The fact that, two centuries after the first successful slave revolt in the Americas, people continue to locate violence only in the opposition to oppression rather than in the system that oppresses brings us to Ferguson, New York, and Baltimore today. Those who fight back and oppose a system that perpetuates inequity are “thugs” much like Haitian revolutionaries were “brigands.” We overlook the fact that life expectancy varies dramatically by neighborhood in Baltimore, the fact that minor traffic violations can ruin the lives of those who can’t afford to pay the fines associated with tickets, or the fact that certain police departments find racism funny. Slavery was abolished in the United States a century and a half ago, over six decades after Haitians claimed their freedom. Economic disparity and racism, both intrinsic to this institution that was foundational to the beginning of the Americas, have not been fully abolished. This, sadly, is why 2015 bears a striking resemblance to 1791.

Now you get the joke. Funny, huh?

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“Fanon was angry. His readers should still be angry too. Angry that the wretched of the earth are still with us. Anger does not in itself produce political programs for change, but it is perhaps the most basic political emotion. Without it, there is no hope,” (Macey 2000, 503).

The past decade has seen an increase in both popular and scholarly interest in the work of Frantz Fanon. What has brought about this revival in interest in Fanon, who is now discussed at numerous conferences and colloquia and whose work is increasingly featured in both academic and media literature? What are the conditions of our contemporary moment that compel some of us to turn towards Fanon and revisit his now classic texts, from Wretched of the Earth to Black Skin, White Masks? And just as importantly, how are misreadings of Fanon’s work contributing to the dilution of the revolutionary nationalist potential inherent in most of his writing? Two examples of seminal works that have been recently published include Lewis Gordon’s What Fanon Said: A Philosophical Introduction to his Life and Thought and David Macey’s Fanon: A Biography. These works look at Fanon through the events that happened in his life to understand the ways in which he viewed and analyzed social reality. Just as important, although seldom referenced, is work by Neil Lazarus (1999, 2011) and Benita Parry (2004). Lazarus’ chapter on Fanon in his excellent work, The Postcolonial Unconscious and Parry’s analysis of Fanon’s work in her book Postcolonialism: A Materialist Critique constitute important interventions in the way Fanon has been misread by multiple scholars.

Our contemporary moment is characterized by the constant drive towards capitalist accumulation through an increasing process of neoliberalization in the current setting of late capital.[1] This material reality, that is universal but that has a multitude of particularities across the globe, conditions the social categories that produce experience, from class, race, and gender, to (dis)ability and sexuality. However, this has come alongside a tendency within academia to shy away from discussing this very material reality. This is largely due to the turn away from Marxism, as well as to the popularity of both postcolonial and postmodern approaches. The role of the neoliberal university is also important to note, as it pushes for more specialization, more profit, and therefore less critique and less radical thinking. This tendency has meant that although important events such as the uprisings in the Middle East and North Africa have been interpreted through numerous lenses, what is absent is usually analysis employing a lens that engages the global capitalist system and that analyzes social justice with particular attention to neoliberalism and neocolonialism.

This hesitance within academia when it comes to a discussion of neocolonialism (especially through a Marxist lens) is what has driven me towards Fanon as an important scholar within the long tradition of anti-colonial scholarship. It is unfortunate that it has often been scholars who identify as postcolonialists who have rejected the concept of neocolonialism and posited that global relations in our current moment are nuanced and complex, and that we should be wary of repositing a binary of East and West. Here Derrida’s argument that binary oppositions are a violent hierarchy that must first be inverted before they can be decimated is useful, as it shows the need to use binaries solely in order to invert them—without this inversion, they cannot be done away with (Parry 2004, 16). Moreover, as both Benita Parry (2004) and Neil Lazarus (2011) have deftly argued, calls for “complexity” and “nuance” can often serve power by softening the critical edge of critique and should thus be approached with caution. Fanon’s work can certainly be seen as falling within the so-called “trap” of reproducing binaries. He has touched on questions of race, capitalism, nationalism, and neocolonialism, through an analysis that clearly articulates the power relation between the West and the colonial (and neocolonial) world. His background in psychiatry has meant that he often highlighted the psycho-social effects of colonialism and racial domination, even while noting the economic and political processes underlying this domination. Indeed in his work we see the intersecting of these various structures, all through the lens of his involvement in the Algerian war of independence, of which he was a part. His work often relies on psychoanalytical assumptions, although, as Gordon points out, for Fanon the psychoanalytical emphasis is on the racial rather than the sexual.

It seems clear to those of us working within a Marxist framework that many of the problems Fanon addressed in the 1950s and 1960s continue to reproduce themselves in the contemporary moment, albeit at times expressing themselves differently. Indeed the Arab uprisings are a testament to this; would it be possible to argue that neocolonialism, capitalism, and nationalism are not part of the story? (That said, apparently it is indeed possible, judging by the state of Middle East studies today.) Thus it is clear that Fanon remains relevant. The question, then, is: which Fanon? In this article I want to discuss two readings of Fanon’s work that approach him from divergent perspectives and yet still maintain his revolutionary potential. The first is Lewis Gordon’s forthcoming book on Fanon entitled What Fanon Said: A Philosophical Introduction to his Life and Thought, which highlights the analyses of racial domination present in Fanon’s work. The second is Neil Lazarus’ chapter on Fanon in The Postcolonial Unconscious and his chapter on Fanon in Nationalism and Cultural Practice in the Postcolonial World and Benita Parry’s discussion of Fanon in her book Postcolonialism: A Materialist Critique, which focuses on the question of nationalism. These two sets of texts highlight the way in which Fanon can be read differently according to where emphasis is put, and yet still be acknowledged as an anti-colonialist revolutionary thinker whose work remains relevant today.

Lewis Gordon and the question of race

Lewis Gordon begins his book What Fanon Said with a superb introduction that clearly articulates the role of race in how Fanon has been received. He writes,

We should step outside of the tendency to reduce the thought of African intellectuals to the thinkers they study. For example, Jean-Paul Sartre was able to comment on black intellectuals such as Aimé Césaire, Fanon, and Léopold Sédar Senghor without becoming ‘Césairian,’ ‘Fanonian,’ or ‘Senghorian’; Simon de Beauvoir could comment on the work of Richard Wright without becoming ‘Wrightian’; Max Weber could comment on the work of W. E. B. Du Bois without becoming ‘Du Boisian.’ Why then is there a different story when black authors comment on their (white) European counterparts? Standard scholarship has explored whether Du Bois is Herderian, Hegelian, Marxian, or Weberian; whether Senghor is Heideggerian; and whether Fanon is every one of the Europeans on whom he has commented – Adlerian, Bergsonian, Freudian, Hegelian, Husserlian, Lacanian, Marxian, Merleau-Pontian, and Sartrean, to name several (2015, 18).

This is related to the tendency to reduce black intellectuals to their biographies; or, in other words, to assume that white intellectuals produce ideas and theory, while black intellectuals relate experiences. The point here is not to simply say Sartre is Fanonian or de Beauvoir Wrightian; the point is to emphasize that the opposite is always the case: that black intellectuals are always read and understood through white intellectuals. Thus from the outset Gordon is setting the stage for the centrality of race in his book. Indeed the first few chapters focus explicitly on the ways in which Fanon discussed race, particularly from a psychological perspective. Fanon’s first brutal experience with racism in France—when a French child told his mother he was afraid when he saw Fanon—plays a central role here, as does Fanon’s analysis of interracial relationships. It is clear that Gordon has a soft spot for Fanon’s work and that he sees its continuing relevance today: there are multiple points throughout the book where he points out how Fanon’s analysis of the Martinique or Algeria of the early twentieth century continues to be relevant today.

Gordon also produces a very nuanced analysis of Fanon’s gender politics, which have been subject to much heated debate.[2] Fanon has been attacked by many white feminists (and non-white feminists working within the liberal tradition) for his comments on Mayotte Capécia’s Je Suis Martiniquaise. These feminists saw Fanon’s analysis of Capécia’s inferiority complex as sexist and dismissed his work in its entirety based on that reading. I would posit that Fanon’s reading of this particular work is not sexist but rather shows the reality of how race and gender intersect to produce complicated forms of desire. Here Capécia’s desire for white men—and white men alone—is seen as a desire to be white, to attain whiteness. It is clear for Fanon that this form of desire is therefore to be criticized. Fanon’s reading is in effect one that analyses gender through a critical race perspective and thus it is no surprise white feminists were uncomfortable with it. While Gordon dismisses claims that Fanon’s reading of Capécia was sexist, he does, however, critique Fanon for his “epistemic sexism.” Here he argues that Fanon’s work is clearly indebted to Simone de Beauvoir, and that despite this he did not cite her or mention her influence in any form. Gordon writes, “I cannot excuse Fanon’s failure to articulate his indebtedness to de Beauvoir…it is clear de Beauvoir not only offered much intellectual sustenance to Fanon’s thought but also that he was well aware of at least her two major contributions at the time of writing Black Skin White Masks. Her presence at the level of ideas but exclusion at that of citation is a form of epistemic sexism,” (Ibid, 58). Thus Gordon condemns readings of Fanon that posit his sexism and dismiss him based on that and yet simultaneously notes that there are traces of sexism in Fanon’s work. In addition, it is useful to note the problematic way in which Fanon at times discussed Algerian women, repositing a Western separation between the public and private sphere and over-emphasizing the role of the veil.

Nevertheless, it is clear, as Gordon demonstrates, that Fanon’s theoretical analysis of the position of Algerian women within the battle for independence is correct. Gordon writes: “Whether Fanon’s portrayal of the facts are accurate does not affect the main point of his analysis: how could liberating Algerian women be taken seriously when the approach to doing so is to impose a structure that makes the women (1) subordinate to all French and other European peoples and (2) only of value to the extent to which their plight could be used to maintain subordination of Algerian men and women,” (Ibid, 150). Fanon’s analysis of the relationship between the French settler-colonizers and Algerian women is a heavily psychoanalytic one, where he posits that white French settlers dreamed of ripping the veils off Algerian women and penetrating them—in other words, deflowering the country (Ibid). What is notable here is the way in which Algerian women are part and parcel of the Algerian revolution, as Fanon himself constantly pointed out. Gordon writes that this shows how these women’s fight for the freedom as women is an outgrowth of struggles against colonization and slavery, a point that has been made by both Assia Djebar in the Algerian context and Angela Davis in the American one (Ibid, 155). This is not to say that women only fought for independence and not for gender justice or an end to patriarchy, but rather to demonstrate the ways in which these various struggles are interconnected.

The unwillingness on the part of many feminists to engage with Fanon should be seen as a missed opportunity to enrich the field of postcolonial feminism. Fanon’s analysis of capitalism, class relations, neocolonialism and nationalism can greatly enhance the work of feminists working in contexts that were formerly colonized. In an excellent article, Ashley Bohrer points out that many anti-imperialist Marxist feminists in particular have used Fanon to discuss colonialism and neocolonialism, noting in particular Silvia Federici and Mariarosa Dalla Costa. By looking at the ways in which Fanon influenced these two feminists—who are indeed central to Marxist feminism—Bohrer shows “how his thought is foundational for a contemporary Marxist analysis of capitalist patriarchy,” (2015, 379). Fanon argues that colonialism should, above all, be analyzed from the perspective of economics: “The colonized world is one structured by economic violence, and in particular, the violent and coercive appropriation of the labour of the oppressed,” (Ibid, 380). This economic exploitation is internalized by the colonized through complex webs of socialization. Thus cultural imperialism is part and parcel of economic imperialism.

While Fanon has rarely been labeled a Marxist, it is clear from the above passage that his work contains important analyses of colonial capitalism. I argue that Fanon’s call to “stretch Marxism” should be seen as a useful for feminists working in the Global South because it calls for both a centering of Marxism while at the same time acknowledging the ways in which capitalism conditions life in the colonies (as opposed to the métropoles). In other words, I believe “stretching Marxism” here can be seen as a means of dislodging Eurocentric Marxist accounts that do not consider colonialism as central to capitalist accumulation and that do not account for how capitalism in the postcolony (Mbembé 2001) is different. Here Bohrer’s point that Fanon’s analysis had a lasting effect on Italian Marxist feminism shows the importance of his materialist critiques of capitalism. Silvia Federici, for example, arguably one of the most important feminists today, cites Fanon as one of her major influences alongside Samir Amin and Andre Gunder Frank. Marxist feminists have long critiqued Marx’s exclusion of the social reproduction carried out by women in the home; feminists such as Federici and Dalla Costa also noted the exclusion of the distinctive form of labour carried out in the colonies (a point that had previously been made by Rosa Luxemburg). Alongside critiques by Marxists from the Global South that center colonialism within capitalist accumulation, it is clear that Marxism can and should be stretched. This is precisely why I believe Fanon remains an important inspiration for feminists working in the Global South: his work on capitalism and colonialism, both at the level of materiality and ideas, is now more crucial than ever in light of the continued dominance of liberal feminism globally.

Lazarus, Parry, and the “Postcolonial” Fanon

So how has Fanon been read by postcolonial theorists, whose work is focused on the Global South? Here the readings have been less than promising. Neil Lazarus begins his chapter in The Postcolonial Unconscious by pointing out that Fanon is an exception among anti-colonial writers writing during the era of decolonization because of the extent to which he has been engaged with by postcolonial scholars. This engagement, however, has often meant a specific kind of reading of his work that has turned it into a “post”-theoretical discourse that addresses subject formation (2011, 122). How to account for this shift in the Fanon that propagated Third World nationalist anti-colonialism to the Fanon in the work of Homi Bhahba[3] and others who focused on the subject?[4] Lazarus writes, “The containment of the historic challenge from the ‘Third World’ that had been expressed in the struggle for decolonization in the post-1945 years must be seen in the light of the global reassertion and consolidation of what (Samir) Amin calls ‘the logic of unilateral capital’,” (Ibid, 124). The triumph of neoliberalism and reassertion of a neo-imperialist world order—with the US at its head—meant that a new reading of Fanon was needed: a ‘postcolonial’ Fanon; “…not only post-colonial, but also post-nationalist, post-liberationist, post-Marxist, and post-modern,” (Ibid). In other words, the opposite of the revolutionary Fanon that preceded this shift.

A second major difference between the first Fanon and the second is the focus on nationalism in the former and its conspicuous absence in the latter. Fanon was greatly influenced by the Algerian war for liberation. This meant that nationalist anti-colonialism, violence, class, ideology, and the ‘Third World’ in general were major themes in most of his work. This goes against the general tendency, however, to see nationalism as a deeply destructive force. As Benita Parry has noted, there is a tendency to disparage nationalist discourses of resistance within postcolonial studies (2012, 35). More than simply disparaging nationalism, Parry rightly points out that the field of postcolonialism often analyzes colonialism as a cultural event, mediated through texts, rather than focusing on the concrete, material, socio-economic and state-based processes that also made up colonialism. Indeed, reading Fanon, it is difficult to understand how he is been appropriated by a field so heavily influenced by postmodernism (postcolonialism) given his emphasis on precisely the material, the socio-economic, and the national.

Regarding nationalism, Lazarus writes: “Some contemporary theorists of ‘postcoloniality’ have attempted to build upon Fanon’s denunciation of bourgeois nationalism. Yet Fanon’s actual standpoint poses insuperable problems for them. One fundamental difficulty derives from the fact that far from representing an abstract repudiation of nationalism as such, Fanon’s critique of bourgeois nationalist ideology is itself delivered from an alternative nationalist standpoint,” (1999, 78). In other words, although many within postcolonial studies view nationalism as a thoroughly modern and negative force, Fanon instead saw it as a means to liberation while simultaneously warning us of the pitfalls of bourgeois nationalism. The national project could also become a socialist one, rather than a capitalist one. This emphasis on capitalism and imperialism further distinguishes Fanon from those within postcolonial studies who see Marxism as being of little use to contemporary analysis. What I find especially important here is that Fanon’s anti-colonialist nationalism allowed for a bridge to an internationalism that was anti-imperialist and anti-capitalist in nature. This bridge is precisely what is missing in much of the work being done today.

I conclude with a quote from Lazarus about the importance of anti-colonialism: “It is important to try and keep alive the memory of the ‘revolutionary heroism’ that was everywhere in evidence in the struggle for national liberation. Even more important is to insist that the concrete achievements of this struggle are still intact and continue to provide a vital resource for present-day social and cultural practice. It is not only that the lives of hundreds of millions of people throughout the world were changed decisively by the experience of anti-colonial struggle. It is also that these changes are irreversible. No matter how great have been the defeats that have had to be endured since decolonization, the perduring solidaristic significance of the anti-colonial struggle has not been erased,” (1999, 120-121). This quote, as well as Lazarus’ and Parry’s readings of Fanon, show that for them his greatest contribution has been to the anti-colonial struggles of the 1950s and 1960s, in particular the Algerian war of independence. This is the frame they read him through, and to do this they have engaged in much-needed critiques of postcolonial attempts to sanitize Fanon and render him part of a postmodern canon that is often severely lacking in material analysis. For Lewis Gordon, Fanon’s greatest contribution appears to be his work on race and the ways in which the world is structured by anti-Black racism. Moreover, where Gordon emphasizes the centrality of Fanon for scholars and activists fighting against anti-Black racism, David Macey instead emphasizes that Fanon’s allegiance, first and foremost, was to the Algerian war of independence. Thus we see here three slightly different framings of Fanon: one where Fanon is an anti-colonial, anti-capitalist revolutionary, one where Fanon is a global anti-Black racism scholar; and one where Fanon is above all an Algerian revolutionary. This is not to say that all of these writers do not acknowledge the many dimensions of Fanon’s work. Parry and Lazarus write about Fanon’s views on race and his deep commitment to the Algerian struggle; and Gordon affirms the centrality of Algeria for Fanon as well as his clear materialist critiques of the global system. The point is simply that each writer places the emphasis somewhere else; each reads Fanon through a different lens.

Some may argue that this ability to read Fanon in such diverse ways is a benefit; but this would fall into the liberal trap of seeing pluralism as constructive. Indeed as I have shown, Lazarus’ and Parry’s demonstration of how postcolonialists such as Bhabha have mis-read Fanon shows the dangers of accepting all readings as equally valid. Looking back at Fanon’s work, it is clear that there are central themes that cannot be ignored: his anti-racism, his nationalism, his class analysis, and, above all, his incessant call to others to fight against oppression.

The post Reading and Mis-Reading Frantz Fanon appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

What postcolonial response can be made of the terrorist attacks on French satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo, which led to the brutal massacre of most its editorial board? On January 7, two gunmen entered Charlie Hebdo’s offices in the 11th district of Paris, killing – amongst others – leading cartoonists Charb, Cabu, Honoré, Tignous and Wolinski. The gunmen are believed to have shouted “Allahu Akbar” (God is great in Arabic) and also “the Prophet is avenged”, in reference to a series of caricatures of Prophet Muhammad. The gunmen were later identified as the Kouachi brothers, two Muslim French citizens of Algerian descent who received weapon training in Yemen, as part of the Islamist terrorist organization Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP). Evidence also indicates that Amedy Coulibaly, who two days later killed four hostages at a Jewish kosher grocery in Porte-de-Vincennes in the 12th district, was connected to the Kouachi brothers. In a short video posted posthumously, Coulibaly claims to have belonged to another armed group, the Islamic State in Iraq and the Levant (ISIL).

All in all, the Charlie Hebdo shootings killed twelve, including three police officers. The three terrorists were hunted and ultimately gunned down by a police raid following a double hostage crisis, taking place simultaneously in two different Paris locations. The media’s sensationalist coverage of the event contributed to relaying and intensifying the post-traumatic shock that many French people felt in the aftermath. On January 11, about 2 million people, including more than 40 world leaders, marched in the streets of Paris to show solidarity with the dead cartoonists and support freedom of speech and of the press. The irony of political leaders being present at the march from countries like Egypt, Turkey or Israel, with dubious records with regards to freedom of speech and freedom tout court, was not lost on many people. The slogan, “Je suis Charlie” (I am Charlie) became the rallying cry of an otherwise largely silent crowd, still mourning and still struck by the significance of what had happened. People felt that something of the French spirit of irreverence had died in the attacks. Whether or not we liked Charlie Hebdo, the newspaper was the symbol of an epoch that seems by now definitely gone.

Charlie Hebdo first appeared in 1970 in the wake of May 1968, and as a successor to the Hara-Kiri magazine, banned for mocking the death of former French President Charles de Gaulle. The newspaper’s left-leaning, anti-clerical and anti-militarist stance led its cartoonists to lampoon all forms of authority, both secular and non-secular, such as patriarchy. Its sexually explicit content, crude language and caricature of the “beauf” (French equivalent of the redneck) served to break many taboos in a still largely rural, superstitious and bigoted country. Charlie Hebdo’s impertinence espoused to perfection one of the revolutionary slogans of May 68: “Il est interdit d’interdire” (it is forbidden to forbid). After ceasing publication in the 1980s, the newspaper resumed its weekly edition. Since then, Charlie Hebdo has been involved in over 50 legal trials, most of them stemming from complaints from the far right, mainstream media, and the Catholic Church. In most cases, it won. Since 2006 and the controversy over the caricatures of Prophet Muhammad, Charlie Hebdo has routinely denied being an Islamophobic, racist newspaper. The firing of leading cartoonist Siné in 2008 over allegations of anti-Semitism, the arson against the newspaper’s offices in 2011, and the terrorist attacks earlier this month however show that while Charlie Hebdo may have remained true to its libertarian credo, French society, on the other hand, had changed – not necessarily for the better.

Being French, I find myself deeply conflicted when it comes to defending Charlie. France does not forbid blasphemy and there exists a long and proud secular tradition of both religious and political satire, dating at least as far back as the French Revolution. This is not to deny the specifically postcolonial context in which arose the Charlie controversy, which pushed me to put my thoughts down on paper in what will hopefully trigger further debate on the Left. The story begins in the 1950s with anticolonial liberation struggles, particularly in Algeria. The current 5^th French Republic was born as a result of the Algerian war of independence, which caused the collapse of the 4^th Republic. These struggles were largely secular, inspired by pan-Arabic nationalism, third worldism, or communism. With the failure of these secular ideologies to prove inspiring alternatives to capitalism, religious ideology – “the opium of the people”, to use a consecrated Marxist formula – came to fill a political vacuum in an epoch described as “postrevolutionary” by some (Dirlik 1997). As one French journalist added in The Guardian after the attacks, “the chaos that emerged during and after independence wars (for which the west clearly has responsibility) provided an excellent opportunity for fanatics who had deeply resented the evolution of their countries, to return to prominence with a vengeance.”

Arab-Muslims who migrated to France from the 1960s onwards came for different reasons: to flee religious fundamentalism, to flee poverty, or because they saw France as the country of liberté, égalité, fraternité. This is, though, where I believe another story begins. Second and third generation Arab-Muslims were born in France yet grew up in a context of mass unemployment, racial discrimination and the rise of ethnico-religious communalism. The 2005 French Riots were a symptom of the rapid ghettoization of the now largely racialized banlieues (concomitant with the rise of the far right), and which a film like La Haine (Hatred) had predicted ten years earlier. In many ways, the Riots were a turning point: considered to be the biggest upheaval since May 1968, it also led the French government to re-institute Martial Law. Tellingly, the last time this had happened was during the Algerian War. The birth in 2006 of the decolonial political party Les Indigènes de la République, comprised of public intellectuals, academics and community activists from a variety of backgrounds, came to fill a much-needed space on the Left. Their diagnosis has been that the French Left – to which Charlie belongs – remains complicit with the perpetration of an apartheid-like situation within a neo-colonial France.

This is a reality that segments of the Left, particularly in the Anglo-Saxon world, have chosen to insist on in their quasi-unilateral condemnation of Charlie Hebdo’s editorial line as Islamophobic. Some went as far as to suggest that any left-wing organization worthy of the name should try its best to ban Charlie Hebdo (by legal means that is!)[1]. In doing so, these organizations have joined in the chorus of denunciation and anger on the part of Muslims across the globe who protested against the publication of another caricature of the Prophet by Charlie Hebdo on the front cover of their newest issue following the attacks. The independent newspaper chose to print an exceptional 7 million copies instead of the usual 60 thousand, and the issue was distributed in more than 20 countries as well as translated into Spanish, Italian, English, Turkish and Arabic. It is significant, however, that many Anglo-Saxon media channels chose to censor the issue in order not to shock the Muslim community. Many leftist critiques of Charlie have thus raised the following concerns, which, being well acquainted with the satirical newspaper, I will not attempt to refute: that Charlie conspicuously ignored the context of growing Islamophobia in the West; that it applied a double-standard, in particular since the arrival of editor-in-chief Philippe Val, when it came to the caricaturing of Jews; that poking fun at Christianity, being the dominant religion in France, is not the same as mocking a religiously oppressed minority such as Muslims.

Here, I would like to raise a few concerns of mine, for whether we like it or not, Charlie was and still is very much part of a certain – libertarian, anarchist, and anti-clerical – spirit of the Left. Should we rush to “call out” (interpellate, in Louis Althusser’s terminology) Charlie as Islamophobic, with the risk that it muffles in turn our critique of the failures of political Islam over the last 40 years to deliver its promises of prosperity, equality and freedom? We have seen in France and elsewhere the ways in which calling out someone as anti-Semitic has in effect served to stifle any critique of Israel’s apartheid regime with regards to the Palestinians. Should we also not pause a minute on the fact that Jihadists chose to target a left-leaning newspaper rather than, say, far-right Marine LePen’s National Front headquarters? This alone should alert us to the profoundly reactionary political climate in which we live. The rise of religious fundamentalism is, besides, not only true of the Middle East and Islam, but of proto-fascist “Hindutva” India and of Jewish Zionism, or, closer to Europe, of a crisis-ridden country such as Greece where the Orthodox Church – in collusion with neo-Nazi party Golden Dawn – have in some places replaced the State following the collapse of the welfare system. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, should we not further reflect on the “re-presentational” politics of a satirical newspaper like Charlie, instead of condemning it and effectively brushing off some thorny questions? Indeed, the urge to retain the exclusivity over the (non) representation of the deeply symbolic figure of Muhammad, which remains a contentious issue even within Islam, appears to me as a self-essentializing gesture that mirrors the West’s Orientalist imaginary. In effect, what it does is to further entrap Islam into a false image of itself as religious, dogmatic, or backward.

For French Muslims, whose condition is in some ways akin to Black Americans in the United States given their long standing marginalization, there now is little choice other than to either become radicalized or to remain “moderate Muslims” – the French equivalent of the “good nigger”. Yet the case of the Kouachi brothers, who hardly spoke Arabic and had only recently embraced the Jihad, makes a mockery of the figure of the “essentialist terrorist” (Said 1988, 49) depicted in the media. As Edward Said once remarked, “the most striking thing about ‘terrorism’ […] is its isolation from any explanation or mitigating circumstances, and its isolation as well from representations of most other dysfunctions, symptoms and maladies of the contemporary world” (47). Mostly occluded by the media, the Kouachi brothers’ background growing up in a Paris ghetto, with a suicidal mother and an absent father, or Amedy Coulibaly’s incarceration in the squalors of the French jail system, show terrorism cannot be explained away as an irrational act of barbarism (i.e. etymologically what is foreign and “Other”). This is not to say the latter were mere “victims of the system” either. Instead, they appear as rational subjects with specific demands of their own to be reckoned with: explicitly, as was stated by the terrorists themselves, that France ought to stop its politics of military intervention and killing of Muslims overseas; and, implicitly, that it should “listen” to the French banlieues’ many frustrations. As Gayatri Spivak argued, “suicide resistance is a message inscribed in the body when no other means will get through” (2012, 385).

Keeping this context in mind, one of the postcolonial’s hallmarks (especially of a certain diasporic, discursive and privileged kind), has been its celebration of mockery, irony and derision, seen as subversive and transgressive. As postcolonial literary scholar Sneja Gunew has written,

[Minorities] are not permitted irony or other heterogeneities of language and are bounded simply by the linear or one-dimensional constraints, the necessity to ‘speak clearly’ or risk suffering the burden of being translated, spoken for, represented in its double sense. (1994, 94)

Perhaps the question, then, is not whether we deem Charlie Hebdo’s caricatures offensive, as for many they surely are – but rather who speaks, and who is spoken for. Gayatri Spivak’s useful distinction between political representation as vertretung (“stepping in someone’s place”) and between artistic re-presentation as darstellung (“placing there”) in her renowned essay Can the Subaltern Speak? suggests that representing is both “proxy and portrait ” (1988, 276). Hence, one ought to speculate upon the complicity between “speaking for” and “portraying” (1988, 277). When a small group of armed terrorists self appointed to speak on behalf of oppressed Muslims, Charlie affirmed its right to re-present, and mock, Muslims, while other parts of the (mainly white, secularist) Left now seek to defend the latter, after having dismissed Islamophobia as a valid category for many years[2]. In absolute terms, however, no representation seems more legitimate than the other, for in every circumstance, the subaltern cannot speak – that is, Muslims are prevented from speaking for themselves. Those Spivak calls “benevolent imperialists” include both the Liberal as well as the radical-Marxist western Left, whose discourse always runs the risk of falling back into essentialism (strategic or not), becoming yet another case of “epistemic violence”. “If,” for Spivak, “in the context of colonial production, the subaltern has no history and cannot speak, the subaltern as female is even more deeply in shadow.” (1988, 287) This was true in France, which for instance, banned the wearing of “ostensible religious signs” in public schools in 2004, and “face covering” in public spaces in 2010. Muslim women, clearly the ones targeted although the law does not explicitly say so, were hardly or not consulted at all.

It is no surprise that award winning literary author Salman Rushdie has come out in defense of Charlie Hebdo following an invitation at the University of Vermont on January 14. While being “postcolonial” in that he is from a postcolonial culture (India), Rushdie has always been a staunch advocate of upsetting the status quo, and known for challenging Islam in particular. Rushdie was also accused of blasphemy and of abusing freedom of speech with the publication of The Satanic Verses (1988), and was forced to live under the menace of a fatwa for many years. I believe Rushdie’s privileged cosmopolitan positioning is what in part allowed him, with sufficient detachment, to “ab-use” his Indian origin as a means of describing the dangers of cultural anomie and alienation in a postcolonial, multicultural England through his two characters Chamcha and Farishta. While Rusdie survived a death sentence by Iranian Ayatollah Khomeini, others, like his Japanese translator Hitoshi Igarashi, were murdered. Burnings of the book took place across the globe, and, as with Charlie Hebdo, many on the Left were quick to blame Rushdie, although the latter always claimed his book had, in the end, little to do with Islam – and even less with Islamophobia. What was judged wrong with Rushdie’s novel is its non-literal (i.e., both fictive and fictitious), ambivalent (able to be interpreted in two ways) and parodic reading of Islam, the Prophet and the Quran, in-between the profane and the sacred, and through Rushdie’s use of magic realism.

Similarly, we may argue how Charlie Hebdo’s Muhammad caricatures constitute a détournement (hijacking) of the religious signifier of the Prophet onto secularized terrain, as a tangible Being part of the social superstructure and the realm of ideology, rather than/while being simultaneously, a frozen artifact of “third world difference”. For Chandra Mohanty, this is how the third world difference reads itself/is read: “religious (read not progressive), family-oriented (read traditional), legal minors (read they-are-still-not-conscious-of-their- rights), illiterate (read ignorant), domestic (read backward), and sometimes revolutionary (read their-country-is-in-a-state-of-war; they must-fight!)” (1991, 72). When in 2006, Charlie reproduced caricatures of Muhammad from a Danish far-right newspaper (one of which shows the Prophet with a bomb on his head), or when in 2011, a crying Muhammad is portrayed saying “it’s hard to be loved by morons”, along with the heading, “swamped by integrists”, what in effect takes place is an act of glissement (sliding-effect) of language, in-between dire (“to say”, i.e. speech) and vouloir dire (“to mean”, i.e. intentionality). Language, as Deconstruction theorist Jacques Derrida has observed, is, from the moment we speak, always-already made “Other”/altered: “This structure of alienation without alienation, this inalienable alienation, is not only the origin of our responsibility, it also structures the peculiarity and property of language.” (Derrida 1998, 25)

The hermeneutic surrounding caricatures (from Latin caricare, ‘load, exaggerate’) reveals the fundamental undecidability of the signifying system and opens up meaning to excess, contingency, indeterminacy: to portray Muhammad is blasphemous; to portray Muhammad with a bomb suggests that all Muslims are terrorists and it is therefore racist/Islamophobic; to portray the Prophet in this way works as a means of denouncing religious extremism. This multiplicity of perspectives ultimately invalidates each of them, failing to reach consensus or unanimity – which is what a polemical, satirical newspaper like Charlie does[3]. The editors of Charlie constantly deployed their right to “err” (from Latin errare, to stray, to wander), to demystification, to laughing at as well as (sometimes) laughing with. Charlie Hebdo has kept reaffirming its right to be wrong, pace a section of the Left that has long disavowed the newspaper, pace terrorist threats, pace political correctness. In the last Charlie cover following the attacks, a crying Muhammad is seen with a “Je suis Charlie” (I am Charlie) placard around his neck saying “tout est pardonné” (all is forgiven) – yet again a highly ambiguous message that resists interpellation.

Charlie Hebdo’s self-proclaimed laïcard (secularist) militancy was itself sometimes dogmatic, if not problematic in a country where secularism has become the trumpeted cause of far-right organizations such as Riposte Laïque or of the French State’s attempt at suppressing culturo-religious difference. Again, I do not wish to refute any of the following leftist critiques of secularism: that the French Republican version of laïcité (i.e, the separation of Church and State in all matters of public affairs) is, in practice, being selectively applied; that the State is partial to Catholics, with direct State financing of private Catholic schools for instance; that secularism ought to exclusively apply to State representatives (Law of 1905), rather than to its (recalcitrant Muslim) citizens as well, as is now the case since 2004 and the ban of the Muslim headscarf (the hijab, or foulard in French) in public schools, or the Burqa ban in public spaces. But I believe Charlie – perhaps against its own will – nonetheless helped “enable…a sense of history and of human production, along with a healthy skepticism about the various idols venerated by culture” (Said 1983, 290). Said’s understanding of the secular speaks against over-simplification of secularism as inherently progressive, and religion as backward, or vice versa. As the latter wrote in The Text, The World, and the Critic,

One scholar understands the religion in secular terms but misses what in Islam still gives its adherents genuine nourishment. The other sees it in religious terms but largely ignores the secular differences that exist within the variegated Islamic world. (276)

This double, non-Manichean articulation must be sustained for Arab-Muslim subalternity to one day be able to represent itself, in France, but also elsewhere in Europe, where the main threat that we now face is not “Islam”, but fascism. Unless the Left starts mobilizing to put an end to the many “Wars on Error” of this world, in Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya or Mali, where French neo-imperialism has had a heavy responsibility in the spreading of confessional wars and Islamist fundamentalism, Kurtz’s famous exclamation in the face of the monstrosities of the Belgian colonial Congo in Joseph Conrad’s classic (post)colonial novel Heart of Darkness (“The horror! The horror!”) will keep piercing through the historical chamber of yet another neocolonial apostrophe: “The terror! The terror!” Terror, as that which is produced by fear of the unseen/unknown (as opposed to the graphic horror of a dead corpse), may strike anywhere and at any time, in turn rendering counter-terror measures meaningless – though not harmless. The imposition in schools of a one-minute silence in memory of the victims of the Charlie Hebdo attacks, along with the criminalizing of any dissenting voice, will only serve to further repress citizens’ liberties – particularly those whose voice is already muzzled – and curtail their right to civil disobedience.

To conclude, let me quote Jacques Derrida, who in his “terror speech” following September 11, reminds us of what makes European historical contribution unique. Far from being Eurocentric, Derrida, if only because of his Jewish Algerian background, was well aware that the secularist ideals of the Enlightenment are built upon the systematic, enduring dispossession of the colonized. An impossible double bind, as Spivak would have it, which the revolutionary Left would be wrong to forsake on the pretense that such a problematic exclusively belongs to the Liberal heritage, like the abstract of “freedom of speech”:

In the long and patient deconstruction required for the transformation to come, the experience Europe inaugurated at the time of the Enlightenment (Lumières, Aufklärung, Illuminismo) in the relationship between the political and the theological or, rather, the religious, though still uneven, unfulfilled, relative, and complex, will have left in European political space absolutely original marks with regard to religious doctrine (notice I’m not saying with regard to religion or faith but with regard to the authority of religious doctrine over the political). Such marks can be found neither in the Arab world nor in the Muslim world, nor in the Far East, nor even, and here’s the most sensitive point, in American democracy, in what in fact governs not the principles but the predominant reality of American political culture.

The post Defending Charlie Hebdo? Secularism, Islam and the War on Error appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

When it came time to leave for the march, I hesitated, but in the end I went, sensing the urgency of the moment.   The most moving moment for me was seeing a rabbi, imam, cardinal, and Greek Orthodox priest walking with locked arms.  But the diversity of that quartet was quite unique, and when I looked around at the marchers, they looked homogeneous on the whole.  France’s diversity had not come to the march in force.  The next morning when I walked into a press stand, the front covers of the dailies Aujourd’hui and Le Parisien featured the same shot (centered differently only by a centimeter) of a group of similar-looking people around a French flag at Place de la République.  I couldn’t help thinking I was looking social and ideological reproduction in the face.  I deplore the attacks on Charlie Hebdo and the kosher grocery store, but in terms of the nation’s response I couldn’t help wondering if there shouldn’t be a new reading to the dominant French interpretation of those republican values that have remained the same since revolutionary times and that were clearly in focus here  – “la laïcité” and “la liberté d’expression.”

News headlines immediately grabbed hold of the slogan that has paced the debate since: “l’unité nationale.”  But national unity for whom and among whom, I wondered.  In the weeks following the attacks, the debate has turned toward such issues as the place of a history of religions in schools (though what of colonial history and decolonization?); the exclusion faced by ethnic minorities in France, particularly young men for whom the unemployment rate reaches 40-50% in some disadvantaged banlieues, all marginalized from the sphere of work and decision-making; the fact that in these same neighborhoods single-parent families are twice as numerous as the national average and that the high school drop out rate has not lowered over the past twenty years.  In the disaffected banlieues, a conspiracy theory about government and intelligence service involvement in the attacks is mounting among young people (interestingly, it has also been mobilized by the far-right Front National’s founder and icon Jean-Marie Le Pen), pointing to the distrust they feel for the government and French institutions.  Teachers who have been charged with unpacking the attacks are overwhelmed by this skeptical stance, but also cognizant of the challenges their students face and the disenfranchisement that sometimes grows out of them.  Are these students driving a wedge in national unity, or pointing to one that already existed?

By and large, those on the inside, including leaders on the right and left in France whose views concur on “la laïcité” and “la liberté d’expression,” are calling for a reaffirmation of republican values – more of the same, while those on the outside are asking to be seen and heard.  If the debate is to be honest, some hard questions will have to be asked: Is responsible freedom part of the “liberté de l’expression” in France?  Some have perceived that one, or perhaps two, male phalluses figure as the Prophet Muhammed’s head and nose in the Charlie Hebdo published a week after the attacks (which would be in keeping with the style of its cartoonist Luz).  If that is the case, the cartoon borders on pure vulgarity.  To view this cartoon as a unifying symbol for freedom of expression confounds me.  As Muslims around the world protested this most recent cartoon, and newspapers in Great Britain and the United States, including the New York Times, have decided not to reprint it, French exceptionalism appears to have resurfaced.  Indeed, how can wearing a headscarf in school be bound up with a version of “laïcite” that allows for Christmas to be named and celebrated in schools, but does not allow for observance of the Islamic holiday of Eid to be accepted as an excused absence?  On this point, do the French have a consensus on what it means?  Anne Hidalgo, born in Spain and now Mayor of Paris, has called laïcité respectful of all religions, while many others see it as espousing the total absence of religion from public life and institutions.  These are obviously two very different things.

For a country that has diversified considerably over the last 50 years, especially as a result of postcolonial immigration, and today has the largest Muslim and Jewish populations in Europe, France owes it to itself, all of its citizens, and the world beyond to take an honest look at how it has acknowledged and integrated its internal diversity, including but not limited to its religious minorities.  Part of that is recognizing the diversity of belief among the Muslims of France, and recognizing that “Muslims of France” does not correlate directly to the people it is meant to designate given their wide-ranging spectrum of belief and practice.  “Muslim” isn’t synonymous with people with origins in a Muslim country – take for instance the Charlie Hebdo editor who died in the attacks, Mustapha Ourrad.  And “Muslim” isn’t synonymous with immigrant; just as “immigrant” isn’t synonymous with the ethnic minorities of France who still have no way of being named as such.

A curious advertisement by the private TF1 television station has preceded some recent films I’ve seen and aims to counteract prevailing pessimism about France’s decline. The advertisement contradicts stereotypes about the French, and ends with “Partageons des ondes positives” [Let’s spread good vibes].  It’s safe to say morale in France has been low.  The recent Republican March has certainly buoyed morale, as well as François Hollande’s and Manuel Valls’s popularity ratings.  But the real test will come with time.  While France decries the literalism of other national ideals, particularly those in Anglo-Saxon countries, it remains unwilling to inspect the exclusion created in the republican ideals laid out in the Déclaration des droits le l’homme, cited very often these days, and to move them forward.  To not do so would seem to be turning a blind eye to reality.  And now back to my essay, or back to the conundrum of ethnic minority writing, which exists in reality but not in the French language.

All images featured in this piece are copyrights of the author.

The post What does French National Unity Look Like? Personal Reflections on Charlie Hebdo appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

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First, there was the balkanization of the response to address a problem ostensibly caused by a contemporary Berlin Conference –directives out of the Washington Consensus. Thus, France responded to Ebola in Guinea, its former colony. The United States responded to Ebola in Liberia where some of its former subjugates had grudgingly returned about two centuries prior. And the greatest colonialist of them all, Great Britain, reluctantly took charge of its former burden Sierra Leone.

How neat! But was this the best approach by which to tackle one of the most deadly viruses known to man in the 21^st Century?  In the middle of 2014, Ebola was raging in Liberia. The country had the highest number of recorded cases and casualties per day. Then Liberians wailed out to Uncle Sam. The might and cavalry of the United States military came charging in. It seems that this time, the response to a viral epidemic will be militarized, according to Adia Benton. Before long, the numbers began trending downwards in Liberia. Sierra Leoneans cried, “oh Britain where art thou?”

Then there is France. Vive La Postcolonie! Patron François Hollande paid a visit to former charge Guinea. There were many promises of sending Ebola in Guinea back to the gates of hell. Back to the dawn of colonialism? The most memorable of Hollande’s photo ops in Guinea was, of course, that of him gazing into the deep eyes of a beautiful Guinean lady who was head of the Ebola Survivors Association in Guinea. Oh her beauty! What beauty? “If only”…a perfunctory sigh of regret. Colonial “mistress,” reversed? Did Julie quiver several thousand miles away in the métropole? Will she be next? Were scooters dashing out of the Elysée Palace at breakneck speeds for midnight trysts for Françafrique?

But let us proceed to the facts. What do Kent Brantly, Nancy Writebol, Rick Sacra, Craig Spencer, Nina Pham, Amber Vinson, Ashoka Mukpo, Thomas Eric Duncan, and Martin Salia all have in common? All of them, at some point, were actively sick with Ebola on United States soil.

Now let’s go to another much shorter set of names, what do Martin Salia and Thomas Eric Duncan have in common? They are the only two people known to have died of Ebola on United States soil.  There could be medical and biological factors accounting for the difference between the fates of Salia and Duncan and the others, or other yet unnamed factors. But no matter the spin or twist on it, you cannot easily get past the inescapable fact that the only people to have died of Ebola within the mighty trillion dollar, formidable, United States healthcare system were Africans from two affected Postcolonies.

We constantly keep tabs on subaltern elements in Postcolonies to ensure they stay firmly within our ideological line. Agents are admonished to work harder in order not to leave any space for terrorists and anti-Western ideologues to occupy and ferment trouble. “Tap phones if you can!” “Extraordinarily render if you must!” “No holdbacks.” “We’re in the fight of our lives.” “The clash of civilizations is at hand!”

Yet from December 2013 to March 2014 no one knew that one of the most deadly pathogens known to man was decimating innocent populations in the jungles of the Postcolony? Would we have known earlier had a pesky anti-Western ideological ferment taken root instead?

The noblesse obligé of indulgent colonial maternalism led France and Britain to come in only when indescribable things had hit the ceiling. “Manifest destiny must be fulfilled.” “We cannot leave these helpless Africans to perish lest we find the problem at our doorsteps in the morning of reckoning.” “They cannot fend for themselves.” “We must help them.” This is the “white man’s burden,” to quote the venerated Basil Davidson.

In time, an emergency response was scrambled to challenge the virus. Too little, too late? Where was the response when Ebola festered for over three months orphaning innocent children faster than drones?

Many have blamed weakened local healthcare systems for enabling the spread of the virus, but what is the response when African politicians pillage their countries to support ostentatious lifestyles in Western métropoles? As the health systems crumbled most paid, and still pay, lip-service to the effectiveness of aid.

Commercial flights to the three most affected countries have long since been restricted lest anyone repeats Eric Thomas Duncan’s folly in thinking he could transport Ebola to Western shores. But where is the response, even now, as politicians in the affected countries send their girlfriends, wives and children to the safety and comfort of the same Western shores as they abandon the poor to their Ebola doom? WHERE ARE YOU?

Even the explanations of the origins of the virus smack of imperial arrogance. First we were told by no less an authority than a study published in the respected New England Journal of Medicine that patient zero of the outbreak was a two-year old boy in the forests of Guinea who contracted the virus by eating fruit bats. Imagine a two-year old independently acquiring and consuming a fruit bat! Then the origin of the outbreak was recently re-explained as patient zero having contracted the virus NOT from eating the fruit bats, but from coming into contact with their droppings while playing with other children in the hollow of a tree in his village.

But what explanations have been offered by Guinean, Liberian and Sierra Leone scientists for the origins of the Ebola virus in their countries? Wait, are there scientists in the Postcolony? Who is a “scientist,” anyway? “We tell you who scientists are, or not, because we train them –we train the best in the world.”

“In any case, dismiss anything anyone from the Postcolony says. It’s all conspiracy theories and wild figments of the imaginations of a vanquished people.”

For Guinea, Liberia and Sierra Leone to survive Ebola and the next calamity that could be lurking around the next bend, they will first have to survive postcolonial imperialism and the self-interested dictates of the consensus in London, Paris, Berlin, and Washington.  The Ebola epidemic served as a reminder of colonial frameworks yet to be overcome.

The post Surviving Ebola, Surviving Postcolonialism? appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

The year 2014 marked twenty-five years since Kimberlé Crenshaw coined the term “intersectionality” to describe how social realities such as “class” or “race” should not be analyzed in isolation, but instead be combined in order to understand the complexity of a particular praxis. Building upon previous work by scholar-activists Deborah King, The Combahee River Collective, Gloria Joseph and Jill Lewis, as well as Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldúa’s 1981 anthology This Bridge Called My Back, among others, Crenshaw proposed that: “Because the intersectional experience is greater than the sum of racism and sexism, any analysis that does not take intersectionality into account cannot sufficiently address the particular manner in which Black women are subordinated.”  While Crenshaw may have been speaking particularly of the lived experience of Black women and ‘mainstream’ feminism in the United States, the intersectional approach proposed by Crenshaw has been adopted by many disciplines and groups in order to analyze the junctures at which complex identities are contested and staged.

This interrogation of political, social, and economic systems is particularly salient today, as the past decade has seen a wave of global socio-political and economic changes punctuated by the specter of ideologically driven acts of violence and “The War on Terror.” We are witnessing geopolitical conflict on a local as well as international scale, intensified by rising wealth disparities, mass migrations, crippling austerity measures, repression of dissent, and increasingly controlled borders.  These borders—at once more porous and more visible–may be nationally designated or internal, as increasing division and strife in civil societies mirrors longstanding geopolitical tensions. These events make evident the centrality of class and to any discussion on the sweeping changes taking place in the global political landscape, as well as the struggle to both emerge from and generate new discourses from lingering legacies of colonialism and race/gender stratification. Major developments that shaped the last year, such as unrest in Ferguson in the United States and the resulting #BlackLivesMatter movement, the missing 43 students of Ayotztinapa, the spread and media coverage of the Ebola virus, the assault on Gaza, and the spread of ISIS, further illustrate the need to analyze events by focusing on layered experiences of power and marginalization. Indeed, the point of departure and means of articulation do not operate in isolation from social structures such as the economy, a fact that underscores the need for continued interdisciplinary and intersectional research.

The pieces in the Fall/Winter Intersectionality, Class, & (De)Colonial Praxis issue draw from varying regions, disciplines, and languages, but all seek to tease out how “intersectionality” is deployed in contexts where intersections—points of meeting, points of encounter—frequently reveal sites of slippage and tension. Maurício Hashizume’s “Lições a partir da experiência do movimento katarista da Bolívia” delves into the Katarista movement in Bolivia, reminding us of indigeneity’s uneasy role within postcolonial studies. Virginie Privas-Breauté’s “Au Carrefour du didactisme brechtien et de la résistance post-coloniale : Protestants (2004) de Robert Welch” further interrogates ideas of postcoloniality as a North-South phenomenon by analyzing Northern Ireland as a (post)colonial site of enunciation. Zachary Price’s timely “Economies of Enjoyment and Terror in 12 Years a Slave and Django Unchained” employs visual and critical race analysis to recent films that seek to illuminate the present by analyzing the past, while Rebecca Galemba’s “Mexico’s Border (In)Security” study brings stark reality to abstract debates on immigration and border crossings. Intersectionality’s possibilities within Francophone Arab feminist studies are explored in Ines Horchani’s “Intersectionnalité et feminismes arabes,” and in turn the invisibility of political actors who do not align neatly within the sociopolitical imaginary in Puerto Rico is examined and re-envisioned by Guillermo Rebollo Gil’s piece “Aguafiestas: Marginalidad y Protesta en Puerto Rico.”

“This Borderland Called My Sexuality: Excavating Queer Nightlife of the American Southwest Through the Lens of Intersectionality” by Kris Hernandez probes the claiming of queer sexual identity among Latinos in the US border space of El Paso, and how race, class, and sexual identifications problematize such (be)longings , while Alissa Simon’s “Mythology, Taboo, and Cultural Identity in Elif Shafak’s The Bastard of Istanbul” explores how the domestic realm and its associated female body both shape and defy the contours of societal expectations, and Cristina Onesta’s “Mai 68 au service de l’interdiscursivité médiatique : entre mémoire révolutionnaire et mémoire discursive. Deux approches interdisciplinaires : lexiculture et mots événements,” brings us back to 1968, a year of massive cultural shifts whose outcomes are frequently invoked and contested today. These and other arts and editorial pieces, such as Annie Mcneill Gibson’s vignettes and photo essay on mythologies and changes surrounding Cuba from a foreigner’s perspective, Anna Stielau’s observations on the Dakar Biennale, and Maheen Hyder’s poetry on ‘home’ as site of both salvation and ruin, explore how intersectionality has been built on, applied, and questioned in a contemporary world of crossings: the intersection is not the destination, but the starting point.

As we look back at 25 years of intersectionality, and in spite of the growing criticism of the concept itself, it is above all important to look at how scholars and organizers around the world are employing an intersectional spirit in their analysis and praxis. Even as the concept of intersectionality faces increasing pressure from the academy and hegemonic liberal feminism and is at risk of losing its radical potential, it is clear that it continues to be used by countless critical thinkers. Indeed one way of countering its co-optation is by continuing to use the concept in radical and groundbreaking ways. The aim of this issue is to present some of the research that is doing just that.

The post Letter from the Editors: “Intersectionality, Class, and (De)Colonial Praxis” appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Por mais poderosos, articulados e sofisticados que sejam os aparatos filosóficos, epistemológicos, institucionais e teórico-ideológicos em favor  do capitalismo e do imperialismo, os sujeitos sociais e coletividades oprimidas têm sido capazes de responder com alternativas. Ainda que a modernidade ocidental hegemônica, forjada em grande medida pelo eurocentrismo e pelo etnocentrismo, tenha longo alcance através de suas “mãos” (vísiveis e invisíveis), é possível realçar, de forma paralela, variados exemplos concretos, forjados nos mais distintos contextos, que revelam o protagonismo, a rebeldia e a inventividade de subalternos que, compartilhando de outras matrizes de pensamento, conhecimento e experiência de vida, não se submeteram a (e até subverteram) o que lhes foi imposto.

Este artigo busca destacar alguns aspectos do complexo processo de “formação”[1] de um movimento que constitui um desses exemplos. O movimento katarista da Bolívia desafiou as regras pré-estabelecidas e ganhou terreno, especialmente a partir do final dos anos 1960, duas décadas antes da formalização por Krenshaw (1989) do conceito de “interseccionalidade”[2] – que descreve a opção pela relevância prática e teórica da complementaridade entre as normalmente distintas categorias de “raça” e “classe”. No bojo do enfrentamento ao sistema corrente de relações de poder marcado pela opressão aos povos originários, camponeses-indígenas[3] Aymara da região do Altiplano andino formaram uma inovadora articulação e estiveram à frente de mobilizações com fortes demandas étnico-culturais em um dos países com maior grau de exclusão social da América Latina.

O Katarismo emergiu, grosso modo, como resultado da confluência de dois processos (Hurtado, 1986): um de longo prazo, marcado pelos sucessivos atos oficiais de deslegitimação e expropriação de amplas terras coletivas e respectiva conversão das mesmas em propriedades rurais individuais privadas – que tiveram início no longo período marcado pelo colonialismo espanhol, mas continuaram durante o período republicano (a partir de 1825); e outro mais de médio e curto prazo, caracterizado pelo ambiente de alta tensão resultante do tenebroso massacre de soldados camponeses-indígenas na Guerra do Chaco (1932 a 1935), seguido das políticas públicas de incorporação e cooptação adotadas pelo bloco em torno do Movimento Nacionalista Revolucionário (MNR) que, com a ajuda dos próprios camponeses-indígenas empenhados na extinção do pongueaje econômico[4], deslocou a elite extrativista e mais conservadora que dava corpo à chamada rosca[5] e assumiu o comando do Estado Boliviano após a Revolução de 1952.

Uma das medidas estruturais que fizeram parte da agenda inicial do governo revolucionário[6] foi justamente a reforma agrária (no sentido de garantir legalmente as posses de terras a comunidades “tradicionais”, especialmente em áreas andinas), associada à aplicação, a partir dos gabinetes da República, de um modelo de organização das comunidades rurais com base nos sindicatos agrários. À medida que cumpria, ao menos parcialmente, a promessa de evitar a continuidade da desterritorialização dos povos e nações indígenas, a coalizão à frente do governo que se seguiu à Revolução de 1952 colocava em prática também, com a compulsória exigência da sindicalização rural, uma tentativa de enquadramento dos beneficiários aos padrões sociopolíticos da modernidade. A intenção era forçar o deslocamento de todo esse contingente, que mantinha um peso populacional enorme, para a condição de camponeses, dentro de um regime de organização classista, enfraquecendo, ainda que de forma gradual, as demandas de ordem étnico-culturais.

Em compasso com a implementação de um modelo educacional “integracionista” – ou seja, que assumia o aprendizado formal concentrado na língua espanhola, sem espaço para a diversidade social[7]-, a sindicalização rural compulsória foi pensada e implementada como mais um recurso de engenharia social dentro do paradigma moderno de dominação e incorporação de povos e culturas “inferiores” ao modelo institucional “universal” construído a partir de modelos de países do Norte.

O que os idealizadores da “inclusão por decretos” dos indígenas ao quadro institucional moderno não esperavam é que os próprios “objetos” das nomeadas políticas pudessem vir a atuar como “sujeitos” dotados de saberes, demandas e estratégias próprias. Em resposta à tentativa positivista de invisibilização e extinção de seus padrões distintos de modos de vida, camponeses-indígenas aymara do Altiplano Andino trilharam um “caminho próprio” – sem seguir necessariamente o receituário da modernização assumindo-se como camponeses nem se refugiar no essencialismo indígena de cunho “purista” que, pelo lado oposto, também acaba se acoplando perfeitamente à divisão simplista entre aqueles ocidentais e não-ocidentais.

Essa escolha “imprevista” que toma como base o diálogo – e não o divórcio – entre estruturas de cariz “moderno” (sindicato agrário) e práticas aparentemente “tradicionais” (mantendo a organização em ayllus[8] e o papel de jilaqata[9], por exemplo) permite identificar no movimento katarista insinuantes características pós-coloniais, no sentido sublinhado por Young (2003), em seu compêndio de síntese sobre o tema. Para este autor, o pós-colonialismo oferece a possibilidade de “ver as coisas diferentemente”, de acordo com uma linguagem e uma política em que os interesses dos subalternos “estão em primeiro plano, e não em último”.

Imagem 1 – Monumento em homenagem a TupacKatari na cidade de Achacachi (Bolívia) – Fonte: Maurício Hashizume (2009)

2. Antecedentes e contextualização

A análise da formação do Katarismo não pode prescindir da revisão do perfis e dos caminhos percorridos por alguns personagens que vieram a se firmar como precursores e primeiros líderes do movimento. Para este fim, destacaremos as biografias de dois artífices que lhe foram centrais: Raimundo Tambo e Jenaro Flores.

Há um consenso – presente em variadas obras que de alguma forma abordam o movimento, entre as quais as de Hurtado (1986), Albó (1987), García Linera (2008) e Tapia (2007) – de que os primórdios do Katarismo estão ligados ao surgimento de “uma corrente de opinião entre jovens aymaras residentes em La Paz que empreenderam a revalorização de sua cultura” (Hurtado, 1986: 11). Esses jovens – quase todos vindos de áreas rurais do interior da Bolívia – encontraram nas reivindicações étnico-culturais, ainda durante a década de 1950, não só uma forma de nutrir a auto-estima para enfrentar o intenso racismo nas áreas urbanas (ou seja, como um mecanismo de defesa em território hostil), mas também de dar visibilidade às suas intenções de atuar e interferir como sujeitos políticos na definição dos rumos do país. (ou seja, como mecanismo de ataque, ainda no bojo da “abertura”, especialmente com a reforma agrária nas terras altas e nos vales, proporcionada pela Revolução de 1952).

Entre os jovens indígenas que despontaram no interior desta articulação na área urbana, despontaram nomes como Raimundo Tambo e Constantino Lima. De acordo com este último, o grupo realizava reuniões clandestinas em lojas de comerciantes simpatizantes e decidiu fundar a primeira entidade política de inspiração na cultura indígena (Hashizume, 2010). Em 5 de novembro de 1960, 21 índios se reuniram na capital boliviana para formar o Partido Autóctone Nacional (PAN), que pode ser considerada como a primeira agremiação política a abraçar a ideologia indianista. O PAN defendia, grosso modo, a autonomia dos povos indígenas por meio do resgate integral da civilização pré-colombiana e a extinção da organização social com base no Estado-nação, copiada do modelo europeu. Tambo e Lima faziam parte do rol dos 21 que estiveram presentes no que pode ser considerado um marco do Indianismo[10]. Em 1962, os militantes do PAN recebem o reforço decisivo do intelectual Fausto Reinaga, que veio a consolidar obras que se tornaram referência indianistas.

Com Reinaga, o PAN se converte primeiro em Partido dos Índios do Qollasuyo  (PIQ) e, logo depois, em Partido dos Índios Aymara Quechua (PIAQ). Fundado em 15 de novembro de 1962, no mesmo dia e mês da morte do mártir indígena Tupac Katari[11] no final do século XVIII (1781), em Peñas (Departamento de La Paz), local no qual fora esquartejado em praça pública. O período que se seguiu à criação do PIAQ foi marcado pela crise de governança enfrentada pelo comando político do MNR. Essa situação de instabilidade culminou, em 1964, com o golpe militar do astuto general René Barrientos, um dos articuladores do que veio a se chamar de Pacto Militar-Camponês, que teve grande relevância no relaxamento temporário de tensões entre os setores descontentes do campesinato-indígena e o governo central.

Dois anos após o golpe, em 1966, o PIAQ se converteu no Partido Índio de Bolívia (PIB). Mesmo sob os auspícios das perseguições da ditadura militar, Reinaga é nomeado para presidir o PIB, junto com uma nova direção, na qual Raimundo Tambo aparecia como secretário geral e vice-presidente.

Como já foi dito, mesmo antes do regime militar, jovens estudantes aymaras vinham se reunindo em núcleos de discussão em La Paz. E Tambo, como um desses estudantes, permaneceu na operação dessa forma de agitação ao longo da década de 1960, paralelamente à sua participação como militante indianista. O colégio militar Gualberto Villaroel, situado numa área de grande concentração aymara em La Paz, era um dos principais focos de movimentações. Juntamente com outros que também vieram do campo, Tambo fundou, em meados dos anos 1960, o Movimento 15 de Novembro, grupo secreto formado em homenagem a Tupac Katari (data de sua morte[12]) que se dedicou ao estudo e discussão dos valores e da história indígena.

Nesse exercício de reinterpretação do passado a partir da perspectiva indígena, redescobrem as figuras lendárias de Tupac Katari, Bartolina Sisa e Zarate Willka, além de promoverem ampla reflexão sobre a discriminação étnico, racial e social cotidiana sofrida no “exílio” que enfrentavam na urbe. Todas as questões discutidas no âmbito mais intelectualizado do círculo indianista sendo compartilhadas por meio de Tambo (e não só por ele) com a “base” dos estudantes indígenas.

Ele terminou o ensino secundário e tentou, sem sucesso, galgar posições nos colégios militares. Matriculou-se então na Faculdade de Direito da Universidade Mayor de San Andrés (UMSA) e, junto com outros ex-participantes do Movimento 15 de Novembro[13] fundou o incômodo Movimento Universitário Julian Apaza (Muja). Ao mesmo tempo em que combatiam o preconceito e a discriminação no meio acadêmico e urbano, os jovens do Muja também procuravam denunciar o conjunto de problemas enfrentados pelas comunidades camponesas-indígenas da área rural.

Curiosamente, Tambo também estreitou laços com segmentos da esquerda sindical, ligada às ideologias originadas na Europa e alojada na COB, entidade que concentrava grande parte dos trabalhadores “formalizados” da Bolívia. Já no final da década de 1960, com apoio da COB, Tambo se engaja em uma manobra ousada – forma o Bloco Independente Camponês (BIC), que almejava se firmar como uma espécie de núcleo político rival  ao sindicalismo agrário marcadamente dependente do governo central – instituído oficialmente pelo MNR no contexto de 1952 e depois largamente “aproveitado” no contexto do Pacto Militar-Camponês.

A montagem do BIC se deu em paralelo aos esforços da COB, de partidos de esquerda (com destaque para o POR trotskista, com Guillermo Lora à frente) e de organizações independentes em fazer prosperar a Assembleia Popular – mobilização com ambições de gestar e aplicar uma agenda paralela popular, surgida no hiato democrático após a queda de Barrientos (1969) que se estendeu pelas administrações dos generais Ovando e Torres, até 1971. Uma das principais fragilidades da Assembleia foi, por sinal, a sua limitadíssima participação camponesa.

Enquanto o BIC, de Tambo (bastante influenciado tanto pelo Indianismo como pelo Marxismo sindical e partidário), não conseguia alcançar os seus objetivos, outra liderança katarista dava os seus primeiros passos por dentro da complexa estrutura do sindicalismo agrário, institucionalizado e fomentado pelo Estado (seja pelo MNR, no bojo de 1952, ou pelos militares que assumiram o poder) com inegável intuito de controle dos camponeses-indígenas.

Jenaro Flores, então jovem indígena que havia também frequentado o colégio Villaroel e retornado à comunidade  onde nasceu, assumia, em 1969, o comando do Sindicato Camponês de Antipampa (Subcentral de Lahuachaca, Província de Aroma).

Antes de iniciar a sua carreira dentro do sindicalismo agrário, contudo, Jenaro Flores passou por uma experiência marcante, mas pouco conhecida, até entre pesquisadores do tema. No final da década de 1960, quando voltou para Antipampa , foi escolhido para trabalhar como assistente de investigação de um estudo sobre os reflexos da reforma agrária de 1953 que estava sendo levado a cabo pela Universidade de  Wisconsin, nos Estados Unidos. Coordenada por Ronald Clark, a investigação era financiada pelo Comitê Interamericano para o Desenvolvimento Agrícola (Cida) e apoiada pelo Serviço Nacional de Reforma Agrária do governo boliviano. Essa experiência, segundo Albó (1987), permitiu que Jenaro aprofundasse os conhecimentos técnicos sobre as questões rurais. Ao mesmo tempo, o jovem testemunhou de perto a discriminação sofrida pelos pongos aymaras, que tinham o trabalho explorado em relações de servidão e ainda tratados, inclusive pelos próprios funcionários oficiais (que também participavam da pesquisa), com extremo desprezo.

“Mais do que qualquer coisa”, define Albó (1987), “esses estudantes de mão cheia criaram uma identidade baseada nas suas próprias experiências como camponeses e aymaras em face aos desafios da cidade”. Na comparação direta entre os indianistas (articulados em torno dos partidos e movimentos dos quais Raimundo Tambo e Constantino Lima fizeram) e os kataristas, que passaram a focar esforços na organização por meio dos sindicatos agrários, Yashar (2005) ressalta que os kataristas foram “mais bem-sucedidos na formação de redes transcomunitárias” (Yashar, 2005: 169). Os ativistas do katarismo viam a sua luta de forma “diferente em termos ideológicos e estratégicos”, como também realça Hurtado (1986: 262). Ideologicamente, eles concordavam que o colonialismo era um instrumento de opressão que vigorava há séculos contra camponeses-indígenas. O final do período de domínio oficial do colonialismo político em 1825 (independência da Bolívia como Estado-nação) acabou se desdobrando em um novo período de colonialismo interno (González Casanova, 1969) que manteve a condição de subordinação e de exclusão dos indígenas, mesmo depois da Revolução de 1952. “Mas eles se recusaram a reduzir a sua luta à questão racial ou à questão de classe” (Yashar, 2005: 169).

Nesse sentido, como deixa poucas dúvidas o Manifesto de Tiwanaku, documento de 1973 que é apontado como referência inicial do Katarismo, é bastante abragente. “Nós nos sentimos economicamente explorados e cultural e politicamente oprimidos”, destacam os signatários[14], reforçando o potencial de ações efetivas de  “tradução intercultural” (Santos, 2006) e de “ecologia dos saberes” (Santos, 2007), com espaço para as “epistemologias do Sul”[15] (Santos e Meneses, 2007).

Imagem 2 – Sede da CSUTCB, que tem sua origem ligada ao Katarismo, em La Paz (Bolívia) – Fonte: Maurício Hashizume (2008)

3. Diálogo entre lideranças e “tradução intercultural”

Como se nota pelas trajetórias de Raimundo Tambo e Jenaro Flores, os kataristas optaram pela escolha mais complexa de cruzar permanentemente as fronteiras estabelecidas pelo “cardápio cognitivo” então existente. Cruzaram sistematicamente não apenas a “linha abissal” (Santos, 2007) entre o que o mundo moderno (escolas, universidades, instituições do Estado e sindicatos) e o que pensamento hegemônico classifica como “pré-moderno”, obsoleto, rudimentar e descartável (cosmovisão, herança cultural, práticas e rituais aymaras), mas também a linha das grandes ideologias identificadas pelas correntes de esquerda e de direita, reciclando os conhecimentos adquiridos no contato com esses diversos campos de conhecimentos.

Uma das linhas divisórias do conhecimento mais subvertidas pelos kataristas foi a que tende a separar o rural e o urbano. Por exemplo, ainda em 27 de maio de 1969, aymaras que residiam em La Paz – entre os quais Mario Gabriel, cunhado de Jenaro Flores -, criaram o Centro de Coordenação e Promoção do Campesinato – Mink’a[16], um espaço cultural na principal aglomeração urbana para tratar das tradições, histórias e da cultura camponesa-indígena, como um todo, que inclusive é uma das signatárias formais do Manifesto de Tiwanaku. Manteve-se um fluxo de trânsito de pessoas entre campo e cidade. Todos os familiares de uma comunidade retornavam (e ainda continuam retornando até hoje, em algumas regiões andinas), por exemplo, para ajudar a recolher a produção agrícola no período de colheita. Ao mesmo tempo, estudantes camponeses-indígenas eram frequentemente enviados para a cidade, assim como ocorreu no caso do núcleo que veio a formar o Katarismo. Incontáveis deslocamentos para o perímetro urbano também eram feitos por conta da venda de muitos dos produtos agropecuários produzidos no interior.

Um episódio envolvendo os dois principais líderes do movimento katarista ajuda também a mostrar esse insinuante caráter híbrido do movimento. Em março de 1970, realiza-se um congresso na localidade de Ayo Ayo para a escolha da direção sindical agrária da Central da Província Aroma. Mais de mil delegados compareceram e assumiram uma posição antioficialista, afastando conhecidos “dirigentes amarelos”  como Pascual Lara, Francisco Lima e Angel Morales, enfraquecidos por terem apoiado o Imposto Único Agropecuário instituído pelo general Barrientos. No entanto, a disputa pela secretaria geral da Província colocou frente a frente Jenaro Flores, da Subcentral de Lahuachaca, e Raimundo Tambo, da subcentral de Ayo Ayo. Este último tinha muito mais experiência sindical e política: era quase um advogado formado e havia sido condutor tanto do Movimento 15 de Novembro como do Muja, no período em que viveu na capital La Paz. Cinco anos mais jovem, Flores não apresentava grande experiência no sindicalismo, mas atraía atenções com seu carisma pessoal. Em menos de um ano e meio, Flores tinha saltado do sindicato de sua comunidade para a subcentral, e já concorria à central, numa carreira veloz (Hurtado, 1986: 36).

A eleição foi muito disputada, mas as bases acabaram elegendo Flores, jovem que era casado e, detalhe que veio a se mostrar importante, atuava concomitantemente como jilaqata (autoridade rotativa “tradicional”) de sua comunidade; o preterido Tambo era solteiro, e não ocupara nenhuma posição dentro do sistema indígena de organização social. Ou seja, numa acirrada disputa pela chefia de uma instituição tipicamente “moderna” – e por que não dizer, colonial? -, teria pesado o fato de que um dos candidatos tinha uma conexão mais efetiva com a identidade e os valores de extração “étnico-cultural”. Esse caso mostra como a hibridação pode se dar na prática, com base no diálogo intercultural entre os distintos conhecimentos.

Conta-se que, após a divulgação do resultado da disputa, o público exigiu um abraço de unidade entre os dois concorrentes (Rocha Monroy, 2006: 12). O perdedor Raimundo Tambo teria, então, partido para um abraço em Jenaro Flores. A partir dali, começaram a trabalhar juntos. Tambo passou a ocupar posição estratégica no Conselho de Amautas (ligado ao modelo indígena de organização social), que assessorava a Central Agrária de Aroma, e consolidou-se como quadro político e formulador do Katarismo. Enquanto isso, Flores se firmava cada vez mais como dirigente camponês de massas.

Formado na encruzilhada da cidade e o campo, Jenaro Flores utilizou habilmente os ensinamentos e os contatos mantidos entre essas duas esferas. Organizou, por exemplo, campeonatos de futebol para atrair camponeses e fazer ressoar as idéias kataristas. Estimulou e manteve canais relevantes com La Paz, com destaque especial, além dos já citados Movimento 15 de Novembro e do Muja, para duas emissoras (Rádio Méndez e Rádio San Gabriel[17]) que passaram a transmitir programas com conteúdo e história indígena, e o Centro Mink´a .

Em 1970, dois fatos relevantes fortaleceram a imagem de sindicalismo “cultural” dos kataristas (Hashizume, 2010: 22). Pela primeira vez, a simbólica bandeira wiphala[18] apareceu hasteada, em 6 de junho, por ocasião de um encontro de camponeses no dia do professor, em Corocoro (Província Pacajes, vizinha à Aroma). E no dia 15 de novembro, a wiphala voltou a tremular em Ayo Ayo diante de cerca de 30 mil camponeses-indígenas que compareceram para homenagear Tupac Katari.

Por meio da aproximação com políticos como José María Centellas e Juan Chambilla (ambos da ala mais à esquerda do MNR), Flores promoveu o evento de 189º aniversário da morte de Tupac Katari, no qual foi inaugurado um monumento em homenagem ao mártir, e conseguiu atrair a presença não só do presidente naquela ocasião, Juan José Torres, mas também de outras autoridades bolivianas (Hurtado, 1986: 38). Esse primeiro impulso de ascensão dos kataristas[19] foi sucedido pelo golpe de Banzer, em 21 de agosto de 1971, que colocou todo o movimento na clandestinidade. Mesmo nessa condição, o Katarismo continuou a conquistar espaço. Primeiro, surgiu o já citado Manifesto de Tiwanaku (1973). Ladeado por assassinatos, desaparições, prisões e perseguições, o massacre de Epizana, Tolata e Melga, em 1974, que ceifou a vida de camponeses-indígenas que protestavam contra o governo, tornou o clima ainda mais tenso (Rivera Cusicanqui, 2003: 147). Após aprovar mais uma declaração de apoio ao programa katarista em 1977, o setor consegue realizar um importante encontro em 1978 que, por sua vez, permitiu estruturar duas conquistas centrais em 1979: a fundação da Confederação Sindical Única dos Trabalhadores Camponeses da Bolívia (CSUTCB) e as mobilizações populares contra o governo que resultaram numa paralisação nacional contra o pacote de medidas de ajuste econômico receitadas pelo Fundo Monetário Internacional (FMI) da presidenta interina Lidia Gueiler, em dezembro do mesmo ano.

Como desdobramento desse processo de lutas, a CSUTCB reiterou a adoção da análise dos problemas e da busca de soluções com base na “teoria dos dois olhos”: como camponeses, juntamente com toda a classe social trabalhadora explorada, e como povos indígenas (aymaras, quechuas, ayoreos, moxeños etc.).

Em junho de 1983, com sua tese política, a CSUTCB de certa forma conclui o seu programa político, que pode ser sintetizado no seguinte trecho:

Nosso pensamento não admite uma redução unilateral de toda nossa história a uma luta puramente classista nem puramente etnicista. Na prática, dessas duas dimensões reconhecemos não apenas nossa unidade com os operários, mas também nossa personalidade própria e diferenciada.

Imagem 3 – Reprodução de cartaz exposto em prédio municipal de Sica Sica (Bolívia) – Fonte: Maurício Hashizume (2009)

4. Formas de luta e “ecologia de saberes”

Na prática, portanto, o movimento katarista utilizou a estrutura formal e institucional formada em torno do sindicalismo moderno/colonial para cultivar e disseminar outros conhecimentos, ou melhor, a hibridação de conhecimentos, sempre de acordo com os contextos nos quais os problemas eram apresentados. As jilaqatura e sindicato agrário foram (e continuam a ser) utilizados como duas faces, uma mais institucional (com registro formal junto às autoridades estatais) e outra mais simbólica (com forte influência na vida comunitária), de uma proposta comum. Há depoimentos que garantem que a luta sindical ganhou com os ensinamentos culturais, e vice-versa. Em vez de recusar em absoluto possíveis ensinamentos “vindos de fora”, o katarismo escolheu absorver e reorganizar as ideias de acordo com as suas necessidades.

Evidentemente que essa sobreposição não se dava de maneira natural, tranquila e sem sobressaltos. Em inúmeras vezes, a convivência entre essas duas lógicas gerava “faíscas”: impasses, entreveros e contradições. O caso do Katarismo demonstra claramente, porém, que o pressuposto paradoxo social formatado pela matriz colonial pode se misturar, embaralhar as regras pré-estabelecidas e funcionar como elemento de contestação das relações de poder, saber e, inclusive, ser.

Se é inegável que não chegou a dar forma final a um projeto alternativo completo (não só no aspecto epistemológico e intercultural, mas também nas esferas política, econômica e social) de relação entre sociedade e Estado, capaz de articular os níveis local, nacional e global, também é possível afirmar que ajudou a ampliar e embaralhar as margens que dividem o previamente bom do irremediavelmente ruim, o válido do inválido, o possível do impossível e, em última instância, o real do utópico.

Em larga medida, o movimento katarista inspirou e abriu as portas, com décadas de antecipação, a uma série de mobilizações, reivindicações e programas políticos que vieram a se consolidar na Bolívia desde então[20].

Por não permanecerem confinados e se afastarem de “purismos” conceituais adotados por grupos políticos mais convencionais de esquerda, os militantes kataristas colocaram a “interseccionalidade” na prática e ganharam espaço em diversas frentes de atuação. Atualmente, a imagem do movimento pode ser associada por alguns à demasia “flexibilidade” de alguns de seus notórios membros – como é o caso de Victor Hugo Cárdenas, que ocupou o cargo de vice-presidente entre 1993 a 1997 na gestão francamente neoliberal de Gonzálo Sanchéz de Lozada (MNR). Ainda assim, o Katarismo segue como relevante referencial político-ideológico de contestação para as organizações camponesas-indígenas até hoje.

Na prática, a experiência katarista ratifica a problemática das dicotomias como obstáculos à interpretação da “ecologia dos saberes”, apresentada por Santos (2007) como alternativa diante do sistema colonial, capitalista e imperialista que, nos últimos séculos, tem determinado o desperdício da experiência social que o próprio Santos (2000) define pela desigiação de “epistemicídio”. A escolha pelo diálogo e combinação recíproca entre diferentes conhecimentos contribuiu para furar os bloqueios e limitações armadas pelos esquemas e relações de poder estabelecidas.

O questionamento à relação intrínseca entre colonialidade/modernidade – duas faces da mesma moeda, conforme conceituação de Mignolo (2000) – não implica o anseio por “sociedades congeladas no tempo, ilhadas e essencializadas”, como adverte Blaser (2007: 14). “É muito fácil constatar que estas sociedades não existem, que são fantasias românticas”, conclui este último.

“A capacidade inovadora, a adoção de tecnologias e conhecimentos ‘externos’ úteis, a adaptação e a mudança, a conexão com e a abertura relativa com relação a outras sociedades”, prossegue Blaser (2007: 14), “não são atributos exclusivos da sociedade moderna; são atributos de todas as sociedades”. Não se deve, contudo, assumir que as diferenças sempre significam antagonismos, mas tampouco se “deve dar por certo que existe complementaridade entre elas ou que essa complementaridade pode ser imposta de cima para baixo” (Blaser, 2007: 14).

Uma formulação interessante para essa mescla sobreposta de culturas pode ser encontrada em Rivera Cusicanqui (2006: 11). Ao se auto-definir ela própria, ela diz se considerar uma mestiça – não mais nos moldes da integração por meio dos programas modernos de mestiçagem, mas no sentido de mistura conflitante – ou simplesmente chhixi, em língua aymara. A palavra chhixi, de acordo com ela, tem diversas conotações: é uma cor produto da justaposição, em pequenos pontos ou manchas, de cores opostas ou contrastantes: o branco e o negro, o roxo e o verde, etc. “A noção chhixi, como muitas outras, obedece à ideia aymara de algo que é e não é ao mesmo tempo, ou seja,a lógica do terceiro incluído” (2006: 11).

Além disso, na arena imaginária em que os diversos e recombinantes conceitos pós-coloniais estão em contínuo encontro, conflito e sobreposição, a experiência do Katarismo dialoga diretamente com a escolha do “essencialismo estratégico” (Spivak, 1999), pois apresenta um componente de ressignificação da condição do subalterno por ele próprio como protagonista da ação política e sujeito social. Também guarda relação com as reflexões acerca da “outra modernidade” (Chatterjee, 1997) forjada por diferentes pontos de vistas e das especificidades dos contextos de ex-colônias.

De alguma maneira, este trabalho procurou seguir a dica deixada pela própria Spivak. “Se o sujeito (…) foi mascarado como o sujeito de uma história alternativa, devemos refletir sobre como ele está escrito, em vez de simplesmente ler sua máscara como uma verdade histórica.” (Spivak, 1994: 188)

O que a autora indiana reforça é que escrever e ler, em um sentido mais amplo, “marcam duas posições diferentes em relação à ‘oscilante e múltipla forma de ser’”. (Spivak, 1994: 188). Segundo ela, “produzimos narrativas e explicações históricas transformando o socius, onde nossa produção é escrita, em bits – mais ou menos contínuos e controlados – que são legíveis”.

A forma como essas leituras emergem e a definição a respeito de qual delas será legitimada são questões que têm implicações políticas em todos os níveis possíveis, reitera. Ou seja, o subalterno e seu discurso não são apenas e necessariamente as formas como alguém é capaz de lê-los, mas é inclusive como ele mesmo se produz por meio da ação social. Por isso, o Katarismo como “epistemologia do Sul” é resultado não de heranças ou legados mantidos pelos camponeses-indígenas do Altiplano Andino, mas da iniciativa coletiva daqueles que agiram diante da subalternidade e conferiram um significado convertido em conhecimento contra-hegemônico, ou seja, em “outros saberes” que, diferentemente da “pureza” reivindicada pelas teorias produzidas pelas ciências sociais do Norte[21], são repletas e constituídas de “contaminações” e interferências mútuas, no sentido do que pode ser definido como exercício prático de “tradução intercultural” (Santos, 2006).

Imagem 4 – Manifestações em El Alto: wiphalas tremulam ao lado da bandeiras nacionais – Fonte: Maurício Hashizume (2009)

5. Conclusão

No campo dos estudos coloniais, é bastante comum ver citada a obra do  psiquiatra e ensaísta negro Frantz Fanon, nascido na Martinica, como um dos principais referências “históricos”, visto que sua obra data justamente da década de 1960: a mesma em que se deram desdobramentos determinantes para a formação do Katarismo. É notável a convergência entre os escritos de Fanon sobre os conflitos socioculturais na Argélia e as formulações kataristas no que diz respeito à “inadequação” dos marcos teóricos do Norte hegemônico para o Sul Global.

Quando se examina de perto o contexto colonial, é evidente que a divisão do mundo começa pelo fato de pertencer ou não a uma determinada raça, a uma determinada espécie. Nas colônias, a estrutura de base econômica é também a superestrutura [da teoria marxista]. A causa é a consequência; você é rico porque é branco, você é branco porque é rico. Esse é o motivo pelo qual a análise marxista deve sempre ser ligeiramente alargada toda vez que temos que lidar com o problema colonial (Fanon, 2001: 31)

Tal “coincidência” não reflete exatamente uma espécie de pensamento único e uniforme a respeito das experiências coloniais na Argélia (principal referência para as inquietações de Fanon) e na Bolívia, mas antes uma latente discordância, moldada pelos respectivos contextos sociais, quanto aos quadros-gerais eurocêntricos e etnocêntricos.

No caso mais específico do Katarismo, os camponeses-indígenas Aymaras bateram de frente não só com a colonialidade (do poder, do saber e do saber) – que, como ressalta Quijano (2000), vai muito além do colonialismo em sua concepção convencional e se perpetua através de práticas sociais de subalternização assimiladas e incorporadas pelos próprios colonizados, mas também do supracitado colonialismo interno (Gonzáles Casanova, 1969), desafiando conspirações elitistas a partir de massivas mobilizações de nações e povos indígenas, originários e camponeses.

Esta forte vinculação com as experiências sociais vividas no terreno faz dos pensamentos pós-descoloniais não uma escola de pensamento “de vanguarda”, conforme léxico usado com frequência no âmbito das ciências sociais convencionais. Em vez disso, ancoram-se na concepção de pensamento “de retaguarda”, em linha com as reflexões de Santos (2012). Daí a relevância de sublinhar os processos de enfrentamento protagonizados pelos movimentos por trás da emergência de tendências acadêmicas. As lutas dos movimentos sociais são prévias a quaisquer giros pós-descoloniais. Estes últimos podem ter sido beneficiados pelo acúmulo, consistência e abrangência derivados do aparecimento de um conjunto posterior de escritos – que incluem o aclamado Orientalismo (1981), de Edward Said -, mas as primeiras são as fontes e as bases da concretude e repercussão da perspectiva pós-decolonial como crítica sociopolítica.

Sob o manto das pretensas neutralidade e universalidade (repletas de pré-concepções, direcionamentos e limitações de caráter eurocêntrico e etnocêntrico), destacadas lutas como as do movimento katarista têm enfrentado cânones, postulados, proposições e intervenções modelares de transformação social. Esses sujeitos sociais expuseram problemas e exigiram direitos, cavando e ganhando terreno em espaços científico-acadêmicos. Empurrada por interpelações “sentidas na pele” e por contestações vigorodas dos movimentos sociais, as portas, então, se abriram. Como detalha um reconhecido investigador dedicado aos estudos pós-descoloniais, desenvolveu-se, desde o início dos anos 1980, “um corpo de escritos que tentam deslocar as formas dominantes pelas quais são vistas as relações entre povos ocidentais e não-ocidentais e seus mundos” (Young, 2003: 2).

O que isso significa? Isso significa virar o mundo de cabeça para baixo. Isso significa olhar a partir do outro lado da fotografia (…). Isso significa se dar conta de que quando os povos ocidentais olham para o mundo não-ocidental o que eles enxergam é frequentemente mais a imagem deles mesmos e de suas próprias suposições do que a realidade daquilo que de fato lá está, ou ainda a forma como as pessoas fora do ocidente realmente sentem-se e entendem-se a si próprias (Young, 2003: 2).

O segmento final da referida definição (“a forma como as pessoas fora do ocidente realmente sentem-se e entendem-se a si próprias”) remete novamente às experiências protagonizadas por sujeitos políticos do Sul, tais como o movimento katarista, que desafiaram o status quo (político, econômico, cultural, epistemológico e ontológico) com a sua opção pelo ativismo sindical com forte influência étnico-cultural.

Isso faz com que se torne imperativo evitar a delimitação territorial, temporal e sociocultural da ideia de interseccionalidade e do pensamento pós-descolonial. Há evidências de que essas proposições analíticas não são propriamente “novidades” das últimas décadas, desconectada das lutas anticoloniais do passado levadas a cabo pelos povos colonizados. Muito antes da “onda” de produções e reflexões que passaram a ser categorizadas “técnica e cientificamente” como pós-descoloniais, diversas mobilizações concretas protagonizadas no Sul já tinham sido formadas não só para pensar, mas para aplicar programas político-ideológicos que não se restringiam aos manuais engessados e moldes pré-fabricados dos setores “de vanguarda”. Tais iniciativas, a despeito de suas incomensuráveis heterogeneidades, se coadunam no diálogo e intercâmbio horizontalizado entre diversos conhecimentos e modos de vida ocidentais e não-ocidentais, ou seja, tendem a combinar justamente, cada um da sua forma, elementos “clássicos” da luta de classes com a defesa dos direitos “diferenciados” nos campos étnico-culturais.

Este artigo foi desenvolvido no âmbito do projeto de investigação “ALICE, espelhos estranhos, lições imprevistas”, coordenado por Boaventura de Sousa Santos (alice.ces.uc.pt) no Centro de Estudos Sociais da Universidade de Coimbra – Portugal. O projeto recebe fundos do Conselho Europeu de Investigação, 7.º Programa Quadro da União Europeia (FP/2007- 2013) / ERC Grant Agreement n. [269807]

The post Colonialidades em xeque – Lições a partir da experiência do movimento katarista da Bolívia appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Les Troubles en Ulster sont propices à donner lieu à ce genre de pièce expérimentale comme le met en avant Ophelia Byrne, spécialiste du théâtre en Irlande du Nord : « theatre has […] had to find imaginative ways to respond to an always vital, often dangerously energised, and sometimes brutal society » (Welch 66). Dans Protestants, première pièce de l’auteur irlandais catholique Robert Welch, jouée à Belfast le 28 avril 2004, le thème abordé met en effet en lumière une tentative de (re-)définir le protestantisme. Welch fait coïncider le fond et la forme dans la mesure où la pièce monologique est également un moyen de retracer les contours du théâtre. En outre cet éloignement délibéré de la norme théâtrale sous-tend un acte de résistance à une autre norme, le colonialisme. Cette pièce aspire à démontrer qu’un détachement du joug impérial de la Grande-Bretagne sur l’Irlande du Nord est possible artistiquement.

Nous nous interrogerons tout d’abord sur les raisons pour lesquelles le théâtre expérimental minimaliste de Welch est un acte de résistance au colonialisme, assis sur une conception particulière du protestantisme en Irlande, héritage du passé. Nous nous pencherons donc sur sa stratégie de résistance en appuyant notre démonstration sur les travaux de Helen Gilbert et Joanne Tompkins. L’étude des signes linguistiques et paralinguistiques nous permettra d’articuler études post-coloniales et théorie brechtienne du théâtre. En effet, la théorie du théâtre épique de Bertolt Brecht viendra nourrir notre réflexion première. L’analyse de la crise du sujet ainsi que l’étude des arts littéraires et musicaux illustreront le désir du dramaturge et nous permettront de comprendre comment le monologue devient un outil post-colonial pour l’auteur dans sa démarche de redéfinition de cette religion à travers ses multiples représentants.

1. Le poids du passé

Dans ce monologue, Robert Welch montre à quel point le passé pèse sur le présent en Irlande, thème qu’il reprend à la tradition littéraire irlandaise pour annoncer sa tendance à mêlertradition et modernité. Welch s’attache ainsi à démontrer que le colonialisme reste gravé dans les esprits en Irlande du Nord. Pourtant, s’il a intitulé sa pièce Protestants c’est précisément pour démontrer que le colonialisme est assis sur une définition erronée du protestantisme. Le protestantisme n’est pas ce que l’Histoire, notamment celle de l’Irlande du Nord, laisse apparaître. De fait, le pluriel du titre nous indique qu’il existe plusieurs façons de considérer ceux qui incarnent au mieux la religion, les Protestants, et, par conséquent, plusieurs manières de faire l’expérience du protestantisme. Il nous livre donc plusieurs autres visions, d’autres définitions. Afin de déconstruire l’image que renvoie la notion de protestantisme, l’auteur adopte une stratégie particulière, qui s’inscrit dans un double discours : celui du post-colonialisme et de l’héritage de Brecht. En d’autres termes, il articule théorie brechtienne du théâtre didactique et études post-coloniales.

Le dramaturge souhaite remonter aux origines du protestantisme et de son adéquation avec l’impérialisme. Pour mener à bien son objectif, il utilise tout d’abord les personnages que le seul acteur doit camper sur scène. Si ces derniers n’apparaissent pas dans un ordre chronologique évident, c’est avant tout pour mettre en lumière l’idée que le passé prend toute son importance. Welch convoque ainsi, dans leur ordre d’apparition, un narrateur contemporain, en réalité le seul personnage sur scène qui doit camper six autres personnages. Dans ses premières didascalies, Welch nous annonce que ce narrateur, aux allures néo-brechtiennes, doit être un Protestant de classe moyenne, la quarantaine, et résidant à Belfast. Ce personnage campe alors Elizabeth 1ère dont le règne sur l’Angleterre marqua la domination de la foi protestante.Vient ensuite un supporter de l’équipe de football des Glasgow Rangers, qui s’emporte contre les révoltes au sein de sa propre communauté. Puis l’acteur endosse le rôle de Martin Luther qui déclame son amour pour Dieu et sa haine contre les secrets des prêtres catholiques. Puis, un homme originaire de Cork, soldat dans l’armée d’Oliver Cromwell et témoin de l’exécution du roi Charles 1^er, un dresseur de serpent dans le sud des Etats-Unis qui force sa foi à vaincre sa peur ; enfin un jeune garçon observant son grand-père qui se prépare pour le défilé des Orangistes un 12 juillet dans le comté d’Armagh en Irlande du Nord. Nous constatons donc que sur les sept personnages, trois appartiennent à l’histoire de l’Europe : Martin Luther, Elizabeth 1ère et le soldat de Cromwell. Martin Luther renvoie aux origines du mouvement protestant, Elizabeth 1ère à l’affirmation de la suprématie du protestantisme sur le catholicisme en Irlande lors de la période des Plantations, et, en ce qui concerne Cromwell, Benedict Nightingale, critique littéraire pour The Times, nous explique qu’il n’est mentionné que dans la mesure où il rappelle le passé colonial de l’Irlande : « Cromwell is soon remembered, presumably to make the point that Protestantism became and perhaps remains a colonial weapon, wielded most ruthlessly against the Catholic Irish. » (Welch 76). Avec ces trois personnages se tissent donc des liens étroits entre l’impérialisme et le protestantisme.

Pour souligner à quel point le passé pèse sur le présent, le temps dominant est le présent simple. Si le présent de narration n’existe pas véritablement en anglais, il est possible de l’utiliser afin de donner une information brute sans notion temporelle, valeur que Welch semble avoir privilégiée dans cette pièce. Le passé dans la pièce est raconté, voire vécu, au présent pour montrer à quel point il marque le quotidien dans cette partie du monde. Ainsi lorsque tous ses personnages racontent leurs histoires et anecdotes, ils utilisent le temps du présent. La première stratégie que le dramaturge a choisie afin de retracer les contours du protestantisme est donc celle du brouillage des pistes temporelles. Cette stratégie a une dimension post-coloniale comme Helen Gilbert et Joanne Tompkins le soulignent dans Post-Colonial Drama lorsqu’il s’agit de définir le post-colonialisme : « history is a discourse which is ‘culturally motivated and ideologically conditioned’ in the present. » (Gilbert & Tompkins 112). Si pour ces deux auteurs le théâtre fonctionne comme une arme anti-impériale, nous constatons que Robert Welch s’approprie cette définition pour faire de sa pièce une arme contre le colonialisme. Cette stratégie lui permet également de redonner à ses personnages du pouvoir sur l’Histoire puisqu’ils en livrent leur propre version.

Nous remarquons en outre que si l’unité du temps, chère à Aristote, n’est pas respectée, celle du lieu, également aristotélicienne, ne l’est pas non plus. En effet, à cette discontinuité temporelle (le présent, qui code la continuité, est utilisé afin de raconter le passé) s’ajoute une discontinuité spatiale puisque tous les personnages ne se trouvent pas en Irlande du Nord. Si l’Ulster est le lieu que Robert Welch a privilégié, la raison en est, selon l’auteur lui-même, que l’Irlande du Nord est un lieu où les divergences passées sont toujours présentes : « Northern Ireland is one of those places, across the world, where the differences in conviction and religious practice that emerged in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in Europe still animate contemporary life. » (Welch 16). Il lui apparaissait donc plus pertinent d’inscrire sa pièce dans un contexte nord-irlandais. Pourtant, lorsqu’il le met dans la peau d’autres personnages, Welch projette aussi son personnage – narrateur dans d’autres lieux : Martin Luther se trouve en Allemagne, la reine Elizabeth 1ère en Angleterre, le dresseur de serpent dans le sud des Etats-Unis. Nous assistons donc à une fragmentation de l’espace et du temps qui n’est pas sans rappeler à nouveau la théorie brechtienne du théâtre et sa vocation didactique. Dans Bertolt Brecht, L’Homme et son œuvre, Wolfgang Jeske et Gunter Berg, rappellent que « dès 1926, Brecht proclame l’idée d’une œuvre scénique comme construction d’éléments narratifs, texte, musique et tableau, qui sont indépendants les uns des autres mais agissent les uns sur les autres, se complètent, ou se perturbent sciemment grâce à la mise en scène, empêchant dans tous les cas une action fluide, homogène » (107). La conception de la réalité est, pour Brecht, fragmentaire.

Robert Welch montre sa résistance à nourrir l’héritage laissé par la colonisation à travers Protestants de deux manières. Il semble en effet combiner l’élément post-colonial et la résistance à la norme théâtrale afin de déconstruire la définition de protestantisme et aborder le sujet selon une approche didactique où le public aura aussi un rôle à jouer. Il part des origines de la religion, puis du lien qui fut tissé entre colonialisme britannique et protestantisme, et montre d’emblée que son objectif est de déconstruire cette adéquation. Effectivement, il y a non seulement brouillage des pistes temporelles et spatiales, mais encore brouillage d’autres codes, notamment le code vestimentaire. L’auteur écrit en effet que son acteur doit être ainsi vêtu : « bare chested, black jeans, Doc Martens » (Welch 23). Il fait donc naître une tension entre ce qu’il porte et ce qu’il doit représenter. Il évoque une nudité pour que son personnage puisse revêtir divers personnages et devenir ainsi un acteur protéiforme. Cependant il est chaussé de Doc Martens aux lacets défaits pour ancrer son existence dans le temps présent, mais aussi pour marquer une certaine marginalité. Cette tenue peut aussi refléter la difficulté qu’ont pu éprouver certains Protestants d’Irlande du Nord à définir leur identité à la fin du XXème siècle. L’arrivée des colons britanniques en Irlande a d’abord privé de leurs repères identitaires les Catholiques irlandais, puis, depuis les multiples tentatives de Westminster d’engager un processus de rapprochement entre les deux communautés en Irlande du Nord, les Protestants se sont eux aussi peu à peu sentis trahis par le gouvernement britannique au point de ne plus se considérer tout à fait comme des Britanniques. Le personnage de Welch incarne ces générations qui se sont progressivement éloignées de leurs repères identitaires, héritiers du passé colonial de l’Irlande. Joanne Tompkins et Helen Gilbert soulignent que le corps de l’acteur est un outil permettant de véhiculer le malaise lié à la perte de repères identitaires, elles considèrent le corps post colonial comme étant : « a vehicle for subverting and problematising the roles of identity, subjectivity, and corporeality that colonialism has assigned to the colonialised subject. » (Gilbert & Tompkins 1996 : 253). L’utilisation de la corporalité est ainsi un des éléments de stratégie de résistance au colonialisme sur lequel Welch prend appui.

Cette pièce repose donc sur de nombreuses tensions qui mettent en évidence une certaine absence de cohésion et de linéarité, un manque de repères et qui corroborent par la même occasion l’enjeu de l’écriture du monologue, c’est-à-dire la crise, et plus particulièrement celle d’un sujet en proie aux questionnements autour de son identité.

2. Lacrise du sujet

Cette crise d’identité est due à la violence et aux dissensions balayant l’Irlande du Nord à la fin du XXème siècle, période durant laquelle les Républicains nord-irlandais (catholiques) luttaient contre le pouvoir britannique dans l’espoir de s’en affranchir. Ces hommes et femmes qui n’avaient jamais accepté le contrôle des Britanniques (et par conséquent des Protestants) en Irlande, souhaitaient un rapprochement géopolitique avec la République d’Irlande. Ces troubles affectèrent aussi bien la communauté catholique que la communauté protestante. Aussi, dans un article intitulé « ‘Am I talking to Myself ?’ Men, Masculinities and the Monologue in Contemporary Irish Theatre », Brian Singleton considère que la culture nord-irlandaise en est ressortie profondément abîmée. Il explique que cette crise affecte les hommes plus que les femmes, précisément à cause de la relation qui lie la violence au pouvoir masculin en Ulster. Il s’agit donc pour Welch de retrouver la définition gâtée de cet homme protestant en crise, et s’il convoque une femme, la reine Elizabeth 1ère, ce n’est que pour en souligner les traits masculins puisqu’il lui fait dire : « I’ll show them whose daughter I am. The daughter of the great lion of England and terror of Spain. I have, I know, his lion heart even though it’s stuck in this woman’s body. » (Welch 25). Eckart Voigts-Virchow & Mark Schreiber écrivent ensemble que le monologue est un genre qui se prête particulièrement à l’expression de la masculinité en détresse en s’éloignant de la théorie aristotélicienne :

In rejecting the Aristotelian stage interaction, the male narrators have, both in terms of form and content, been transformed from men of action to static wordmongers, who tell their stories with varying degrees of confidence in the cathartic healing this limited congress with an audience may afford. The monologue, this much is clear, is an excellent means in expressing masculinity in crisis. (Wallace 296)

Dans Protestants, la crise du sujet masculin est indubitablement liée à la crise que la religion traverse en Irlande du Nord pendant la période des Troubles. Cette crise est à la fois politique et sociale et héritée du colonialisme. Welch utilise le monologue afin de mettre en exergue la violence du colonialisme qui prend son origine dans une définition erronée du protestantisme, marquée dans le corps, dans l’esprit et dans le discours de l’acteur sur scène. Une analyse de l’utilisation de l’espace scénique, de la kinésique et de la proxémique nous permet de constater que l’acteur, qui doit incarner le protestantisme au mieux, tente d’investir toute la scène.

Nous avons vu précédemment que la scène ne représentait pas seulement l’Irlande du Nord mais aussi d’autres lieux. Dans une volonté de redéfinition du protestantisme, il semblerait que le principe émis par Eamonn Jordan dans « ‘Look Who’s Talking, Too’ : the Duplicitous Myth of Naïve Narrative’ » à savoir « dislocation, rather than location » (Wallace 153) est important chez Welch. En effet, c’est à travers la multiplication des lieux, la fragmentation de l’espace, que l’expérience du protestantisme doit être faite. L’analyse du déplacement de l’acteur dans ce décor minimaliste montre qu’il commence debout sur l’estrade à gauche pour terminer, sept scènes plus loin, en bas de l’estrade à droite, après avoir investi le centre de l’espace scénique. Etant donné que les enjeux du colonialisme furent fondés sur un conflit territorial dont le Protestant nord-irlandais a hérité et qu’il ne veut pas perdre, il est possible de souligner que cette tentative de réinvestissement de l’espace scénique symbolise la tentative de reprendre toute sa place dans l’espace, et par extension dans l’Histoire. Notons par ailleurs, l’utilisation d’une estrade sur la scène, pour ajouter à la prise de possession de l’espace horizontal, une prise de possession verticale, qui peut en outre symboliser le rapprochement direct de l’homme et de Dieu (et rappelle qu’il n’y a pas besoin de médiateur pour les Protestants). L’utilisation d’une échelle corrobore cette idée. Cette estrade et cette échelle, comme les quelques accessoires utilisés par l’acteur, ont donc un sens bien précis.

Dès la première page de son œuvre, l’auteur nous livre la liste des objets dont se servira l’acteur. Ainsi Welch cite-t-il le tuyau d’une pompe à essence, une échelle en aluminium, une scie, une chaîne en fer, un télescope, un seau en métal, un pentacle (ou une étoile de David selon l’auteur lui-même en didascalie, qui brouille encore une fois les pistes). Chaque objet, associé à un personnage, est destiné à avoir une utilisation particulière. A propos du télescope que le jeune garçon de descendance orangiste manipule, Welch nous dit:

The boy is given as prop a telescope hinting at the play’s attempt to bring up close for scrutiny what lies far off; and also at the spirit of scientific inquiry that accompanied the Reformation’s stress on the individual mind’s capability to appraise evidence for itself, free of the dictates of dogmatic authority (Welch 19).

Si l’utilisation du télescope est à la fois pragmatique et symbolique, en revanche, les autres accessoires ont une fonction détournée. Donnons pour exemple la scie circulaire qui devient la collerette royale de Elizabeth 1ère ou encore le tuyau qui se transforme en un serpent. Ce détournement des objets dans leur fonction peut s’inscrire dans la stratégie de résistance au colonialisme de Welch dans la mesure où il semble faire écho au détournement de la définition du protestantisme. A travers ces accessoires et leur utilisation détournée par l’acteur, Welch met en lumière la définition erronée du protestantisme et s’en insurge. En effet, Michael Portillo, critique littéraire pour The Spectator, remarque: « one by one, Hickey [c’est le nom de l’acteur] tosses the props from the stage, as though angry with these symbols of prejudice and hate » (Welch 78). L’acteur doit incarner le protestantisme, ce que la religion a subi à travers les siècles, et son discours vient accompagner les mouvements de son corps afin de redéfinir la notion de protestantisme. Ses propos ont une résonance post-coloniale mais aussi didactique puisqu’ils doivent provoquer la réaction du public.

3. L’art pour redessiner les contours du protestantisme

Lorsqu’il évoque les origines de sa pièce, l’auteur, catholique, livre également la définition suivante du protestantisme :

It was in fact an engraving by Blake, “the Traveller makes haste towards evening” that provided a unifying thread for the play. Blake’s traveller became the narrator, a figure setting out on a journey, towards evening, leaving the comfort and security of the known and the familiar, the suburban, the gravelled pathways, the lamps being switched on as dark falls, to head into the uncertainty of memory and the fragmented recollection of history. The journey is one into what I imagined to be Protestant freedom and solitude, because it seems to me, rightly or wrongly, that one of the great discoveries of Protestantism was the terrifying isolation of the mind and the personality when confronted with the complex mystery of being (Welch 18).

A la lecture de ces explications, nous comprenons mieux pourquoi l’auteur a choisi la pièce monologique comme forme théâtrale (il s’est ainsi senti libre de rejeter la norme)mais aussi pourquoi le champ lexical de la peur est omniprésent. Néanmoins, les nombreuses répétitions de mots tels que « fear » et  « panic » sont contrebalancées par le discours de paix délivré par Martin Luther, technique qui rappelle la vocation dialectique du théâtre de Brecht selon laquelle des éléments de nature différente sont confrontés afin de faire naître un questionnement chez le spectateur. Welch souhaite ainsi mettre en évidence le fait que si le Protestant, et en particulier Martin Luther au moment de sa scission avec l’Église catholique romaine, éprouve un sentiment de peur, il ne doit pas la susciter, comme il en est trop souvent le cas en Irlande du Nord. La pièce de Welch repose ainsi sur cette évolution détournée, déformée de la religion en Irlande du Nord où la violence des colons protestants, puis de leurs héritiers, a pu effrayer. En outre, le discours de Martin Luther n’est pas au début mais au cœur de la pièce, alors que selon un enchaînement chronologique, il devrait ouvrir la pièce. L’expérience de Martin Luther se voit ainsi encadrée par celle des autres personnages. La structure de Protestants met donc une fois de plus en évidence l’importance des origines du protestantisme et la nécessité de les retrouver afin de mieux les comprendre, en comprendre l’évolution pour les déconstruire. Le monologue, et en particulier cette multitude de personnages qu’un seul acteur doit incarner lui permet, dans un second temps, de retrouver le message central de Martin Luther, précisément par le recentrement sur l’individu, la prise de conscience du personnage sur son individualité ; il lui permet ainsi de mettre en lumière l’évolution du protestantisme au fil des siècles.

Ces pistes de réflexion doivent provoquer la réaction du public, qui intervient et participe activement à la pièce. En effet, la fragmentation, le brouillage des pistes, les tensions entre linéarité et absence de linéarité, entre tradition et modernité, le discours dialectique de Welch, doivent susciter l’attention du spectateur, qui à son tour peut retrouver la chronologie, la fluidité et la continuité de ces éléments éclatés, des scènes juxtaposées. Pour le metteur en scène, Rachel O’Riordan, la forme et le contenu participaient à l’intervention du public : « the monodrama, and that format deeply affected the way in which the show was received. By communicating to the audience without character interplay the subject of the piece was thrown into the spotlight without any of the easy familiarities of naturalism. » (Welch 62). L’absence de naturalisme combinée à l’intervention du public fait écho à la théorie brechtienne du théâtre didactique. Pour Brecht, le théâtre doit susciter l’intervention du spectateur qui prend conscience d’un besoin de changement. Brecht écrit : « with the learning-play, then, the stage begins to be didactic. The theater becomes a place for philosophers, and for such philosophers as not only wish to explain the world but wish to change it. If there were not such entertaining learning, then the entire theatre would not be able to instruct. » (Brecht 80). De la même façon, la réception brute du message par le public est prépondérante pour Welch, elle fait partie intégrante de la pièce. En effet, des tables rondes et discussions furent organisées après chaque représentation pour recueillir les questions et réactions des spectateurs mais aussi pour échanger leurs points de vue.

Il s’agit donc de retrouver une définition plus juste de ce que représente le Protestant après avoir soumis à la fragmentation les critères qui le définissaient jusque là. Clare Wallace démontre en effet que le monologue dramatique permet de mettre en lumière la perception de l’Homme comme un produit fragmenté qui a subi les pressions des forces sociales et historiques :

Dramatic monologue enables the poet to inhabit a range of personae that may, as opposed to the confidential, earnest lyric ‘I’, open a space for doubt and ambivalence around the speaker. […] The perception of the self as ‘not autonomous, unified or stable, but rather the unfixed, fragmented product of various social and historical forces’, is fundamental to the emergence not only of this poetic genre, but also to the later development ofmodernist aesthetics (Wallace 10).

Ainsi, l’acteur, qui, dans une performance vocale incroyable, doit adopter les divers accents des personnages qu’il campe tour à tour dans un souci de cohérence physique et vocale, doit également, à travers son discours, montrer que la définition du protestantisme n’est pas immuable et figée, et qu’elle peut encore évoluer, qu’il faut la faire évoluer. La stratégie de Welch a, ici encore, une dimension post-coloniale et une vocation didactique. Il a recours à l’intertextualité, à la transgression des frontières littéraires et à la musique, code non-verbal dont le dessein n’est pas d’illustrer la scène mais de la compléter.

Welch renvoie à de nombreux auteurs avant lui, il cite les œuvres d’autres dramaturges irlandais tels que Brian Friel, ou Samuel Beckett. Les thèmes qu’il a choisis renvoient à de nombreux égards à la pièce de l’auteure nord-irlandaise, Marie Jones, A Night in November, mais il se réfère aussi à d’autres œuvres d’auteurs internationaux tels que George Steinbeck. Lorsqu’il s’agit de (re-)-définir les identités, de nombreux chercheurs en études post-coloniales considèrent que l’intertextualité permet d’assurer à d’autres langues d’être exprimées. Dans le cas de Protestants, il ne s’agit pas de langages, mais plutôt de points de vue. Ici, Welch rend hommage à ses prédécesseurs, mais les utilise à des fins modernes et expérimentales qui permettent à sa pièce de s’inscrire dans un mouvement littéraire nouveau à vocation didactique et de faire valoir son œuvre parmi celles d’autres auteurs.

L’auteur s’autorise aussi à transgresser les frontières littéraires, et mélange les genres pour montrer cette absence de figement et d’immanence, et au contraire, la possible mobilité et l’évolution de la définition du protestantisme. Ainsi, sa pièce devient un poème, regorgeant d’allitérations, d’assonances comme à l’occasion de cette réplique du narrateur où les termes thrill (frisson) et fizz (pétillement) sont juxtaposés : « and nothing else matters but the thrill, the fizz, of grinding someone else down » (Welch  29). Il est intéressant de rappeler ici que Robert Welch est également un poète. Il a écrit de nombreux recueils de textes poétiques tels que Muskerry (Dublin: Dedalus, 1991); Secret Societies (Dublin: Dedalus, 1997) ; Blue Formica Table (Dublin: Dedalus, 1999). Welch n’hésite pas non plus à conférer des titres à ses scènes, afin de mettre l’accent sur l’absence de linéarité et d’enchaînement chronologique d’une scène à une autre (un autre des principes brechtiens en rupture totale avec la pièce dite classique), mais aussi dans un but de transgression des frontières littéraires, car ces titres ne sont pas sans faire écho au genre du roman.

Enfin, le dramaturge incorpore chants et musique à son œuvre, comme pour rendre hommage aux origines du théâtre, mais il les utilise dans une perspective nouvelle, à la fois post-coloniale et didactique. En effet, selon Gilbert et Tompkins, « musical signification generates cultural meanings in its own right » (193). Ainsi, pour les chercheurs en études post-coloniales, la musique et les chants peuvent être des outils de résistance au colonialisme :

Song also affects the agency of language, altering the way that it ‘means’, while silence on stage can be a forceful and effective manner in/through which to express a post-colonial discourse of alterity, difference, and autonomy. The careful redeployment of linguistic signifiers – such as tone, rhythm, register, and lexicon – can generate as much political resistance as the rewriting of history or the introduction of politically embedded properties to a stage (Gilbert et Tompkins 168).

Si une étude sur le silence se révèlerait être impertinente dans Protestants du fait de sa rareté dans l’œuvre, l’analyse de la musique à portée post-coloniale s’avère plus riche. A l’étude de la pièce, il ne nous aura point échappé la sensibilité de Welch pour l’art musical, notamment le gospel, le bluegrass, le blues et la musique country. En effet, l’auteur a choisi de ponctuer les interventions de son narrateur par des interludes musicaux, sans leur donner une fonction structurale particulière. Ainsi, si certaines chansons annoncent la scène suivante, ce n’est pas le cas pour d’autres. En revanche, les titres qu’il cite, directement inspirés de la musique afro-américaine pour la plupart, mettent particulièrement en lumière une volonté de se détacher des thèmes musicaux traditionnels d’Irlande du Nord. De la même façon, les instruments de musique qu’il nomme, tel le banjo (47), ne sont point les flûtes et tambours utilisés par les Orangistes protestants d’Ulster pour commémorer la victoire de Guillaume d’Orange sur les Catholiques. Cette stratégie répond donc à la nécessité de se détacher des représentations du protestantisme qui évoqueraient la violence. A travers cette insertion, Welch montre que le protestantisme est capable de transcendance musicale et d’ouverture.

Dans l’œuvre de Welch, la musique est également utilisée à des fins didactiques si l’on adopte un point de vue brechtien. Pour Brecht, la musique, qui n’illustre pas les scènes mais fait partie intégrante de l’action, a une résonance didactique dans la mesure où elle apporte découpage et fragmentation à l’œuvre afin de créer un effet de distanciation pour le spectateur. Brecht explique sa démarche expérimentale dans laquelle la musique occupe une place fondamentale en ces termes :

Another series of experiments that made use of theatrical effects […] led to the ‘Lehrstücke’, for which the nearest English equivalent I can find is the ‘learning-play’. [This includes] the use of music and of the chorus to supplement and vivify the action[s] on the stage […] so as to call for a critical approach, so that [the actions] would not be taken for granted by the spectator and would arouse him to think; it became obvious to him which were right actions and which were wrong ones. The learning play is essentially dynamic; its task is to show the world as it changes (and also as it maybe changed). (Brecht 79).

C’est pour cette raison que l’auteur inclut dès le début de la pièce la chanson de Van Morrison « Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child » parmi d’autres mélodies de musique country, bluegrass et de gospel dont il ne cite pas les titres de manière systématique. Cette chanson, dont le titre rappelle l’importance des origines, thème dominant de Protestants, est interprétée par un musicien nord-irlandais dont les performances sont réputées pour être expérimentales. Ce titre peut jouer le rôle de fil conducteur au sein de la pièce dans la mesure où il évoque la spiritualité (il était un chant spirituel des noirs américains) et où il reprend le thème principal de la pièce sans l’illustrer. Un autre exemple pertinent dans le cadre de notre démonstration : l’inclusion d’une mélodie irlandaise, dont le titre est en gaélique, au beau milieu de l’intervention de Elizabeth 1ère. Welch incorpore  « Ag Scaipendh na gCleiti » de Sean O Riada dans cette scène afin de créer un effet d’étrangeté, d’inattendu, visant à marquer la surprise du spectateur qui devra réagir. La musique est pour Brecht une façon de « faire sortir le spectateur du cours de l’intrigue, de dévoyer son attention. » (Banoun : 349). C’est ainsi que Welch l’utilise.

Le texte de Welch repose donc sur de multiples tensions. Le sujet ouvre la voie à la polémique, et la forme donne lieu au questionnement. Pourtant, le fond et la forme coïncident : ainsi nous trouvons de la cohérence au-delà des tensions et contrastes. L’objectif de l’auteur n’est pas de donner une définition du protestantisme. Selon Jane Coyle dans the Irish Times : « Protestants is not an end in itself. It is a provocative, mischievous spring board to wider discussion and debate, comparison and analysis » (Welch 73). C’est pourquoi, l’impact sur le public est très fort, la participation du public est vivement requise. Si l’expérience du protestantisme se fait de manière solitaire, la redéfinition de l’homme protestant doit se faire à l’aide du public pour Welch; la performance devant le public devient ainsi une technique de redéfinition à la fois du contenu et du théâtre. Ophelia Byrne considère que l’Irlande du Nord est entrée dans une nouvelle ère, post-conflit, annonciatrice de changements : « it is perhaps only now as Northern Ireland is beginning to move away from conflict that plays like this can perhaps be staged here, and that there is the space for them to emerge. » (Welch 69). Il est désormais possible d’inventer de nouvelles normes théâtrales inspirées de divers mouvements et théories pour le XXIème siècle en Irlande du Nord ; c’est pourquoi ces pièces expérimentales qui s’inscrivent au carrefour d’un discours post-colonial et néo-brechtien foisonnent aujourd’hui.

The post Au Carrefour du didactisme brechtien et de la résistance post-coloniale : Protestants (2004) de Robert Welch appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

On my last trip to NYC, I was overwhelmed with Homeland season four’s new advertisement campaign plastered on almost every public bus in the city. The American political thriller has received overwhelming support, with six Emmys and five Golden Globes. President Barack Obama has even claimed it his favourite show on television.[1] Focusing on CIA agents and their fight against terrorism, the show has received widespread criticism over its (mis)representations of Muslims and Islam, all while maintaining a universalized view of Muslim spaces. Laila Al-Arian has called it “TV’s most Islamophobic show.”[2] Despite this criticism, the show’s newest campaign demonstrates no sign of progress in its representations of Muslims and, specifically, Muslim women.

Image Credit: Wikipedia

Producers of the American political thriller revealed that the new season’s plot takes place in Islamabad, Pakistan and Kabul, Afghanistan. Season four’s poster features lead actress Claire Danes (as Carrie Mathison) wearing a red headscarf surrounded by a group of burqa-clad women. Although the poster does not reference a specific location in which the image takes place, by the style of dress of the women in the poster we are to assume that these are Afghan women. In one of the show’s video teasers titled “Target Confirmation”, the same red veil is shown on Carrie as she undergoes a ground mission in Pakistan. As Carrie walks onto the road, the teaser shows a brief close up shot of a Pakistani woman gazing at Carrie. As the teaser goes on, Carrie sees male terrorist suspects and gives the order to destroy them. Upon giving this order she–in slow motion–unwraps the red veil off her head and throws it aside carelessly. The camera then shows a slow motion shot of the red scarf as it makes its way to the ground.[3] The teaser ends with a shot of the CIA led missile explosion and the falling red veil is placed in the center of the frame.

It is important to first acknowledge the varying geographies present in the poster. Considering that the Afghan burqa is traditionally blue in colour and taking into account Carrie’s red veil in Pakistan, the poster blurs distinctions of Muslim spaces by combining varying illustrations of Muslim women’s cultural dress into one image. Homeland’s deep interest and fondness of Muslim women’s attire is consistent all throughout the show’s ad campaign and costume design. It even made it all the way to the episode titles, with season four episode three named after the traditional South Asian dress “Shalwar Kameez” even though the episode’s plot is irrelevant to the attire it references. In its universalized pooling of different cultural and Islamic dress, the show dispenses of any factual articulation of the different meanings behind different forms of covering. Homeland’s point here is not necessarily to depict the specific location of the storyline, rather to visually demonstrate that the show is about Muslims­–and the CIA’s patriotic fight against them.

The poster and the teaser both limit Muslim women’s participation to outer physical appearance. Using images of passive veiled Muslim female bodies to suggest eastern backwardness and western emancipation efforts for eastern freedom is a common trend in popular representations of Muslim women. By removing all forms of active dialogue with the represented Muslim women, Homeland references historic and cultural orientalist stigmas of Muslim women’s ‘passive oppression’ in the face of backward eastern societies. Similar orientalist images have been circulating for decades. For example, circa 1900-1930, European photographers based in North Africa and the Middle East established studios to market and produce commercial postcards displaying images –mostly staged female nudes/veiled/erotic dancers–of the Orient[4]. In his critique of French postcards depicting face-veiled Algerian women, Malek Alloula highlights the colonial de-humanizing implications of these images on the subjects in question. In the case of postcards depicting a group of Moorish women in full veil attire, Alloula argues that the veil is seen by the colonial photographer as a generalized mask; where whenever the photographer captures a veiled woman, “he cannot help but include in his visual field several instances of her […] For it is always a group of veiled women that the photographer affixes upon his plate” [5]. The striking similarities of the aesthetic grouping of face veiled women in both the postcards and Homeland’s poster pose the question: What purpose do these images serve?

Moorish Women Taking a Walk. Postcard from The Colonial Harem, by Malek Alloula. Image Credit: ReOrienting the Veil, University of North Carolina

In the case of the French postcards, images of veiled Algerian women caught the imagination of western audiences by allowing them to look into the ‘exotic’ life of women in the French colonial east; this imagination thereby allowed for the justification of French colonial presence. Taking into account Homeland’s plot in Afghanistan and Pakistan, season 4’s campaign brings forward colonial fantasies of imagined eastern–Afghan and Pakistani–Muslim women through the praxis of U.S foreign policy. As the traveling colonial postcards repetitively reproduced stereotypes from one western home to the other, Homeland’s traveling poster buses and orientalist moving images also work to recycle and fixate the stereotype of far-away Muslim women as non-resistive passive victims stuck in religion-based fanaticism and turmoil.

For the case of contemporary post- 9/11 North American society, Homeland functions alongside larger political frameworks working to ideologically justify U.S imperialism. Anthropologist Lila Abu Lughod suggests that since 2001, defending the rights of Muslim women was offered as a rationale for military intervention in Afghanistan; thus, images and stories of oppressed Muslim women have been widely circulated in North America and Europe (a timing that is not coincidental). For Abu Lughod, stereotyping Muslim women “distracts us from the thornier problem that our own politics and actions in the world help create the (sometimes harsh) conditions in which distant others live”[6]. As seen in Homeland’s campaign, emphasis on region-cultural depiction works to “artificially divide the world into separate spheres–-recreating an imaginative geography of West versus East, us versus Muslims, cultures in which First Ladies give speeches versus others where women shuffle around silently in burqas.”[7] In the case of the show, it is Carrie playing the role of the first lady.

The campaign’s poster draws on the implications of ‘third world’ vs. ‘first world’ difference through its use of colour and juxtaposition. Presented in deep black, the burqa-clad women are all standing facing forward while Claire Danes looks back and gazes resistively straight at the audience in her bright red scarf and peeking blonde hair. By separating Carrie from her imagined Muslim female counterparts, the poster presents a strong contrast that isolates and labels one party as privileged and the other as voiceless, oppressed and in need of outside intervention. Similarly, the teaser also reinforces such distinctions of privilege through the dramatic visual portrayal of Carrie’s act of unveiling. Homeland’s insertion of the non-Muslim character Carrie Mathison in conflated Muslim spaces illustrates a striking colonial framework that subjugates Muslim women’s imaged bodies for the glorification of Carrie’s western efforts of feminist-based resistance.

What does it mean to have a whole teaser illustrating a non-Muslim American woman unveiling in Pakistan? In removing and disposing of the scarf while veiled Muslim women are present in the scene, Carrie attempts to play out an act of agency against a backdrop of women who are presumed to lack freedom and autonomy. Carrie removes the veil as an affirmation of power, for she has just ordered the killing of a group of threatening male terrorists. Her feeling of empowerment in destroying dangerous men plays out in her decision to unveil. In its insinuations of power dynamics, the scene draws a direct relationship between veiling and ideas of weakness. Similar to the colonial gaze of the French’s postcards, Jasmin Zine borrows the term “imperialist feminist gaze” to suggest the recurring colonial motives played out under the banner of feminism[8]. Zine highlights the collision between feminism and Orientalism, where the two allow for the othering of Muslim women through the lens of the feminist gaze[9]. The imperialist feminist structure creates a binary that inherently juxtaposes ‘oppressed’ third world Muslim women against ‘liberated’ women of the west. Placed alongside Carrie’s unveiling, the close up shot of the Pakistani woman early in the scene visually affirms the imperial feminist binary. The teaser is extremely problematic in its depictions and not only undermines but also blatantly questions veiled Muslim women’s agency in every way.

What is most interesting about the show, however, is that it does not at all focus on specific Muslim women issues or their lives. Homeland’s Western women, like Carrie, are given a highly acknowledged individuality.

Photo 1 of Marvel comic still taken from page 4 of 27 from Ms. Marvel 001 digital comic book

In contrast, Eastern Muslim women are simply used to reiterate and support Carrie’s occidental livelihood. The show’s poster campaign and storyline are almost irrelevant to each other in their subject matter. The difference between the two acts as proof of the bleak reality of face-value imperialist feminism for what is really a national propagandist pop cultural creation. For audiences in North America, the ongoing failed depictions of Muslim characters[10] in popular texts only further instigates Islamophobic threats and pushes for the exclusion of North American Muslims from their societies[11].

In order for any form of representational progress–in popular fiction–to occur, we have to reject the idea of imperialist feminism by creating roles that negate existing stereotypes and that actively work to resist and refute them. Marvel comics recently released a new comic series featuring the first-ever lead female American Muslim superhero. The new Ms. Marvel stars a 16-year-old Pakistani-American superhero named Kamala Khan and is on its sixth printing with over 30,000 print copies sold, placing it among the top-selling comics in the market[12]. Created by Sana Amanat, Ms. Marvel provides a positive example in the popular representations of Muslim women. The superhero presents a non-universalized young woman’s negotiations of daily life as a Muslim in America, all while battling super villains. This comic book production not only acts in favour of diversity, but also allows audiences to identify with strong characters with similar relatable experiences and backgrounds.

Image Credit: Photo 2 of Ms. Marvel’s portrait taken from Marvel’s web image gallery and marvel.wikia.com

While positive representations, such as Kamala, demonstrate a hopeful move to Muslim audiences, the imperialist-led struggle does not end there. Indeed, the media dangerously enforces and creates marginalizing stigmas, but the real-life danger inflicted on those marginalized–both external and internal–remains harshly present in the everyday. As mentioned earlier, Homeland’s point to focus on non-American human targets and places re-directs people’s attention away from the local American governing villains–who, as Abu-Lughod reminds us, actively work to inflict violence on distant others for imperial gains. For a true re-scripting of the imperialist colonial structure, I urge us to self-reflect on how each of our everyday lives contributes to or resists this imperialist framework. I call for the pursuit of productive decolonial action by locals in Western communities against their local Western powers. Active participatory resistance takes many forms, and creating a lead Muslim female superhero is certainly one of them.

The post Framing Muslim Women: The Problem with Homeland’s Season 4 Campaign appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Haiti was postcolonial before postcolonial was cool. As the result of the first successful slave revolt in the Americas, Haiti declared its independence in 1804 and formed the first anti-slavery postcolonial nation. Early Haitian literature has, however, often been disregarded—perhaps due to the nation’s early and unique postcolonial status. In this piece, I’d like to offer an example of the powerful commentary on postcolonialism that studying early Haitian literature provides.

The first Haitians worked to form their nation in an environment of extreme hostility. American states, for example, passed laws to prevent slaves from coming from the Caribbean because they feared the spread of revolt. The French tried to re-colonize the nation for decades.[1] When the French finally recognized Haiti in 1825, it was only after the new nation agreed to pay an “indemnity” that plunged Haiti into debt and economic hardship. From 1825 to 1947, Haiti paid France a sum that some have estimated to be over 20 billion dollars in today’s money.[2]

This hostile environment certainly influenced the development of intellectual life in early Haiti. It was difficult for Haitians to gain respect as authors and thinkers among their former colonizers. Much of what they wrote was in defense and praise of their national independence, which understandably was a status that Haitians viewed as indispensible in a highly colonial world dependent on slave labor.

A long history of prejudice, including accusations of imitation and inferiority, has plagued the reception of early Haitian writing. Thankfully, a growing cohort of scholars is turning its attention to this literary treasure-trove.[3] This post is about one short Haitian play that is a vital and understudied part of this corpus.

In 1841, the newspaper Le Cancanier published a short play titled Mr. Granier and his Assistant Study the Question of Abolition in Basse-Terre. The newspaper was published by T. Bouchereau, giving it a political bent opposed to the president at the time, Jean-Pierre Boyer. The latter negotiated France’s recognition of Haiti, which means that he was also responsible for an agreement that initiated Haiti’s massive debt. Mr. Granier and his Assistant offers a humorous take on the ability of any (formerly) enslaved person to engage in debate with the pro-slavery colonialists, which can be read as a criticism of Boyer, but also a broader statement asserting the futility of any intellectual or political engagement with the French at all.

Jean-Jacques Dessalines declared Haitian independence on January 1, 1804 after defeating Napoleon’s army at the Battle of Vertières in November of 1803. Napoleon’s troops were also sent to Guadeloupe, where the formerly enslaved (slavery had been abolished in all French colonies in 1794) also battled against re-enslavement. The resistance forces in Guadeloupe were, unfortunately, defeated. Guadeloupe stood in contrast to Haiti: the island remained (and remains) under French control, which failed to abolish slavery there until 1848.

Mr. Granier and his Assistant takes place in Basse-Terre, capital of an island that serves as Haiti’s opposite, a place where French control and slavery still exist. Mr. Granier is a Frenchman who travels there with his assistant, Capo, a silent character who does nothing but “take notes” related to his colleague’s observations. Granier’s goal is, supposedly, to study the possibility of emancipation. He meets with a young enslaved boy named Yanko. The entire play recounts their rather one-sided conversation.

The conversation begins by showing Granier’s obtuse ignorance of his own prejudice. He states that he has “no prejudice of caste” and that this is why he will allow Yanko to stand and fan him with a palm leaf while they talk. He asks Yanko, “Are you happy?” Yanko responds, “Well, no, good white sir.” Granier is annoyed to hear this response and complains, “Oh, this race is never happy.” Yanko meekly contends that it is because he is beaten. He suggests that slaves might work more if they were beaten less. Granier, shocked, accuses Yanko of having “insurrectional ideas.” He uses the names of Haitian revolutionary leaders as insults. Yanko’s responses could not be more deferent. He states that he wouldn’t dare dream of freedom as if it were a real possibility and would only bow down at the feet of the person who broke his chains. Nonetheless, every response that Yanko offers further confirms Granier’s belief that slavery is necessary. The play ends with Granier telling Capo to write: “After scrupulous study and the most conscientious investigations, we are convinced that slavery is the natural state of the black beast…” Granier’s last words are: “Anti-abolitionism pays!”

The complete futility of Yanko’s conversation with the Frenchman was feasibly hilarious to Haitian readers. It highlights the “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” situation in which France’s slaves found themselves. No matter how pleasant or deferent they were, the (formerly) enslaved’s experiences were never heard and only used to further confirm the opinion of the colonizer. Mr. Granier and his Assistant honors Haiti’s postcolonial status by demonstrating the impossibility of escape for those still enslaved in Guadeloupe. In a less overt way than many other early Haitian texts, this play argues for the vital role that national independence played in Haitians’ ability to find respect for their own intellectual ideas and experiences as humans.

This play offers a perspective on postcolonialism that was perhaps unique to the nineteenth century and Haiti in particular: don’t bother trying to articulate the “post” part of postcolonial to the colonizer. Haitians were speaking a language incomprehensible to those in power; neither waging a war of independence nor acquiescing to colonial hierarchies could result in respect for their humanity. Postcolonialism, this play suggests, would have to be forged through national independence and, perhaps most effectively, a kind of national independence not recognized by the former colonizer.

Note: Dr. Curtis has translated Mr. Granier and his Assistant from the French into English. The play will be read at Wellesley College’s Newhouse Center for the Humanities on December 8, 2014.

 

The post Early Postcolonialism in Haiti: On Being between a Rock and a Hard Place appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

It was my first exposure to a nationalist rhetoric, the business of nation-building, even if the nation in question was still a part of a larger country. I was, as an Anglophone, not a part of the narrative, not really. And even as a young kid, I recognized some of the holes in the story; I still have a clear picture in my head of a drawing of a demure-looking peasant girl, one of the “filles du rois” who were brought over to New France to marry the men who were here. We had been taught about how hard life was in New France, and what orphan girl from France would not relish the chance to come here, marry a man she had never met, in a new land?

And what of the Natives? We dutifully made our model longhouses, learned where the various tribes lived, but never spoke of the taking of Native lands, only of the English taking of French lands once the Seven Year War was over. We learned about Louis Riel only because he stood up to the English and spoke French and the fight was framed around linguistic rights. Nowhere were the stories of Residential schools, or of the Catholic missionaries and other representatives often violently repressing Native religion and spirituality.

All that changed in 1990, with what is known as The Oka Crisis. Issues of race and class and language came to head during the crisis. Building a golf course and condos on sacred burial ground. Blockades that prevented suburbanites from going to their jobs in the city. White people throwing stones at women, children, and the elderly. Hearing my parents and grandparents grumble about how much the Natives “already were getting out of our hard-earned taxes.” I was about to be a teenager, and I couldn’t understand why anyone would be so callous as to build a golf course over (what I understood to be) a cemetery.

The 1990s were a time of great tensions between the Francophone and the Anglophone and Allophone communities. Laws changed, and there were battles over store signs, lawsuits over someone in a store saying “Hi” instead of “Bonjour” when addressing a patron in a store… Our high school had a French side and an English side, and there would be brawls monthly after school. A separatist government was elected into power at the provincial level and as the Official Opposition at the federal level. Friends and I were often greeted with graffiti or taunts of “Anglos Go Home” when walking around downtown Montreal. When the 1995 Referendum came, it was my first opportunity to vote in my life: I voted against separation.

The Premier of Quebec blamed “money and the ethnic vote” after the loss. By money, he really meant the Anglophones. It was under that atmosphere that I decided that I was going to attend a Francophone university… to study English. My Anglo friends warned me that I would face hostility there, that I would be miserable, and that I was wasting my time going to a French university when there were perfectly good English universities I could attend instead. Friends who thought themselves so much more worldly than I because they had traveled overseas, but would never think to visit anywhere in Quebec other than Montreal.

College is often an utopic time for a youth, where you come into your own as a person. It was no different for me. Despite the warnings of my friends and family, I loved my five years in Sherbrooke. I studied Canadian and Québécois literature in a truly bilingual setting, made friends with people from across the province, and in fact from French-speaking communities from all over Canada, and learned a great deal about Quebec, its culture, and its people. My people. Nationalism became at once more problematized, but also more sympathetic to me than it ever had before.  I learned more about La grande noirceur, where the political class and the Church worked together to keep Quebec in “a Dark Age”, and about the Quiet Revolution that followed in the 1960s. I read radical Québécois literature alongside nationalist English-Canadian works, in an environment that challenged my thinking on a host of issues around race, class, and language.

Of course, all good things must come to an end, and starting a PhD on the other side of the country is a good way to realize that your bilingual bubble of goodwill isn’t shared. Resentment out West for the special treatment Quebec was seen to be getting. Resentment by the French populations of Western Canada for the erasure of their presence and identity. Realizing that most people didn’t care about Canadian literature. Going to a postcolonial conference and being dismissed because, as an eminent scholar put it to me, “I don’t read theory in French.” Seeing the colonial mentalities everywhere, but still especially in myself.

Move to the United States. I grew up in a racially homogeneous area, in a country with a different history of racial strife. But in the States, I realized how fraught my ignorance of the history and significance of race in particular really was. Teach at a Hispanic-Serving Institution. Teach at an HBCU. Teach at a regional state university in one of the poorest rural regions in the country. Watch, listen, measure my reactions. Get on Twitter and diversify my timeline in a way that stretches my thinking on race, class, gender, and intersectionality.

I tell this story because it has been less than five years since I’ve taken the time to think about being a body within a colonial and colonialist setting, even still today. How my students are also navigating through the messages they are getting about their place, their position, their due, and their view. I am an educator, getting an education, undoing another education, making another.

The post A Colonial Miseducation: Language & Unmaking Canadian Identity appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

The past decade has seen a wave of socio-political and economic changes across the globe. We are witnessing geopolitical conflict on a local as well as international scale, intensified by rising wealth disparities, mass migrations, crippling austerity measures, repression of dissent, and increasingly controlled borders. These events make evident the centrality of class to any discussion on the sweeping changes taking place in the global political landscape. Class, however, does not operate in isolation from other social structures, a fact that underscores the need for interdisciplinary research and intersectional discourse.

The year 2014 marks twenty-five years since Kimberlé Crenshaw coined the term “intersectionality” to describe how terms such as “class” or “race” may not be analyzed in isolation, but must be combined in order to understand the complexity of a particular praxis: “Because the intersectional experience is greater than the sum of racism and sexism, any analysis that does not take intersectionality into account cannot sufficiently address the particular manner in which Black women are subordinated.” While Crenshaw may have been speaking particularly of the lived experience of Black women and ‘mainstream’ feminism in the United States, the intersectional approach proposed by Crenshaw has been adopted by many disciplines and groups in order to analyze the junctures at which complex identities are contested and staged.

Twenty-five years on, we believe it is important to pay tribute to the ways in which intersectionality has become part of a range of disciplines, as well as to ask how it can be examined, critiqued, and pushed further. Therefore, in its Fall 2014 request for papers, “Intersectionality, Class and (De)Colonial Praxis,” The Postcolonialist would like to invite papers across disciplines, topics, and areas of study that delve into the state of intersectionality today, and the new ways and means in which it is being deployed and interrogated as an analytical tool and a theoretical framework.

For Peer Review: We welcome innovative pieces in English, Spanish, Portuguese, and French between 5,000-7,500 words in length for the standard peer review process. Submissions in Italian will be considered on an individual basis. Academic Dispatch pieces may be between 1,500 and 3,500 words (“conference-length” papers). Full length articles should have an abstract and key words, and be anonymized for peer review. While we have no standard citation format, we ask that each paper adhere to the accepted citation model in the relevant field.

Editorial or Artistic pieces relating to the Fall 2014 theme are also welcome.

Inquiries and Submissions may be sent to: Editorinchief@postcolonialist.com by September 19, 2014.

The post Call for Papers: “Intersectionality, Class, and (De)Colonial Praxis” (Fall 2014) appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

In an era of instantaneous communication and mass movements of people, the location and claiming of “home”—as a political and spatial idea, as well as an affective one—is an increasingly abstract and intimate endeavor. While in many ways we imagine ourselves and our communities as Benedict Anderson once proposed, we are also bound to tangible, physical places that bear witness to or shape such imaginings.  “Home” is often a negotiation of the imagined and the tangible, of the ideal and the pragmatic.

The complexities that underlie the concept of “home” form the foundation of this, the second issue of the The Postcolonialist. Many of the pieces in this volume engage the praxis of creating “home,” such as Celeste Liddle’s meditation on aboriginal feminist claimings in Intersectionality and Indigenous Feminism: An Aboriginal Woman’s Perspective, and Roland Alvarez’ discourses of LGBT spaces in Perú. Yet just as the world is seemingly most interconnected and in the process of vastly broadening the possibilities of “home,” we are also at our most atomized: As Indrani Mukherjee notes in Cartographies of Mass City-zenry, the rhythm of urbanity has at times displaced notions of national belonging, while Joy Hayward-Jansen’s Ibn Fadlan: Crossing Over and the Nature of the Boundary explores how movement, translation, and acculturation may be  vitally constitutive of the self and of one’s vision of the world. The ruptures and avenues of movement are particularly salient in today’s context, as mass economic migration and refugee crises provoke a fluid vision of identity and (be)longing. With each (re)encounter we recast and redeploy established understandings of culture and society, as Annie Gibson analyzes in Rediscovering lo cubano through Capeira in Cuba.

Displacements, marginalizations, and exclusions have long produced a sense of placelessness and estrangement, even within one’s own landscape and national borders. These ideas are unpacked by pieces such as Saddik Gohar’s Mapping the Jew in Arab Literature, which explores the construction of the Jewish subject in contemporary Arab fiction, while Yue Yue investigates Tibetan literature and the complex place of Tibetan culture within China in Le sentiment des colons chonois au Tibet dans la littérature chinoise du Tibet, both of which problematize and vindicate the creation of narratives. Indeed, our conceptions of “home” are intrinsically tied to both how we see who and what we are, and how we stake a claim to our physical spaces. The value and mythology we attach to physical space is approached in Rael Jero Salley and Jared Thorne’s Vistas, a visual exploration of landscape and belonging in South Africa, as well as in Silvia Spitta’s Ivy League Foundational Narratives and Academic Disciplinary Hierarchies, which challenges the spaces and groundings behind both institutions and disciplinary anchorings.

Throughout this issue, our authors seek to engage and place in conversation ways of seeing and claiming space across contested localities and national imaginaries, challenging along the way the means by which we make, unmake, and re-imagine a (de)colonial “home.”

The post Letter from the Editor: Locating “Sites of Home” appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

[H]e was considered the foremost of authorities on the Mexicans of Texas.  Hank Harvey had been born in New York City some sixty years before.  He had gone to grade school there and then worked in a delicatessen to make some money so he could come down to his dreamland, Texas….  After he had come to Texas with only a few years schooling, he resolved to become an authority on Texas history and folklore.  In a few years he had read every book there was on the early history of Texas, it was said, and his fellow Texans accepted him as the Historical Oracle of the State.  There was a slight hitch, it is true.  Most early history books were written in Spanish, and K. Hank didn’t know the language.  However, nobody mentioned this, and it didn’t detract from Harvey’s glory.

—Américo Paredes, George Washington Gómez:  A Mexicotexan Novel

What, then, does the de-colonisation of culture actually mean:  the recuperation of an essential culture that existed before the historical moment of colonisation, or the idea of admitting different histories to a complex and syncretic present composed of cross-cultural transfigurations?

—Iain Chambers, Migrancy, Culture, Identity

******

“We Americans,” Walt Whitman wrote in 1883, “have yet to really learn our own antecedents . . . Thus far, impress’d by New England writers and schoolmasters, we tacitly abandon ourselves to the notion that our United States have been fashion’d from the British Islands only . . . which is a very great mistake.”[1]  Whitman’s critique of the skewed understanding of the U.S. and of U.S. history viewed from the limited vantage point of the Northeastern seaboard remained pertinent well over a hundred years later. David J. Weber writing a history of the Spanish frontier of North America in the nineties found himself once again having to confront this seemingly intractable ideological stance. As he writes, “Although the United States has always been a multiethnic society most general histories of the nation have suggested that its colonial origins resided entirely in the thirteen English colonies.”[2] Little has changed in the intervening years. In fact, at no other time has the US turned its back on Latin America so long and so blatantly as today.

As a Latin American living in New England and teaching at Dartmouth College, it has been difficult if not impossible not to notice (and ponder) the intersection between colonial past and imperialist present that is so apparent here, and to which Whitman’s critique alludes. The “new” in New England of course refers us back to a colonial history still visible today in the quaint British-style towns with their “village green” and churches mapped onto indigenous cultures. The enormous pines that were cut down in the eighteenth century to make masts for the British Royal Navy have been replaced by forests of smaller, second or third generation growth trees, reminding the newcomer that the “new” also refers to a new understanding of nature.  The gloomy forests of long ago have given way to a “managed,” instrumentalized landscape.  The indigenous presence, erased from the landscape and re-situated on the margins of this society, has been displaced onto the symbols of the “college on the hill” where I teach:  as the kneeling Native American receiving “the Book” from a man of learning who occupies a central position (still central today, alas), and as the much-disputed “Indians” sign of the football team still adamantly worn by some students who mistake insult for resistance to change—or perhaps, even worse, intend it.

The College’s biblical VOX CLAMANTIS IN DESERTO voices Dartmouth’s initial mission.  By turning existing indigenous cultures into a wilderness, it reproduces Columbus’s gesture three hundred years earlier, of claiming populated islands in the Caribbean for the Spanish Crown by planting a flag on their shores and whispering empire-building words into the wind. In the logo VOX CLAMANTIS IN DESERTO, colonial past and imperial present intersect:  the British colonial subject, the subject created and interpellated by an empire, is in turn already intent on colonizing and/or Christianizing other subjects. Indeed, in the race between France and England for North America, evangelization (Catholic vs. Protestant) plays a crucial role.  As one of the historians of the College writes:  “The country able to win the allegiance of the Indians might ultimately gain the huge prize of North America.”[3]  Understanding this, Eleazar Wheelock’s lifelong goal had been that of founding a college where American Indians could be Christianized and hence also acculturated.  His goal however was not devoid of imperialist ambivalence:  Dartmouth College, previously known as Moor’s Indian Charity School, ended up being a missionary college where the future evangelizers of Native Americans were trained.  As one account of Dartmouth’s founding has it, “The Indian charity school, which he instituted in 1755, proved reasonably successful; quite a good many Indian boys came to it, and quite a good many English youths, also on charity, came there to prepare for college. Wheelock saw that if these English youths could be induced to become missionaries to the Indians, they might be of even greater worth than the Indians themselves.”[4] That is, Dartmouth fast became a college of paying white students and not a college for Native Americans.  In fact, shortly after its founding in 1771 as the “ninth of America’s Colonial institutions of higher learning and the last to receive its charter from the Crown of England,” the Trustees in Scotland and England were “adamant in their criticism that funds intended for the schooling of Indians were being spent for whites.”[5]  In a gesture which repeated Columbus’s infantilization of the natives of the New World—and which prevails to this day in representations of the colonial and/or so-called “Third-World” subject—Wheelock justified the derailment of funds destined to Native Americans by attributing his failure to the Native American worse-than-childlike “sloth” and total unconcern with the future. Despite his growing conviction about the futility of Christianizing and educating Native Americans and because he needed to gain economic support, Wheelock’s son was teaching twenty one Native Americans in Hanover by 1774.[6]  Indeed, because of father and son’s diplomatic and educational efforts among indigenous communities, Dartmouth was the only college that did not close during the Revolution irrespective of whether the tribes in the vicinity fought for or against the British and today prides itself on its annual Pow-wow and Native American Studies Program.

The story of Dartmouth’s founding poignantly illustrates three things: the intersection of and tension between the colonial and the imperial has to be read not only within the “new” of New England but also as the underlying ideological framework that shaped the establishment of the disciplines at Dartmouth.  Unlike the history of any Latin American country which saw a pre-Columbian, colonial, and independence period and which is now struggling to surmount that legacy while at the same time facing multinational neocolonialism, the U.S.—in little over a hundred years— effected the transition from colony to empire in its own right.  Partly because this transition came about so fast and partly because the “logic” of empire has dominated the present, the colonial legacy of this country, which includes the reach of Spain into most of what is today the U.S. is invariably by-passed with the one exception being to tell the foundational story of the thirteen colonies of the eastern seaboard. Wheelock’s dealings show the imbrication of education with politics or perhaps, better put, the fact that epistemologies are also always ideological—something we all know yet knowingly forget when we talk about the “Ivory Tower” or when we tell one another that academia is not the “real” world or—more seriously—when in our critical praxis, we overlook the fact that disciplines arise during different historical junctures and out of different political needs (i.e., Area Studies). Finally, the story of Dartmouth’s founding shows that the Caribbean and its complicated multi-imperial (Spanish, British, French, Dutch) colonial history were “present” in New England from the start. We must also not forget that Wheelock, also a key player in Dartmouth’s founding, was a Yale graduate and that Yale too owed its existence to the fabulous fortune its founder had made as a clerk in the East India Company and as governor of Madras.[7]  As with the official or popular history of the U.S. which erases the Spanish/Mexican colonial past of this nation, even in an Ivy League institution which would imagine itself as a near to perfect British copy, much like the relegation of the colonial and Antillean source of England’s wealth in Jane Eyre to the “attic,” the Wheelock household too, as recalled by a student, was notorious for its detestable “cookery.” Bad food stood in stark contrast to the fine “furnishings of the house, the linen sheets and pillow cases trimmed with lace . . . brought to Hanover by Wheelock’s wife, the daughter of a former governor of the island of St. Thomas.”[8]

Likewise, the “new” in New Mexico or in New Spain (Mexico) reproduces the colonial action of making the unknown known and the foreign familiar by mapping a past and a space left behind onto a here and now.  Spanish names such as California, Montana, La Florida, Los Angeles serve as an index of that previous Spanish and Mexican colonial presence just as the “new” in New England points to a former British colonial presence.  However, given the preponderance of a historiography and a dominant culture shaped from the bird’s eye view of the thirteen English colonies, the Hispanic and Native American subtext of the U.S. is deleted from that history despite the fact that ¾ of what is today the U.S. was once first a part of the Spanish Empire and then independent Mexico.  That historiographic and historical marginalization continues today in the form of racial and cultural discrimination.  Someone born with a Hispanic or Native American surname is denied full citizenship rights in the United States regardless of how many generations their family has been here and whether or not their family had been “here” before the U.S. acquired its present boundaries in 1848 and 1898—crucial years which saw the birth of the greatest empire of modernity.  The uneasy overlapping of two spaces and two times in the United States is perhaps best illustrated by the state of New Mexico’s 1990 decision to address the confusion between Mexico and New Mexico by issuing license plates that clarify:  New Mexico, USA.

As a Latin American academic situated between Spanish and Portuguese, Comparative Literature, Women’s and Gender Studies, and Latin American and Caribbean Studies, I was drawn, of course, to Fernando Ortiz and Angel Rama’s theorizations of transculturation as a way of countering top down models of acculturation or assimilation. And I find it more relevant to focus on the Americas hemispherically than I do to think of them in terms of discrete nations or to view the history of “Our America” in Martí’s famous formulation, in terms of this country’s English colonial history. However, I am constantly confronted with new generations of students that arrive at Dartmouth completely unaware of this country’s US Hispanic colonial legacy. While this lack of knowledge might be excusable in other parts of the country and among less educated classes, this is often the case with students hailing from the US Southwest—many of whom are Hispanic yet have never been taught that history. Increasingly too, as the country shifts ever more to the right and efforts intensify to literally whitewash its history, we are witnessing attempts to ban ethnic studies from universities in the Southwest—not to mention the “editing” of textbooks in Texas currently underway eliding the Spanish colonial period of US history. It might not be entirely hyperbolic, then, to assert that this country’s idea of the national has come to depend on the suppression of that Native American and Hispanic indigenous subtext giving the impression that “the English and Americans expanded west and south onto vacant lands, except for those held by a few wild aborigines.”[9] Largely because of these efforts, the fact that the greater part of the territory that is today the U.S. was once first a Spanish colony and then Mexico continues to be overlooked in the American popular imagination despite all the debates regarding multiculturalism, postcolonialism, and transculturation we are having across US academia.  Hence North Americans continue to celebrate “Columbus Day” as the day of “discovery” whereas Latin Americans celebrate October 12th as El Día de la Raza, that is, as the celebration of the birth of mestizaje or a new race and culture as a consequence of the conquest.

The kind of historiographical sleight of hand that creates a wilderness where there are many different cultures and peoples in fact is made possible when a whole Spanish and Mexican colonial legacy is erased turning all Hispanics into “wetbacks” just as the term “American” which until 1776 had referred to the indigenous population of the whole continent (e.g., Joseph François Lafitau’s Moeurs des savages américaines (1724) or Corneille de Pauw’s Recherches philosophiques sur les Américains 1768) came to designate “exclusively those who have “inherited” the right to the land:  the European colonists who, by shedding their blood on American soil and wrenching it from the hands of the British, believe to have established themselves as its rightful owners.”[10] Thus, all other Americans have had to adopt a minority status as evidenced by the special designations “Native” American or “Latin” American that also go hand in hand with stereotypical characterizations which arose as early as 1492. Since then, indigenous peoples have been seen either as friendly (read gullible and servile) natives or as savages/cannibals (read guerrillas today).[11]  That is, they are read as “others” whose difference is invariably weighed in negative terms and measured in terms of distance in space and time thus denying them contemporaneity or co-evalness. U.S. academia does little to contest this erasure in part because the disciplines in the U.S. have emerged in a colonial/imperial context. As Fabian points out, given that the temporal discourse of anthropology and of related disciplines “was formed decisively under the paradigm of evolutionism [and] rested on a conception of Time that was not only secularized and naturalized but also thoroughly spatialized…. ever since, anthropology’s efforts to construct relations with its Other by means of temporal devices implied affirmation of difference as distance.”[12]  Reflecting on this praxis Vine Deloria will write:  “To be an Indian in modern American society is in a very real sense to be unreal and ahistorical.”[13]  Today, even the term “Our America” coined by José Martí, the Cuban thinker who was so instrumental in criticizing increasing U.S. imperialism in Latin America already at the end of the nineteenth century and recuperated today by Mexican-American critics has been appropriated by the U.S. academy to designate the US exclusively.[14]

Along with this subalternization of Latin America and the Spanish and Mexican colonial era of the U.S. comes a hierarchization in academia, which mirrors the political, economic, and racial division of the world and which belies our belief in our academic independence.  In fact, the nineteenth century, as the modern/colonial period, is the moment in which European languages (English, French, and German) constitute themselves as the languages of modernity; Amsterdam replaces Seville; the “center” of Europe shifts away from the Iberian peninsula and Castilian and Portuguese; the languages of waning empires are relegated to a marginal position and came to be thought of as not well suited for “scientific and philosophical discourses.”[15]  It is no accident then, that the current debate in “postcolonial studies” is dominated by the English language:  the Indian subcontinent and Africa are “central” while there is hardly any mention of either Latin American colonial theories or the Spanish and Mexican colonial legacy of this country.  Superficially, the focus on British colonialism in India and Africa would seem to be attributable to the sheer intellectual prominence of thinkers like Gayatri Spivak, Homi Bhabha, Edward Said, and others. But the main reason is obviously the preponderance of English as a theoretical lingua franca. Thus  critics like many of us who fall into the new category of the “migrant” intellectual and who bring into the “center” problems of the periphery from which we stem as well an in-depth knowledge of two or more cultures, two or more languages, and hence an intrinsically transcultural critical practice do not always succeed in being heard.  That ex-centric knowledge has to be translated into English and Latin American intellectuals have until recently resisted the English-only bias of US academia. Given that publishers tend to translate more from the French, it should come as no surprise that the most important French intellectuals who are transcultural as well such as  Héléne Cixous, Jacques Derrida, Julia Kristeva, Tzvetan Todorov, et al. all have been translated into English whereas prominent Latin American intellectuals have not until quite recently and only, seemingly, once the debate around colonialism and neocolonialism had waned.

In fact, there are prominent Latin American intellectuals both in the U.S. and in Latin America who have been intent on thinking about colonialism, imperialism and neocolonialism and who have applied these critiques to the US academy, yet they have not even managed to be incorporated into what we now know as “postcolonial studies.”  I am thinking of intellectuals such as Josefina Ludmer, José Martí, Roberto Fernández Retamar, Angel Rama, Nelly Richard, Edmundo Desnoes, Eduardo Galeano, Beatriz Sarlo, Rigoberta Menchú, Antonio Cornejo Polar, Edmundo O’Gorman, Leopoldo Zea, Paulo Freire­, Edmundo Dussel—to mention but a few—who have theorized Latin America’s troubled relation to the Colossus of the North, refusing to think in terms of “post” colonialism, and who have instead highlighted the processes of globalization and transnationalization as yet another guise colonialism has taken. Mabel Moraña, Enrique Dussel, and Carlos Jáuregui’s collection of essays including and reflecting on the contributions of these thinkers has achieved quite a lot in this respect but it seems that this volume has come too late in some ways, since the raging debate around questions of coloniality has largely been superseded by current debates on globalization and transnationalism.[16] The refusal of Spanish as a national and academic lingua franca is also to blame since the dominance of English will necessarily skew the discussion towards the English and American empires.

Indeed, Spanish—and by extension anything Hispanic such as Latino Studies—is relegated to a second-class position geopolitically as well as academically.  Thus, to advocate for multiculturalism and/or interdisciplinarity without also pushing for multilingualism is merely a superficial gesture and we end up in the ridiculous position of advocating a monolingual multiculturalism.  It is indeed ironic that the “English Only” movement arose precisely around the same time as the inception of NAFTA which we would have assumed, would have led to a much greater investment in language acquisition, particularly Spanish across the US. While that has indeed happened, and increasingly students enter college with 3-4 years of high school Spanish, that has been achieved thanks to students’ living in ever more bilingual contexts and despite the government’s disinvestment in schools across the nation and despite the fact that Spanish is still being called a “foreign” language. Indeed, as Mary Louise Pratt observed long ago, in the United States, to call Spanish, French, Cantonese, Italian, Japanese, Lakota, Navajo, Cree foreign languages is a misnomer (these are not “foreign” languages).[17]  Spanish, which has had a long and rich literary production before English became dominant in the U.S. is ideologically being made to become more foreign than ever by and in the publishing and film industries given the current practice of assuming an Anglophone audience.

In her introductory essay to the path breaking volume Cultures of United States Imperialism Amy Kaplan suggests there is a “denial of history” in the U.S., which cuts across English, American studies and history departments.  The pattern reproduced ad absurdum is the following:  “the absence of culture from the history of U.S. imperialism; the absence of empire from the study of American culture; and the absence of the United States from the postcolonial study of imperialism.”[18]  These “absences,” in fact, make it conceivable to talk about the U.S. as a world power and at the same time dismiss the notion that it is also an empire.  Yet in this edition too—which is crucial, even radical—from within the context of American Studies and English departments, Kaplan starts with Perry Miller’s conception of American studies on the banks of the Congo in an attempt to reinscribe and recuperate what Toni Morrison has called “an africanist presence” as subtext to the U.S. imaginary.[19]  While Kaplan’s attempt to reinscribe Africa at the heart of America is timely and welcome—especially in relation to the vindication of African-Americans—in so far as it avoids coming to terms with the Hispanic and Native American present and past of this country as well as the African, it again only reinforces what I have been arguing.  In fact, while trying to undermine the insularity of American studies which mirrors the insularity of a historiography based on/in New England, Cultures of United States Imperialism unwittingly reproduces the academic and linguistic hierarchy that literally makes impossible any kind of dialogue between American studies and Latin American studies.  Significantly only 5 essays out of 26 partially relate to Latin America. Yet an even lesser ratio prevails in most publications in this country since then whether academic or popular.  And while there were over three hundred movie theaters in the US showing Spanish language films, particularly Mexican films of the Golden Age in the 30s and 40s we would be hard put to find one anywhere in the US today.

While we pride ourselves, then, in the (apparent) breakdown of the insularity of the disciplines in the last twenty years—an era characterized by the development of multicultural and cross-disciplinary curricula—and hence once again potentially open to Bolton’s seminal idea of a “Greater America” we nevertheless have not managed to transcend the parochial historical vision criticized by Whitman. Whereas a Chicano performance artist like Guillermo Gómez Peña will argue that every encounter between two people taking place here today constitutes a “border experience,” the lack of a connection between the Spanish/Mexican colonial past of this country and its present Latinization is accompanied by the increasing rigidity of conceptions of the border as well as the literal transformation of a once fluid border into a new iteration of the Berlin Wall. Despite the fact, then, that “the signifier Latin American itself now refers also to significant social forces within the United States” [20] and that people do not tire of pointing out that New York is the largest Puerto Rican and Dominican metropolis and Los Angeles the second-largest Mexican metropolis (not to mention Chicago and other cities increasingly becoming Latin American centers in the heartland of the US), indeed, given the increasing Latinization of the US one would expect that it would no longer be possible to erase the Spanish/Mexican colonial legacy of this country —not to speak of the presence of Latinos. But that is unfortunately not so given the power of the media, the English only approach of the publishing industry, as well as the academic reproduction of archaic epistemological and disciplinary hierarchies. Symptomatic of these times, a senior administrator at Dartmouth College recently justified gross inequality in pay scales among male and female full professors at the College in the following manner: “Determining salaries varies by individual, … so the range of salaries among full professors is relatively large. …For example, computer science and economics will typically pay more than Spanish literature.” While he is stating the obvious, that he chose Spanish (and not French or German or even English) as his example for pay disparities across the disciplines is telling.

As is implicit in the theory of transculturation, we have to recuperate the past in all its fullness and radical heterogeneity in order to create the conditions for the possibility of finally establishing a true transcultural politics and epistemology. For, even if submerged and/or banished to the margins, our intellectual praxis should entail a mere shifting of accents, for colonization in effect only means “that dominant views of languages, of recording the past, and of charting territories become synonymous with the real by obstructing possible alternatives.”[22] Transcultural critics have therefore opted to study continuums such as Plantation America, the Black Atlantic, the Pacific Rim, and the indigenous continuum across the Americas as is perhaps best evidenced by Leslie Marmon Silko’s Almanac of the Dead in which the Native American interfaces with the Latino on both sides of the border. This new hemispheric, transcultural and transborder understanding is of course undermined by the powers of globalization to continue all that 1492 has signified historically, culturally, and economically—only by other means. Indeed, as Masao Miyoshi argued in the nineties at the height of the debate around postcolonialism, our preoccupation with questions of post-colonialism and multiculturalism, look “suspiciously like another alibi to conceal the actuality of global politics [given that] colonialism is even more active now in the form of transnational corporations.”[23] He forgot to mention the actuality of global politics in US academia’s reproducing ad nauseam the epistemological biases that arose when the US transitioned from colony to empire and which lies at the heart of the disciplines here, now, still.

The post Ivy League Foundational Narratives and Academic Disciplinary Hierarchies appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

The place that I occupied in the world made itself apparent very early. The first time I experienced direct racism was in my first year of primary school when a fellow pupil called me a “black bum”[1] and I got in trouble for pushing her. Many incidents followed that point, throughout the schooling years. Some were blatant, but others were more subtle, such as a teacher informing my mother that I must have been “drawing attention” to myself when I’d complained about being bullied. I simultaneously encountered gendered comments that would make me feel uncomfortable. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to be as strong and boisterous as the boys. I was supposed to like playing with Barbies and My Little Ponies, and enjoying the ballet classes I was enrolled in despite my other inclinations. In short, I felt continually limited and ridiculed by virtue of my race and sex and therefore considered the oppressions interconnected and to be contested together.

That’s how I continue to see it now. My responses to issues of gender are very much informed by my experience of race, and vice versa. My experience of structural forms of oppression was heightened due to these intersecting forms of oppression, and are particularly acute due to being of a working class background. Therefore, when it comes to Aboriginal feminism, I very much see our questions and tactics occupying the more “radical” end of the feminist spectrum. By radical, I am referring to streams such as socialist/marxist feminism, anarcha-feminism and radical feminism. I feel personally that the issue of race keeps me focussed on community rather than individual advancement, and therefore my feminism reflects this. Additionally, I seek self-determination as both an Aboriginal person and a woman, and therefore need to challenge the structures that negate this freedom. To borrow a quote from the Combahee River Collective Statement: “If Black women were free, it would mean that everyone else would have to be free since our freedom would necessitate the destruction of all the systems of oppression”. In an Australian context this carries a slightly different resonance due to the experiences of colonisation, but to decolonise from both a race and gender perspective is imperative.

I strongly believe that as Aboriginal women, whilst our fights are related to ongoing feminist struggles within other racially marginalised groups, they are not the same. By virtue of the fact that we are first peoples who have suffered under the process of colonisation within our own homelands, our struggles can be quite unique. Recently, for example, I was engaged in a markedly frustrating discussion on the concept of “fair skin privilege” as someone of a migrant background took issue to how I was utilising the term “black”. Fair skin privilege of course exists to an extent in an Aboriginal context, however the “Stolen Generations”[2], for example, highlight how limited this privilege has historically been. Additionally, migrant populations, whilst suffering marginalisation in Australia, also benefit from the displacement of Aboriginal people. Therefore there is a need to tell our own stories, and expand our own theories rather than simply drawing upon the experiences of others.

When I am highlighting why I feel a specific Aboriginal feminism is necessary, I tend to point to three formative elements that structure this need: the white patriarchy, the black patriarchy and “mainstream” feminism. As a point of oppression, the white patriarchy is self explanatory given its continuing historical legacy and political privilege. Aboriginal women feeling excluded by mainstream feminism is a topic that has been covered many times, most recently in an article by Kelly Briggs, which poignantly proposed that arguments regarding the lack of racial diversity in parliament are sorely lacking from mainstream feminism. Yet how the patriarchy operates within the Aboriginal community is not something that is discussed as often. It does have impact, even if the politics of race bind us. I am seeking to define how these elements play out in our communities more and more, because through better understandings we can build better and more inclusive movements that don’t leave the most vulnerable behind.

Many Aboriginal feminists have been rightly critical of mainstream feminisms in the past, due to lack of collaboration that centralized the individual over the communal, or the imposition of privileged viewpoints as if these were a universal experience for women. In addition, an “Orientalist” understanding that misread Aboriginal culture has sometimes been applied by feminists to cultural issues and practices that are ours to challenge. This is not because we necessarily perceive these things differently but rather, we need the space to interpret and challenge these things in our own communities. One example I like to highlight is the constant questions I receive from non-Aboriginal feminists regarding whether women should be allowed to play the didgeridoo, an Aboriginal wind instrument typically played by men. Considering the multitude of pressing issues that Aboriginal women face in Australia, a question such as this is not a defining Aboriginal feminist question, and the questioning of this cultural practice by non-Aboriginal women simply comes across as another act of imperialism. There is nothing to be gained for the feminist movement as a whole by non-Aboriginal feminists challenging these cultural practices; rather it just negates our rights of self-determination and indeed cultural ownership.

Over time, Aboriginal feminists (for example, Aileen Morton-Robinson in “Talkin’ Up to the White Woman”, 2000) have continued to highlight additional hurdles that they face due to the intersection of race and gender. Aboriginal women experience the issues that non-Aboriginal women experience due to the process of colonisation, but often there are additional complexities. For example, whilst equal pay is important for all of us, for many years Aboriginal people were historically not paid for their labour at all, and this acutely affected Aboriginal women working as domestic servants. Our wages were, in a lot of cases, held in trusts by the governments and therefore our “stolen wages” claims are ongoing many years later. “Victim blame” is something we face often, and indeed, a number of the Indigenous movements’ more conservative commentators tend to replicate these viewpoints. When we experience victim blaming as women, it is compounded by race to the point where Aboriginal women dying from domestic homicide at a rate ten times that of other women in Australia barely rates a mention. We tend to be subjected to the same issues of body shame and arbitrary and commercialised notions of beauty, but we are also judged on our skin tone and whether or not we possess certain features deemed to be tellingly “Aboriginal” (eg: a wide nose, deep-set eyes, etc). We can also experience fetishisation on the basis of our skin tones despite being mainly socially excluded because of them. In short, our experiences can add layers to feminist understandings and there are many ways in which a notion of a universalised women’s experience can exclude us or only tell part of the tale.

When it comes to the notion of a “black patriarchy”, I see this being perpetuated on two fronts. The first is through the patriarchal structures that we inherit through the process of colonisation by the mainstream culture, and the second manifests itself in our own community-based forms, through our traditional practices and how we view and deploy gender roles. To start with our internal patriarchy, it is always interesting to me when members of the Indigenous community argue that traditional societies had gender equality due to our understandings of gender complementarity, which presumes that the separate and set roles of men and women had equal importance in communities. This is not necessarily the case. From one side of this vast country to the other, different practices existed in different clan groups and therefore the experiences of “equality” for women via a notion of gender complementarity would have differed. If we state otherwise, then as black people we run the risk of universalising our own experiences similar to what mainstream feminism has been accused of doing. Secondly, gender complementarity has not been known to equal gender equality in many regions of the world. We have practices such as polygynous marriage that are arranged from birth, alongside norms such as specific forms of governance and punishment for women. At times, due to the fact that we (as Aboriginal people) are protecting family and culture in the face of ongoing colonialism, we lose the ability to critically examine our own practices because we are worried that anything perceived as negative will be used to further discredit us as peoples.

The patriarchy we inherited and in some ways continue to perpetuate from the dominant culture tends to manifest itself when we adopt external cultural practices and use them in ways that may enhance pride in Aboriginality but reinforce gender disparities. Examples of this are events such as the Miss NAIDOC pageants, which are based upon the idea that we need to celebrate the “beauty” of Aboriginal women. Beauty, as a concept, may be harmful to women as it often centralises the appearance of a woman as being her most important attribute. One of the points I made back when I first examined this in the above linked article was that we actually come from a culture that values age and wisdom, assigning great value to our older women. When it comes to beauty however, older women are almost completely excluded. Additionally, our women have been achieving highly in a number of fields for a long time; we have been obtaining tertiary education qualifications at a rate nearly double that of Aboriginal men. So why do we consider it important to celebrate the “beauty” of Aboriginal women whilst barely mentioning these wonderful achievements? The idea that something becomes empowering if it is community organised and run fails to examine what it is that we are instituting from the cultures of those we have been oppressed by, and if these are indeed worthwhile things to adopt. Without such questioning, we run the risk of merely contributing to the subjugation of our own rather than enacting true positive change.

It continues to be imperative to challenge the prevailing structures of power on the dual fronts of race and gender, both internally and externally. Australia, despite the rhetoric to the contrary, continues to privilege a very white and patriarchal culture in which exclusionary legacies, rather than being a source of shame, tend to be celebrated. I would even go so far as to argue that due to our complex history and culture wars, begun in the early 1990s then reinforced by the Howard government, we have gone backwards when it comes to being a space inclusive of race and gender. During the Howard years, Aboriginal people were continually rebuked for “focussing on the negative” when telling the true stories of what we have faced under centuries of colonisation. Women were told that fights for gender equality were “political correctness gone mad,” or otherwise not essential. Australia reflects this perspective today. Australia Day, which was of little importance to most of the population only a couple of decades ago, is now a day to drape flags across your shoulders and be “proud” at the cost of any acknowledgement of the true history of this day and what it has meant to Aboriginal peoples. ANZAC Day, which was also criticised because feminists drew attention to victims of war and rape as a tactic of war in particular, is again focussing on the “brave people who served our country” in the various conflicts. There is a need to challenge Australian historical narratives on a number of fronts, and Aboriginal feminists have an incredibly important role to play in this.

I strongly feel that Aboriginal feminism is going to continue to grow and develop. We have a number of incredibly strong Aboriginal women who are moving to the forefront of public discourse. A lot of them are unapologetic about their race and their gender, are highly educated, and ensure that they use these knowledges to continue educating and inspiring others. Through social media and online platforms such as blogging, their bodies of work continue to grow and circulate. The Internet offers a wonderful opportunity for those that have been traditionally denied a voice to claim a space. And claim it, we shall!

The post Intersectionality and Indigenous Feminism: An Aboriginal Woman’s Perspective appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

“I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset. I’ve known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers. My soul has grown deep like the rivers.”

- Langston Hughes

*****

Ahmad Ibn Fadlan, tenth-century Arab writer and envoy of Abbasid caliph Muqtadir, explains that The Book of Ahmad Ibn Fadlan 921-922 “tells of all he saw in the lands of the Turks, the Khazars, the Rus, the Saqaliba, the Bashghirds and others, their various customs, news of their kings and their current status”[1] (3). More ethnographic than official, Fadlan’s travelogue poses intriguing departures for both medievalists and postcolonialists seeking to deconstruct European discourses of Otherness and narratives of both subject individuation and modern development. Ibn Fadlan’s travelogue gives evidence of a non-European medieval sensibility already attuned to constructions of exoticism and Orientalism, of cultural translation and acculturation, and of tourism and migration. Oft referenced for its early insights into Viking culture and burial practices, Fadlan’s text remains largely a historical artifact outside the scope of Anglophone literary studies.[2] That Fadlan has been hitherto overlooked in literary circles is unsurprising; medieval literature in the West has traditionally assumed a European center and a European gaze. That Richard Frye’s 2005 Ibn Fadlan’s Journey to Russia is marketed as the first ‘complete’ English translation of Fadlan’s text demonstrates glaring omissions in the medieval archive.

As postcolonial studies has gone great lengths to challenge and revise European subjectivities, literary and historical archives, and modernities, medievalists have begun to find postcolonial models useful for understanding the movement and subjectivities of the Middle Ages. Akin to the ‘transnational turn’ in postcolonial studies, the ‘postcolonial turn’ of medieval studies is in concert with anxieties around periodical, disciplinary, and national borders. This turn, which I understand to be a reconstituting of relationships between the Middle Ages and modernity and the pre-colonial and the postcolonial, coincides with the mobility of global capitalism, complex negotiations of national identities, and the transnational nature of language and literature. Inasmuch as Edward Said and Fredric Jameson have forced scholars to redefine ‘modernity’ in concert with the postcolonial and neocolonial worlds, Jeffrey Jerome Cohen’s 2000 edited work, The Postcolonial Middle Ages, and Kathleen Davis and Nadia Altshul’s 2009 edited collection, Medievalisms in the Postcolonial World: The Idea of ‘the Middle Ages’ Outside Europe, compel scholars to reconsider the “middle.” Cohen, Davis, and Altshul, along with their constituents, debunk the false characterizations of the “medieval” as a fixed Euro-Christian identity and the Middle Ages as “hard-edged alterity,” a dark, innocuous, staging ground in the trajectory towards modernity (Cohen 4).

If postcolonial studies has had success in shifting medieval positionalities, the current transnational moment should prompt us to expand the temporal limits of the postcolonial archive. The tremendous momentum of globalization and traveling cultures initiated by international trade, migration, re-mapping of national boundaries, and technology gives evidence for the porosity of national, cultural, and temporal borders. While postcolonial studies may traditionally be interested in a certain ‘national’ historical moment, neither the colony nor the nation-state can be utterly abstracted from its pre-colonial past. Medieval texts like Ibn Fadlan’s give evidence of early confrontations between East and West and developing representations of transnational trade, movement, and identity negotiations. Not unlike postcolonial and transnational texts, Fadlans’ text reflects anxieties about difference, the risks of migration, and the development of identity against an exoticized Other, a process so endemic to the modern and global world.

Though this project claims nothing as comprehensive as the aforementioned collections, it does seek to intercede in a direction of medieval literature that troubles the boundary between temporalities, territories, identities, and histories in hopes that we might open up new temporal alliances and fresh territory for postcolonial studies.[3] Inspired by Stephen Clingman’s 2009 The Grammar of Identity, James Clifford’s 1997 Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century, and Mary Louise Pratt’s 1992 Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation, I consider how river crossings specifically orient Ibn Fadlan’s 10th century travel narrative’s intimate negotiations with Otherness. His narrative not only poses an alternative locus and direction for the medieval gaze but also exemplifies the “middle’s” continued structural and thematic investments in issues of border mediation often deemed so characteristic of our postcolonial, transnational, and global positionalities.[4] I argue that through the river motif, Ibn Fadlan’s text enacts a series of complex boundary crossings as a means of geographically and textually mediating what Cohen calls the “intimate alterity”of the Other.[5] As neither utterly monstrous nor essentially familiar, the ‘difference’ Ibn Fadlan encounters poses problems of physical and textual translation made most manifest through Fadlan’s river crossings. In Clingman’s terms, the river, as the site of navigation, is also the site of transformation and, relatedly, transmission (22). Because “intimate alterity” collapses the distance between monstrous and man, the river becomes a space of both intersection and production. In other words, even as the river separates Ibn Fadlan from the foreign Other he encounters (the Bashgirds, the Bulghars, and the Rus), it configures a “contact zone”which produces anxiety even while allowing for proximity.[6]

Ibn Fadlan’s text is, of course, part of a larger collection of eastern and western medieval travel narratives that grapple with the ‘wholly Other’ in terms of representation, identity, and locatedness. We see similar productions of spectatorship in the writings of other medieval travelers: Abu Hamid, Geoffrey of Villehardouin, Marco Polo, and Ibn Battuta. However, Ibn Fadlan’s narrative contributes to the medieval conception of the Other in particular ways, as it is more concerned with the mediation of Otherness than with the identity formation of the subject. For Fadlan, the river marks the physical and epistemic distance between himself and the foreigners he meets. There is a boundary there, but one that can be crossed, however treacherous. His focus on these geographic crossings makes plain that the text is no bildungsroman. Providing scant detail about his internal world, Fadlan stubbornly resists the narrative of one-directional subject formation. Neither is his an even or direct journey from the known to the unfamiliar. The text, rather, charts a halting narration—one that ebbs and flows in its movement towards contact with an unknown Other in an unknown land.

“I’ve Known Rivers”

Thus far I have attempted to position Fadlan as part of a larger conversation that examines the Middle Ages as unbounded, a “contact zone” revealing the ‘always-already’ inextricability of temporalities made disparate. In such a context, Fadlan’s rivers function as the contact zone for the “intimate alterity” of the medieval and point to its trans-historical, trans-literary present. As readers, we cannot extricate the Jayhun, the Yaghindi, and the Jayik rivers of Fadlan’s text from the Homer’s Acheron, Conrad’s Congo, or Hughes’ mighty Mississippi. Though alternately poised as territorial, periodical, or cultural boundaries, rivers reach both ways: backwards to the Greeks and forwards to Europe and the Americas. Almost uni-directional, the river as both geographical feature and literary symbol resists beginning and end. Poised in the midst of a large body of literary crossings spanning millennia and oceans, Ibn Fadlan floats uneasily in the contact zone, always-already in between and in motion.

It is the river’s very ‘middleness’ that makes it an apt representation of both the text’s placement within a longer historical/literary trajectory and Fadlan’s anxiety about coming in proximity with the Other. Simultaneously demonstrating that literary history (medieval, modern, postcolonial) is always in flux, the river reveals that identity is equally mobile and mediated. In only fifty-three pages of manuscript, the text records twenty-three river crossings: the Jayhun, the Yaghindi, the Jam, the Jakhsh, the Udhil, the Ardin, the Warsh, the Akhti, the Wabna, the Jayikh, the Jakha, the Arkhaz, the Bajagh, the Samur, the Kinal, the Sukh, the Knunjulu, the Uran, the Uram, the Baynakh, the Watigh, the Niyasnah, and the Jawshir. While Fadlan does not rehearse every crossing in detail,he provides three longer narrations at the crossing of the Jayhun, the Yaghindi, and the Jayikh rivers that emphasize the difference between ‘here and there’/ Self and Other, the complexities of narrating the place of contact, and the anxieties of being in proximity. Fadlan, like Homer, Conrad, and Hughes before and after, suggests that the crossing is at times both otherworldly and otherwordly—dangling somewhere in the periphery of both place and language. For, in the middle of the current, the traveler is caught between the riverbanks, curiously fixed within the margins of territory and location.

While Fadlan’s first fording, of the Jayhun, reveals much about constructions of Otherness, the text elides the actual moment of contact. Profoundly emphasizing both the dislocation of the subject and deferral of narration, Fadlan’s difficulty in crossing mimics his difficulty in accessing the unknown. Refusing to annunciate the actual event, the text stages a physical and psychosocial transference that either occurs outside the boundaries of the text or never actually occurs. Oddly silent about both the nature of the inhabitants and the experience of crossing, Fadlan’s copious details regarding his mission’s three-month delay, the severity of the winter freeze, and the extensive preparations necessary to cross the river illuminate the ineffable and perhaps illegible point of contact. The reader literally has access only to what occurs on the edges and thus learns more about the nature of the boundary than the actual crossing of it. That Fadlan cannot or does not translate the corporeal ‘slap of oars on water’ but does narrate the intensity of the climate, signifies that transmission and mediation are often displaced. It is not that mediation or contact exists outside of language but that Fadlan’s physical proximity to the Other produces a textual anxiety which renders the moment of contact unnarratable.

Textual deferral or absence connotes an epistemic displacement realized through the geographic materiality of the river and its limitations. The cold codifies the hard-edged alterity of the Other while illuminating Fadlan’s persistent anxiety of and desire for mediation. He explains that the ice was “seventeen spans thick” and was “solid and did not crack,” creating “cold and hardships” that forced them to stay in Jurjaniya by the banks of the Jayhun river for over three months (Fadlan 8). Noting that even his beard froze, he characterizes Jurjaniya as “a land which made us think a gate to the cold of hell had opened before us” (Fadlan 8). The ice presents a physical boundary that animates the psychic distance between self and Other, marking both difference and proximity. His emphasis on the river’s depth and the ‘solidity’ of the ice accentuates the perceived distance between Fadlan and the Jurjaniya and the limitations inherent in crossing over. No arbitrary association, Fadlan’s chronicling of the cold is more than a symbolic manifestation of ethnic difference. In his 1992 publication, “Barbarians in Arab Eyes,” Aziz Al-Azmeh ably articulates that medieval constructions of racial ‘othering’ in the Arab mind do not imitate Anglo-European models but, rather, follow what he calls an ethnology “governed by a natural-scientific ecological determinism” (6). Azmeh intones:

Briefly stated, medieval Arabic culture followed the Greek conception of the inhabited world as consisting of seven latitudinal zones that began slightly north of the equator and ended in the realms of perpetual darkness in the north. Beyond the zones (aqalzm, from the Greek klimata) human habitation was not possible, and within their boundaries the nature of the changing environment prescribed different temperaments to the inhabitants. The four primary qualities of dryness, humidity, heat and cold, attached to the four elements, entered into four combinations that yielded the basic somatic humours of blood (hot and humid), phlegm (cold and humid), bile (hot and dry) and atrabile or black bile (cold and dry). Embryonic growth was the result of the “cooking” together of these four humours. (6)

Discursively coded in the medieval mind in terms of geography and biology, Fadlan’s careful chronicling of coldness and its effects on the body codifies the Otherness that he cannot articulate and reiterates that he is not like them. The river, the cold, and the ice, are both sites of deferral and agents of textual production.

Fadlan’s anxiety about the Other is as much about desire as it is fear. If we think of the river as producing Otherness, it is through that very production that Fadlan can make contact. Both boundary and conduit, the river enables mediation even as it forecloses understanding. Returning to his description of the Jayhun river valley as “a land which made us think a gate to the cold of hell had opened before us,” Fadlan signals that his anxiety is mitigated by wonder (8). For ‘to wonder’ is to fear and to desire. James Montgomery rightly notes that Fadlan’s interests are largely anthropological; thus his is not an overtly supernatural or fantastic tale like others from the period (6).[7] That Fadlan uncharacteristically invokes the marvelous or “heavenly” here, even through metaphor, seems indicative that the text is attempting both to cross into a different space of desire and to insinuate that strangeness is not wholly foreign. While it is unclear whether or not the “gate” references a specific location in the Islamic afterlife, Fadlan attempts to make what is foreign, familiar. The wondrousness suggests an unknown and, thereby, ‘marvelous’ locale which contextualizes his desire, however unconsummated, for making contact.

The river, however, allows for contact even as it imposes limits. Thus, while the text may eschew all physical and epistemic mediation between Self and Other, it does reveal a space of contact engendered through empathy. While the intemperateness of the boundary suggests the rigidity of difference, it enables Fadlan to come in proximity with the other. Thus, if the river designates on the one hand a material and natural limit imposed upon the travelers, it alternately marks the empathic possibility, however difficult, in crossing epistemic boundaries.  Because he can occupy a shared space with others, Fadlan can experientially intuit what it might mean to be that Other.  Consequently, the language of the text indicates that the narrator is coming in closer contact with his subject (moving from exterior to interior, from outside observer to inside participant) even while the climate itself prevents him from truly crossing over. Just by being in proximity, he is able to empathize with the Other. Noting both the social isolation induced by the extreme weather and the corresponding generosity that individuals show towards even their inferiors in the face of such “rough and violent wind,” Fadlan imagines Otherness without facilitating a direct, personal encounter (8). Understanding “how the intense cold made itself felt in this country” through shared experiences (“my cheek froze to the pillow” and “my beard [….] was a block of ice”), Fadlan laboriously approaches the place of contact (9).

The textual shifts that occur within this description reflect Fadlan’s empathic capacity and the text’s epistemology of negotiating individual and cultural difference. Understanding the boundary to include both the space of contact (the river, the ice) and the territory around it (the river bank, the Jurjaniya), the text shows traces of subtle linguistic/narratological movement. Through a series of narrative cues, the passage indicates a developing intimacy between narrator and Other. Regarding the generosity of friends, the narrator reports: “In this country, when a man wishes to make a nice gesture to a friend and show his generosity, he says: ‘Come to my house where we can talk, for there is a good fire there’,” (Fadlan 8). The narrator relates this anecdote without affect; the voice is flat and objective; an outsider’s perspective. Both the “man” and the “friend” are unnamed: abstract generalities rather than specific individuals. The narrator’s positionality changes, however, as the passage progresses: “I was told, in fact, that two men set out with twelve camels to load wood in the forest, but they forgot to take flint and tinder with them” (Fadlan 8-9). The speech tag “I was told” reframes the narration as conversation, indicating greater intimacy between narrator and subject. While the ‘telling’ has initiated some kind of personal exchange between individuals absent in the former example, Fadlan is still merely the receiver. Remaining in the passive voice, the text reiterates that Fadlan has not initiated transmission. By the end of the passage, however, the narrator is no mere interviewer; rather, as witness to the story he claims: “In truth, I saw [my emphasis] the earth split and great crevasses form from the intense cold. I saw a great tree split in two from the same cause” (Fadlan 9). As Fadlan’s experience of the cold facilitates greater understanding, the textual movement from unmediated reporting, to passive voice, to first-person narration and active voice reveals a renegotiation of his relationship to and familiarity with the Jurjaniya inhabitants. Though he may yet be an outsider, the narrator textually and experientially closes the distance between Self and Other.

If the text follows a current leading from outsider to insider, from Self to Other, the concluding preparations for the Jayhun river crossing reveals Fadlan’s sincerest attempt thus far in imagining the experience of the Other. Fadlan closes this account with a lengthy description of his company’s meticulous preparations to protect their bodies from the weather. He methodically records:

When we saw the reality with our own eyes, however, we realized that it was twice as bad as we had been told. Each of us was wearing a tunic and over that a caftan, on top of that a cloak of sheepskin and over that again a felt outer garment, with a head covering that left only two eyes visible. Each of us wore a plain pair of trousers and another padded pair, socks, horse-hide boots and over those boots, other boots, so that when any of us mounted a camel, he could hardly move because of all the clothes he was wearing. (Fadlan 9-10)

Fadlan’s rigorous cataloging surely brings to mind multiple literary genres: Greek epics, medieval romance, and nineteenth century African-American literature chart an indirect trajectory in which clothing functions alternately as badge and as disguise. For both armament and disguise have the potential to erase difference through performance. As Achilles’ shield may substitute somewhat for his weakness, Fadlan’s “caftan,” “sheepskin,” double-layered “trousers,” and “horse-hide boots” may compensate for Fadlan’s foreignness. By donning their dress, Fadlan embodies Otherness.

The physical and narratological boundaries imposed upon the text delineate the site of difference between the Self and the Other, even as they illuminate the thorny and sometimes perilous process of mediation. Thus, though the previous moments give textual evidence that the traveler may close the distance between ‘us’ and ‘them,’ the text suggests that the mediation of that distance is never secure. While Fadlan does narrate the following two crossings explicitly, the passages reiterate the dangers characteristic of the boundary. At the rivers Yaghindi and Jayikh, which separate the territories of the Ghuzz, the Bajanak, and the Bashghirds, Fadlan’s company faces significant loss. At the Yaghindi he reports:

They took poles made from a wood called khadank [sic] and used them as oars. They continued to row like this, while the water carried them and they spun around, until we had crossed. As to the horses and the camels, they called them with loud cries and they swam across the river. It was essential to get one of the companies of men-at-arms over the river first, before any of the caravan crossed, so that they could form an advance guard to protect the others in case the Bashghirds fell on our people while they were crossing. (22)

The text intimates that the crossing is more legible here than at the Jayhun: both river and creature have agency. Yet, the crossing is ever beleaguered by the threat of contact. Again the river constructs a boundary that is replete with anxiety about and desire for the place of contact. At the crossing of the Jayikh, only one page later, Fadlan chronicles, “I saw a leather boat overturned in midstream and those who were in it drowned. Many of our men were carried away and a certain number of horses and camels were drowned. It cost us great efforts to get across that river,” (23). As in the crossing of the Jayhun, Fadlan use of the speech tag, “I saw,” indicates the nearness of the narrator to the subject. Participant rather than mere audience, it is Fadlan’s very nearness that heightens the danger in the crossing. We might expect, in other words, that the closer one comes to the zone of contact, the greater the risk to the Self.

The Final Passage

What, then, is the nature of contact, we might ask? Risk. In Fadlan’s every movement across, the “alterity” of the Other becomes more intimate. The traveler ultimately risks becoming an inhabitant. James Clifford concludes the first chapter of Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century (1997) by reframing how we think of the “travelling anthropologist,” describing his practices as following:

My point, again, is not simply to invert the strategies of cultural location, the making of ‘natives,’ which I criticized at the outset. I’m not saying there are no locales or homes, that everyone is—or should be—traveling, or cosmopolitan, or deterritorialized. This is not nomadology. Rather, what is at stake is a comparative cultural studies approach to specific histories, tactics, everyday practices of dwelling and traveling: traveling-in-dwelling, dwelling-in-traveling. (36)

Clifford’s insistence that cultural studies develop a new model for study corroborates transnational studies’ instincts that neither “home” nor the “village” nor the “native” nor the “traveler” occupies a static location. Rather, movement across physical, social, and textual boundaries keeps identities in a perpetual state of mediation and formation. Thus, Fadlan is always-already in transit. But I believe we can extend Clifford’s injunction; redefining “home” and “native” requires that we also redefine “specific” literacies as well as “histories” (36). Thus, if texts like Fadlan’s might work to deconstruct the rigidity of literary history, they must also serve to blur the lines between the darkness of the Middle Ages and modernity.

I began this project under the auspices that the Middle Ages has achieved a new cogency (or at least an alternate identification). Postcolonial practices and assumptions have opened up the medieval world as one that is intimately connected to both modernity and the postcolonial. But, as Ibn Fadlan experiences, contact and understanding do not occur along a linear trajectory; as I think Cohen would corroborate, the Middle Ages is producing the postcolonial to the same degree as the postcolonial may refigure the “middle.”

Shortly before the text concludes, Fadlan records the elaborate funeral rites of a Rus (Viking) noble man. Fadlan’s focus, curiously, seems to be the slave girl who volunteers/is chosen to accompany her master to the afterlife. As aforementioned in this piece, critics and historians relish the account for its insight into early Viking culture, burial practices and beliefs, class distinctions, and gender roles but have perhaps occluded its equally useful interstices for understanding the text’s historical/periodical positionality. Fadlan’s fascination with the ritual is reasonable—the funeral seems oddly more of a human sacrifice than a celebration of the dead. Though there are many generative readings to be made regarding the agency of the slave girl, in terms of this project I am more interested in the final crossing that the text seems to prefigure. If the text ultimately performs the complex negotiations implicit to the contact zone, the mediations between Self (Fadlan) and Other (slave girl/the Rus) and the multifarious dangers, anxieties, and desires encountered along the boundary, the funeral stages the ultimate act of ‘crossing over’. The preparations of the body, the collection of food (fruit, basil, bread, meat, and onions), the sacrifice of animals (a dog, two horses, two cows, a cock, and a hen), the copulation between slave girl and masters, and the drinking of nabidh, all mimic Fadlan’s gathering of boats and arming against the cold. For, death, the text suggests, is the ultimate Other, the ‘familiar foreignness,’ and ‘intimate alterity’ undergirding each point of contact.

Yet, there are larger forces at play here, beyond the subjective experience of the Self. Part of Fadlan’s captivation with the funeral is in the spectators’ anticipation of the beyond. Shortly before the slave girl’s death, the crowd repeatedly hoists her up to look over what “looked like the frame of a door,” (Fadlan 52). Fadlan records the interpreter’s translation of the girl’s statements: “‘The first time they lifted her up, she said: [“There I see my father and my mother.”] The second time, she said: “There [I see] all my dead relatives [sitting].” And the third time she said: “There [I see my master sitting in] Paradise and [Paradise is green and beautiful.] There are men with him and [young people, and he is calling me.] Take [me to him….]”’” (52). While Fadlan faithfully and without commentary transmits the girl’s statements, we are unsure of what Fadlan sees. Similarly poised as Benjamin’s “angel of history” looking back while being propelled forward, both slave girl and writer envision a future history that always-already exists. If we consider the text as looking into a future literary trajectory, we see that that future “paradise” contains the new and the old, the middle and the modern and the post.

The post Ibn Fadlan: Crossing Over and the Nature of the Boundary appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Après son succès  à Beijing, Mao Zedong a vu dans le Tibet une région stratégique pour la Chine à la fois sur le plan politique et économique. En 1950, il a donné l’ordre à l’armée de la libération populaire d’« entrer par la force militaire au Tibet进军西藏 ». A la différence des explorateurs européens du continent africain ou des conquistadors de l’Amérique latine, les masses de colons chinois  pénétrèrent sur le territoire tibétain dans un but politique précis: intégrer le Tibet au sein de la grande famille chinoise ; tel était le pari de Mao Zedong.

Le pays de neige apparaît très lointain et mystérieux dans la présentation historique qu’en donnent les Chinois. Le mariage de deux princesses chinoises avec des princes tibétains en 640 et en 710 a donné naissance à un légender[2] empreint de mélancolie et de tristesse. On y cite les noms des montagnes et des rivières croisées par les deux  héroïnes chinoises sur la route du mariage, soulignant ainsi la longue distance semée d’embûches qui sépare la Chine du Tibet. Pays fort grand[3] et difficile d’accès, le Tibet a très justement été baptisé le « toit du monde »[4]. Comme l’écrit le géographe chinois Xu Huaxin, la peur n’épargne personne dans cette géographie, car les oiseaux eux-mêmes ne peuvent en volant traverser les montagnes[5]. En réalité, avant 1950, le peuple chinois manque de véritables connaissances sur le Tibet, ainsi que sur l’Histoire de la relation entre la Chine et le Tibet.  Ce n’est qu’à partir de 1950 que le peuple chinois commence à croire, à cause de la propagande gouvernementale, qu’il faudrait faire évoluer le système politique tibétain, que le Tibet constituerait une partie sous-développée de la Chine, et, que le peuple chinois exercerait sur les Tibétains misérables un pouvoir libérateur.

Afin de réaliser son projet d’immigration chinoise au Tibet, Mao Zedong  fit construire deux routes menant au Tibet: l’une partant de la province chinoise du Sichuan au sud-ouest de la Chine, l’autre du nord-ouest. Un seul ordre : surmonter toutes les difficultés, quel que soit le risque physique ou matériel. Durant quatre années, des milliers de soldats et de techniciens chinois, ainsi que les prisonniers de guerre, qui ne sont pas habitués à vivre en haute altitude, mais aussi des paysans tibétains s’attellent sans relâche à une tâche titanesque : 430 ponts sont construits, 3781 tunnels percés et ouverts dans 14 montagnes au-dessus de 4000 mètres. Enfin, en 1954, une route de 2416 kilomètres de long  relie la province du Sichuan au Tibet, tandis que, parallèlement, 2122 kilomètres carrossables conduisent désormais de la province du Qinghai à Lhassa. Selon les ouï-dire, chaque kilomètre de route avait été tracé au prix d’une vie humaine[6]. Dès lors, le Tibet entre dans une période de son histoire « particulièrement sombre »[7].

Face à ces obstacles géographiques, Mao Zedong avait besoin de convaincre le peuple chinois du bien-fondé du projet colonisateur afin d’obtenir le soutien moral et matériel nécessaire à la conquête du monde tibétain. Alors que des milliers de soldats chinois sacrifiaient chaque jour leur vie à son ambition, l’encouragement psychologique était d’une nécessité capitale. La propagande avait donc pour tâche d’éduquer le peuple sur le Tibet et d’inciter son héroïsme révolutionnaire. .

 Entrée et installation dans le Monde tibétain

I. L’apologie de l’héroïsme révolutionnaire en poésie

L’héroïsme est la caution par excellence de la colonisation. Mais l’héroïsme loué par la littérature chinoise coloniale au Tibet au début des années cinquante du siècle dernier n’est pas celui de Daniel Defoë ou de Joseph Conrad. C’est avant tout un outil de propagande pour asseoir une autorité et un moyen de cultiver massivement le sentiment identitaire sous le sceau de la Révolution.  Le PCC (Parti Communiste Chinois) au pouvoir avait besoin de convaincre le peuple chinois qu’il s’engageait dans une bataille plus ardue encore que la Longue Marche, la Guerre sino-japonaise ou le combat contre le Guomindang (l’ennemi de Mao), une bataille plus difficile encore que la guerre de la Corée du Nord contre les Américains. La mort de milliers de soldats et la destruction d’une civilisation avec laquelle, depuis des siècles, la Chine avait rarement entretenu des relations de voisinage ne pouvaient se justifier que par l’idéal politique, lequel venait d’ailleurs de permettre au PCC d’unifier la Chine tout entière. L’héroïsme révolutionnaire  était d’ailleurs mobilisé pour la première fois durant la Longue Marche, entre octobre 1934 et octobre 1935, sous le commandement de Mao Zedong, lorsque les trente mille soldats de l’Armée rouge traversaient à pied les vingt-cinq mille kilomètres des onze régions chinoises, endurant d’innombrables épreuves afin d’échapper à l’ennemi lancé à leur poursuite. Le Grand Timonier composa alors de nombreux poèmes qui exaltaient le courage des soldats et les incitaient à franchir les obstacles les plus insurmontables. Toute l’adresse du poète consistait à métamorphoser sur un mode romantique les difficultés rencontrées : les hautes chaînes montagneuses se transformaient en fines vaguelettes de la rivière, les pics élevés devenaient de petites mottes de terre[8]. Le masque des métaphores venait à bout de tous les dangers et cette culture de fanatisme idéologique devint une arme puissante pour faire avancer l’armée en marche vers le Tibet. Le PCC tira gloire de cette réussite à peu de frais : « manger du millet et tirer avec le vieux fusil » suffisait « pour conquérir le Monde »[9]. L’héroïsme révolutionnaire à lui seul renversait les montagnes et menait le soldat jusqu’à l’oubli de sa souffrance sous les ordres de Mao Zedong.

L’héroïsme révolutionnaire chinois fait éclore des poèmes de forme libre ayant recours à la langue du peuple. Ils constituent à eux seuls l’essentiel de la littérature chinoise des débuts de la Chine communiste à partir de 1949 : ce sont des outils de propagande idéologique qui faisaient l’éloge de Mao Zedong et du PCC, un critère esthétique et édifiant au service de l’éducation du peuple de la Nouvelle Chine : que chaque lecteur soit fier de vivre sous le nouveau régime[10]. Lors de l’entrée au Tibet, ce type de poème sert également de support médiatique ; d’une part, il encourage l’héroïsme des soldats, d’autre part, il influence l’ensemble de la population chinoise dont il sollicite la confiance et le soutien. C’est pourquoi le poème du jeune officier Gao Ping a été diffusé dans toute la nation dès sa première publication en 1952. « Percer la Montagne de  moineau » devint l’un des poèmes les plus cités dans le pays et fait partie des plus connus dans le répertoire contemporain du PCC. Après sa première édition à Beijing dans le numéro 5 de a revue littéraire L’art de l’armée de la libération [11], organe du PCC, ce poème a été immédiatement rediffusé dans de nombreuses autres revues, puis transformé en chanson populaire. C’est l’emblème glorieux de l’héroïsme des Chinois lancés à la conquête du Nouveau Monde tibétain.

Gao Ping n’avait que vingt ans lorsqu’il participa à la construction de la route vers le Tibet. Inspirées par l’héroïsme révolutionnaire, les trente-deux strophes de son poème en vers libres proposent l’image d’un Tibet qui refuse de se laisser pénétrer, telle cette « montagne du Moineau/ depuis des lustres inhabitable/ dont les oiseaux mêmes ne peuvent atteindre le sommet», car  « Il neige sans cesse des années durant/ le sol gèle jusqu’à trois mètres de profondeur/ les rochers se mettent en travers du chemin ». Ainsi, les lecteurs chinois découvrent l’hostilité d’une nature avec laquelle leurs soldats doivent quotidiennement composer. Le poète réussit à communiquer la force héroïque des soldats au service de la Révolution et à faire partager leur détermination à conquérir non seulement le Tibet, mais aussi la nature elle-même. Car la réalité de la colonisation commence par l’aventure périlleuse d’une route qui dompte le paysage en le faisant plier sous la volonté de l’homme : « Construire la route de Chine au Tibet/ c’est une étape-clé/ l’armée de libération populaire/ veut absolument trouer la montagne/ la montagne du Moineau est très haute / moins haute que notre esprit/ les pierres sont très dures / moins dures que notre volonté »[12].

Les autorités encouragent la composition de tels poèmes écrits à la gloire des héros de la conquête du Tibet. Yang Xinghuo est une jeune diplômée en chimie ; à vingt-six ans, elle abandonne ses activités scientifiques pour se consacrer au panégyrique de la sinisation du Tibet. Bientôt une poète militaire célèbre en Chine, elle est toute dévouée à la propagande colonisatrice, et ses strophes brillent comme des enseignes idéologiques : « grimpe n’importe quelle montagne/ tu es soutenu par l’esprit du parti/ traverse n’importe quelle rivière/ n’est-ce pas? » Yang Xoinghuo exploita toutes les formes littéraires pour servir la sinisation du Tibet : elle publia aussi des nouvelles, des ouvrages en prose, une pièce d’opéra et un scénario, et elle composa des paroles de chansons. La Chine, le PCC, l’idéologie, la fierté de parti, la patrie, la nation et le haut plateau sont autant de leitmotivs récurrents d’une œuvre à l’autre. Yang Xinghuo exalte la fierté collective d’être le maître d’un pays occupé où la terre est désormais apprivoisée : « la rue de Lhassa couverte de goudron/ L’avenue de lumière/ j’y marche/ écarte mes bras/ si fière ! / La rue de Lhassa couverte de goudron/ L’avenue de lumière / j’y marche/ songe au temps de l’entrée au Tibet/ le petit sentier caché dans la tempête de neige ! ».

Ce n’est d’ailleurs pas une coïncidence si le « je» lyrique chez Yang Xoinghuo ressemble au promeneur solitaire de la poésie romantique, bien qu’il exprime également la nostalgie et la distanciation typiques plutôt de l’époque victorienne. Selon Erik Erikson, l’identité se conçoit chez l’individu comme un sentiment d’harmonie, le « sentiment subjectif et tonique d’une unité personnelle et d’une continuité temporelle » au sein de la société. Il est d’abord et avant tout question d’inspirer le sentiment héroïque de l’identité chinoise révolutionnaire. En effet, les analyses nuancées d’Elleke Boehmer révèlent les similitudes entre l’époque de conquête chinoise du Tibet et la période victorienne en Angleterre, quand, à la fin du dix-neuvième siècle, le peuple britannique, s’intéressant davantage aux conquêtes territoriales de l’impérialisme anglais, avait soif de partager la gloire des colons. La poésie, la chanson et toutes les formes de jeux linguistiques qui portent  les rêves de l’impérialisme[13] se mettent alors à satisfaire le besoin d’admirer les héros au sens fort du terme. À l’époque où les Chinois cherchaient à entrer au Tibet, que les médias chinois nomment la période de « l’avancement forcé »,[14] un service collectait les comptines composées par les soldats sur le lieu du chantier, puis les diffusait pour fabriquer de nouveaux  héros,  les jeunes Chinois recrutés au bord de la route menant au Tibet. La poésie occupe une place de choix dans la littérature chinoise à cette époque où l’on assiste à l’efflorescence de tout un corpus propagandiste[15].

 2) L’implantation douloureuse en terre tibétaine dans le récit     

Viser la campagne pour révolutionner le pays était également la stratégie militaire de Mao Zedong pour conquérir la Chine à dominante paysanne. D’une part, la majorité de la population se trouve à la campagne ; d’autre part, c’est la terre qui fournit les ressources de survie. Dès leur installation sur place, les soldats chinois avaient comme objectif une « mission civilisatrice » qui consistait non seulement d’un devoir militaire, mais aussi d’un devoir agricole, celui de faire exploiter les terres cultivables par les paysans tibétains. A partir du moment où s’entame cette nouvelle étape de sinisation, la forme poétique attire moins l’inspiration des colons.

Sous l’égide de Beijing, la littérature coloniale changea d’objectif : l’éloge de l’héroïsme révolutionnaire est remplacé par la volonté de défaire le système politique ancestral par la transformation de la mentalité des Tibétains à l’intérieur du pays.  La forme poétique, qui est, de par sa nature même, lyrique ou épique, s’avéra être peu adaptée à l’argumentation que requiert un tel objectif. Le roman du pouvoir et le roman du devoir y suppléeront. Très tôt, les colons chinois empruntent l’écriture romanesque réaliste qui est caractéristique des littératures coloniales. Jean-Marie Seillan distingue globalement quatre sortes de roman dans la littérature coloniale[16] que l’on retrouve également dans la littérature coloniale chinoise: le roman du pouvoir, le roman du devoir, le roman du savoir et le roman de l’avoir. Apparaissent surtout chez les écrivains colons de la première génération ces deux premières catégories où il est question de s’imposer et de s’enraciner en territoire tibétain.

Le premier roman colonial chinois au Tibet s’intitule Nous semons l’amour[17]. Ecrit par un officier de vingt-six ans au Tibet, Xu Huaizhong, la fiction traite de l’actualité vécue par les colons chinois qui s’y implantent. Unissant trois protagonistes, tous des colons chinois, l’intrigue amoureuse se déroule dans un service du développement technologique agricole à la campagne tibétaine. L’introduction dans le récit  du représentant du PCC local, un personnage important, a lieu le 1er octobre, date de la commémoration de la naissance de la République Populaire de Chine décrétée par Mao Zedong en 1949. Lors de ce jour de fête nationale, le représentant du PCC, qui est le directeur chinois du district nommé par le gouvernement à Beijing, inaugure auprès des paysans l’usage d’outils chinois pour labourer la terre. La démonstration symbolise bien sûr la prise de possession de la terre tibétaine, en même temps qu’elle signale la construction d’une nouvelle puissance politique chinoise. De sa propre main, le représentant du PCC sème des graines sur un lot de terre vierge. Planter des graines chinoises dans la terre tibétaine, utiliser les outils chinois sur la terre tibétaine, cela signifie l’implantation dans le pays au sens propre comme au sens figuré.

Le premier amour semé dans le roman est celui que le directeur chinois, qui incarne l’ordre politique du PCC, porte à sa fille ainsi qu’à tous les habitants de son district, à l’égard de qui il fait preuve d’une attachement paternaliste. Notamment, il demande à sa fille de travailler d’abord comme observatrice de météo, puis comme infirmière et, enfin, comme institutrice dans une école pour enseigner le chinois aux enfants tibétains. Aussi met-il son amour paternel au service de la sinisation du Tibet. Le second amour semé dans le roman est celui éprouvé par une spécialiste chinoise du pâturage, dont l’objectif est de changer radicalement le mode d’alpage tibétain. Se prenant pour la maîtresse des lieux, la Chinoise demande aux bergers de quitter leur vie nomade pour se sédentariser dans le bourg. Face à ce personnage de jeune intellectuelle chinoise, l’auteur crée la figure du nouveau travailleur en campant dans le service Lei, un jeune technicien chinois. Malgré qu’il n’ait pas étudié à l’université, celui-ci s’applique à la recherche d’une nouvelle sorte de blé convenable à la géographie du Tibet, et ses découvertes permettront d’obtenir une belle récolte. L’amour de l’intellectuelle et celui du technicien se conjuguent donc pour faciliter simultanément le contrôle des habitants et la culture de la terre.

Voilà trois personnalités, trois sortes d’amour soi-disant bienfaiteur, formant les trois composants que la grande nation chinoise apporte à la nouvelle société coloniale du Tibet. Le référent colonial, qu’il se rapporte à une expérience directe de l’auteur ou à celle de ses lecteurs, fait appel à une mythologie–au sens barthien du terme–des revendications essentialistes, greffée sur une idéologie selon laquelle un peuple supérieur en intelligence et en innovation saurait réinventer une culture déjà vieille de plusieurs siècles[18]. La réussite de la fabrication du mythe politique consiste à conquérir  la confiance des lecteurs chinois qui croient désormais en la force de la pensée de Mao.

En dénonçant  la cupidité et la cruauté des colonisateurs, Elleke Boehmer indique qu’au début de l’installation coloniale, la véritable nature de cette entreprise politique et économique se cachait derrière des actions de charité auprès des indigènes[19]. De même, au Tibet, le PCC s’érigea en sauveur du peuple autochtone: pour cela, il substitua à la notion traditionnelle de la souffrance, sa propre conception idéologique de l’héroïsme. En 1956, pénétrant les campagnes tibétaines par la force militaire, les Chinois entreprennent une réforme agraire de grande ampleur, qui sape les fondements de la société tibétaine traditionnelle.  Historiquement, ce n’était pas la première fois qu’une armée étrangère arrive sur le territoire tibétain, mais aucune n’avait jamais pu y demeurer. Parvenue enfin à Lhassa après avoir sacrifié des milliers de vies chinoises, l’armée du PCC ne voulait pas revivre l’expérience de ses précurseurs. La possession prolongée du Tibet nécessitait encore une nouvelle forme d’héroïsme pour s’y implanter durablement.

En créant dans ses nouvelles galeries de jeunes Tibétaines révolutionnaires, très jolies, mais très pauvres, l’officier chinois Liu Ke[20] s’apitoie sur le destin des paysannes. Selon la vision qu’en donne le PCC, ces femmes—, soit abandonnées par leur mari, soit violées par les riches propriétaires—, souffrent de conditions de vie provoquées par le système colonial sans avoir conscience de l’origine de leurs malheurs. Elles s’y résignent parce que la religion tibétaine traditionnelle enseigne aux croyants que la vie n’est que souffrance. Sous la plume de Liu Ke, des Tibétaines prennent en main leur destin en devenant membres du PCC. Grâce aux bons soins des communistes chinois, certains protagonistes féminins choisissent d’émigrer vers une ville chinoise, promesse d’une vie meilleure. Prenons le cas de Yang Jin : au début, c’est une fillette joueuse et pleine de vivacité. Soudain, à l’âge de cinq ans, Yang Jin perd son père qui part en abandonnant sa famille, qu’il laisse désormais sans nouvelles. La mère, belle et fragile, est obligée de travailler pour survivre. Violée par un riche méchant, elle meurt et l’orpheline devient une esclave. Mais habitée par l’espoir de retrouver son père, Yang Jin demande aux Chinois de l’aider. En contrepoint de cette intrigue, la description du visage de l’héroïne est lourde de sens. D’abord sale et laid, il devient progressivement beau et radieux au fur et à mesure que Yang Lin échappe à sa triste condition. Enfin, métamorphosée par la joie, l’héroïne part étudier en Chine puis revient au Tibet comme fonctionnaire : son visage rayonne alors de bonheur.

Le cruel processus dont les protagonistes féminins de Liu Ke sont victimes se déroule sur le même arrière-plan politique que celui où se trouvent les Tibétaines de Yang Jin. Les critiques littéraires à la solde du PCC approuvent : « nous sommes contents de voir que le peuple tibétain peut désormais vivre heureux dans la nouvelle Chine » affirma l’un de ses dirigeants en 1962[21]. Il s’agit sans doute aucun de récits au service du pouvoir et du devoir.  

Le passage de l’identité héroïque à l’identité personnelle souffrante

Dans les années soixante-dix, trois paysages littéraires coexistent au Tibet : la littérature tibétaine d’expression chinoise de la première génération, celle de la seconde génération en pleine éclosion et la littérature coloniale chinoise. Ces trois littératures manifestent chacune un vif intérêt à décrire la complexité du monde tibétain. Dans un climat de liberté d’expression relative, ces trois visages de la littérature s’influencent et s’attachent à satisfaire la curiosité des lecteurs, principalement des Chinois. Cependant, c’est la littérature chinoise coloniale qui a la prééminence. A la fin du XXe siècle, elle regroupe deux catégories d’auteurs dont la première comprend d’anciens colons arrivés au Tibet au début de la colonisation ; ayant participé à la destruction de l’ancien Tibet, ils sont profondément attachés au Nouveau Monde qu’ils construisent. La deuxième catégorie se constitue par contre de la deuxième génération des écrivains colons chinois, majoritairement de jeunes diplômés de l’université. Contrairement à leurs aînés, ils sont plus sensibles à la liberté de penser et de vivre. Ils sont attirés par les paysages et le mode de vie au Tibet. L’usage qu’ils font de la première personne du singulier favorise l’expression de sentiments individuels. Ils ont plus de difficulté dans le contact avec les Tibétains, car ils ne sont pas comme leur aînés les constructeurs du Tibet sinisé, mais plutôt des consommateurs du travail accompli, il leur manque le sentiment de sacrifice et ils ne partagent pas le traumatisme de voir des milliers de morts sur la route entre la Chine et le Tibet.

 1) L’expression du mal-être personnel 

Les colons chinois de la seconde génération vivent une période de changement. La disparition de Mao en 1976 a été décisive pour la renaissance de la littérature chinoise[22]. Parallèlement, la Chine est de plus en plus traversée par divers courants de pensée occidentale ; ceux-ci sillonnent davantage les œuvres littéraires qui sont autant de sources de réflexion et d’inspiration pour les Chinois. En découvrant le Tibet, beaucoup se rendent compte que la réalité ne correspond pas aux informations officielles. Loin de la modernisation, les conditions de travail et d’existence sont rudes. Cependant, avec l’appui du gouvernement colonial local, ces représentants d’une autre culture extérieure[23] fondent la deuxième génération de la littérature coloniale au Tibet. Elle choisit d’exprimer les sentiments personnels et là réside sa grande différence avec la génération précédente. C’est alors la déception qui domine, le sentiment d’exil, la pénibilité de la vie quotidienne, la difficulté de s’acclimater à ce pays de haute altitude… la souffrance individuelle devient ainsi le thème majeur traité par cette deuxième génération de colons. Le « je » colonisateur est en effet accablé de mélancolie, de tristesse et d’angoisse.

Alors qu’à la même époque, la littérature en Chine dénonce les souffrances vécues durant la Révolution culturelle, les auteurs colons au Tibet privilégient le poème lyrique jusqu’à la fin des années quatre-vingt. En 1983, la revue officielle Littérature tibétaine en chinois crée la rubrique « Poème de la Neige sauvage » pour publier un grand nombre de leurs productions.

A l’instar de la génération précédente, les nouveaux poètes suivent les ordres du Parti si l’on en croit la force d’autorité qui émane de cette métaphore solaire[24]:

• Le soleil dit: je t’appelle
• Ta première réponse est sans motivation
• Quand tu entends le mot(Tibet), la force revient
• Le soleil t’encourage
• tu peux devenir un très bon coureur
• Le soleil te dit : tu peux être un très bon acteur et un très bon cheval
• Le soleil te dit, va de l’avant. 

Malgré le contexte politique et la diversité des régions dont ils sont originaires, les poètes souffrent unanimement du mal du pays, et s’interrogent sur la réalité d’une sinisation efficace car, au bout de trente ans de présence chinoise, le Tibet ne s’est guère modernisé. Alors, le poète Zang Qing exprime avec désespoir son aspiration à la vie moderne: « Mon cœur ne veut plus continuer ce vieux rêve trouble/ Je veux être un sifflet éclatant et faire de mon cœur un pont reliant le passé et l’avenir »[25].

Le poète reconnaît que la ténacité de la vie tibétaine quotidienne le séduit. Cependant, l’attrait est moins fort que l’espoir d’atteindre les objectifs communistes, puisque « De l’autre côté de la montagne enneigée, se construit déjà un monde merveilleux qui fait rêver et amasser du bonheur »[26]. Séduit par ce monde, le poète demande au crépuscule de faire s’envoler les bergers vers la mère patrie: « Sorti de la mémoire chagrine, l’espoir s’envole d’un battement d’ailes »[27].

Les souffrances endurées quotidiennement par les Tibétains mettent Zang Qing particulièrement mal à l’aise. Même s’il soutient le PCC au pouvoir au Tibet depuis 1951, il appelle à une amélioration plus nette des conditions de vie du peuple tibétain. Bien que Zang Qing demeure, dans le fond, l’un de ces jeunes diplômés chinois ne sachant pas réaliser le socialisme dans les campagnes tibétaines, il déplore cette situation dans le recueil intitulé La rivière noire[28]. Selon la critique de Liu Zhihua[29], cette série de poèmes est représentative de l’angoisse de toute sa génération. Dans ses soupirs exprimés sous forme interrogative, le poète montre qu’il est enfermé dans une spirale sans issue : le mythe que les Chinois ont tenté de créer au Tibet n’est plus crédible ; il faut édifier un nouveau mythe, souhait intense mais peut-être vain. En mettant l’accent sur le passé du Tibet, Zang Qing donne l’impression de plonger son âme dans les errances de l’isolement.

Nombreux sont les auteurs chinois qui, comme Zang Qing, souffrent de se perdre dans la steppe[30]. La couleur noire évoqué dans le titre de ce recueil rappelle un passé lourd d’obscurantisme. Dans le présent, aussi, malgré les multiples couleurs des drapeaux de prière, le progrès n’apparaît pas. Dans les cinq parties du recueil, intitulées la légende, la géographie, la sensation, la vallée et le lyrisme, certaines strophes se présentent comme des flammes brûlantes. Le poète n’a pas le droit de reculer dans son engagement politique, mais la poésie met du baume à son amertume, elle se présente comme étant l’unique moyen de se consoler. C’est pourquoi, dans le dernier texte, le poète emporte son secret : il continuera à avancer et laissera l’eau de la « rivière noire » noyer son cœur. Ayant déjà senti dans l’eau la pourriture et l’angoisse mortifère, il accepte cette fatalité. Alors, avec l’ironie amère des désillusions, il conclut sa série de poèmes en s’accordant un visa tibétain de soixante-sept ans.

Par contre, les poèmes de Ma Lihua démontrent la supériorité de grand Han, les Chinois, qui, venant de l’extérieur, défient dans la solitude l’immensité de la Nature[31]. « Du bout de cette route jusqu’à l’autre bout, avance à l’appel de l’époque, couvert des traces de l’époque/ je suis jeune, pur et plein de vie/ sans souci, sans crainte, ignorant, naïf/ nous avançons vers le plateau tibétain laissant nos chansons joyeuses…/ le vent emporte nos âmes vers nos pays natals » [32]. De façon plus intime et plus poignante, les poèmes militaires de Yang Xianmin mêlent la force de l’héroïsme à la nostalgie de l’exilé : «Je veux utiliser la pointe de mon fusil pour enlever un bout de l’arc-en-ciel/ je suis certain qu’un jour, il reliera mon pays natal et le pays étranger…Un vent violent efface la couleur fraîche de mon nouvel uniforme / ah! Où est la plus douceur de mon pays natal? »[33] De plus, empruntant l’image d’une déesse, les strophes de Yu Si révèlent le conflit entre la souffrance du mal de pays et l’identité militaire au Tibet : « elle est enfermée dans par les montagnes/ qui peut l’apporter pour le pays? /lointain, qui ente sa voix? /mourir en souriant pour la gloire de notre époque » [34]. Le poète de la première génération Gao Pin rejoint le sentiment de ses cadets comme l’indique l’un de ses vers écrits en 1988 : « Le Tibet est le synonyme de la souffrance »[35].

a) Le mal du pays

Cela dit, les jeunes colons chinois ont également recours à la prose pour exprimer leurs sentiments. Une sorte de nouvelle-reportage commence à paraître, offrant un paysage narratif très varié et personnalisé[36].

Le court roman de Sun Dannian, une Chinoise immigrée au Tibet, porte un titre emblématique de la thématique qui le parcourt : Maladie de nostalgie du pays natal. La souffrance de l’exilée est exprimée sans ambages, dès son entrée dans la chambre rustique qui lui était imposée à Lhassa. La description du décor laisse deviner que la narratrice ne désire guère se tarder en ce lieu pauvre, sombre, monotone, perdu, triste et rustique. Dès la première page, le lecteur s’interroge sur les raisons qui ont poussé la narratrice à accepter la proposition du gouvernement de rester cinq ans, huit ans, voire plus au Tibet. Depuis deux ans déjà, elle s’y est installée et n’a pas vu le temps passer. Elle se trouve dans un état de confusion, la vie n’a concrètement pour elle aucun sens. De toute manière, n’est-elle pas emportée comme une feuille au gré du vent ?   Elle demeure apatride et n’a trouvé aucun endroit où s’enraciner. La souffrance singulière qu’évoque la narratrice a pour origine la quête d’un lieu où se poser de manière définitive. Le « je » narratif manifeste un sentiment finalement aux antipodes de l’héroïsme. L’arrivée au Tibet ne chante plus la gloire du PCC mais pleure la souffrance de l’individu perdu.

De même, l’œuvre de Li Yaping révèle une souffrance directement liée à l’idéologie de la sinisation en racontant la tragédie d’une héroïne chinoise, Jiang Ying, au Tibet.[37] Diplômée en médecine, Jiang Ying s’installe en 1953 avec son mari dans l’ouest du Tibet, où tous les deux travaillent à l’hôpital. L’auteur décrit d’abord la souffrance d’une mère qui doit élever ses trois enfants en se contentant de les voir une fois tous les deux ans. Le cas de Jiang Ying est généralisé chez les colons chinois installés au Tibet : ils souffrent d’être séparés de leurs enfants éduqués en Chine. Le sujet relève d’une préoccupation collective mais, rarement traité dans la littérature chinoise au Tibet, il semble tabou. La souffrance de Jian Ying en tant que mère se double d’ailleurs de la douleur d’une épouse : au cours de la Révolution culturelle, son mari, un pédiatre brillant, calomnié par ses propres collègues de travail, a fini par se jeter dans un puits. Il est interdit à Jiang Ying de protester ni de montrer son chagrin, ni même de revoir, pendant trois ans, ses enfants restés au pays natal. Avec une ironie acerbe, l’auteur raconte les efforts de la malheureuse pour devenir membre du PCC ; depuis 1956, elle travaille d’arrache-pied pour en être digne ; et pourtant, elle devra attendre vingt-sept ans pour être enfin acceptée, juste avant de mourir. Le véritable objectif de ce « reportage » littéraire est donc de rendre hommage aux nombreux colons chinois au Tibet qui ont sacrifié leur vie à l’application scrupuleuse de l’idéologie de la sinisation.

Le triste sort de Jiang Ying invite aussi tous les colons chinois vivant au Tibet à méditer leur propre destin. La nouvelle « Apparition de la lune »[38] explique la souffrance des amoureux éloignés l’un de l’autre, comme celle d’une paysanne chinoise et d’un militaire qui perdra la vie en faisant son service au Tibet. Le roman Raison pour le Tibet publié en 1998[39] aborde bien ces mêmes difficultés émotionnelles en racontant le service de quatre diplômés d’université qui ont signé un contrat de huit ans. Les raisons de leur souffrance sont multiples : l’éloignement familial, une santé qui se dégrade, la crainte de décevoir le gouvernement si le contrat n’est pas respecté. A la lecture de leur quotidien, on en conclut que la vie des Chinois au Tibet n’est que peine perdue car les personnages du roman sont obligés de sacrifier leur jeunesse à l’idéologie : le Tibet est un paradis pour les touristes, mais l’enfer pour les Chinois immigrés[40]. Comment se situer quand on est une immigrée comme Li Die ? Lorsqu’elle est en vacances au pays natal, elle perd ses points de repère ; au Tibet, elle ne sent pas chez elle ; où donc demeurer ? Quelle est sa véritable identité ? Les doutes l’assaillent à la rendre malade. La question de l’identité se pose chaque jour et la Chinoise du Tibet est impuissante à maîtriser la situation.

Le manque d’amour

Vivre au Tibet, c’est vivre sans amour pour la plupart des Chinois immigrés selon les textes littéraires de cette époque, où la souffrance de ne pas pouvoir aimer ou de ne pas pouvoir être aimé est un thème fréquent. La nouvelle intitulée « Bise du pays de neige »[41] évoque cette carence chez les jeunes soldats, isolés par des milliers de kilomètres qui les séparent de leurs proches, coincés dans les hautes montagnes enneigées. La visite d’une stagiaire dans une poste à la frontière vient troubler ces militaires qui n’ont pas vu de femme depuis au moins deux ans. Durant les trois jours qu’elle passe parmi eux, la jeune ne leur pose qu’une seule question qui pique le cœur de chaque soldat comme une aiguille : As-tu une amoureuse ? Le jour de son départ, la jeune stagiaire donne un bisou à chaque soldat, ersatz dérisoire face à un manque d’amour cruel.

Plus près de nous, et selon une appréhension toute tchekhovienne du manque d’amour, la nouvelle « Sentiment prouvé »[42], publiée en 2004, montre que le besoin d’amour va parfois jusqu’à mettre le protagoniste dans un état psychologiquement anormal. Guo Min, diplômé de l’université, se porte volontaire pour investir sa jeunesse et sa compétence dans l’exploitation de la plus grande mine de bronze au Tibet. Il s’installe donc dans la ville de Chang, où il ne craint ni le manque des légumes frais et de dentifrice, ni l’éloignement de sa famille. A l’université, il collectionnait les conquêtes féminines et ce séducteur ne peut imaginer travailler dans un endroit où il n’y aurait pas de femmes chinoises. Sur la route de l’exil, il rencontre une Chinoise Tian Xin, sa future collègue dans la mine. Comme elle est la seule Chinoise à sa disposition, Guo Min séduit immédiatement Tian Xin qui se sent fière et heureuse, car durant les quatre années qu’elle a passées à l’université, aucun garçon ne s’est intéressé à son physique disgracieux. Rapidement, Guo Min tombe malade et Tian Xin passe ses nuits à jouer aux cartes avec les hommes. Tous les jours à 21h15, Guo Min attend le retour de Tian Xin. En vain. Quelques mois plus tard, Guo Min est sans nouvelle de Tian Xin qui vit déjà avec un autre homme. Guo Min attend toujours le regard fixé au plafond de sa chambre rustique qu’il se met soudain à aimer. Un jour, un collègue lui téléphone et lui annonce, tout ému de la nouvelle, que les dirigeants ont décidé de faire venir une vingtaine de jeunes Chinoises diplômées à la mine, mais Guo Min a déjà perdu le goût de vivre; il meurt en regardant le plafond de sa chambre solitaire du Tibet.

La nouvelle identité: l’aventurier et le chasseur de trésors

Les parents éloignés de leurs enfants et le célibataire en mal d’amour ne sont pourtant pas les seules figures à exposer les difficultés rencontrées par les colons chinois au Tibet. Dès 1988, dans la nouvelle « Toile sans peinture »[43], où Liu Wei met en scène un groupe de personnages, il s’agit encore de jeunes diplômés chinois vivant à Lhassa, mais ceux-ci y sont attirés par le goût de la découverte personnelle. La ville est un théâtre où les personnages vivent à leur manière, décalés. Xinye, le personnage central, un peintre chinois, vit à la mode occidentale. Comme ses amis, il est attiré par l’exotisme tibétain : objets divers, ancienne monnaie, sculptures en argile, et il s’intéresse tout particulièrement, comme eux, aux squelettes tibétains utilisés pour les rites funéraires. Chaque rencontre entre Xinye et ses amis est l’occasion de comparer leurs collections. Avec fierté et un certain sens de l’aventure, ils racontent chacun à leur tour comment ils ont déniché leurs trésors.

L’auteur introduit alors dans l’histoire des Tibétains opposés à la modernisation afin de montrer à quel point ils sont aujourd’hui sinisés. Il y a d’abord la Tibétaine primitive dont Xinye fait sa petite amie. Puis, un jeune Tibétain Jia Cuo à qui Xinye apprend la peinture. Leur relation est celle nouée entre un maître et son élève. Mais il existe une incompatibilité entre les personnages. Jia Cuo apparaît encore plus « rustique » que la petite amie de Xinye, comme le montre la scène où Jia Cuo fait l’amour en se trompant de partenaire. La nouvelle s’apparente à une fresque aux images crues et, pour les corser encore un peu plus, Liu Wei joue sur les registres sensoriels en associant des odeurs douteuses à l’évocation des paysages. Le comportement des deux « Tibétains » qu’il côtoie au quotidien met en évidence la souffrance de Xinye ; elle est certes atténuée par sa passion pour les objets singuliers, mais les colons chinois ne sont-ils pas présentés comme écartelés entre l’envie de posséder toutes les richesses du Tibet et les ravages psychologiques d’un séjour prolongé dans un pays où ils ont du mal à s’adapter, dans lequel ils ressentent immanquablement les affres de l’exil ?

Le court roman Fureur[44] présente une autre manière de compenser la douleur de vivre loin de sa culture d’origine au Tibet. Le narrateur, un Chinois migrant sans diplôme qui raconte son histoire à la première personne, a pour seul objectif de s’enrichir matériellement en arrivant au Tibet. En deux années à peine, il tue un homme pour son argent, se cache dans le nord-ouest du pays, devient le chef de la mafia chinoise, ouvre une maison close et y fait venir des jeunes femmes chinoises—, même des diplômées de l’université—, et il réunit des délinquants chinois pour attaquer les convois et les touristes, après avoir pris soin de corrompre la police locale. Pour éviter les complications, il demande de ménager les autochtones. Les péripéties du récit guident le lecteur au cœur d’un Tibet troublé par des malfaiteurs chinois : on n’y trouve plus de relents de la propagande qui invite à construire un autre Tibet moderne.  

Le Tibet sous la plume des Chinois de Chine

Depuis l’installation du pouvoir du PCC au Tibet, le pays en neige est à la fois un sujet politique auquel  les instances du pouvoir doivent répondre et un sujet exotique pour les intellectuels n’ayant pas l’occasion d’y vivre. Traiter le sujet du Tibet et s’inspirer de ce lieu sont considérés comme étant des assurances de l’innovation tant au niveau du contenu qu’au niveau de la forme, et son traitement thématique répond bien à l’attente des dirigeants chinois. Voici l’exemple de trois  écrivains chinois célèbres : Zhang Xiaotian, Wang Meng et Su Yang ont chacun publié un court roman sur le Tibet sans véritablement y habiter.  Dans le roman de Zhang Xiaotian qui s’intitule Ouverture d’un document secret,[45] l’héroïne, Ge Yilan, est surnommée « la libératrice sexuelle ». Après une vie d’échecs successifs aux  U.S.A., cette Chinoise part pour le Tibet qu’elle considère comme l’endroit le plus pauvre du monde, un enfer aux antipodes du paradis américain. Elle devra y vivre pour expier l’une de ses fautes : avoir trompé son mari qui s’est plongé alors dans l’univers de la drogue. Souffrir parmi les Tibétains qui endurent eux-mêmes une vie rude depuis les temps les plus reculés lui apporte de l’apaisement, non sans orgueil. Car, si elle a échoué dans son rêve américain, elle atteint une espèce de rédemption en s’imposant une vie de souffrance au Tibet.

L’ancien ministre de la culture et de la propagande, Wang Meng, raconte une trajectoire inverse. En janvier 1985, il publie dans la revue officielle Littérature du peuple[46] son roman Vent du haut plateau. Inspiré par un voyage de quelques jours au Tibet, ce texte raconte les mésaventures d’un couple chinois. Issu d’une famille aisée, Long Long n’a aucun projet de métier : il passe son temps à rêver d’une vie moderne. Grâce à la richesse de son père, il ne manque pourtant de rien jusqu’à ce qu’il tombe amoureux de Xiao Li qui avait quitté la ville pour s’installer à la campagne pendant la Révolution Culturelle, répondant ainsi à l’appel de Mao Zedong encourageant tous les diplômés à être rééduqués par les paysans. Durant cette période, Xiao Li vivait selon les préceptes d’un fanatisme idéologique et avait donné naissance à un enfant hors mariage. Long Long s’éprend de cette femme de quatre ans son aînée dès leur première rencontre. Il décide de tout abandonner et de partir, avec Xiao Li, vivre parmi les Tibétains. Celle-ci souhaiterait plutôt s’installer aux U.S.A., mais avant d’y aller, elle veut bien vivre avec les Tibétains pour connaître l’expérience de l’extrême pauvreté, pour mieux goûter par la suite au paradis américain. Aller au Tibet est aussi une manière de suivre la politique du gouvernement et d’aider les pauvres Tibétains à sortir de leur souffrance. Le père de Long Long, haut fonctionnaire du gouvernement central, n’approuve pas la décision de son fils et considère qu’il se berce d’illusions, sinon de snobisme. L’influence de Wang Meng, à la fois homme de lettres et homme politique, a beaucoup contribué à la diffusion du thème tibétain.

Chez d’autres écrivains, le Tibet apparaît également comme un purgatoire. C’est en 1984 que Su Yang publie, dans le premier numéro de la revue littéraire officielle Le contemporain, son roman intitulé Le pays natal. Il y est question d’un jeune et brillant médecin nommé Bei Tianming. Sa femme, une amie d’enfance, est atteinte d’un cancer. A cause de sa maladie, elle a quitté les U.S.A. pour retourner dans son pays natal. Après une séparation d’une vingtaine d’années, Bei Tianming et la jeune femme font un mariage heureux. Malheureusement, le jeune homme se retrouve veuf. Vivre seul lui est une souffrance insupportable, mais il ne peut pas accepter l’amour d’une autre femme car, lorsqu’il postule pour être chef de service, les autres critiquent sa vie privée. Pour trouver une issue à cette situation, il décide alors d’aller au Tibet où il vivra dans le dénuement complet et s’infligera la souffrance physique de la pauvreté qui pourra peut-être apaiser sa souffrance morale. L’intérêt de cette histoire ne réside pas uniquement dans le destin du personnage, mais aussi dans la solution que l’auteur envisage pour lui. Su Yang présente le Tibet comme un bagne pour les Chinois, mais, n’y ayant jamais vécu, son roman ne propose qu’une échappatoire imaginaire pour ceux qui ne trouvent pas d’autre issue à leur vie dans leur pays d’origine.

Dans l’esprit de ces trois écrivains chinois contemporains, le Tibet constitue un endroit hostile. Ainsi, chaque fois qu’un personnage se trouve dans une situation inextricable, le Tibet, pays de haute altitude à l’oxygène raréfiée, devient un refuge infernal mais incontournable, d’autant plus qu’au-delà de la souffrance, il offre un dépaysement magnifique.

Xu Mingxu, critique littéraire chinois immigré au Tibet, dénonce chez ces trois écrivains un manque de respect à l’égard des intellectuels chinois qui vivent au Tibet—, ou encore à l’égard de tous les jeunes Chinois venus en ces lieux dans le but louable d’aider à la construction d’un pays moderne[47]. Xu Mingxu souligne par ailleurs les lacunes de ces textes d’écrivains qui connaissent mal la réalité de la vie au Tibet. Selon lui, les personnages dans leurs œuvres n’ont été créés que pour suivre la mode et  rejoindre les lecteurs. Il leur reproche de négliger la nouvelle génération intellectuelle chinoise vivant au Tibet qui, en lisant de telles fictions, n’y retrouvent que des ratés, des hommes en quête de refuge ou des utopistes. En fait, le propos de Mingxu sont provoqués par une réticence à être mis sur le même plan que les protagonistes de ces trois écrivains. Il se présente comme le porte-parole de tous les intellectuels chinois vivant au Tibet, et il indique clairement que ni lui ni ses confrères ne connaissent la souffrance et les difficultés auxquelles sont confrontés les personnages romanesques. Même s’il insiste aussi sur les rudes conditions de vie dans l’environnement tibétain, et s’il reconnaît que les Chinois vivant au Tibet souffrent au quotidien, il affirme que son départ pour le Tibet n’était pas motivé par des troubles personnels.

L’opinion de Xu Mingxu ne fait guère l’unanimité. Depuis les années 80, d’autres auteurs d’origine chinoise vivant au Tibet dénoncent la souffrance engendrée par l’idéologie héroïque et par les difficultés de vivre au Tibet. C’est le sujet principal de cette littérature, dite « littérature chinoise coloniale au Tibet ». Les auteurs s’attachent à décrire les coutumes et les paysages tibétains, mais, saisis par la peur de s’éloigner de la vie moderne, ils expriment aussi leur angoisse et leurs doutes. Ces jeunes Chinois immigrés au Tibet, ne peuvent renier leur devoir politique[48]. C’est alors que leurs œuvres deviennent une sorte d’exutoire, destiné à leur permettre de manifester leurs sentiments personnels et également à leur servir de réconfort où ils s’appuient sur l’interprétation idéologique du passé tibétain.

Conclusion

Née du but politique d’occuper une terre étrangère et difficilement domptée, et œuvrant au service de l’idéalisme colonial, la littérature chinoise coloniale au Tibet enregistre principalement la souffrance de la vie quotidienne et les difficultés psychologiques des colons chinois. Cependant, elle sert aussi comme un outil de révélation  du sentiment personnel opposant l’héroïsme fanatique du PCC, surtout sous la plume des écrivains de la seconde génération. Que le lecteur favorise la poésie ou la prose,  il ne peut s’empêcher de ressentir de la pitié pour les milliers des colons chinois ayant sacrifié leur vie à l’idéologie politique. Cette littérature finit par devenir en elle-même une ressource de survie : les auteurs chinois plus récents s’identifient étroitement donc à une écriture personnelle. Mais, somme toute, les aspects éthiquement douteux de la « mission civilisatrice » chinoise engendrent une souffrance qui finit également par humaniser ceux qui y participent.  Avec orgueil, les auteurs chinois recourent à la poésie, à l’écriture romanesque, tout à la fois consolatrice et utilitaire, pour exprimer les périls de la vie quotidienne, l’isolement du travail, la séparation des proches—, enfin bref, la nature de leur épreuve. Dans leurs œuvres, requêtes et suppliques se mêlent aux descriptions, aux plaintes et aux démonstrations d’affection. En ce sens, la littérature chinoise coloniale n’est plus simplement un outil au service de l’héroïsme idéologique, mais un miroir où se reflète la souffrance inconsolable dans la colonisation au Tibet.

The post Souffrance ou héroïsme ? : Le sentiment des colons chinois dans la littérature chinoise au Tibet appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Francisco Zamora Loboch[1], or simply “Paco” to those who know him, is one of Equatorial Guinea’s best-known writers. Born in 1948 on the Equatorial Guinean island of Annobon, his life has been profoundly marked by his country’s passage from Spanish colonial rule, to independence, to dictatorship, to diaspora. Although he came to Spain to study at university in 1968, the ascent of Francisco Macías Nguema’s brutal regime forced thousands of his compatriots into exile, thus making Zamora’s Spanish sojourn permanent. In 1979, Macías’ equally ruthless nephew, Teodoro Obiang, assumed the presidency, further cementing the impossibility of Zamora’s return. Zamora has since established himself as a journalist in Madrid. He has worked for several publications over the decades, most notably as a sports editor for As. His literary works, which include essays (How to be black and not die in Aravaca, 1994), poetry (Memory of Labyrinths, 1999; From the Viyil and Other Chronicles, 2008); and novels (Conspiracy on the Green, 2009; The Caiman of Kaduna, 2012),  examine such pressing issues as the role of nationalism in a land marked by ethnic tension, poverty, and state terror; the experience of exile in a former colonial metropolis; the contested belonging of an African nation in the global Spanish-speaking community; and the role of humor in bringing about change.

On May 28, 2013, Paco sat down with me in his Madrid office to talk about his life and his literature.

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Martin Repinecz:                            Can you talk a bit about how you came to Spain and about how you became a writer?

Francisco Zamora Loboch:                           Well, I was already a writer as a child. I have a poem that describes it. In Annobon, there were not many people that knew how to read in that period. When the mail boat came, the older men and women always depended on the kids, on the young people, who knew how to write, to write the letters. So from then on, I began to write, which was good because it was very well paid. What I mean is that, the better your letters were, the more yams you had, the more plantains you had, you even had more fish, etcetera. So I began writing then, or rather, I began to know the importance of what writing is.

And in terms of coming to this country, when I was young like you, it seemed I was as smart and intelligent as you–people believed that I was smart and intelligent, like you!

FZL:                           And they gave me a scholarship, so I came here to study economics. But after a while I realized that what really attracted me was journalism. So I switched to journalism.

MR:                            And that was in the ‘60s, right?

FZL:                           More like the ‘70s. I’m not that old; don’t be a jerk.

MR:                            And when did you begin to write creatively?

FZL:                           Even in Guinea I began to write poetry, perhaps when I was about 17 or 18. And even before, because as a kid, I learned to read very early; I think that I could read even at three or four years old.

MR:                            Your father was also a poet?

FZL:                           My father was a poet and schoolteacher. So, for me, to discover reading tebeos, or comics, as they are now called, was a very gratifying world. But it was also problematic because now my older sisters remind me how much I would laugh at them because they didn’t know how to read. At six or seven, I would still tell them, “how is it possible?”, and such. So obviously I began to get into problems, but of laughter; I have always laughed a lot at the ignorant.

FZL:                           But because the ignorant are always stronger, they always end up bringing you down by hitting you, or beating you up, or something like that. So anyway, yes, I began to write in Guinea, and when I arrived here, I underwent, naturally, a transformation of everything I had written, which was about palm trees, and similar things. And upon arriving here, thank God, I found people who were very critical with respect to politics and history, etcetera, in the classrooms of the school of journalism. I was very lucky in that sense because for others to be critical and tell you, “What is all this stuff about palm trees and coconut trees?” and such, forces you to get with the times. And as you write in newspapers at the same time, you begin to realize that regionalism has no raison d’être if it doesn’t have its projection in a common tree of culture. One cannot simply spend one’s life talking about ancestors, about caves, about palm trees and coconut trees; no, no, no. One must integrate all these things, as a certain Brazilian musician would say, in a common culture.

MR:                            And when you were small in Annobon, what texts were available for you? You mentioned comics, right?

FZL:                           Comics! Captain Thunder, Jabato, Mortadelo y Filemón; whatever there was from that period. I didn’t read any interesting books, if that’s what you’re asking.

FZL:                           Was I already reading Dickens? No. Not at all; my culture was limited to comics; to the world of Captain Thunder, the world of Jabato, the world of Mortadelo y Filemón; of the Guerrero del Antifaz; just like any Spanish child.

MR:                            And Western novels as well, right?

FZL:                           Ah yes, of course; my father had very good Western novels, but he didn’t let me read them. But I looked for them and found them. An in addition, it so happens that a beautiful story has come out in recent years about Western authors. I don’t know if you have read about how the authors that were persecuted by the Franco regime took refuge by writing Westerns, mysteries, and crime novels to survive, and they would use pseudonyms like Clark Karrados, like Silver Kane. The only one that used his own name was Marical Lafuente Estefanía. I am very taken by that moment. As an enthusiast, not to show off my readings. Now, when I began studying  at the Middle School in Santa Isabel, or Malabo, or Clarence, since it has three names…[2]

MR:                            Pardon, you left Annobon at a certain point?

FZL:                           Yes, of course; my father was a teacher, and when they sent him to Santa Isabel, I went there too. So two or three years later, I began studying at the Middle School Institute. When I was at the Middle School Institute, they started to allow black children to enter, because before the Institute was only for white children. So starting in the year ’58, when Equatorial Guinea was declared a province of Spain, just like Albacete, then we [black children] could also attend the Institutes. That is when I found myself with competent teachers who taught me who Juan Ramón Jiménez was, who Cervantes was, who other writers were, etcetera. And that is when I came in to contact with great literature, and when I began to read seriously, especially Juan Ramón, whom I read a great deal; Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer; in short, anything that people read in that period. And I remember perfectly when I read Platero y yo, that I was impressed at how one could write so well. And of course Juan Ramón Jiménez’s poems, even if he didn’t influence me much later on, but this fills you with culture, don’t you think?

MR:                            Yes, definitely. Even when you wrote letters in Annobon, you wrote in Spanish?

FZL:                           In Spanish, in Spanish. If not, what purpose did it have? From Annobon, you can only go to Santa Isabel, or Fernando Pó, or Bioko, or Malabo.[3] That was the vital itinerary of an Annobonese person. An Annobonese person would go to work in Malabo to build his house, etc. So we had no other panorama, and we are still that way today. In other words, an Annobonese person’s ideal is to set foot in the land of the Bubis,[4] to accumulate money or material to build a house of stone or a house of cement, etc.

MR:                            Can you speak a bit more about identity in Annobon? How do people on that island feel their Annobonese identity with respect their Equatorial Guinean identity?

FZL:                           The Annobonese feel very, very very Annobonese. I think that we feel Guinean because of the Bubis. Because the relationship between Annobon and the island of Bioko, or the island of Fernando Pó, however it is called, has always existed. Because as I have told you, it was our link to know what was happening in the world, to be able to buy things, to be able to use something called money, to have relationships with white culture. So of course, from Bioko, being connected with the mainland is no problem. At the end of the day, you are in Africa. Whatever you do. This is something that Africans don’t know: at the end of the day, it is going to be Africa.

MR:                            But the Annobonese identify more with the Bubis than with the Fang?[5]

FZL:                           Yes, of course. The contact between Annobon and the Fang is of the last forty or fifty years. By contrast, the contact between the Annobonese and the Bubis is many centuries old. We didn’t go to the continent, we went to the island in search of opportunities. That is where the Bubis are. But it is a melting pot, the capital, which is formbed by Bubis, Spaniards, and others. What it means to be a capital. A small one, but still a capital at the end of the day.

MR:                            And how was the experience of living in Santa Isabel [present-day Malabo] for you?

FZL:                           Of course! There I met my life-long friends, those who would become my friends, who were all a bunch of ruffians. My father was also in charge of a reform school for young people. So imagine, a kid my age, surrounded by so many scoundrels, delinquents, crooks! My whole life I’ve been around crooks, rascals, thieves, freeloaders! These were my friends!

FZL:                           And in addition to those I met in the Institute, I also met many friends in a semi-fascist experience, which was the OJE, the Spanish Youth Organization, when I came to Spain in ’62-’63. But that OJE was a work of Franco, and people used to say Franco called it his pet project, or something like that. Its purpose was so that Guinean teenagers, at age 14, 15, or 16, could come to the peninsula, to Spain, to integrate with other Spanish kids. So of course, your universe changed in two or three trips! It was amazing, because from the racial discrimination of Guinea, from the supremacy of whites over blacks, you come here and you think to yourself, “What the hell is this? I am just the same as these guys!” They would pull your leg, and you would pull theirs, and you would be integrated in a day or two. So the OJE played a very great role despite being a fascist organization of the youth of Equatorial Guinea of that period because it allowed them to leave the colonial environment and enjoy Spain. But certainly, the enrichment of this semi-fascist, para-fascist experience—can you imagine, with the blue and khaki uniform?—enabled us to wake up from a sluggish, colonial world. And it was a whole generation: it was not just me, but hundreds of kids that would come here in the summer to the OJE’s camps. Although Macías[6] finished off all these people, some saved themselves.

MR:                            So, when you came to Spain to start university, did you plan on going back to Guinea?

FZL:                           Yes, of course; I had no interest in staying; all the romanticism that I might have had for this country had been exhausted by the time I was 18. At 18, I knew it all.

MR:                            And with the OJE, you would come to Madrid?

FZL:                           Ah, no; they were incredible experiences for a kid born in Guinea. At 15, they left you in Cádiz in a boat. They would give you just enough money and a map, and they would tell you where you had to go and what day you had to be there. So we had to figure it out, either walking, or hitchhiking, or however we could to get to these places, of course. Imagine the experience you would get in the ‘60s around here. I remember one time we went to Galicia because the camp was in a place called Sada, a very famous beach. Six of us little Guineans arrived here with our satchels and whatnot, and the leader said, “OK, today we are going to make a paella.” We had the rice, we asked for a paella pan, and we started making the rice, and a couple of ladies approached us. “What are you doing?”, they said. “We are going to make a paella.” “Where are you from?” “From Guinea.” “Since when do you make paellas?” We told them, “No, it’s just that…”, and they said, “Look, sons: you are very young; you look great, very handsome. Go for a swim. Enjoy Galicia in peace. And when you come back, don’t worry, because we will make you a paella.” Wooooow! And when we came back, that was a huge paella, a party!

MR:                            So you said you came to study economics but then you switched to journalism, right?

FZL:                           Yes, in the Complutense.

MR:                            And you were at university when Guinea became independent?

FZL:                           No, I was there [in Guinea], in the Plaza de España, although I don’t know what it’s called now.[7] I was there that day.[8]

MR:                            Oh, you remember the day! What happened exactly?

FZL:                           Well, after that, about two months later or so, I came to Spain. And later came everything with Macías: the murders, the brutality, and so on, but I was here while that was going on. Later, we organized a few plans to return, but they failed; all of our attempts failed. We were also very naïve; we didn’t think money was important.

MR:                            So, in the early years, you were involved in political movements?

FZL:                           Yes, I always have been.

MR:                            Let’s talk for a minute about your career as a journalist. Can you speak a bit more about how you came to be a sports journalist in particular?

FZL:                           Ah, yes, because on one occasion I was talking with one of my teachers, and I was obsessed with Guinea. So he told me not to be so obsessed with it, and that I dedicate myself to journalism. First I had to subsist, and second, I shouldn’t label myself too strongly. So, I have always been alternating one thing with the other. But above all, in my opinion, where I have written the best has been in the world of sports because as a young man I was a great athlete. That is definitely true. I did track, basketball, hurdles, and of course soccer.

MR:                            Your last novel, El caimán de Kaduna, is about soccer. I assume your experience reporting about soccer helped you to write it?

FZL:                           Yes. The newspaper As has sent me to practically all the soccer championships in Africa. In the World Cup in Germany,[9] four or five African teams classified, so I had to go to all those African countries to report how the World Cup was seen there. I was at the African Cup of Nations in Ghana.[10] And at the one in Egypt.[11] And at the one in Angola.[12] And then I was in South Africa recently for the World Cup.[13]

MR:                            And when you were in all those countries, did you manage to establish contact with other African writers?

FZL:                           No, I was working like a madman. Because you have to fill two pages of newspaper every day. You don’t have time for anything. There is no time for anything except to eat badly. But it is the best time to visit those countries. You see the national explosion, the national depression, you see people who have nothing to do with soccer criticizing soccer. In addition, the organization isn’t usually very sophisticated. Here, if you show your press pass, they send you to a different place, and from there you have to go somewhere else. But not there. I prefer that chaos. It is more entertaining.

MR:                            So, going back to literature, the first literary texts you published were poems that came out in Donato’s anthology?[14]

FZL:                           Not quite in Donato’s anthology. Amidst the attempts to search for funds to fight Macías, we published a few books that we called Guinean literature, or something like that; I can’t remember. That was how the first writings started to come out.  Now I believe it’s been 25 years since those first texts that Donato, I and others published.

MR:                            And what is your opinion, in general, of the attempt to create a Guinean literature? Do you consider it important to label it that way?

FZL:                           Yes, I consider it important to label it that way because in this way, those of us who read in Spanish will realize that right now, the Spanish language has three legs. One is Spain: Madrid; Seville; the peninsula. Another leg is South America, and the third is in Africa. So it is important for us to be distinguished as such. You, as a good American, know that until something is named, it has no visibility. And you cannot make a movement. It is good, it is not bad.

MR:                            Do you feel that Guinean writers are obtaining more visibility?

FZL:                           The universities are giving them more visibility.

MR:                            In Spain too?

FZL:                           No, not in Spain. The Americans. Every time an American scholar calls me, I am unable to tell them no, because I know they are making a valuable effort, and people like Justo Bolekia, Ávila Laurel, and Donato Ndongo Bidyogo[15] know the dependence and the gratitude that we owe to the Americans. To American students.  Because they have taken what we are producing very seriously with their theses and their studies. There is no American university where people don’t know something about what is being produced in Equatorial Guinea. And that is thanks to them, not to Spain. In Spain, they don’t give us the time of day. They haven’t fully understood that a small country called Guinea is the embassy of the Spanish language in Africa. And if they have understood it, they don’t care. But damn, for a continent that speaks a zillion languages to have a special part dedicated to Spanish? Even if the writing is shit! It’s true that sometimes I think to myself, geez, this novel is crap, or this poem has nothing interesting to it; but it’s in Spanish!

FZL:                           And Spain, the Instituto Cervantes and the institutions should be more aware of what is going on. Because you can’t imagine the number of people that write in Guinea; a ton.

MR:                            What is the situation for writers in Equatorial Guinea?

FZL:                           I’m not sure, because I don’t live there. But I suppose it must be frustrating because they don’t have readers. The government doesn’t do much for them. As Ávila Laurel said, “Writing in Guinea is like being a skier in the Sahara.”

MR:                            Yes, that’s what I imagined.

FZL:                           Yes.

MR:                            Can you tell me a bit about your upcoming literary projects?

FZL:                           I am preparing a book of poems. I want to call it, “Spanish Blue.” “Spanish Blue” is about language, religion, and the poetic relationship between my Spain and my Guinea. On one hand, blue represents the uniform of the Falangists, of the regime. The Falangist hymn said, “cover your chest in Spanish blue.” But then there is also a poem by Juan Ramón Jiménez that says, “Every afternoon the sky will be blue and placid.”[16] I love this “blue and placid.” And I think it’s a very intriguing thing. I have started writing it but I am not in a hurry.

MR:                            Very interesting. As a final question, have you ever thought about returning to Equatorial Guinea?

FZL:                           Yes, of course! I have to teach the kids to play soccer right, because I think they are doing it badly. And I can also teach them to play volleyboll, and I can also teach them to play basketball. And if the Guineans don’t want to, I can do it in Annobon. No problem.

MR:                            Thanks so much, Paco.

FZL:                           No problem, man. That’s two or three beers you’re going to buy me now, pal!

The post Labyrinths of memories: A conversation with Francisco Zamora Loboch appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

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The West, as the representative model of order and stability in the international system, surveys the possibilities of peace and conflict in potentially significant geo-strategic zones. The West as the global policeman is also seeking potential allies that can help regulate and facilitate access to resources. An election in a postcolonial country is an important barometer in making these calculations, and therefore a subject of intense surveillance by the West. Elections in a postcolonial country come under the gaze of the West usually if it is with regards to a former colony ravaged by warfare and subject to the reconstruction efforts of the West.

The West is often involved in sending election monitors to supervise elections in these countries. But this year the elections in India, an independent country with a vibrant democratic system, has gained unprecedented visibility and is the subject of intense debate in the West.[1] The ongoing trauma of postcolonial experience has come alive during the current elections in India. Newspaper and academic articles introduce this subject with numerical citations on the size of the electorate (814 million) and are keen to label the political system as a stable ‘democracy’ in order to weigh in on the significance of an election in a postcolonial country.[2] These enormous figures and political labels on legitimacy help attract the attention of Western audiences by helping to focus their gaze on a far away landscape and give a sense of importance to the subaltern.[3]

These elections have made visible in an unprecedented manner the agony of a painful colonial legacy that the nationalists tried to subvert. The old and dirty colonial legacy of divide and conquer, playing upon distrust between the Hindus, the Muslims, the Sikhs and many others continues as  these are now regarded as ‘vote banks’ for parties contesting elections. Take for example, the two main political parties: the Bharatiya Janta Party (BJP) issues a majoritarian appeal to the Hindus to unite, and the Congress woos the Muslims as a minority that needs to be protected by a secular force. Sonia Gandhi, the current president of the Congress party has made deliberate efforts to reach out to the Muslim clergy to ask them to mobilize popular support in their constituencies in support of her party.[4]

The legacy of a colonial education too has had visible effects on the electorate. In order to establish its own ideological supremacy, colonial education deliberately castigated any nationalist attempts to foster an alternative ideology such as Hindutva as inferior, subversive and a threat to modernization.[5] The imported ideologies of liberalism and communism have been taught for generations, but any engagement with indigenous ideologies such as Hindutva is actively discouraged and dismissed as rabid. This has generated an atmosphere of fear and suspicion that has little patience for investigating the factors that have encouraged the BJP to resort to Hindutva, and the impact of electoral politics on this ideology. The BJP is repeatedly attacked as a divisive and anti-secular force trying to rewrite history in a manner that will split the country and undermine its democratic institutions. These insecurities and fears became most visible with the unprecedented act of a college principal issuing a special message on the college website and sending official emails to students in a deliberate attempt to influence their decision to vote a day before the polls opened.[6]

The subaltern has tried to thwart these colonial legacies of ‘divide and rule’ and colonial education through the civilizing catharsis of a written constitution with its antidote of secularism. This helped the subaltern gain recognition as a sovereign state within the international community. It is respect for this constitution that is now being reiterated by the established political parties as they try to temper and discipline new political parties such as the Aam Admi Party (AAP) entering the political fray. The lack of respect for constitutional procedures has generated concern about impending anarchy should this party come to power. In an act of frustration or in an effort to propose an alternative identity that is capable of even questioning this constitution, Arvind Kejriwal, the leader of this political party did not even hesitate to proclaim himself an anarchist.[7] This rash proclamation sent alarm bells ringing through the corridors of power both within the country and overseas. The strong backlash has now compelled Kejriwal to retract and issue a statement that he is committed to working within the modalities of the Indian constitution.[8]

These experiences have created a paradox where a postcolonial country is on the one hand applauded for being a vibrant democracy while on the other there is an embedded sense of fear, trepidation and uncertainty among the political pundits. At regular intervals alarmist trumpet calls alert the West to the unpredictability of the outcome of these elections and the future political trajectory of this country.[9] The seriousness of these dangerous threat perceptions is complemented by the old game of caricature and stereotyping. This strategy of deploying political cartoons is claimed by the West to have been introduced to the illiterate Orient that only with the help of simple visuals could learn to appreciate politics and political humour.[10] This strategy has now gained much popularity and traction in Indian culture and politics. The Oriental stereotypes of the ‘pandit’ and the ‘mullah’ created by the West are now regenerated and reinvigorated to lampoon political candidates and their religious affiliations. The caricature of Baba Ramdev in his saffron robes is a case in point.[11] The satirical intonations and depictions of ‘Madame Sonia’ as a gesture towards her Italian ancestry invoke loud laughter from mass audiences attending public rallies.[12]

Similarly other ideological tropes such as Fascism, Nazism and ghettoism are being evoked as threats to the much vaunted secularism and feminism.[13] The sly civility in the evocation of these particular tropes should not blind us to the politics behind their careful deployment. The politics of engaging and educating the West in its own language about other locales is based on a subtle assumption that the West can only comprehend violence if the subaltern willingly partakes and shares a vocabulary familiar to the West, crafted in its own experiences of epistemic violence. Any narration of suffering can be of sustained interest only if it finds resonance in the West. The universality of experiences of suffering and any struggle against them can only be described in a language of human rights as a standard of civilization sourced from the West.[14] So immersed is the subaltern in her Western experiences of learning and conceptualization that there is little need to pause or any attempt to articulate these experiences in local terms such as the need for sadbhavna (goodwill towards all)  or satyagraha (sacrifice and penance). The articulation of these concepts by some politicians that escaped the Western fount of learning still imparted in missionary schools in the Orient is dismissed as nonsensical.

The acute sense of vulnerability and shame that is experienced by the subaltern now  scrutinized by the West is couched in assurances of a predictable foreign policy and ministers treading the beaten old path regulated by an elephant bureaucracy.[15] The clerks under a colonial regime were always the acclaimed loyalists and in a post-colonial India their briefings to the elected candidates would secure their proper adaptation and adherence to the international protocol. These assurances mimic the confidence of a new post-colonial intellectual and political elite that in the immediate aftermath of its new found independence is eager to demonstrate to the West its capability to govern in a responsible manner.  In this election as soon as the manifesto of the BJP suggested a possibility of revising India’s nuclear doctrine this was taken very seriously by the West.[16] The party leadership had to issue an immediate clarification of adhering to a no-first use policy. These gestures are representative of a desire to assure and appease the West by the postcolonial elites that no matter which political party comes to power India will not make any radical changes in its nuclear policy.[17] These practices continue as exercises demonstrating the rational mind of the subaltern.

As the elections are being constested these facile attempts at mimicry to reconcile and assure the West that we will be rational and steer the beaten path in our foreign and economic policy continue unabated and find a place in leading academic and journalistic publications in the West. Regular assurances are issued that India will not deviate from the path of neo-liberal economic reforms and will maintain the status-quo vis-à-vis its neighbours and the West.[18] Political candidates are evaluated in terms of their relationship with the US and China as two powerful economies interested in doing business with India. The US is still ambivalent about issuing a visa to Narendra Modi, the BJP candidate, but has not hesitated in making overtures by sending its ambassador for a private meeting with him.[19] The hesitation of the West to embrace an electoral frontrunner renders Modi a more palatable candidate to non-Western countries such as China that have expressed much faith in his ability to do business and improve relations.[20]

The postcolonial trauma of the subaltern is unending. It is only in moments of crisis such as these elections that it becomes visible with such force. The ritualistic exercise of an election will run its course. But how will the subaltern sustain the gaze of the West? How will the subaltern escape the violence of being subject to the West’s scrutiny and discipline? Will the subaltern continue to suppress its need to question the divide and rule politics taught by the colonizers? Will the subaltern keep aspiring to the ‘superior’ status of the modernized and condemn as inferior any conversation with its own remnant ideological strains? Will the subaltern cling to the constitution as its only recourse to any demonstrated capability to reason and govern? The spectacle continues, and the West is for the time being mesmerized.

Postscript: Narendra Modi is now India’s Prime Minister-elect.

Photo credit: Al Jazeera English via Compfight cc

The post The Spectacle of Indian Elections and the West appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

The Play

There are moments in history when a single word can represent an existential struggle between self-perceived opposites. Haram is such a word in our time. Haram, in Arabic, literally means forbidden. Functionally, what is haram in Islamic jurisprudential discourse is that which is not permitted for a Muslim. Examples in the religious context include eating swine, drinking alcohol and engaging in extra-marital sexual relations. In the tension between reformers and traditionalists, the term haram has come to encompass the linguistic battleground of ideas and ideologies.

Practically, determining what is haram brings enhanced authority. If something is deemed distasteful to current cultural trends, it is deemed haram; if it is not in the economic interests of governmental authorities it is haram; if it does not accord to a specific historical narrative of injustice, it is haram. In fact, the word has taken on many meanings and definitions among Muslims globally that belie its original one: things clearly articulated in the Qur’an as not permissible for Muslims. This debate led many reformers to take the path of deconstruction: engaging in linguistic analysis that matches the contexts of revelation and the reality of application. Communities of such scholars have fostered formidable movements for ‘another way of thinking’ about Islam and Muslim identity.

One such iteration of thought is Haram, a play written and directed by Wesam Nassar based on four poems and a short story written by Maher Hathout over a period of 59 years (he started writing them at 17 years of age). It was translated from Arabic to English by Syrian-American rapper and educator Omar Offendum. Performed at the Odyssey Theatre in Los Angeles to sold-out crowds, including legendary community leaders such as Rabbi Leonard Beerman, Haram serves as a benchmark for the collective development of Muslim American life in Southern California. Certainly, the role of art in modern Muslim life is a topic of great controversy among religiously conservative traditionalists. It is seen as a gateway for the practice of impermissible acts and desires. Rarely is a Muslim leader of Hathout’s prominence associated with public displays of art or public displays of personal intellection and emotional dissonance. It is even more rare for a formidable historical figure to share his youthful prose at the later stages of his life.

Heshmat Ali as the Dictator

Many traditionalists argue that most modern genres of art are haram. The use of art to explore the complexity of Muslim identity in America is most clearly represented in Hip Hop music, which in and of itself is a counter-culture expression of art that is often opposed to establishment politics and power. Similarly, Haram can be said to be a counter-culture expression of art that aims to establish the revolutionary ideas of “knowledge of self’ and “freedom of authentic expression.” The world’s past, present and future are often most faithfully reconstructed by its artists and entrepreneurial pioneers of expression, as done in Haram.

Haram is a play based on words that were never written for public consumption, written by a man that lived his whole life in the public eye while attempting to shift paradigms in the public square.  It is a mash-up of worlds and generations originating in 1955, from a then 17-year old Egyptian poet (Hathout) interested in looping his writing to a specific part of his favorite Mozart Concerto. More than half a century later he worked with his students Samira Idroos and Susu Attar (who produced Haram along with Offendum and Nassar) to lay those stanzas on that specific piece of music through the hands of Omar Offendum, one of Arabic-Anglophone Hip Hop’s most prominent poetic voices. This work represents a courageous act of love, and its creators are pioneers among Muslim American artists.

At its core, the play is about varying struggles in vying for love: the struggle for Egypt’s independence from British subjugation and colonialism, the struggle against nationalism articulated through the oppression of members of the budding counter-revolutionary movement at the hands of the Nasser regime, and the struggle to wrestle Islam from the hands of those that malign it through their violent actions or entrenched thinking. All of these struggles are juxtaposed with love.  The love of a lover for her partner as he is pulled to join a struggle for justice, twhich is in its own right a love. The love of freedom, the love of fellow countrymen that leads a young revolutionary to risk the heart break of his lover for the sake of a better future for his people. At the core of the work, there is the love of justice.

As the lead character of Hathout’s short story says to his lover in defense of his desire to join a revolution: “Are you happy with this humiliating life? We live and die like slaves. Our voices silenced. We’re shackled with chains and ruled by violence. And you want me to stay quiet and continue to live humiliated like a coward?” The love for fellow revolutionaries here breeds a sense of solidarity, disallowing a man to be in bed with his love while his comrades are in battle for freedom. Yet this fidelity causes insurrection at home from his lover: “I’m going to cross the mountains to write our history, to make it a testimony for struggle. You see that as a crime? The crime is a life lived as a whim. It will melt away like something trivial, a mere delusion. And I’ll shroud it in my sorrow. So yes, my beloved, go ahead and hate me.”

In our time, it is still revolutionary for a Muslim leader to share poetry about love and war written in his/her youth through adaptations of students. Many religious leaders are accustomed to teaching what is to be memorized. They present a perfected (past tense) vision for others to ascribe to and follow. Hathout’s poetry being shared as adapted by his students stands in stark contrast to such tradition. Deeply personal poetry of religious leaders involving various intimacies being made public is quite revolutionary and diverges from the norm. Such departures cause unease. Haram is a display of co-creation and confidence in the journey of life to God perfected with companions and friends that are of similar orientation.

These very real tensions and their consequent roles in the revolutionary movements of his youth led Maher Hathout to a life of struggle that included imprisonment and torture. Unlike others, he and his brother Dr. Hassan Hathout, led a revolution of progress based in community with the aim of loving God’s creation and serving it for the betterment of all.

The Life, The Work

Dr. Maher Hathout speaking to the audience following a performance of Haram

Maher Hathout was born in Shibin el Kom, Munufiyya, Egypt on January 1, 1936 in the same year that a boy named Farouk became King of Egypt at the age of 16 and assumed his role as the 10^th ruler of the Dynasty of the Albanian, Muhammad Ali.  Also in 1936, England and Egypt signed the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty giving more sovereignty to Egypt but maintaining a British military presence, opposed by General Gamal Abdel Nasser, later to become Egypt’s revolutionary hero and President.  Hassan Hathout, Maher’s only sibling 11 years his senior, grew to become dedicated to the cause of overthrowing the British occupation of Egypt and expelling British troops from Egyptian life. This critical moment in Egypt’s colonial history was focused on national identities seeking to overcome colonial aggression and usurpation, and the emergence of nationalist freedom movements of varying stripes.  From this world emerged some of the founding fathers of Muslim American Identity in Southern California, Maher Hathout among them.

Maher Hathout has exemplified passion, brilliance and faithfulness for thousands of families during more than 65 years of community service. As a founding leader of the Islamic Center of Southern California, he along with a cadre of visionaries came to establish the clearest articulation of a Muslim American identity to date. In his famous line, Hathout says “home is not where your grandfather is buried, home is where your grandchildren will grow and thrive.” Much of his legacy is in the area of giving Muslims (not just their leaders) a say in defining Muslim identity and the role of Muslims in modern contexts, specifically the American experience.

The challenges faced by thinkers that evoke ideas before the time of popular palatability has been significant in all generations, all communities and all ways of life.  The transfer of ideas in Islamic intellectual tradition is no different. Scholars of Muslim history were killed or exiled for radical ideas, such as women leading congregational prayer, that destabilize power structures with vested economic interests in communal regression and oppression. Such is the difficult destiny of those that evoke ideas prior to a time in which they appear normative, out of touch with reality, as the scientist calling the earth spherical in a paradigmatically flat world. This dissonance encourages the students of those thinkers and those who lived with them to tell their stories, teach their knowledge, and preach their pedagogy. That secondary vocation, of student/scholar/artist as messenger is the necessary fulcrum allowing for migration of the original thoughts to a time more appropriate. This carrying of a message allows for the full actualization of the intentions of pioneering thinkers, and simultaneously allows the students to ascend in status to scholar. Throughout history, revolutionary knowledge has been taught in such a form. The creation and performance of Haram is an act that is part of this timeless tradition.

The Message

Omar Offendum laying tracks for the play

Hathout teaches that education and communal action are co-constructed between student and teacher. In my life with him I saw firsthand that he is first and foremost a movementarian. His primary concern is sustaining movement and the health of The Movement. He believes that organized work is the only way to bring about sustainable change in destructive thinking patterns and patterns of action. It is always about the work coupled with a strong ethic in critical thinking and developing a consciousness of the suffering around us all.

As the curtains closed on the first performance of Haram, with Hathout in the audience, the question and answer session included all actors, producers, and the director. In that discussion it was clear to everyone that Haram was meant as an encouragement from a leader to his comrades to “continue the work that we started together.” As such, Haram is a work of love and collaboration by the students of Dr. Maher Hathout.

Who said that poetry is speech? Poetry is a fleeting moment of sincerity. Poetry is an emotional sentiment poured into the artery of a letter. For letters are Godly light. And a word is a world of dreams. Uninhibited by the wall of fear. For if the fear has to conquer the word. It should be sheltered behind silence. So let us remove sound from our tongues. And intonate without speech. And shake hands without greetings. For if the word is robbed of honesty it will sentence it to death. And I my friend do not tire. I am a poet of truth that does not lie. I am a knight of poetry that doesn’t get defeated. Silence that is articulating is not a loss. But counterfeiting melodies by the crucifying of one letter next to another. To create false intonations. Trembling from fear. And I, my friends, am a poet. Searching for another language. Undetected by the eye of the monster. With silence I say: One look from my eyes ignites. One quiver of my lip pronounces hot coals. And with the sword of silence I slice and dice. In my daydreams are verses that will flabbergast. When I lower my head in silence, it is poetry imprisoned in me. In my gasps I light aflame with poetry. And my sighs. If you do not understand, do not speak. Do not delude yourself into thinking I have died. For tomorrow I shall unwrap the covers of silence. From the sweetest fruits of melodies. From poetry that is not burdened by death. As I write in verse. The truest of human emotion. The word stretches to its fullness. It does not cower in fear of monsters. Until that time comes. Articulated silence is not laziness. Silence is eloquence. Silence deafens with a thousand bells. Silence is the piercing weep of lament. If you do not understand do not speak. Let he who is ignorant of my language leave me alone. Don’t assume this to be fatigue. For the poetry which is embedded in my silence can only be understood by the wise.

– The Language of Silence, Maher Hathout (1955) as translated from Arabic by Omar Offendum.

Producers: Wesam Nassar, Samira Idroos, Omar Offendum, Susu Attar

Article Photo Credits: Samira Idroos

The post Haram: Staging Love & Revolution in Los Angeles appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

The first piece I read by Stuart Hall was Cultural Identity and Diaspora, published in 1990.[1] His call to analyze the subject positions from which we speak resonated deeply with me, especially as I could easily draw parallels between that and feminist calls to situate oneself vis-à-vis our research and our praxis in order to challenge the assumption of neutrality. Hall writes, “We all write and speak from a particular place and time, from a history and a culture which is specific. What we say is always ‘in context,’ positioned,” (1990, 223). He then went on to talk about his own cultural and racial background[2], and how this impacted his work. While this may seem commonplace within postcolonial and feminist writing, I remember being quite taken aback by his decision to share such personal information in an academic space. Having had a background in sociology—which has been described by some as a collection of writings based on the work of men from five European countries —Hall’s insistence on openly situating oneself as both a product and agent of culture seemed to go against most of what I thought to be “good academic writing.” And yet, it made complete sense.

The second time I came across Stuart Hall was in a class I took for my MA in Gender Studies. This time the focus was on his work on representation: the ways in which power relations construct and reproduce the kinds of knowledges we have about specific places, peoples, and so on. Through the lens of representation, Hall addressed the extreme trauma of colonialism: “The ways in which black people, black experiences, were positioned and subjected in the dominant regimes of representation were the effects of a critical exercise of cultural power and normalization,” (1990, 225). He goes on to draw on Edward Said’s conceptualization of the colonized being constructed as different and Other, as well as Foucault’s reminder that every regime of representation is a regime of power/knowledge. What struck me at the time, and continues to register as extremely relevant to the field of postcolonialism, is Hall’s emphasis on how these representations of the colonized were internalized by the colonized: “They had the power to make us see and experience ourselves as ‘Other’,” (Ibid). This is similar to Fanon’s work on the psychological effects of colonialism, a subject that unfortunately remains somewhat understudied in the field of postcolonialism. As Hall writes, “It is one thing to position a subject or set of peoples as the Other of a dominant discourse. It is quite another thing to subject them to that ‘knowledge’,” (Ibid). It seems to be that we are still struggling with the effects of these legacies, as well as the reality that neocolonial processes continue to produce and reproduce these representations, and that these representations have very material effects. One only needs to be reminded of the ways in which Orientalist[3] representations of Afghan women served to partly justify the American invasion and occupation of Afghanistan.

When I began researching Antonio Gramsci and his work on hegemony, I was especially excited to find that Stuart Hall had written an article on how Gramsci relates to studies of race and ethnicity.[4] Hall unsurprisingly finds some affinity with Gramsci, as Gramsci also drew largely on his experiences and his connections to society and the worker’s movement. In other words, he situated his theorizing within these lived experiences, as did Hall by constantly positioning and contextualizing himself in relation to his work. Hall rightly points out that Gramsci did not write on the colonial experience. Nevertheless, the concepts he developed can be applied to several pertinent questions in the field. One example is the way in which Gramsci theorizes the state as exercising moral and educative leadership. “It is not a thing to be seized, overthrown or ‘smashed’ with a single blow, but a complex formation in modern societies which must become the focus of a number of different strategies and struggles because it is an arena of different contestations,” (Hall 1996 435). Hall rightly goes on to apply this to the postcolonial context, where it is clear that revolutionary movements need to conceptualize the state in a more complex manner if they want to truly disrupt hegemony. This resonated with me particularly in relation to the 2011 Egyptian uprising, and the complex ways in which the Egyptian state is imbricated with specific social forces and economic interests, and the extremely complicated and layered nature of the state apparatus itself. Another example is Gramsci’s conceptualization of ‘common sense,’[5] which presents itself as truth but which is in fact a product of historical processes. Common sense is fluid and constantly shifting, and yet has immense ideological power. Again, it is clear that this can be linked to questions of race, representation, and the postcolonial conditions. Hall’s work on representation, for example, attempts to unpack some of these ‘truths’ and situate them as historically produced. Importantly, Hall concludes the piece by showing that despite Gramsci’s Eurocentrism, many of his formulations remain invaluable to the field of postcolonialism and race studies.

Years later, I find myself returning to Stuart Hall and still finding new concepts and ideas to consider. As my own research interests shift and grow, it seems as if the knowledge found in Hall’s work and life provide endless inspiration. Thinking about current events in Egypt and the role of nationalism made me once again revisit Hall and his work on cultural identity, and its explicit link to anti-colonial struggles, as “Our cultural identities reflect the common historical experiences and shared cultural codes which provide us, as ‘one people,’ with stable, unchanging and continuous frames of reference and meaning, beneath the shifting divisions and vicissitudes of our actual history. Such a conception of cultural identity played a critical role in all the postcolonial struggles that have so profoundly shaped our world,” (Hall 1990, 223). He links this to Fanon’s work on culture and the anti-colonial struggle, and I find both of these extrapolations extremely pertinent today as we see nationalist rhetoric become increasingly visible in multiple postcolonial settings.

In writing this piece, I found myself repeatedly going back to my childhood experiences of watching specific television shows (Disney movies come to mind straight away), viewing film,, and reading specific kinds of literature, and am keenly aware of how my exposure to this Westernized body of media conditioned certain representations of who I was. Looking back, I can somewhat delineate what I thought the Netherlands was and what I thought Egypt was, and by extension, what I thought it was to be Dutch or Egyptian, despite growing up in Zambia and only visiting both countries once or twice a year. Yet these representations were so strong that I continue to struggle with them today as I attempt, consciously and unconsciously, to unlearn both the positive representations of the Netherlands and the negative representations of Egypt, both of which lacked nuance. This is precisely what Stuart Hall speaks of when he says that representations are powerful because they not only are imposed by a dominant force, but become internalized and almost constitutive of the ways in which being dominated conceptualize themselves and the world. Moreover, these representations do not just have effects on personal identification. They also have deep and lasting material consequences that are expressed economically, politically and socially.

I will conclude with a final quote from Stuart Hall on the Caribbean, to emphasize just how important his work is to postcolonial studies across regions as well as to the millions of people around the world who have been touched by colonial process:

“Where Africa was a case of the unspoken, Europe was a case of that which is endlessly speaking—and endlessly speaking us. The European presence interrupts the innocence of the whole discourse of ‘difference’ in the Caribbean by introducing the question of power. In terms of colonialism, underdevelopment, poverty and the racism of colour, the European presence is that which has positioned the black subject within its dominant regimes of representation: the colonial discourse, the literatures of adventure and exploration, the romance of the exotic, the ethnographic and traveling eye, the tropical languages of tourism, travel brochure and Hollywood, and the violent, pornographic languages of ganja and urban violence. How can we stage a dialogue with Europe so that we can place it, without terror or violence, rather than being forever placed by it?” (Italics mine. 1990, 233).

The post Theorizing Lived Experiences: A Personal Reflection on Stuart Hall appeared first on The Postcolonialist.