Journal, 1955-1962: Reflections on the French-Algerian War available in Paperback
Journal, 1955-1962: Reflections on the French-Algerian War
- ISBN-10:
- 080326903X
- ISBN-13:
- 9780803269033
- Pub. Date:
- 06/01/2000
- Publisher:
- UNP - Bison Books
- ISBN-10:
- 080326903X
- ISBN-13:
- 9780803269033
- Pub. Date:
- 06/01/2000
- Publisher:
- UNP - Bison Books
Journal, 1955-1962: Reflections on the French-Algerian War
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Overview
However, not even the gunmen of the OAS could prevent Feraoun's journal from being published. Journal, 1955-1962 appeared posthumously in French in 1962 and remains the single most important account of everyday life in Algeria during decolonization.
Feraoun was one of Algeria's leading writers. He was a friend of Albert Camus, Emmanuel Roblès, Pierre Bourdieu, and other French and North African intellectuals. A committed teacher, he had dedicated his life to preparing Algeria's youth for a better future. As a Muslim and Kabyle writer, his reflections on the war in Algeria afford penetrating insights into the nuances of Algerian nationalism, as well as into complex aspects of intellectual, colonial, and national identity. Feraoun's Journal captures the heartbreak of a writer profoundly aware of the social and political turmoil of the time. This classic account, now available in English, should be read by anyone interested in the history of European colonialism and the tragedies of contemporary Algeria.
James D. Le Sueur is an associate professor of history at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. He is the editor of The Decolonization Reader and The Decolonization Sourcebook and the author of Uncivil War: Intellectuals and Identity Politics during the Decolonization of Algeria, Second Edition (Nebraska 2005). He contributed new material to Ben Abro's Assassination! July 14 and Henri Alleg's The Question, both available in Bison Books editions. Mary Ellen Wolf is an associate professor of French at New Mexico State University and the author of Eros under Glass: Psychoanalysis and Mallarmé's "Hérodiade." Claude Fouillade is an associate professor of French at New Mexico State University.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780803269033 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | UNP - Bison Books |
| Publication date: | 06/01/2000 |
| Pages: | 340 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.83(d) |
About the Author
James D. Le Sueur is an associate professor of history at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. He is the editor of The Decolonization Reader and The Decolonization Sourcebook and the author of Uncivil War: Intellectuals and Identity Politics during the Decolonization of Algeria, Second Edition (Nebraska 2005). He contributed new material to Ben Abro’s Assassination! July 14 and Henri Alleg’s The Question, both available in Bison Books editions. Mary Ellen Wolf is an associate professor of French at New Mexico State University and the author of Eros under Glass: Psychoanalysis and Mallarmé’s “Hérodiade.” Claude Fouillade is an associate professor of French at New Mexico State University.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
1955
I November 1, 2955, 6:30 P.M.
"It is raining on the city." The streetlights have been on fortwo hours, lighting up the closed shutters and doors of silent facades.The city is still and secluded, cunning, hostile, and frightened ...
This was a calm day, a sad autumn day. Until 4:00, it hadnot rained; let us say that it was nice. A sun pale with autumn, asky smutty with melancholic days. The stubborn peal of the AllSaints' Day bells cannot wake the village. Although the bells ringfor the dead, neither they nor the living can hear them. Hushedand hurried like conspirators, the faithful slip into the churchthrough a half-opened door. Other conspirators who pass byand hastily exchange a weary and meaningless greeting do notsee them. The Muslims, like the Christians, have nothing to sayto one another. The "Kabyles," like the "French," are not thinkingabout anything. This morning, it seems that everyone haslost the desire to speak, joke, laugh, drink, come or go. It is asif each person feels trapped and sealed in an airtight bell jar.Vision is still possible, but any attempt at communication, evenon the most ordinary and superficial level, is futile. No, really,they have nothing to say to each other today, the 1st of November.This is a sad day—the dead are indifferent, the living anxious,the French are not willing to understand, and the Kabylesrefuse to explain.
It is a day off for the civil servant who will spend the morningin bed. At 8:00 he sleeps peacefully. Today there are no hummingmotors, prattlingchildren, shouting dealers, passersby discussingjust beneath his window. Silence! The street above is justas deserted as the street below. The main street, the village's oneand only street, is also empty. Yet, there are shadows movingabout, slow or rapid, shadows that move aside at each turn soas not to disturb the deep sense of peace. Day of the dead, dayof mourning, day of the living who—like the dead—are silent,their faces beyond reach, like impenetrable graves.
November 3
A trip to Algiers, yesterday. They received me with kindness.
—It is really serious over there? Look, be careful, extremelycareful.
—Why, what happened at home?
—Don't you read the papers or listen to the radio?
Of course, there are times when I do not read the papers orlisten to the radio. They are saying that on the night of the 31st,Fort-National was attacked twice. They discovered weaponsand a body in the field. His soul is with God. This corpse musthave vaporized since no one saw it. What did I see when I leftat 11:00? People on edge and hesitant about talking to oneanother. Stores, boutiques, and cafés, all closed. Everything shutdown, barricaded, locked up. Mr. L. opened one side of his frontdoor: three or four clients look at each other while young clerksgo from one end of the store to the other, pretending to be busyand at the call of a numerous clientele.
—That is why, he explained to me, I wanted to close. Atfirst, I did close. But from my post, the counter, I saw the clientscoming, and I had them reopen the store. You must understand,I was keeping an eye out.
I understood that he feared an attack. He had sent for twolaid-back policemen with the delusional plan that they wouldprotect him. He showed me some official telegrams, which referto putting the ringleaders of the general strike under house arrest.But, my God, where are the agitators? Everybody followsthe lead and is capable of going wherever one chooses to leadthem.
I went back to my place, tired and bored. There was nothingfor me to do; nothing held my interest. When I took a napthat afternoon I was reconnected in my dreams to that sense ofcommunity that we experienced last Tuesday night.
Yesterday, just as I started out for Algiers, Fort-Nationalwas swarming with life. Like a hive, it took in the Kabyles ofthe region, selling them fabrics, vegetables, spices, and kabobmeat. After reading the newspaper, the citizens were able tothink of themselves in slightly heroic terms: the Kabyles becausethey had threatened and scared off the French, the French forhaving driven back the shadow of the enemy, and the soldierswho carried out the noble mission entrusted to them. The onlyexception is the humble sentry who spread the alarm and refusesto be decorated for the resounding errors in the headlines. Thisis how the press honors us.
November 6
However, there is one matter: the atmosphere is no longerwhat it was. You can feel and see this change, which is brutalonly in appearance. This is how that appearance translates: ayear ago, when the revolt erupted, we did not want to gauge itsimportance. Indeed, it really was not important. We were settledinto a truly orderly and peaceful existence, a tolerable life structuredby small necessities, needs, and daily tasks. We took careof illnesses, surmounted difficulties, and held reasonable expectations.We experienced bad manners without scandals, disputeswithout aftermath, and friendships without roots. We deservedthis peaceful time. It was necessary—that each of us feel usefulboth to ourselves and to others and worthy of living. It was inconceivablethat this quiet life might be threatened from oneday to the next. We thought it unjust that this respect for life bequestioned.
November 9
So we were at ease, poking a little fun at the fellagha."Woman, make some bread," as Rostram would say. It seemsthat right at the start, the administrator of the school called hisassistants together one night, to tell them in his hollow voice:"Gentlemen, France is in danger: The Arabs have rebelled!" Hedid not believe what he was saying.
While showering his older students with kindness, theschool inspector would sometimes tell me things on the sly:—And to think that the one who might slit my throat is amongthem!
This kind of prospect always left me speechless.
Quite often, I have been obliged to discuss "incidents"with French people who were worried about the future of Algeriaand, in particular, about their own future. But neither theother party nor I have experienced these incidents firsthand. Wewere quite far from Aurès. From time to time, the telephonepoles were cut, but nothing else happened. We used to call itsabotage—simple kids' pranks that miffed the postmaster.
—These people are the first to suffer the consequences,Mr. F., he told me. This morning someone came by to telephonea boy who lost his mother. The kid is in Algiers. They buried hismother before he could see her. It is stupid, sir, isn't it? Thereare certain things that bother the poor lads, things that peopleshould not do.
How could I not agree?
All those who choose to discuss such incidents recognizethat there is a lot to be done in this country, that mistakes havebeen made, and that, after all, the guerrillas are right to wantto teach a lesson to the profiteers, to the people who are happyand in good situations. For they are happy because the massesare miserable—so miserable, I swear, that it is shockingly evidentthat they have suffered enough. The only problem is thatI exchange my ideas with people who never, for one second,think that they could possibly be these profiteers, these fortunate,affluent people. It is probably because each one in his ownlittle world persists in thinking that he is disadvantaged. He believesthat by rights, society still owes him for everything thathe does not have and that if he is not rebelling, he is, in fact arevolutionary in spirit and heart.
November 10
As the days and weeks went by one after the other, everythingappeared to be normal. Life at school continued at a slowpace. The older, cours complémentaire students seemed to actmore freely: they had grown up and become daring. They hadto work hard for the exam. They did reasonably well, but justthe same, I realized that they were more interested in what washappening outside school. I felt that they would no longer acceptmy habitual noninvolvement; they wanted to see me take aposition, show some kind of commitment to an ideal that hadto be mine. I will be careful not to disappoint them too much.That is all. That is it.
Outside of school, life in the city is nothing special: theusual raveling and unraveling of local intrigues, spreading ofanecdotes, whispers of minor scandals and small deals wrappedup. There are the customary, and rather more than customary,official visits to Fort-National—the minister of the interior accompaniedby the governor, then the new governor, and, finally,the new minister of the interior.
November 12
The newspapers and radio put out periodic accounts ofisolated attacks: the killings of some village policemen consideredto be spies, a forest ranger, a Moorish café owner. Thisusually occurred in neighboring regions so it did not really disturbus. All the same, people would say:
—Well, the fellagha follow through with their ideas. Thesepeople know what they want.
The end of the school year was in sight—first the primarycertificate and the other exams afterward. Everything was normal.But on the last day, we should have taken certain precautionsbefore leaving Taourit-Moussa. We had a frank discussionabout the danger we were risking in returning separately. But inthe end, everything went well.
For the past few days there had been talk of an armoreddivision that was to leave France and occupy Kabylia: ten thousandmen. On my way to Algiers on June 16th, I encounteredhundreds of vehicles carrying soldiers all along the 75-mile routefrom Oued Aïssi to Hussein Dey. This impressive parade ofgreen soldiers and equipment brought to mind the 1942 disembarkation,an event that left me quite indifferent. But that dayon the road, I had to admit that we were in for new times.
In Algiers, the strikes against tobacco and alcohol had begun.I not only had to hide to smoke but also had to steer clear ofthe cafes. The indigenous Algerians are very disciplined. Duringa chat, a journalist mentioned that some young men were assaultingsmokers. He wanted to know my opinion. But even afterour discussion, he will still be in the dark about my thoughts.What do I think of all this? Nothing. Our French colleagues areall worried about a situation that promises to become extremelycomplicated. I am at the point of wondering: "Is this good orbad?" What concerns me is the end result. Will we gain anythingfrom all of this? If so, then yes it is, at whatever cost. Too badfor individual cases like my own.
November 13
At Fort-National the French have been disgruntled sinceJune 20th. This is because the Kabyles have quit frequentingcafés and getting drunk in public. The age-old order of thingsis in immediate danger of collapse. With Wednesday's profitsabout to disappear, those employers who had built their futureson the unsteady shoulders of disloyal Kablyes beheld theapproaching specter of bankruptcy. Mayor Frapolli was summonedto intervene at the same time as the Kabyle advisers. Theformer is putting forth explanations to console the wine merchants.Although jubilant inside, he makes sure to be seen inthe cafés with one or another of his advisers from the technicalschool. Every time that I go to have a drink, people greet mewith a sign of relief and shake both my hands. A certain Frenchschool principal from France has started inviting us over out ofpure patriotism. We do take advantage of this unexpected strokeof luck. The townspeople only smoke and drink in the eveningafter the visitors have left. In short, we are living in a climate ofsuspicion without knowing for sure if the future will drive usapart or, on the contrary, dispel this thin cloud.
It was a joyful July 14th. The dance on the town squarelasted until 2:00 A.M. Under the mindful eyes of their mothers,young girls went from soldier to soldier. Yet there were soldierswalking in front of the square and tanks parked by the schooland the officers' mess hall. Some sacks blocked the vision of acrowd of Kabyle onlookers who came to gawk. This gray clothsuggested a sad and sinister barrier between two worlds all tooready to hate each other.
The following week I went to Tizi-Hibel to spend my vacation.I stayed fifteen days. I had not been there for two years.Everything seemed exactly two years older. My eyes can nowperceive quite precisely the passage of years. And in a sense,these eyes are content to claim that everything happens accordingto an immutable order of things, an order that simply followsits path and could not stop to please anyone ... But this is notmy purpose. All along the route, I was looking at stunted chestnutsand frail fig trees, eroded shale and sand. The landscape thatwelcomed me screamed its nakedness, poverty, and near hostility.It said to me: "What are you doing here? You managed toescape." I understood it, agreed with it, and despised it with allof my heart.
At Béni-Douala on the slope where the market is held behindtangles of twisted barbed wire, soldiers, in shorts blackenedby dust and sun, busy themselves around jeeps, trucks, andtanks. It seems that the cannons and machine guns pointed at thesky are there to convince you that you are not lost, that you arewith fine people who know how to live and proclaim the benefitsof a motorized and armored civilization. They are trying toreassure you and will undoubtedly succeed unless, on the roadimmediately below, there happens to be some Kabyles, shakenand afraid, who slip by quickly like ghosts. As for myself, myinterests lie with my compatriots. I have wanted to read theirfaces, guess their impressions, and know what they think. Theirresponse to my greeting is solemn, as if to imply that we havenothing to say to each other. In fact, there is nothing to say.Why would I want to make them talk when, if I myself wereforced, I would not have a clue as to how to do it. It is so mucheasier to keep quiet. But come on! Enough of this hypocrisy. Iam too much like these people to need them as confidants. Whatdo I think? I am not thinking anything at all. Let us say that Iwould have to dig quite deep down into myself. Then I wouldnot be able to stop or control the endless surge of ideas, opinions,and conclusions that have always been a part of me andthat would surely surface. If indeed these ideas found a way toescape, all of them would emerge like very dense vapors that, aslegends have it, wait patiently for a hand to come and loosen thecover of the copper pot in which they have been imprisoned bya powerful genie for centuries. Just like these vapors, the contentsof my insides would compress and, once outside of prison,would appear like a crippled, ridiculous devil to the puzzled eyesof those people who think that they know me. An astute andnasty devil whose accusing sneers would know nothing aboutpity or gratitude, a dreadful character who, immovable and insensible,would demand atonement. What one could hear fromthe mouth of such a demon will be exactly what I and my compatriotsthink. Just like legendary devils, he would limp, havinglost some of his vapors: the most understanding and generousparts, the only part capable of friendship and forgiveness. Withthese parts scattered to the winds, there would be nothing leftbut hatred.
However, I was able to have a discussion with a fellow passengerin a taxi. The chauffeur said to him with a knowing look:
—So you found him? He is in Blida? You see.
The old man's face was drawn, his eyes bewildered, his demeanordull and insipid just like his entire appearance and hisclothes. Completely common. These are the type of men fromthis area who act like imbeciles in order to hide their real motives.Just the same, there was something more. He began tospeak with the chauffeur.
—Ah yes, I saw him! I like people who keep their word. Youpromised me a place in this car. And here I am. That is what Ilike. I would never say to you: Save me a place and then lookfor another one and take off. No, I picked your taxi, and hereI am. We have to be men. Look here—if you had left, I wouldnot have spent the night in Tizi-Ouzou. Not for anything in theworld. I would have taken another taxi to go see the old womanand tell her that I saw him. Just saw him. It is enough for herthat he is alive. Her son looked at me and spoke to me just likeI am looking and talking to you. I have been on the outside foreight days. You are right to believe that his lawyer is a pro.
—His lawyer is a pro?
—Yes. You do not have to say it, I know it. That is how thelawyer found him. He went to see the prosecutor and said: "Iwant to defend him." And without any debate, the prosecutorgave him the address: the Blida Prison!
—Who is his lawyer?
—Maîre T.
—So, he is a pro.
—You are quite right. But you have to pay. And that is howit is.
When I asked for an explanation, he looked at me, his eyesmore dense than ever, and merely shook his head while slidingover closer to the chauffeur in order to give me a little moreroom. This indicated that I would get nothing more from him.I took advantage of it by stretching out my legs, which up untilthen I had crossed—a position that was ruining my new pants.
—Oh, he is from your area, the chauffeur said. You can talk,he is a teacher.
This time, I saw clearly the glint of malice in his eyes thatis so typical of the fellagha in our region. For them, the teacheris both educated and naive, a man with good advice who can informyou about laws and regulations and yet believes everythingthat you tell him.
The time was right, so the fellow started talking to me.
—Ah, yes! Listen, my friend, he did not do anything. Theyflat out arrested him, just like that.
—So whom did they arrest?
—My nephew and myself. But I am another case. I said tothe NCO [noncommissioned officer], "Don't hit me." I was alsoan NCO during the war in Italy and Germany. If I had stayed inthe army since 1945, I would now be a sergeant major. That iscertain. Do not hit your sergeant. So he did not beat me. He justthreatened to douse my face with a quart of fresh water, but thatwas before I told him. When it was clear that the police weregoing to let me go, he even offered me a cigarette. I did not takeit, of course. I was glad to know that they take into account certaincircumstances. You have to put yourself in these people'splace. If they are told to arrest someone, they do it. To hit someone, they do it. The army is about taking orders. So when I sawthem beating my nephew, my blood started to boil and I yelledat him:
—Take it, you son of a gun, take it. Show that you are a man.
But how do you stick it out, brother? He was bent overand they were whipping him on the buttocks. Seeing his genitalsmade me wish that the earth would just swallow me up. Wewere both disgraced—uncle and nephew. And I ask you, couldyou take that, being horsewhipped on the testicles—excuse mybeing so blunt. No, the boy did not hear me. It was a blessingfor both of us when he passed out.
At that point the administrator came by, saw us, andstopped. He undoubtedly knew me.
—What are you two doing here? he asked me.
—They arrested us.
He was shocked, even a bit outraged.
—You were beaten? he said.
—Yes, see what condition my nephew is in ...
—That is what you get for causing trouble.
—But we did not do anything.
—Okay, I am going to take care of you.
I never saw him again. But I really believe that he is the onewho rescued me from the soldiers. He could not do anything forthe boy. As for myself, I had fought in the war. Surely, he musthave recognized me.
Later, I [Feraoun] was to find out bit by bit about thedreadful experience that this fellow [the old man] had just livedthrough. Dreadful but routine because, at last, we instinctivelyknew that our peaceful times were over. Once again, everyoneis a suspect; you have to take the beating. (When someone beatsyou, you have to bend your head down.)
When I saw the administrator again, he told me himselfthat the culprits who had murdered the village policeman hadconfessed and given up all of their accomplices. A whole bunchof scoundrels.
—But sir, what about the coercion, the beatings ...
—Do you see me beating someone to make them talk? Comeon, Mr. F., we know each other ... Sure the soldiers, the police,they will do whatever. But me, I made them talk. You see theyconfessed, and besides, I released one because he hadn't doneanything.
—I understand, but he does have a nephew.
—That is not the same, Mr. F. That is simply not the same.
—They were picked up together in a field. Besides, he wassure that you had nothing to do with it, that you were completelyin the dark about it. You were there to save him ...
—Well, Mr. F., I had them arrested because I am sure thatthey are guilty. Crimes of this sort have to be punished ...
As in dozens of cases, this crime will not go unpunishedbut since we cannot get the assassin himself, we punish peopleat random.
—Everything's going well except that I cut my neighbor'sfig trees.
—Yes, you do that well, but do you also cut down telephonepoles?
—I do when I am broke.
—Who pays you?
—This same neighbor who ... that ...
—Who?
—Who does not want to pay me any more. Besides, he is afellagha, a rebel, a bandit.
—He is the one who killed the village policeman.
—Correct.
—He was not alone?
—No, he was not.
The police fingered the least likely person in the village.An irresponsible drunk, a near idiot who, when faced withthe Socratic method, supplied the police with every detail theywanted. Once they got the information, they spread terrorthroughout the village. A terror like this turns people into idiots,and I could read it in the face of my fellow passenger, a face fullof rancor and hatred.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from JOURNAL 1955-1962 by MOULOUD FERAOUN. Copyright © 2000 by University of Nebraska Press. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.