Breaking the silence or using it to speak? An exploration of silence as a literary device in four Harki narratives

Introduction

The Algerian War has been a divisive, taboo subject in French society for more than four decades (McCormack, 2007: 5). Similar to the Vietnam War in the United States, it should be noted that the French government failed to recognise that this atrocious conflict, which perhaps irreparably scarred both societies, was indeed a ‘war’ officially supported by the state until October 1999 (Enjelvin, 2006: 121). Moreover, after decades of institutional silence that represented deliberate efforts to suppress unpleasant memories and to conceal undeniable crimes against humanity perpetrated by both sides, this armed struggle continues to be the subject of vehement polemical debates, as evidenced by the recent controversy surrounding Rachid Bouchareb’s film Outside the Law. The ‘story of a wound that cries out’ to which Cathy Caruth and other trauma theorists refer is perhaps still too fresh even after almost 50 years of silence (quoted in Ireland, 2009: 306). However, for these profound cultural scars to heal, disconcerting stories must be told by those who suffered most from this pain.

Although the diasporic anguish of the Pied-noir community has been well documented in both historical and literary narratives, the festering sores of the Harkis have been largely ignored until recently, since this community concretises ‘le tabou des tabous’ (Hamoumou quoted in Ireland, 2009: 303). This particular study will explore how three second-generation contemporary Harki authors, Zahia Rahmani, Fatima Besnaci-Lancou, and Dalia Kerchouche, attempt to break the sinister silence that surrounds their exiled people in order to give them a collective voice which will allow them to release their trauma and to (re)appropriate their own history. This investigation will also be enriched by the inclusion of the Franco-Mauritian author J. M. G. Le Clézio’s relatively unknown short story L’Enfant de sous le pont. In stark contrast to the aforementioned collecto-biographies ¹ of three Harki daughters, the 2008 Nobel Laureate in Literature effectively employs silence as a literary device or a type of language that transmits the tragic personal saga of the first-generation Harki protagonist Ali to the reader and compels him or her to see this psychologically and physically wounded soldier differently. Moreover, as many critics such as Jean-Xavier Ridon (1998) have correctly noted, a significant part of Le Clézio’s entire literary project has been to defend marginalised and disenfranchised cultures all across the globe and to valorise their contributions to the modern world.

Defining the term ‘Harki’

Before delving into the nuances of the four narratives in question and the silence that is emblematic of the diasporic suffering of a displaced community, it would perhaps be useful to define the elusive and often misunderstood term ‘Harki’. Unlike the Pieds-noirs, the Harkis were not individuals of European descent living in colonial Maghreb. Mohand Hamoumou defines this culturally and linguistically diverse population as follows: ‘un ensemble de personnes de souche arabe ou berbère ayant eu un comportement pro-Français durant la guerre d’Algérie, en raison duquel elles ont dû quitter le pays lors de son accession à l’indépendance’ (quoted in Enjelvin, 2003: 161). As this standard definition elucidates, the Harkis were uprooted from their native homeland because of their ‘choice’ ² to support the French army during the Algerian War. Given their support of the losing side, the Harkis were placed in a precarious predicament. Although the Evian Accords in theory protected them from violent reprisals from the Algerian government and their fellow citizens, the Front de Libération Nationale (FLN) reaped ideological benefits from a policy of silence and ambivalent public affirmations that identified the Harkis as scapegoats for the major crises that afflicted Algerian society. ³ For this reason, many Harkis had little recourse but to escape persecution and certain death by emigrating to France.

It should also be noted that the very definition of a Harki is inseparable from their ethical decision over which corrupt institution to support during a time of tremendous uncertainty. Although both governments successfully reduced the complexity of this moral dilemma to a ‘simple binary of good and evil’ or a ‘Manicheistic dichotomy of the “traitor-hero”’, this impossible choice was far more complicated than these simplistic paradigms would seem to suggest, as this study will further investigate in a later section (Van der Schyff, 2010: 150, Sutton, 1996: 234). Furthermore, in reference to the veritable diversity of the Harki population who would undoubtedly have had many varied reasons to support the French, Géraldine Enjelvin affirms: ‘The Harkis constitute a heterogeneous group whose generic name was originally nothing more than an administrative construct during the Algerian war’ (2003: 161). Although the Harkis possess a collective identity inseparable from the immense suffering that they endured in the refugee camps of southern France, this common trauma should not be confused with any particular ethnicity. The motivations of the French government for creating this label were strictly pragmatic in the beginning.

Michèle Chossat (2007) not only correctly associates the linguistic signifier Harki with the Arabic word harka meaning movement, but she also importantly notes that the common identity, generated from a shared traumatic experience, of this heterogeneous group of people has been transmitted to the offspring of the first generation who never participated in the Algerian War. Affirming that future generations of supplementary soldiers or Harkis would illogically be held accountable for the ‘sins of their father’, Vincent Crapanzano asserts that the term ‘englobe également les épouses et les enfants des harkis’ (2008: 126). Ironically, many Harkis have never even visited their country of origin to which their parents remain forever attached (Chossat, 2007: 76). The only plausible explanation for this peculiar phenomenon is guilt by association. Given the controversial nature of the Algerian War and its oversimplified Manichean representation in both French and Algerian society, anyone affiliated whatsoever with the vilified Harkis would suffer the same stigmatisation.

Dylan van der Schyff offers a more comprehensive definition of the Harkis which corresponds both to historical reality and to literary representations of the diasporic anguish of this displaced community. As van der Schyff explains:

In France the word Harkis properly refers to the force of supplementary Muslim soldiers engaged by the French during the Algerian War (1957–1962). In Algeria, the term has become synonymous with the words traitor and collaborator. In both countries the word signifies a social pariah. Perhaps a better way to begin to understand the origins of the Harkis is to consider that the Arabic word harka is used to describe, among other things, a defensive position taken up against an external enemy. (Van der Schyff, 2010: 148)

Echoing the testimonies of second-generation Harkis, Van der Schyff highlights the fact that both societies would ultimately judge this alienated social group harshly. Although living in France was better than being executed for treason in Algeria, many Harkis were intentionally ‘hidden’ from public view ‘in the forests of Southern France’ (Van der Schyff, 2010: 151). Moreover, the French government made few concrete efforts to integrate these political refugees successfully into mainstream French society. Many Harkis spent approximately 15–20 years of their lives in ‘temporary’ makeshift housing units with no electricity, heating, running water, or even sanitation. ⁴ Furthermore, Van der Schyff’s definition nuances the notion of a Harki as a disloyal individual who was opposed to a democratic Algeria because of an alleged affection for the French colonial regime. As Van der Schyff unequivocally implies, many Harkis originally sided with the French in order to protect their families from the heinous civilian crimes instigated by the FLN to wreak terror upon the local population and to undermine the French presence in the region.

Contextualisation of the Harki narratives

Before systematically delving into the nuances of silence in the four Harki narratives that comprise this investigation, it might be pragmatic to place these diverse works into their proper context. Although Moze (Rahmani, 2003), Fille de harki (Besnaci-Lancou, 2005) and Mon père, ce harki (Kerchouche, 2003) could all be considered to be collecto-biographies composed by second-generation Harki daughters that seek to shed light upon a shameful past, these first-hand accounts of repressed painful memories that continue to haunt the present are also quite different in nature. From a stylistic standpoint, Moze is an unconventional ‘autobiography’ that blurs the distinction between various genres such as prose and poetry. In fact, Rahmani often abruptly changes her narrative style without any sort of transition to prepare the reader. Moreover, one of the author’s experimental literary techniques involves the simulation of a dialogue between the writer and her deceased father in a chapter entitled ‘Moze parle: la voix de Moze glisse en sa fille’. As this title unequivocally implies, the author will force her late father to break his silence by incessantly badgering him until he acquiesces.

Although Besnaci-Lancou’s motivations for composing Fille de harki are similar to those of Rahmani, these two authors from the same cultural tradition have quite dissimilar writing styles. While both narratives are equally heart-rending, Besnaci-Lancou combines her personal quest for answers with her professional journalistic training and inquisitiveness. It should also be noted that one specific traumatic event, which reopened the wounds covered in scabs, compelled the author to end her silence. After listening to the polemical, incendiary words of the Algerian president Abdelaziz Bouteflika directed toward the Harkis in the year 2000, Besnaci-Lancou could no longer allow others with political agendas to speak for her mute people. As the writer/journalist elucidates in her introduction: ‘L’histoire coloniale de France a fait de moi une fille de harki. Près de quarante ans après, alors que je l’avais presque oublié, sa phrase, comme une gifle, est venue réveiller mon passé et toutes ses horreurs’ (Besnaci-Lancou, 2005: 13). Besnaci-Lancou is referring to the now infamous phrase of the Algerian president in which he compared the Harkis to French people who actively collaborated with the Nazi regime during World War II. This malicious ‘slap’ would awaken the author from the stupor of her denial and motivate her to uncover the sinister secrets hidden beneath over four decades of bureaucratic ambivalence and silence.

Similar to Moze and Fille de harki, Mon père, ce harki recounts the story of a second-generation Harki daughter whose personal and collective quest attempts to resolve unanswered questions that have been festering inside of her since childhood. By exploring painful repressed memories buried deep in her fractured psyche, Kerchouche hopes to (re)appropriate her identity and that of her entire vilified, diasporic community. Like the other two authors, Kerchouche also travels to some of the same sites where her family and their collective society suffered greatly in the years following the Algerian War. At the end of her literal and emotional journey, Kerchouche is at last able to engage in a meaningful dialogue with her voiceless father. On a final note concerning all three collecto-biographies, Rahmani, Besnaci-Lancou and Kerchouche underscore the profound sense of loss and alienation that reverberates through all generations in their varied narratives.

Unlike the plural autobiographies of Rahmani, Besnaci-Lancou and Kerchouche, Le Clézio’s short story entitled L’Enfant de sous le pont is not a first-person account of macabre horror. It should be noted that it is a children’s story, as evidenced by the lexical and syntactical simplicity of sentences, such as ‘Ceci est une histoire vraie’ (Le Clézio, 2008: 6). However, this relatively obscure narrative in the extremely diverse repertoire of the 2008 Nobel Laureate in Literature is invaluable to this study because it represents a poignant and disconcerting artistic representation of the silence which is indicative of the profound suffering of first-generation Harkis. In L’Enfant de sous le pont, an enigmatic homeless man, whom the reader knows virtually nothing about, finds an abandoned newborn in the spot where he lives underneath a bridge. After this improbable discovery, this individual with no fixed residence, named Ali, successfully raises the child for approximately one year. In this complex and sombre piece of juvenile fiction, which encourages the reader to see the entire homeless population differently, it is only through implicit references that one eventually realises that this disenfranchised and impoverished human being is a member of the Harki population. In fact, the adjective ‘harki’ almost becomes a floating signifier that identifies an urban ghost whose undesirable presence haunts modernity. ⁵

Institutional silence and its secrets

Similar to Le Clézio’s vivid metaphor of marginalised individuals in the modern world as phantasmal apparitions whose wretched existence remains unperceived by the majority of society, Rahmani employs the neologism ‘soldatmort’ to describe her father’s irreparable scars and those of the entire Harki community. Moreover, Rahmani insists throughout the narrative that she never knew her true father. The Algerian War and the aftermath which followed this conflict rendered him mute and hollow on the inside. As Rahmani affirms, ‘Moze n’a pas parlé. Il a cessé. Il ne parlera plus … Ce que sa langue ne suffisait pas à dire, c’est le système qui permit à l’état français de fabriquer une armée de soldatmorts sans se soucier qu’ils étaient des hommes’ (Rahmani, 2003: 20). Although the reader assumes that Moze is in part silent given the documented difficulties of Harkis to communicate in French, ⁶ Rahmani will later nuance this notion by affirming that her father ‘n’avait aucun accent’ (2003: 123).

Regardless of her father’s linguistic ability, the author clearly asserts that he, and the collective group of which he is indicative, is the victim of an institution that systematically attempted to conceal certain unpleasant realities that might cast doubt upon its democratic ideals. As Jo McCormack affirms:

the history of the harkis is linked to dishonor for the army and a dark episode of Gaullism in so far as the French army used the harkis to fight its dirty war and then abandoned them and stood by as they were massacred. Forgetting divisive elements of the past once again goes hand in hand with nation building. (McCormack, 2007: 113)

Perhaps the best concrete example of the efforts of the French government to suppress disconcerting historical facts related to the Algerian War in the text of Moze is the peculiar behaviour of a state investigator who is examining the father’s suicide. Under the thinly veiled guise of probing potential inconsistencies related to this tragic drowning, the bureaucrat visits the mourning family to interrogate them about the case. However, it becomes evident that what this official really wants to verify is if Moze publicly denounced the complicit role of France in its treatment and debasement of the Harki population before his untimely demise. For this reason, the investigator asks, ‘Avant de mourir, il a parlé?’ (Rahmani, 2003: 27). Before abruptly asking this individual to leave their home, Moze’s family speak for their voiceless father as they outline the crimes against humanity of which the French government is guilty.

Underscoring the administrative silence that has rendered decades of injustice and diasporic suffering possible, Rahmani reprimands French officials that calculatingly sought to ‘Oublier cette chose nationale … Oublier ces lépreux … Ces traîtres’ (2003: 43). In addition to decrying the policy of forgetting, the writer ironically scoffs at the empty symbolic gestures of the French government and their ‘bureau des Chiens’ which claimed to be sensitive to the plight of the Harkis (2003: 53). Expressing the dire need for a nuanced dialogue that could begin to heal the wounds of this displaced community, and in reference to the question of reparations, the author empathically declares, ‘Je leur dirai qu’il n’y a pas à indemniser les victimes … On ne va pas payer les quelques survivants, acheter encore leur silence … Ça dure depuis trop longtemps’ (2003: 89). Rahmani insists upon the urgency of an authentic space for discourse that will break the shameful silence and the stigma that it has created once and for all. Offering monetary reparations to the Harki community represents another temporary and myopic solution that does nothing to address this complex issue in a meaningful way. After the victims have spent whatever sum of money they received from the government, the same problems continue to plague their quotidian reality. As Rahmani correctly notes, tendering reparations is emblematic of yet another refusal to discuss the Algerian War and the fate of the Harkis openly.

Imploring French officials to end this appalling silence, Rahmani affirms: ‘Un État se grandit quand il reconnaît ses erreurs et ses violences’ (2003: 89). If France truly wishes to become a beacon of democratic virtue, then it must first transparently address its moral shortcomings as a nation. Before the Commission nationale de réparation, the writer reinforces this ethical position. Although the commission simply wishes to assign a material amount to compensate victims such as the author, who testify in their presence, Rahmani considers this form of indemnity as antithetical to true justice. Consequently, Rahmani summons this bureaucratic tribunal to ‘Donne une langue à Moze. Fais-le parler … Donne une langue à Moze’ (2003: 96). However, the author realises that the purpose of this special commission is not to confront France’s active role in the subjugation of the Harki population, but rather to bury this embarrassing blemish on the integrity of the nation once and for all. For this reason the writer states, ‘Je me fous de cette commission, une commission ça ne veut pas dire qu’il sera question de justice’ (2003: 97). Furthermore, in an accusatory tone, Rahmani reveals, ‘Et qu’a fait en quatre décennies cet État … Il n’a rien fait. Il a préféré le silence’ (2003: 120). The author invites the tribunal to reflect upon the disastrous repercussions of over 40 years of silence, but the jury members continue to insist that this is not their responsibility. At the end of her testimony, after all of the others have left the room, the narrator explains the situation as follows: ‘Les gens de la commission ont disparu. Je suis seule. Seule pour leur dire que tous les miens crèvent d’avoir cru à ce mensonge. La République’ (2003: 144). Since none of her questions are answered or even considered, the author realises that the devastating institutional silence will continue to prevent the Harkis from successfully integrating themselves into contemporary French society.

Similar to Rahmani, Besnaci-Lancou is aware that the wounds from which the Harki have suffered for decades will continue to remain open unless the administrative silence on both sides of the Mediterranean is somehow broken. In a clear affirmation of her motivations for writing Fille de harki, the author declares:

Mes souvenirs de cette guerre sans nom, si longtemps refoulés, je les ais écrits presque d’un seul jet pour mes enfants. Je voulais pour eux, effacer la honte et faire barrage à la haine. Je pensais aussi que cette partie de ma vie ne m’appartient pas à moi seule mais qu’elle faisait partie de l’histoire de ma communauté. Je me devais de la raconter. (Besnaci-Lancou, 2005: 83)

After years of repressing painful memories that she preferred to bury deep inside her, Besnaci-Lancou realises that her displaced community will never be able to integrate themselves fully into French society unless these profound scars are finally explored.

Moreover, the writer accepts the responsibility of composing a collecto-biography whose goal is to alleviate her personal anguish and that of her children, in addition to allowing other members of her society to liberate themselves from the stigma that has long infected their quotidian reality. As Richard Terdiman affirms in the epigraph at the beginning of Reeck (2006: 49), ‘The pasts that we carry but do not entirely cognize regularly rise to colonize our present’. After years of cowering in silence in response to the ethnocentric attitudes and exploitative policies of the coloniser, the Harki community must find a voice of their own that will free them from the Manichean representations of their history that have been forced upon them by the ruling majority. Expressing a similar sentiment as Terdiman but in reference to Fille de harki, Enjelvin (2005: 14) concludes, ‘le produit de la douloureuse mais impérieuse quête “harkéologique” de Besnaci-Lancou constitue un lieu (littéraire) de mémoire, de repossession / réappropriation / remembrement de soi et, partant, un espace de décolonisation’. As Enjelvin correctly notes, the author attempts to create a space for discourse that will allow the Harkis to speak for themselves and no longer suffer in silence as others define their identity.

For Besnaci-Lancou, the refugee camps concretise the devastating psychological and economic effects of decades of institutional silence. Confirming Van der Schyff’s contention that the French government intentionally placed the Harkis out of public view in isolated regions of southern France, the author states in reference to a hameau forestier called Timgad:

Il avait été construit au milieu d’une forêt, entre décharge et égouts … Mis à l’écart, les adultes se sont sentis parqués et condamnés à rester des Sous-citoyens, Français de seconde zone, traités comme s’ils n’avaient toujours pas été décolonisés … Nous avions tous le désir d’en sortir et de nous intégrer, mais je ne savais pas pourquoi nous n’avons pas pu le faire. Il y avait les Français et nous. (Besnaci-Lancou, 2005: 103–4)

Given it is often easier to deny crimes against humanity and to conceal unpleasant realities, French authorities deliberately and systematically took advantage of a dire situation to suppress shameful secrets and to control public perception of this misunderstood community. Moreover, abandoned in rural France with minimal or no contact with the rest of society, it is hardly surprising that modern-day Harkis are still attempting to cope with issues related to successful integration. Exiled from their native soil in an unwelcoming country where very few individuals spoke their language, the Harkis were condemned once more to an eternal state of mute submission that reinforced a profound inferiority complex created by over a century of colonial exploitation.

Furthermore, the author insists that the bleak and dreary daily life inside these isolated camps represents the locus of Harki identity. Identification with this community is inseparable from the traumatic experience of residing in such a deplorable environment. In reference to the Rivesaltes camp, the narrator asserts:

Cet endroit, qui ressemblait tellement à une prison, allait cristalliser notre sentiment d’abandon. Il est entré dans notre mémoire collective. Nous nous sommes aussi attachés à tous ces êtres que l’histoire nous a fait rencontrer et avec qui nous avons établi une fraternité, même si c’était une fraternité du malheur. (Besnaci-Lancou, 2005: 80–1)

Echoing the writer’s sentiments, Enjelvin (2003: 164) elucidates: ‘le sentiment de lien identitaire de cette population est basé sur une même expérience de vie, notamment celle des camps … ils [les camps] sont toutefois devenus le point d’ancrage de l’identité harkie’. Although it might at first seem quite odd, this diverse community shares a strong bond that is cemented by a common suffering.

In the postscript which accompanies Besnaci-Lancou’s narrative, Michel Tubiana explains that breaking the ‘silence de ces morts’ or the institutional silence which has until recently completely effaced the collective suffering of the Harkis reveals a much larger fundamental problem in French society (Besnaci-Lancou, 2005: 124). Peeling away the thick layers of bureaucratic attempts to quell any efforts to establish an authentic dialogue intended to address the issue directly exposes firmly entrenched prejudices that continue to tarnish the democratic ideals of the Hexagone. As Tubiana, the president of the Ligue des droits de l’homme, affirms of the Harkis:

France les méprisait parce qu’ils restaient avant tout des Arabes. Rien ne peut excuser, et surtout pas une prétendue ignorance, ce qu’il faut appeler un crime d’État. Le pire est qu’il continue à produire ses effets … Que la République s’avise, enfin, de ne plus tenir sous le boisseau ce qui s’est produit, et voici qu’elle se borne à un hommage hypocrite, sans admettre ses responsabilités, sans même s’excuser. C’est ainsi qu’il faut enseigner ‘l’œuvre civilisatrice de la France’. (Besnaci-Lancou, 2005: 124–5) ⁷

Although France no longer has colonies, certain ethnocentric mentalities continue to permeate all facets of its society. Apparently many people in France, including the former president Nicolas Sarkozy, still cling to colonial ideology which affirms the superiority of Western culture and devalorises the contributions of indigenous peoples. This myopic mindset explains why the Harkis were envisioned as ‘savages’ that needed to be ‘civilised’ upon their arrival in France. ⁸ In reference to the historical interpretations of Jean-Pierre Rioux, Enjelvin (2006: 116) asserts, ‘as it regarded the Harkis as uncivilised and uncivilisable, the French state therefore decided that they would be lodged out of sight, out of mind’. Far from confessing the ethical pitfalls that have blemished their lofty ideals, current French politicians are not only failing to break the silence, but they are also reinforcing racist attitudes that represent the very foundation of this administrative muteness.

Similar to both Rahmani and Besnaci-Lancou, Kerchouche also denounces deliberate administrative efforts to conceal the moral transgressions that were perpetrated on both sides of the Mediterranean after the Evian Accords. In the accompanying preface, elucidating the journalist’s efforts to reveal unpleasant truths and to liberate her community from the dark shadow of shame that has weighed so heavily upon them for half a century, Jacques Duquesne affirms in reference to a disowned Harki in Algeria, ‘J’ai compris ce jour-là, que le silence tue parfois plus sûrement que les Balles … La guerre d’Algérie a souffert de mille silences. Comme si l’on souhaitait, obscurément, qu’elle n’eût jamais existé’ (Kerchouche, 2003: 9). In the final pages of the narrative, Kerchouche’s motivations for composing this plural autobiography become evident. The author hopes that her literary project will finally give a voice to those who have been disenfranchised and stigmatised in both French and Algerian society. Borrowing an expression from Tony McNeil in the context of beur literature, Enjelvin (2008: 136) describes Fille de harki as part of the ‘dynamic of “writing as righting”’. However, this label could be applied to all the collecto-biographies analysed in this study. Indeed, a central focus of Kerchouche’s work is also (re)appropriating historical discourses that have been imposed upon this displaced community by the cultural majority.

Like Besnaci-Lancou, the most sinister secret that Kerchouche must first reveal lurking beneath the surface of administrative non-dit is the woeful conditions of the camps in which the Harkis were interned in France. In the first chapter entitled ‘Un petit “h” comme “honte”’, the renowned journalist explains the dire and fragile situation of her family and the entire fraternité du malheur of which they are indicative as follows:

Rapatriés en France en catastrophe, ils vivent parqués dans des camps pendant douze ans, trimbales, trimbales d’un département à un autre, isolés de la population française et privés de leurs droits. Cantonnés derrière les grillages et installés dans les baraques insalubres de 1962 à 1974, ils luttent contre le froid, la faim … la folie … le harcèlement moral des chefs de camps. Dans cet univers carcéral cerné de barbelés. (Kerchouche, 2003: 15)

It should be noted that the author’s depiction of these housing units closely resembles that of a concentration camp, especially given the visual imagery evoked by barbed wire, famine, bitter cold and abusive militaristic management. Moreover, in the opening lines of their preface to Fille de harki, Jean Daniel et Jean Lacouture identify the fate of the Harkis as perhaps the greatest crime against humanity since the Holocaust. As the authors affirm: ‘De toutes les tragédies collectives qui ont affligé notre temps depuis la Shoah, celle qu’on vécue les harkis d’Algérie est peut-être pour nous la plus douloureuse’ (Besnaci-Lancou, 2005: 9).

Yet, despite the heart-rending testimonies of second-generation Harkis such as Rahmani, Besnaci-Lancou and Kerchouche, some contemporary historians caution against making such controversial comparisons. For this reason, Maurice Faivre muses:

S’il est exagéré de parler de ‘camps de la honte’, ou même de ‘camps de concentration’, comme l’affirment certains enfants de harkis, il est certain que l’on aurait pu et dû faire mieux … en ouvrant des installations plus confortables. (Faivre, 2002: 60)

Although Faivre suggests that referring to the installations in which the Harkis were confined in southern France as concentration camps is perhaps an exaggeration, he clearly recognises that France failed to fulfil its ethical responsibilities to this diasporic society. Furthermore, these makeshift housing units without heating or proper sanitation did not constitute a suitable or even humane living environment for integrating this diverse population into mainstream French society. Summarising the crimes of the French state, Faivre underscores: ‘Quel jugement porter sur les responsabilités … La responsabilité de la France est donc entière dans ces retards, ⁹ ainsi que dans l’interdiction des opérations de secours, et dans l’insuffisance de l’accueil en métropole’ (2002: 60).

Echoing the sentiments of Faivre, Kerchouche recounts the institutional indecision that further compounded the situation. Decrying the slow wheels of French bureaucracy that turned too slowly to help this community in desperate need of immediate assistance, the author asserts:

Sur place, le désordre règne. Quinze jours après les premières arrivées, l’administration commande en catastrophe 500 sanitaires rudimentaires à un menuisier de Bourg-Lastic. Personne ne s’était soucié de ce ‘détail’! Pas plus que des lavabos ou des douches, jamais installés. On accueille 5000 personnes dans la panique la plus totale. (Kerchouche, 2003: 46)

Hoping that the ‘Harki problem’ and the shameful embarrassment that it represented in the public consciousness of French society would simply vanish, French authorities waited until the last possible moment to extend a not-so-warm welcome to the refugees who would find themselves in the Bourg-Lastic camp. Consequently, many formerly healthy individuals soon succumbed to death in these appalling conditions. For the author, the Bourg-Lastic cemetery represents a metaphor that concretises years of silence, denial, and wilful forgetting. As the narrator affirms: ‘Tout le destin des harkis m’apparaît dans la solitude de ce petit cimetière égaré au milieu d’une nature sauvage. À peine venue au monde, il s’est effacé, mort et oublié’ (Kerchouche, 2003: 54). Kerchouche depicts the final resting place of these unfortunate souls as a symbol of the collective suffering that Harkis were forced to endure all across southern France. Moreover, like Besnaci-Lancou, Kerchouche notes the intentional placement of this camp in the middle of a remote rural area.

While confronting the ‘ruines’ of her past in Rivesaltes, the journalist is once again inundated with the same disconcerting sentiments of abandonment. As the narrator elucidates:

Le silence inquiétant me donne la chair de poule … Je marche au milieu des gravats, des poutres et des tuiles brisées, errant, bouleversée, sur les décombres de mon passé. Voici donc ce qu’il reste de mon histoire: des baraques en ruine et des lambeaux de souvenirs. A l’image de cette cité en décomposition, l’existence des harkis s’est lentement désagrégée dans l’oubli. (Kerchouche, 2003: 58–9)

Kerchouche instinctively realises that beneath the picturesque natural surroundings, this dense forest which was used to keep the Harkis out of public view is itself scarred by the anguish experienced by the neglected community that once resided there. Moreover, the investigative journalist is now aware that she is searching for ephemeral traces of a deserted society that the French government never intended to be discovered or remembered. French public officials were hoping to avoid directly confronting this crime against humanity until the sands of time completely removed ‘Les oubliés de l’histoire’ from public consciousness altogether, when all evidence of this infamy would forever disappear below the earth’s surface.

Le Clézio’s short narrative L’Enfant de sous le pont reinforces the disastrous consequences of institutional silence in the French Harki community. Not only has the first-generation immigrant Ali’s voice been completed erased from dualistic historical representations of the Algerian War, but the source of his profound anguish is also what the Le Clézio scholar Marina Salles refers to as being emblematic of the suffering of ‘les oubliés de la société de consommation’ (Salles, 2006: 308). As the Franco-Mauritian author highlights in this sombre and realistic work of juvenile fiction, contemporary Western culture often judges what it considers to be unproductive elements of society quite harshly. Instead of feeling empathy for the voiceless individuals that survive on the periphery of modern civilisation, those who derive the most benefits from a capitalistic system tend to blame the victims for their own desperate situation. In a world dominated by a monolithic occidental economic paradigm, human beings that do not directly contribute to our materialistic consumer society are denounced for their idleness. Moreover, marginalised peoples, such as the urban homeless population, are given a collective identity by the moral majority. Although this destitute community is extremely heterogeneous in nature, Western culture depersonalises it to the extent that these individuals become inseparable from each other. This same phenomenon inflicts the diverse Harki community, which is comprised of many different languages and cultures.

As both a human being with no fixed residence and a Harki, Ali is a quintessential social pariah whose precarious existence is nearly entirely ignored by mainstream French society. Since a public space for dialogue is inaccessible for Ali, the author has little recourse but to allow the silence which surrounds his fate to speak for him. Although silence is too often considered to indicate a lack of communication, it is through this muted filter that Le Clézio will compel the reader to see Ali and the two divergent communities that he represents differently. Of all the four authors analysed in this investigation, it is perhaps the 2008 Nobel Laureate in Literature that most realistically depicts the profound anguish related to sentiments of abandonment from which the Harkis continue to suffer. Additionally, Crapanzano reminds us that: ‘La figure de blessure la plus courante chez les harkis est l’abandon … contre lequel il semble n’y avoir aucun remède’ (2008: 133). Completely neglected by a community that misunderstands and sometimes literally despises both societies of which he is indicative, Ali is like a ghost that haunts modernity and whose fleeting essence remains unperceived by nearly everyone around him. Furthermore, in a culture that emphasises individualistic values, those at the top of the social ladder are often indifferent and unaware of the struggles of disenfranchised communities.

Two episodes in the text concretise the catastrophic effects of the institutional silence that has placed Ali in this fragile situation. Although he rarely sees anyone during his morning walks with the abandoned baby, whom he has named Amina, one day he encounters police officers who have presumably erected a roadblock to protect an important public official. In response to the probing look that he receives from these authorities, Ali states, ‘C’est mon bébé’ (Le Clézio, 2008: 46). Describing the officers’ reaction, the narrator asserts, ‘Les policiers ont éclaté de rire en entendant cette bonne blague, et ils n’ont même pas baissé la capote du landau’ (2008: 46). It should be noted that Ali uses the truth to keep Amina from being taken away from him, as she represents the only treasure that he possesses. The incredulous, visceral response from these public officials underscores the negative stereotypes that they have of the homeless community. Since no one like Ali could possibly care for a baby, the officers assume that he is mentally challenged. Moreover, instead of reacting with compassion and speculating about how to help a fellow human being in distress, they scoff at his misfortune and pain. This callous behaviour is also emblematic of the social prejudice that effectively prevented first-generation Harkis from having a voice in French society, as Rahmani, Besnaci-Lancou and Kerchouche also outline in many upsetting passages of their works.

After a violent incident with other homeless individuals who Ali thinks want to steal his spot under the bridge that he calls home, the protagonist realises that he cannot raise Amina indefinitely. Summarising this ethical predicament, the narrator states:

Quand la nuit est tombée, Ali avait pris sa décision. Il fallait trouver des parents pour Amina, un vrai papa et une vraie maman qui lui donneraient une maison pour la protéger du froid de l’hiver et l’aimeraient toute sa vie. Il n’était pas question d’aller à la police (Ali n’aimait pas beaucoup les uniformes) ou chez les bonnes sœurs (d’ailleurs, il n’était pas de la même religion). (2008: 56–7)

Given his profound mistrust of authority and the cultural differences that alienate him from the rest of society, Ali decides to give the little girl to a loving family with whom he was familiar. It should be noted that the unnamed mother of this household is perhaps the only person in the entire community that has ever treated Ali with dignity and respect. Moreover, the protagonist’s distrust of the establishment is similar to that expressed by Kerchouche’s father in Mon père, ce harki. Why would Ali, or any other Harki for that matter, ever expect anything in their time of need from a country that exerted so much effort to conceal their very existence?

Breaking the paternal silence

Although the administrative silence that has condemned the Harkis to half a century of repression and acute poverty is deafening in all four narratives, each distinct work represents an attempt to repair the tarnished reputation of first-generation Harkis. In reference to these painstaking endeavours, Emmanuel Brillet explains: ‘This process of disengagement … involves the rehabilitation of the image of the father … the rehabilitation of the system of symbols associated with the enlistment of the harkis on the side of France’ (Brillet, 2003: 344). However, in order to facilitate their varied literary forms of disengagement, Rahmani, Besnaci-Lancou and Kerchouche must find a way to give a voice to their speechless fathers. Expressing the daunting nature of this task, Rahmani states, ‘Moze est mort avant sa mort … Une mort qui dure. Il n’était que ce débordement sans voix’ (Rahmani, 2003: 19). Throughout the entire narrative, Rahmani explores the multifaceted reasons that created a father whom she describes in essence as a muted zombie or the shell of a human being. Moreover, the author probes the motivations hidden beneath the surface of Moze’s tragic suicide. Affirming the collective responsibility of ‘writing as righting’, Rahmani asserts, ‘Je suis parole de mort faisant serment non pas de mort, mais faisant serment avec la mort comme parole. Moze m’a offert la sienne’ (2003: 24). The writer does indeed try to liberate her father, herself and her entire exiled community from the paternal grave.

In stark contrast to Besnaci-Lancou and Kerchouche, Rahmani insists that her father was not rendered speechless because of linguistic deficiencies that prevented him from decrying injustice. In reference to Moze’s ability to speak French, the writer emphatically declares, ‘Moze n’avait aucun accent. Cette langue, il la pratiquait avec l’élégance … Il parlait peu, très peu’ (2003: 123). However, this autobiographical account of her father’s linguistic prowess differs from traditional historical representations of the Harkis. Summarising the incapacity of many members of this displaced group to articulate and to defend themselves in a hostile host country, Brillet outlines:

Community of destiny, the harki community is the product of a history that is difficult for the fathers to hand down and for their children to receive. It is a history that is especially difficult for the fathers to hand down because, even if many reasons can be provided for justifying the choice that they made (to support France), too often they do not have the critical equipment and the mastery of the language (most of the former harkis are illiterate) to present the arguments that would be considered acceptable to those who spontaneously feel no sympathy for their situation. (2003: 342–3)

If Moze was indeed one of the rare Harkis capable of validating his motivations for siding with France during the Algerian War, the reader at first ponders why he failed to do so. If he possessed the linguistic competence needed to free himself and his people, then why did he cringe in silence?

In the final chapter which precedes the epilogue, aptly named ‘Moze parle: la voix de Moze glisse en sa fille’, the author quite literally engages in a dialogue with her deceased father. Attempting to find an answer to this question and to have a meaningful conversation with Moze at last, the writer aggressively interrogates her father. Presenting this improbable exchange between the living and the dead, the narrator asserts, ‘Pourquoi n’as-tu rien dit? / Je suis mort! / Sans une plainte, sans un mot! Pourquoi ? / Je ne peux pas en parler/ … J’ai honte de cette honte que je ne vous ai jamais dite / Dis-la ! / Ça ne se dit pas / Parle !’ (Rahmani, 2003: 179). Moze’s retort, ‘Ça ne se dit pas’, is quite revealing because it is indicative of the cloud of shame and silence that represented the Algerian War in the collective consciousness of French society. France was not and apparently is still not ready to confront its shadows of the past, including the fact that the Algerian War was its last colonial conflict (and defeat), which effectively closed a dark chapter in its history. For this reason, Moze realises that although he is able to speak, no one is listening. It is easier to inter the proverbial skeletons in the closet than it is to admit guilt and to attempt to ameliorate the situation.

Unlike Moze, Besnaci-Lancou’s father in Fille de harki does not possess the linguistic capital to denounce the crimes against humanity which he and his community have greatly suffered. Echoing the sentiments of Brillet and in reference to the work of contemporary historians, Enjelvin affirms:

As they were not endowed with what Bourdieu … has called the ‘dominant language’, they did not speak, but were spoken to. For this reason – and because the transmission of the past to their descendants was … an impossible task, due to the painful memories and feelings of guilt – they are often called the ‘generation of silence’. (2006: 118)

In addition to social conventions which denied any possibility of a veritable dialogue, most Harki fathers could not defend themselves, sometimes even inside of the family unit itself, because they could not articulate the simple reality that the dominant powers imposed many decisions upon them.

Besnaci-Lancou also reminds the reader that the Algerian War was merely a continuation of the subjugation and debasement of humanity that had inflicted this North African society for more than a century during French colonial rule. Although those who supported the FLN were able to begin the arduous process of (re)appropriating their own identity after independence, the Harkis were forced to rely upon the ‘generosity’ of the coloniser in order to survive the Algerian massacres. In essence, the centre of the totalitarian colonial regime had merely shifted a few miles across the Mediterranean, given that many Harkis were not allowed to leave the internment camps because of restrictive and discriminatory legislation. In the fourth chapter entitled ‘Rivesaltes, derrière les barbelés’, Besnaci-Lancou describes the deepening of the inferiority complex that further scarred the Harki community upon their arrival in France as follows:

Le plus humiliant, ce qui laissera en nous des traces indélébiles, c’était de voir nos pères considérés comme des mineurs, obéissant sans discuter aux ordres des militaires. Nous continuions d’être traités en colonisés, et nous vivions avec les complexes des colonisés … Car de génération en génération, l’humiliation et la honte détruisent des vies. (2005: 72)

After living in a colonial environment in Algeria where the foreign invaders were convinced of their intellectual and moral superiority, first-generation Harkis were already accustomed to authoritative silence. The psychological and social ramifications of occidental ideology which affirmed that indigenous Algerian culture had nothing to contribute to the modern world cannot be understated. Thus the paternal silence that second-generation Harkis sometimes struggle to comprehend is a vestige of a colonial past whose open wounds were never able to be healed.

In an effort to reconceptualise her father’s decision to join forces with the French and to reject unflattering simplistic paradigms, Besnaci-Lancou systematically investigated the historical facts surrounding the controversial and bloody Algerian conflict. If history is written by the winners, as the old adage states, the journalist reinterpreted the Harkis’ role in the Algerian War, thereby speaking for her voiceless father and the community that he represents. Summarising the impossible ethical dilemma in which her father found himself, Besnaci-Lancou explains, ‘La situation de notre famille relevait de l’absurdité. Nous étions otages des deux protagonistes de cette guerre. Finalement, entre deux maux, il avait fallu choisir le moins menaçant’ (2005: 52). Given that both sides had exploited the local population and committed heinous crimes against humanity, the Harkis were forced to live with the moral ambivalence which stemmed from their pragmatic support of one of these corrupt political institutions.

Firmly believing that the French forces could better protect their families against violent reprisals from the ALM (Algerian Liberation Movement), the Harkis pledged allegiance to the coloniser. Reiterating the practical, non-ideological nature of this paternal choice, the author poses the question, ‘Vaut-il mieux défendre ses petits ou sa terre?’ (2005: 19). In reference to the three collecto-biographies that comprise this study and other testimonials of second-generation Harkis, Dylan van der Schyff depicts this diverse community as ‘a misunderstood and maltreated people who were tragically caught up in larger geo-political forces and almost forgotten’ (2010: 148). Since both the dominant players in this struggle made it clear that refusing to choose was not an option, the Harkis were cast into the forefront of a confrontation that transcended their pragmatic intentions for participating. Furthermore, their coerced complicity in this war left them with an ethical scar because of the moral no man’s land that was part of their quotidian reality.

Of all the collecto-biographies, however, perhaps it is Mon père, ce Harki that best exemplifies the severity of the paternal silence that plagued the Harki family unit. Any time the author attempts to ask questions about the Algerian War, her father repeats the mantra ‘the past is dead’. As Kerchouche elucidates, ‘Pour eux, la page est tournée, il n’y a plus rien à dire sur le passé. “Li fat met,” me dit souvent mon père: le passé est mort. Ils veulent tous oublier’ (2003: 22). It should also be noted that the writer is the youngest sibling, who did not experience certain traumatic ordeals, such as life in the refugee camps. Therefore, Kerchouche struggles to understand how and why her family and their entire diasporic community still find themselves on the margins of society decades after the end of a violent political conflict. Moreover, although her father insists that the past has ceased to exist, the author is aware that the unexamined open wounds from which the Harkis suffer still colonise their present. As Laura Reeck explains in reference to another Harki narrative, ‘Le harki de Meriem is a novel that demonstrates the urgency with which memory must be decolonized to make way for the future’ (2006: 59). This same cathartic principle can be applied to Mon père, ce Harki. It is not the act of forgetting that will liberate this disenfranchised group, but rather a searing exploration that penetrates to the core of their scars. In order to heal, the sores must be fully opened and exposed for all society to confront in spite of their grotesque nature.

Like Besnaci-Lancou, Kerchouche also realises that Manichean representations of the Harkis in historical accounts prevent her father from articulating his version of the events that unfolded during this turbulent time period. In essence, history has effectively muted her father who has never had a voice. If she is to break the silence from which her family still suffers, the author must rewrite the collective saga of the entire Harki community. Underscoring the daunting nature of Kerchouche’s literary and humanistic project, Susan Ireland affirms, ‘By publishing her family story, Kerchouche signals her intention to enter the realm of public discourse, and the title of her book, with its ironic allusion to Gérard Lauzier’s 1991 film Mon père, ce héros suggests from the outset the notion of a counter-narrative’ (2009: 304). Highlighting the unflattering traditional assessment of the role of the Harkis in the Algerian War, Kerchouche declares:

La torture, c’est eux … ‘Collabos’, ‘kapos’, j’ai tout entendu sur les harkis. Voilà ce que l’Histoire m’a appris: à détester mon père … J’ai longtemps cru que mon père était un traître. Harki, pour moi, valait la pire des infamies. (2003: 24)

In order to mend the image of her father and those who fought with him, Kerchouche attempts to dissect dominant historical discourses that have taken away the collective voice of a people.

Reflecting upon her earlier efforts to force her father to speak openly about his shameful past, the author confesses:

Adolescente, je le lui ai souvent reproché, hélas, avec une violence verbale qui me fait mal aujourd’hui. Il me regardait tristement en hochant la tête, sans répondre, sans me contredire. Pourquoi ne réagissait-il pas? Quelle histoire a fait de mon père cet homme soumis et résigné, incapable de se défendre? (Kerchouche, 2003: 24)

Although she does not initially understand the complexity of the historical persecution and representation of the Harkis that condemned her father to a state of muted submission, Kerchouche realises at the end of her personal and literary journey that her people were pawns who became the victims of greater geo-political forces which transcended their discarded community. Even if her father wanted to express his pain, anger, resentment or feelings of abandonment, no one in either French or Algerian society was willing to listen.

At the end of the narrative, Kerchouche finally succeeds in compelling her father to break his silence at least for a brief moment. After meeting her lost uncle during a trip to Algeria who reveals new details about her father’s involvement in the conflict, the author incessantly interrogates him upon her return to France. Illustrating the first paternal confession and his visceral reaction to this litany of questions, the narrator states, ‘Oui, oui, oui, je leur ai donné des munitions … Je passais déjà pour un traître aux yeux des Algériens. Je n’allais pas encore l’être pour les Français!’ (2003: 274). The author’s father admits to having played both sides in an attempt to survive a conflict that was far greater than he was. Furthermore, he expresses the difficulty of navigating a complex moral labyrinth in which he would forever have to live with the consequences of each ambivalent choice that he was forced to make. Although her father abruptly ended this conversation, perhaps this outburst is indicative of the beginning of a long healing process that will allow him to delve into the scars of his past.

In the last chapter comprising a single page entitled ‘Un grand H, comme Honneur’, Kerchouche summarises her counter-narrative which has been progressively taking shape throughout the novel. (Re)appropriating not only her father’s story but also that of the rest of the Harki community, the writer declares:

Mon père n’a été ni un grand héros ni un traître infâme. Non, il était simplement un homme tourmenté par sa conscience, portant l’uniforme français mais dont le cœur penchait vers l’Algérie indépendante … Et comme mon livre, enfin, une faille ouverte dans le passé, une petite résistance contre le rouleau compresseur de l’Histoire. Oui, je suis une fille de harkis. J’écris ce mot avec un grand H. Comme Honneur. (2003: 277)

Removing the thick layers of shame and silence that have defined a marginalised society, Kerchouche restores the lost humanity of a misunderstood people. Her father, like the rest of his community, was first and foremost a human being who was presented with only two bad choices. Far from being moral monsters as they are often depicted on both sides of the Mediterranean, the Harkis were themselves the victims of a bitter conflict that still continues to polarise the general public in France.

Although Ali is obviously not the biological parent of Amina in L’Enfant de sous le pont, he assumes the important role of paternal guardian and all the responsibilities this entails. This homeless individual resourcefully feeds, clothes, nurtures and entertains the neglected baby for approximately a year. After the destabilising discovery which thrusts Amina into his life, Ali embodies the portrait of sacrifice as he freely gives up what few discarded possessions he has to take care of this child in distress. He trades the unwanted items that he uncovers in the trash for basic necessities that Amina needs, such as milk. Moreover, Amina becomes the centre of Ali’s existence, as he cherishes the time he spends with her.

In mainstream French society, Ali is a social pariah whose otherness is devalorised by the general public. He is unable to express his trauma and to recount his story because of the institutional silence which has been imposed upon him since his arrival in France. However, Amina quite literally transforms his life on multiple levels. Although he never engages in what could be considered a meaningful dialogue with any member of his surrounding community, Ali develops a profound emotional connection to Amina which transcends traditional linguistic communication. Affirming the protagonist’s deep affection for his adoptive daughter and in reference to the baby’s budding physical attributes, the narrator asserts, ‘Amina à présent était une grosse poupée, avec beaucoup de cheveux noirs, des bras et des jambes bien forts … les plus beaux bijoux qu’Ali ait jamais admirés’ (Le Clézio, 2008: 42). As the narrator unequivocally implies, this healthy young child is the only treasure that the impoverished homeless man possesses. French society has long deprived him of the possibility of monetary success or even partial integration.

However, most importantly, being fully accepted by Amina as her care-giver begins to heal the open wound from which Ali suffers. Underscoring this radical inner transformation, the narrator affirms:

Jamais Ali n’avait passé une année plus heureuse. Amina avait appris à marcher à quatre pattes, et maintenant elle était capable des choses les plus étonnantes, comme de s’asseoir pour feuilleter un livre, ou de se servir d’une boîte en fer et d’une cuillère pour jouer du tambour. Surtout, elle chantait. Pour le vieux Ali, c’était un ravissement … Ali restait couché sous sa tente, il l’écoutait en buvant du thé à la menthe avec le chat Cendrillon lové contre lui. Il était parfaitement heureux. (2008: 48)

Although the protagonist’s daily routine used to involve drinking himself into an intoxicated stupor just to numb the pain momentarily, ¹⁰ Ali now has a new raison d’être. Since Amina’s worldview has yet to be shaped by social conventions that have ostracised both communities of which Ali is indicative, the little girl instinctively considers him to be a fellow human being and her adoptive father. Perhaps all Ali really needed in order to close the gaping scar was someone non-judgmental who would not define him according to negative preconceived notions.

Conclusion

The tragic saga of the Harki community is just now beginning to be recounted through the work of second-generation writers, such as Rahmani, Besnaci-Lancou and Kerchouche. Although these three acclaimed female authors have succeeded in finally breaking the silence and exposing the unpleasant secrets buried deep beneath this veil, it appears as if France might still not be ready to confront the lurking shadows of its tarnished past. Moreover, the 2008 Nobel Laureate in Literature’s heart-rending piece of juvenile fiction dedicated to the struggles of a first-generation homeless Harki concretises the undeniable reality that the ghosts of the past still haunt contemporary French and Algerian society. Until political authorities are willing to accept full ethical responsibility for the state-sponsored crimes against humanity from which the Harkis continue to suffer, this scar will never completely heal. Furthermore, the fate of these marginalised, diasporic peoples serves as a reminder to every society that it is better to address one’s moral shortcomings as a nation than to attempt to conceal them. A civilisation has truly reached a certain level of moral maturity when it is able to face its wrongdoings and to learn from them.