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6/01 cJCIFICJDuoDuapGS—p. 15

“BEUR” CULTURE AS “METISSAGE” IN THE WORKS OF LEILA SEBBAR
By

Mary Elisabeth McCullough

A DISSERTATION

Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

Depaltment of Romance and Classical Languages

2001

ABSTRACT
“BEUR” CULTURE AS “METISSAGE” IN THE WORKS OF LEILA SEBBAR
By

Mary Elisabeth McCullough

By using popular and formal, elevated styles to refer to both popular culture and
high culture, and by giving her characters a culturally mixed background as well as tastes,
Sebbar questions the traditional boundaries of cultural separation. She asks for a more
broadly humanistic approach to the study of culture, especially that of the "Beurs"
(second-generation Maghrebian immigrants). Her ingenious fictional re-fashioning of
"Beur" culture and language establishes her as an original writer. Chapter one examines
the different levels of language in Shérazade, 17 ans, brune, frisée, les yeux verts and _L£s_
Carnets de Shérazade and establishes that the hybridity of Sebbar’s language reflects an
ambiguous period of cultural transition.

Chapter two analyses the lyrical and filmic allusions in Shérazade and E
Camets de Shérazade. That Sebbar purposefully inserted references to French popular
music and French films in a novel about a Beurette questions the notion of cultural
identity. In depicting Shérazade as a character who escapes misogynistic popular cultural
references, Sebbar subverts a tradition of women represented as clichés.

Chapter three studies cultural stereotypes from Sebbar’s works in the early 1980s
and 1990’s. I apply theories by Homi Bhabha in The Location of Culture and Mireille

Rosello in Declining the Stereotype: Ethnicity and Representation in French Cultures

and ascertain the representation of the Beur as “Woman” of French culture using Luce

 

Irigaray’s Ce Sexe gui n’en est pas un and Fatima Memissi’s The Veil and the Male
Lite.

Chapter four examines ethnicity, “engagement” and art in Sebbar’s works and
opposes literary critics’ claims that Sebbar’s fiction is of a lower quality because she does
not represent the daily realities that Beurs must face. Critics attack from two opposite
directions at once: Sebbar’s realism trivializes and popularizes what should be high art,
and her estheticism robs her work of any possibilities for political relevance. Her works
depict a combination of mythical fantasy and of a partial reality of what the “Beurs” must
face.

In conclusion, Sebbar represents “Beur” culture as “métissage” both positively (in
the early 19803) and negatively (in the 19908). However, in a 1997 interview, her
outlook on immigration was optimistic: she saw immigration as a positive, dynamic

force that only the future can predict.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank all the members of my committee for their helpful suggestions for
revisions: Professors Kenneth Harrow, Anna Norris, Deidre Dawson, Salah Hassan, and
especially Professor Laurence Porter, for his rapidity in making corrections and sending
them back to me. I would like to thank my professors at Virginia Commonwealth
University for encouraging me to continue my studies, especially Professors William
Beck, Margaret Peischl, Paul Dvorak and Robert Sims. I would like to thank my family,
especially my parents, my brother Steve and his wife Amy, and my sister Linda. Thank
you to Willy and Daphne, for being constant and faithful companions to me when I
wrote. Thank you to the following people for their encouragement, suggestions and help:
Anita Alkhas, Karen Bouwer, Agnes Peysson-Zeiss, Mary Vogl, Valerie Orlando,
Angelina Overvold, Hynd Hamla, Aida Balvannanadhan, Lilly Souza, Michel Sayeg,
Laurel Zeiss, Randy Garza and Lucia Florido. Thank you also to my colleagues at
Université Paris X— Nanterre, Virginia Commonwealth University, Baylor University,
and Sarnford University for their support. Thank you to Leila Sebbar for granting me an
interview and for encouraging me to research her works. And finally, thank you to God

for giving me the strength and the motivation to pursue all my endeavors.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

 

 

INTRODUCTION .................................................................................... 1
CHAPTER 1 ,

LANGUAGE LEVELS AND HYBRIDITY IN SHERAZADE l7 ANS BRUNE
FRISEE LES YEUX VERTS AND LES CARNETS DE SHERAZADE ................... 8
CHAPTER 2

LYRICAL AND FILMIC ALLUSIONS IN SEBBAR’S FICTION ......................... 51
CHAPTER 3

CULTURAL STEREOTYPES: THE REPRESENTATION OF “BEUR” AS

“WOMAN” IN THE SEBBAR’S WORKS .................................................... 102
CHAPTER 4

ETHNICITY, “ENGAGEMENT” AND ART IN SEBBAR’S WORKS .................. 142
CONCLUSION ..................................................................................... 164
APPENDIX

A NOTE ON ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF SEBBAR’S FICTION ................... 171
NOTES .............................................................................................. 178
WORKS CITED ................................................................................... 190

Introduction

By using both popular and formal, elevated styles to refer to both popular culture
and high culture, and by giving her characters a culturally mixed background as well as
tastes, Sebbar questions the traditional boundaries of cultural separation. She asks for a
more broadly humanistic approach to the study of culture, especially that of the "Beurs"
(second-generation Maghrebian immigrants). Her ingenious fictional re—fashioning of
"Beur" culture and language establishes her as an original writer. She encourages her
immigrant readers to forge their own identities by inventing a culture of their own,
outside the oppressive boundaries of a hegemonic, traditional French discourse. She
encourages her non-Beur readers to become aware of the changing identity of what
constitutes French nationality. Her own mixed cultural background has enabled her to
speak simultaneously from the outsider and insider's position in both Algeria and France.
In an interview I conducted with her in June 1998, she explained how her personal
experiences led her to address culturally controversial topics in both her fiction and non-
fiction.

Combining feminist approaches with post-colonial theory, I analyze how the gap
between the cultures in France - i.e. native and immigrant, of colonial and of post-
colonial backgrounds —- is bridged by characters belonging to the current generation, "la
génération métisse" (of mixed ethnicity, either biologically or culturally). It is precisely
this "métissage culturel" that situates Sebbar among writers whose main concern is fueled
by the protagonist’s or subject's desire to understand the "other" (but not necessarily the
"other's" understanding of the subject), the abolition of the essentialist categorization of

races, the advocacy of human rights, the respect for other human beings, and the liberty

of the individual mind and body. The different levels of language and culture in Sebbar's
works play a dynamic role that should not be ignored. They form a "métisse" culture,
which can be understood only by integrating literary and cultural studies: when
combined, they affirm freedom with its attendant responsibilities.l
Before going further it is necessary to define "culture" and examine the main
theories applied to it by critics. Although many books and articles have been written
about culture, few ever define it. The most effective definition for the purposes of our
study comes from Edward Said's introduction to Culture and Imperialism:
"Culture" means two things in particular. First of all it means all these practices,
like the arts of description, communication, and representation, that have relative
autonomy from the economic, social and political realms and that often exist in
aesthetic forms, one of whose principal aims is pleasure. Included, of course, are
both the popular stock of lore about distant parts of the world and the specialized
knowledge available in disciplines [such] as ethnography, historiography,
philology, sociology and literary history [. . .]. Second, and almost imperceptibly,
culture is a concept that includes a refining and elevating element, each society's
reservoir of the best that has been known and thought, as Matthew Arnold put it in
the 1860's. Arnold believed that culture palliates, if it does not altogether
neutralize, the ravages of a modem, aggressive, mercantile, and brutalizing urban
existence. [...] Culture [...] is a source of identity, and a rather combative one at
that, as we see in recent 'retums' to culture and tradition[...]. Culture is a sort of
theater where various political and ideological causes engage one another. (xii,

xiii)

In Sebbar‘s works, we shall examine both types of culture as defined by Said, the
first being aesthetic representations such as songs and films, i.e. those depictions and
possibilities that allow characters to ascend into another world, above the reality of the
everyday; and the second, sources of identity of the characters (or group of characters),
i.e. the historical, political and familial heritage and how it defines each character.
Keeping these definitions in mind, we must also examine the principles behind their
suppositions. Cultural studies has woven together many strands of theory; three of them
best apply to the study of Sebbar's works. The first one considers culture as elitist and
separationist (Bourdieu's La Distinction: critigue sociale du jugement); the second as
leftist and inclusive (Fiske's Understanding Popular Culture); and the third postmodern
(Homi Bhabha's The Location of Culture).

In La Distinction, Bourdieu analyzes almost every aspect of the lives and tastes of
the French living in metropolitan France in the 1970s. He gives a sociological
structuralist account (in tune with the times when he was writing) of the taste of the
French. His book classifies the French into hierarchical classes among which he claims
that the bourgeois artists and intellectuals are the dominant class, explaining that they
supposedly dominate because of their economic status. He categorizes social,
educational, professional and leisure activities the French do, and his essentialist views
are limiting, because he does not mention immigrants. This could mean that he included
and integrated them in his analysis, or that he excluded them altogether. Bourdieu has
written several books on Algeria: Sociologie de l'Algérie (1958), Travail et travailleurs

en Algérie (1963), and Le Déracinement, la crise de l'agriculture traditionnelle en Algérie

(1964), so one cannot accuse him of ignoring other cultures. Although he does not

forcefully condemn colonialism in Sociologie de l'Algérie, he denounces the attitude of
the French toward the Algerians (recall that he wrote this study in the mid 19503, when
Algeria was still French): "Les relations sont toujours davantage teintées de patemalisme
ou de racisme. A mesure que la colonisation s'implante et s'installe, la société algérienne
se désagrege, dormant au colon une justification supplémentaire pour éviter et mépriser"
(115). So the question why Bourdieu excludes immigrants (whether they be of Italian,
Portuguese, Eastern European, Far Eastern or Maghrebian origin) from his massive
sociological study remains unanswered.

Although his study may not be inherently racist or misogynistic, it exposes sexism
at the heart of French society. According to Bourdieu in La Distinction, once women
gain access to a profession from which they have been previously excluded, the salary
and prestige of that profession decline (149, 150). He also claims that women attending
university and receiving degrees devalues the degrees (149). Is he implicitly saying that
women should not be educated, that they should stay at home to be housewives? Or
should they remain among the lower classes and not aspire to rise above their condition?
What are their options if they do not educate themselves and attend the university? Their
choices are certainly limited if they are barred from receiving higher degrees.

By portraying volatile, multicultural characters, Sebbar shatters Bourdieu's
categories and the supposed hierarchy of taste to which the upper class appeals. French
society's origins and tastes are no longer homogeneous (have they ever been?) and cannot
be classified into fixed segments. Sebbar also represents working-class immigrants as
being interested in “high” culture (museums, art), and the educated class as being

interested in “low” culture (popular music, for example).

Although John Fiske studies mostly American and Australian popular culture, his
theories can be applied to any Western civilization. He defines popular culture as

"the culture of the subordinate who resent their subordination, who refuse to

consent to their positions or to contribute to a consensus that maintains it. [...]

Popular culture, therefore, is not the culture of the subdued. [...] Popular culture,

unlike folk culture, is evanescent and ephemeral. Its constant, anxious search for

the novel evidences the constantly-changing formations of the people and the
consequent need for an ever-changing resource bank from which popular cultures

may be produced and reproduced." (169, 170)

Fiske asks that his readers attempt to understand popular culture because it is an integral
part of our society. It should not be ignored by intellectuals, but rather viewed as
"positive and optimistic" (193). As we "tap into" popular culture, it enables us to
comprehend different levels of society and to "fuel [...] the motor of social change" (193).
Sebbar's works precisely promote both popular and high culture as beneficial means to
understand the culture of the Beurs, in the belief that accepting and ultimately blending
cultures can foster a positive reconstruction of identity and cultural space.

Homi Bhabha situates the postmodern cultural condition in a third space,
composed of fragmented elements. His complex, challenging, intellectually dazzling
study of transnational cultures raises questions of contemporary and relevant urgency.
He posits that "The 'middle passage' of contemporary culture, as with slavery itself, is a
process of displacement and disjunction that does not totalize experience. Increasingly,
'national' cultures are being produced from the perspective of disenfranchised minorities"

(5, 6). Although he claims "the most significant effect of this process is not the

proliferation of 'altemative histories of the excluded'" (6), it is precisely a literature and in
turn a history (be it alternative or not) of the excluded that Sebbar and other writers who
give voices to the Beur community are writing about, engaged in, and committed to.
Sebbar is giving a voice specifically to a marginalized group, the Beurs, and to a
marginalized group within the Beurs, women. Sebbar's texts encourage us to
demarginalize and understand "Beur" culture (and, by implication, all mixed cultures) as
an expression of society's multiplicity and diversity, and as a positive social force. If no
one grants multiple voices to the excluded, they will enter the realm of the forgotten.

Because Sebbar is in the privileged position of being an "écrivain croisé," she is
what Emily Hicks calls a "border writer [who] ultimately undermine[s] the distinction
between original and alien culture” (xxiii), and presents a blending of both French and
North African cultures (which can also be broken down into different regional and ethnic
sub-cultures) - now inextricable from each other.

Sebbar’s works may also be considered a "contre—littérature," as Bernard Mouralis
defines it in Les Contre-Litteratures: “le texte exotique, la problématique: discours du
peuple et discours sur le peuple; le texte négro-africain” (11, emphasis in original).
Because she was the first writer in France to introduce “Beur” characters (deemed
“exotic” by their names and ethnic backgrounds --exotic being defined as “other” or
“foreign”) as central to her plots, her works challenge the definition of the established

literature of ZOm-century metropolitan France:

l’exotisme, en introduisant dans le champ littéraire d’autres paysages, d’autres
homrnes, d’autres valeurs esthétiques, d’autres problématiques, constituait bien,
du moins dans son principe une tentative de subversion de celui-ci. Cependant la

perception de la difference [. . .] étaient entierement subordonnées au systéme de

pensée de l’observateur et oil l‘Autre n’accédait a 1’existence que par le regard
que l’on voulait bien porter sur lui (166).
Her writings necessarily become political and revolutionary because they counter, by the
themes they problematize, this “established” literature. Although Sebbar's writings are
considered marginal or minor by literary critics,2 the messages she attempts to convey in
her writings centrally reflect a partial reality of France's polemical social and

emigrational issues.3

 

Chapter 1

LANGUAGE LEVELS AND HYBRIDIT Y IN SHERAZADE 17 ANS BRUNE

 

FRISEE LES YEUX VERTS AND LES CARNETS DE SHERAZADE

 

Sebbar's creative use of language breaks the traditional boundaries separating
"formal" from "informal" language. To create a better understanding of the "Beur" world,
she uses this separation device to confront her readers with the unsettling realities
immigrants face. The importance of Shérazade (1982) in giving a voice to Beurs was
seminal. "Although not a Beur herself, Sebbar interprets their world" (Mortimer "On the
Roa " 195). The first novel by a Beur writer was L'Amour guand méme by Hocine
Touabti in 1981. However, immigrants are not a central part of its plot:

l'originalité de sa condition en tant que fils d'immigré n'est qu'effleurée par

l'auteur de L'Amour guand méme. Le personnage principal du roman est en fait

Sylvie, une jeune droguée francaise. Son arnant, 1e narrateur anonyme du récit,

aime fréquenter avec elle 1e quartier latin; i1 parle tres peu des milieux dont il est

issu (Hargreaves, La Littérature Beur 46).

"'En somme, il est trop discret sur ses origines" (Salim Jay in Hargreaves 47). Le Thé au
harem d'Archi Ahmed (1983), is generally considered the first "Beur" novel in France
(Hargreaves 46). However, Shérazade is the first novel in which a Beur character is
central.4 This problematizes its categorization: it is not a "Beur" novel, because its
author is not Beur. Such ambiguity is typical of Sebbar's works; in libraries and
bookstores, she is classified under "Littératures du Maghreb et du Moyen-Orient"
because she kept her father's Arab name; but she considers herself French.5 However, the

French do not consider her a French writer because she writes about immigrants and

A

because of her name; the Algerians reject her as an Algerian author. After I told an
Algerian I met in Paris in 1997 that I was working on Le‘fla Sebbar's novels, she said: "Ah
ouais, Sebbar, je sais pas ce qu'elle a. Elle dit qu'elle est francaise et tout, et pourtant son
pere était Algérien. C'est la nationalité du pere qui nous fait ce qu'on est, pas celle de la
mere. Nous, les Algériens, on aime pas Sebbar parce qu'elle dit qu'elle est francaise. Elle
veut se faire accepter ici, c'est tout. Elle nie tout son coté algérien, et pourtant elle a un
nom arabe." So her protagonists’ experience of rejection echoes Sebbar's exclusion by
both communities. By writing about such experiences, Sebbar vicariously attempts to
exorcise critical cultural and semantic misunderstandings.

Does the popular voice necessarily equal the immigrant voice? Or is the
immigrant voice automatically a popular one? In Sebbar's works, the immigrants (more
specifically, the children of Maghrebi immigrants, or "Beurs," as they are commonly
called) belong to the proletariat or popular classes and are the central characters.6 Their
defining criterion is:

avoir des parents musulmans d'origine maghrébine ayant émigré en France;

l'intéressé est né dans ce pays ou y vit depuis son enfance. Il convient de nuancer

ceci par une observation socio-économique. En francais courant, qui dit

"imrnigr " dit "travailleur immigré." Les professionnels qui émigrent en France

sont désignés par l'homme de la rue comme des étrangers, et non pas comme des

immigrés, denomination réservée aux seuls ouvriers, qui, dans le cas des

Maghrébins, sont généralement peu instruits (emphasis in original, Hargreaves I_.a

Littérature Beur 7).

The first generation of immigrants came to France after the Second World War because

9 A

many French men had been killed in battle and the factories needed workers. The
original idea was for the men to come without their families, work, send money home,
and then go back to their homeland. Slowly, however, their wives and children joined
them. They lived in sordid conditions ("bidonvilles," or slums; cf. Azouz Begag's
chronicling - albeit with humor - his life in a bidonville outside Lyons in be Gone du

Chaaba, which was made into a feature film in 1997) and in apartment complexes

 

("HLMs" or Habitations a Loyer Modéré; these are apartments in which the rent is
income-contingent) that were hastily built and meant to be temporary; some of them,
ironically enough, were built for returning "pieds—noirs" (French people living in Algeria
when it was still part of France). They soon moved out and immigrants moved in.
Surprisingly, some people in their late twenties and early thirties lived in bidonvilles until
late in the eighties.7 Still, the majority of immigrants are considered to be on the margins
of society. They are common targets of racial profiling. One merely has to observe life
on the streets (or especially the metro) of Paris or any other major French city to notice
that the police randomly ask people who look like North Africans and black Africans for
identification and proof that they can legally be in France with the infamous "Vos

papiers, s'il vous plait."

Sebbar is the first French-language author to focus on the immigrant population.8
Although Claire Etcherelli's Elise ou la vraie vie (published in 1967) chronicles the
(doomed) relationship between a French woman and an Algerian man, and depicts the
harsh condition under which the immigrant workers live and work, the central character

is Elise, the French woman; the story recounted is hers. Only in the 1980's (almost

twenty years after the end in 1962 of Algeria's struggle for independence) does the
Maghrebian immigrant population become central to novels and acquire its own voice in
literature - with the exception of two poetry collections: Je vois ce train gui dure, by
Ahmed [Kalouaz] published in 1975, and Mélancolie by Jean-Luc Yacine published in
1976, and plays, that were performed but unfortunately not published, for example m
gue les larrnes de nos méres deviennent légende by Kahina, a troupe composed of
women, who formed their group in 1976 but disbanded in 1979. (Hargreaves 54)9 As
immigrants become valid subjects exploited in novels, the language used by the authors
breaks with traditional literary styles and becomes a lexis, or its own new, amalgamated
style.'0

In Sebbar's works, the immigrants are self-educated and not formally educated:
they have no diplomas or certificates. This lack of formal credentials marginalizes them
. even more in the eyes of contemporary society. By rejecting formal education and
becoming "autodidactes," Sebbar’s heroes and especially heroines subvert the French
social hierarchy and create their own meaning and value of knowledge. However, they
also manage to evade or escape their Maghrebian class and societal situation. Defying
both the traditional Arabic family structure in which the women traditionally must be
obedient, subservient daughters (or wives) who do their parents' (or husbands') bidding,
Sebbar's heroines define their lives outside the confines of their ethnic tradition. They do
not attempt to form a community or a utopia: their space is one they inhabit alone, on the
run; they let people to move in and out of it but never allow anyone to stay in for very
long.

Examining the mixtures of different levels of language in Sebbar’s fiction, as well

A

as "anglicismes" and "arabismes" that are infiltrating the French language as the
inhabitants of the "métropole" originate from more diverse backgrounds than ever, and
the narrative voices that use them (implied author, narrator, characters), we find that the
pervasive "popular voice" intervenes through the narrative voice as well as through the
immigrants' voices (i.e. those with a mixed cultural and bilingual or trilingual
background). The language Sebbar uses is fluid, hybrid and is situated in the Third Space
of enunciation, as her characters are in the Third Space of culture -- belonging neither to
their culture of origin, North Africa, nor their country of immigration, France, but to a
third space of dislocation and displacement that they create. It is a kind of “internal”
exile that is a mixture of both cultures.I1 The third space of language is a question of the
condition of enunciation and could be a “default” domain of unmarked choice; however,
in Sebbar’s writings, it is something dynamic and perhaps liberating, situated between
formal and informal language. Homi Bhabha comments on the Third Space as follows:
It is only when we understand that all cultural statements and systems are
constructed in this contradictory and ambivalent [Third] space of enunciation, that
we begin to understand why hierarchical claims to the inherent originality or
"purity" of cultures are untenable, even before we resort to empirical historical
instances that demonstrate their hybridity. [...] It is that Third Space, though
unrepresentable in itself, which constitutes the discursive conditions of
enunciation that ensure that the meaning and symbols of culture have no
primordial unity or fixity; that even the same signs can be appropriated,
translated, rehistoricized and read anew (37).

Bhabha’s exploration of the third space of enunciation is political and cultural. Before

illustrating this development with examples from the text, it is necessary to define the
different levels of language as linguists perceive them. To do so, we turn to R.E.
Batchelor and M.H. Offord's Using French: A Guide to Contemmrm Usage, where
they define the registers of formality in language use:
extreme informality (or R1): very informal, casual, colloquial, familiar, careless,
admitting new terms almost indiscriminately, certain times short lived, at times
truncated, elliptical, incorrect grammatically, prone to redundant expressions,
includes slang expressions and vulgarisms, likely to include regional variations;
R2: standard, polite, educated [...] compromise between the two extremes, and
extremely formal, or R3, formal, literary, official, with archaic ring, language of
scholars and purists, meticulously correct, reluctant to admit new terms (6).'2
We can also go beyond the language itself and apply R1 and R3 to topics of conversation;
as we shall see in our analysis of the language, Sebbar also mixes R1 topics (art,
literature, intellectual topics) with R3 ones (going to the restroom, scatological functions,
etc). Within R1, there are several traditional non-technical categories in French. wit
13M defines “une ‘marque d’usage’ qui précise l'emploi [...] dans la société (farn.:
c’est-a-dire courant dans la langue parlée ordinaire et dans la langue écrite un peu libre;
pop,: populaire, c’est—a-dire courant dans les milieux populaires des villes, mais réprouvé
ou évitée par l’ensemble de la bourgeoisie cultivée)” (XVII). There are sub-categories
that are not included in the “marque d’usage” but nonetheless are used to classify words,
such as “vulgaire,” (“Péjoratifz qui est plus qu’ordinaire, manqué d’élévation ou de
distinction et d’usage”), “censure,” (“interdit" or “condamné), and “argot,” (“ensemble

oral des mots non techniques qui plaisent a un groupe social") such as “verlan”, (“argot

conventionnel consitant a inverser les syllables de certains mots"), thieves' cam, and the
like, used to exclude non-initiates. The functions of vulgar language are to impose an
unwelcome presence and to expose self-deception among the privileged. We now turn to
examples of Sebbar's language in Shérazade, 17ans, brune, frisée, les yeux verts, Lg
Camets dc Shérazade, and Parle, mon fils, parle a ta mere, respectively.”

The most surprising and perhaps shocking example of mixes of language and
styles is the clash of the traditional literary "passe simple" with the "gros mots" and
"langage parlé".l4 The following examples are taken from Shérazade; following each

example is Le Petit Robert's classification of which category the underlined word or

expression belongs to: “il l'engueula" (142) (“populaire”), "'Merde' pensa Julien” (206)

 

(“vulgaire”); "Mais comme i1 possédait une chaine Olivier il ne pouvait étre partout a la
fois. Pierrot n'alla pas vérifier si Olivier mettait la main 2: la pate dans les cuisines. Ca
sentait bon." (66-67) (“familier”); "Elle démarra au quart de tour; Basile dit 'mtflg';
personne ne comprit pourquoi" (66) (“familier”) "A la fin il quitta la piece, son casque
sous le bras, en lui disant 'Je t'emmerde sale mtg et il ne lui parla pas..." (78) (“vulgaire
et familier”); "A cinq heures du matin, assis dans le fauteuil tressé en face de Shérazade

qui dormait, i1 comprit ‘Merde. Merde et merde’(l 11) (“vulgaire”); "... elle commenca a

 

se laisser racoler dans la rue et sans jamais avoir a faire le trottoir ni a dépendre d'un

mg..." (84) (“argot”). Because the "passé simple" is no longer spoken but relegated to

written French, the author, in using it, is situating his or her text in the novelistic genre.
Retiré du francais parlé, le passe simple, pierre d'angle du Récit, signale toujours
un art; il fait partie d'un rituel des Belles-Lettres... [Il] est l'instrument idéal de

toutes les constructions d'univers; il est le temps factice des cosmogonies, des

mythes, des Histoires et des romans... Derriére le passé simple se cache toujours

un démiurge, dieu ou récitant... Il institue un continu crédible mais dont l'illusion

est affichée... Cela doit étre rnis en rapport avec une certaine mythologie de
l'universel, propre a la société bourgeoise, dont le Roman est un produit

caractérisé..." (Barthes 26-28).

By juxtaposing forms of written and spoken language, Sebbar can appeal to a wider
audience, to both middle-class readers and lower-class ones. In the examples quoted
above, the passé simple is used by the narrator to ritualize the language in its written
form, and the "gros mots" by both the narrator and by the characters to activate the reality
of the spoken word. If Sebbar were to use only the passe simple and an elevated style of
writing, she would be clearly placing her works in the bourgeois sphere, and by only
using popular language she would be situating her works among popular (or pulp) fiction
(strictly linguistically speaking, of course, because the topics she treats are certainly not
bourgeois). By using both interchangeably, Sebbar transcends literary tradition by
mocking the pretentiousness of the passé simple and by rising above the language of the
proletariat. Or is she simply mocking both of them by authenticating (or neutralizing)
both styles? And is the French language endangered by this blatant and inextricable
amalgamation of styles?

We return to some of the examples quoted earlier where familiar, popular, vulgar
and slang expressions are juxtaposed with the "passe simple". Their contexts must be
examined to identify their importance in the novel. The following quote from Shérazade
asserts the eponymous heroine's independence and habit of running away: '5

Tres Vite, Shérazade conduisit seule la moto de Krim. Elle lui empruntait son

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équipement, un peu grand pour elle, bien que Krim ffit plutot maigre et assez
petit. Un jour, [Shérazade] roula seule jusqu'a Etampes. Lorsqu'elle le dit a
Krim, il l'engueula, elle aurait pu se faire arréter par les flics, elle était mineure,
sans perrnis... elle serait allée rejoindre Driss mais dans la prison des femmes.
Shérazade dit qu'elle ne se serait pas arrétée, elle aurait foncé et les auraient (sic)
semés "Mais oui, mais oui..." répondait Krim (142).
The words that belong to an elevated register of speech (or R3) are "conduisit", "bien
que", "ffit", "roula", and "dit"; those belonging to a low register (R1) are "moto", "les
flics" and "foncé". So there is a combination of both registers in the same paragraph. But
an odd merging of registers is found in the word "engueula": it belongs to both R3 (passé
simple, i.e. literary) and R1 (a slang verb, "engueuler"). As we shall see in our study of
other examples both from Shérazade and Les camets de Shérazade, R1 and R3 are used
in close proximity, within the same sentence or in neighboring sentences. "Engueula" is
the only word in the passage cited above that fuses both registers, rendering them
inextricable. Bakhtin calls this a “comic rejoinderz" the slang lowers the lofty “passé
simple,” producing a comic effect that mocks literary language.16
The rapid shift of styles in this short passage reflects the characters' emotional and
geographical instability and constant movements (especially Shérazade's) from one
physical space to another: her parents' apartment (in which we never actually see her; she
has fled before the narrative begins), the libraries, McDonald's, nightclubs, Julien's
apartment, the "squatt", cafés, museums (Beaubourg and the Louvre), a stolen car...”
Krim's (a minor character who lives in the "squatt") movements are as varied as

Shérazade's: he was born in Lyons, then moved to Grenoble, then to Paris, where he

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moves around the city and the suburbs.
Their family backgrounds are equally complex. Krim's father is from Morocco,
his mother a Berber from Algeria. Krim's emotional affinity with Shérazade stems from

their physical appearance; they both have green eyes:18 “

Krim la regarda. 11 n’avait pas
remarqué la couleur de ses yeux. Enthousiaste tout a coup il s’écria: ‘Comme ma mere.
Ma mere est berbere, elle est blonde et elle a des yeux clairs, verts ou bleus, je sais pas.
La prochaine fois, je regarderai mieux.’ Krim était un peu roux et lui aussi avait des yeux
clairs, plutot gris verts.” (Shérazade 63)

Shérazade's parents are Kabyle - Algerian: green or blue eyes are sometimes the
physical signs of the Berber people, who are traditionally Muslims. They live in tribes in
the mountains of Kabylia and elsewhere and are considered a minority in the Maghreb,
particularly in Algeria (but not Morocco). Shérazade and Krim's lifestyle is as
“mouvementée” as their parents' and ancestors — if not more so.

The cultural space in which they circulate is also complex. Although their parents
immigrated to France, they still received an Arab and Muslim upbringing. But the
French culture that surrounds them also has an influence on them. They take these two
cultural influences, mix them, and create a culture of their own. Of course this can
become more complex in their situations because their families are not strictly Algerian
and Arab, but Moroccan and Berber.

The characters are not only geographically and culturally unstable, but socially
marginal. Their liminality is apparent in the fact that they rob a restaurant. The following
statement is made before immediately before the group in the squat enters the restaurant:

Pierrot avait fait un tour jusqu'aux toilettes pour voir. Ni trop grand ni trop petit.

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Tres select. Un restaurant of: Olivier disait faire la cuisine lui-méme. Mais
comme i1 possédait une chaine Olivier il ne pouvait étre partout a la fois. Pierrot
n'alla pas vérifier si Olivier mettait la main a la pate dans les cuisines. Ca sentait
bon. C'était raffine’ et les garcons étaient stylés. Les maitres d'hétel n'étaient pas
obséquieux. Les clients étaient riches, c'étaient tous des bourges. Pierrot pissa un
coup et remonta. Krim et Basile, a l'abri de la voiture, avaient discretement pissé
pendant que Shérazade marchait de long en large. Pierrot revint vers eux:
“Rappelez-vous. Ceci est une auto-réduction; ce n’est pas un hold-up... " (66, 67;
emphases in original).
The shift in passages that mix high (written) and low (spoken) styles is again rapid:
"Olivier il" (double subject, used often in speech), "Pierrot n'alla pas" (passé simple),
"obséquieux" (high), "bourges" (slang for "bourgeois"), "Pierrot pissa" (an example of
high and low language and style in the same word, "pisser" is considered vulgar, but it is
conjugated in the passé simple). The fact that two other characters "avaient [...] pissé"
indicates insistence on a basic human need, one rarely mentioned in formal narratives.
Acts such as urinating and defecating can be somewhat shocking, as they are routine and
therefore usually omitted from plots.” Such acts exemplify “the democracy of the body”
that one already finds in Rabelais and Montaigne. In Sebbar’s novel, emphasis on
physical functions common to all contests the social hierarchy of wealth and privilege.
Interestingly, it is the men (Pierrot, Krim and Basile) who urinate here, not the young
woman (Shérazade). They are marking territory as their own, as some animals do; in this
instance, the restaurant whose patrons they are about to rob. In doing this, they are also

defiling the restaurant, and ultimately what it stands for: its owner(s) and patrons. It is

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degraded in two ways: by being urinated on and by being robbed. For the characters,
this double victimization is a victory over capitalism and the bourgeoisie. The restaurant,
"Chez Olivier" (it is not actually "chez", since we are told it is a chain restaurant and
"Olivier" cannot be in all his restaurants at the same time),20 is carefully chosen by the
leader of the delinquents: the mastermind behind the robbery is Pierrot, a communist son
of Polish immigrants. He abhors capitalism and embraces violence as a means of
subverting authority.” However, his death at the end of the novel foreshadows a
moralistic conclusion, that violence does not solve a country's problems, is chilling when
we think of the downward spiral of random and unpredictable violent events that have
taken place in Algeria since 1991.

In humiliating a symbol of capitalism and the bourgeoisie, the characters' victory
over what they consider to be an exploitive system is explained in their term of "auto-
réduction". By expressly not using the word "hold-up" (an English word) and replacing it
by a French one, "auto-reduction", the characters are also refusing to adhere to the
influence of the language of bourgeois capitalism, American-English.

Two more instances that counter the bourgeoisie are in the next two passages we
will examine and are linked by the word "merde", stated by Julien, an orientalist
bourgeois. They occur in crucial moments of the plot and recount Julien's reaction to his
"prise de conscience" about his relationship with Shérazade. The first time he utters this
expression of surprise and disgust is when he sees Shérazade sleeping in his apartment:

Shérazade donnait. Shérazade était 1a. 11 1a regarda. [...] 11 avait peut-étre 1e

double de son age; du bout du lit, elle paraissait quinze ans. Et lui... Si elle était

rnineure? Il n'y avait pas pensé. Devant Shérazade endormie, il prit conscience

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soudain de l'incongruité de cette histoire. [...] A cinq heures du matin, assis

dans le fauteuil tressé en face de Shérazade qui dormait, il comprit “‘Merde.

Merde et merde” (l l l).

Julien is worried that his involvement with Shérazade (a minor) might get him into
trouble with the law. Sebbar is annihilating the idea that the colonizer is omnipotent:
Julien, a representative figure of the colonizer (male, older, pied-noir, fascinated by Arab
women's orientalism), cannot exert the power he represents. Shérazade is everything but
the submissive colonized: she is the prime example of an escapist who cannot be caught
and kept (whether it be in J ulien's apartment, on film or on videotape). This leads us
precisely to the next "merde": J ulien sees a note that Shérazade has left "'Je ne suis pas
une odalisque'. - Merde — pensa Julien et il se dirigea vers son ordinateur. Heureusement,
le programme était compliqué. Il ne penserait pas a Shérazade. 11 y pensa toute la
journée, et jusqu'au soir il l'attendit." (206)

The two "merdes" that Julien thinks (they are quoted as direct speech, as his
thoughts), and the passé simple is used by the narrator to express this: "i1 comprit" and
"pensa". So the "continu crédible" that Barthes insists the passé simple instills is
part of Julien's "prise de conscience". However, the "illusion" for Julien is negated: he
can no longer elude his risk of corrupting a minor and of losing Shérazade because of his
orientalist fantasy. With "merde", he must face his own shortcomings. In this sense, he
must rid himself of his fictional, patriarchal desire and reification of his young
Maghrebian friend. He must return to the cruel reality that he might lose her.

Nevertheless, in both situations Shérazade is either figuratively or literally absent

from the scene: the first time, she is sleeping, and the second time, she has left Julien's

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apartment. So there is no witness to Julien‘s thoughts (or utterances) except for the
reader: it is a "moment privilégié", when Julien realizes the double jeopardy he is facing.
His colonial conscience is sharpened when he realizes that Shérazade understands the
game he is playing: after his constantly comparing her to "odalisques" in paintings, and
being obsessed by her, she leaves him. The narrator does not give the reader the privilege
of Shérazade's thoughts: it is through her actions (as seen by Julien) that the reader can
enter her psyche and her desire to run away, not to be taken as a token or an image that
represents the female as seen by the male orientalist gaze. Sebbar is revolting against
this. Shérazade will not be taken for a fool: she constantly evades her pursuer, whether it
be Julien or other men.

This echoes precisely another "merde" uttered by a different representative of the
odalisque-hunter: a photographer. This episode is recounted in the chapter entitled
"Jungle" (151-6): Shérazade and her friends (Zouzou, a Tunisian, and France, a
"martiniquaise") agree to be photographed by a shady bourgeois photographer. He reifies
the young women: because they have a "'look' pas possible, [...] des beautés exotiques"
(152), they are prime candidates for a type of exotic/erotic photography, whose clientele
includes both men and women: "i1 connaissait les gofits des clients - et des clientes -
ajouta-t-il pour prouver a que] point 1e public était large et généreux, des clients privés"
(152).22 This photographer, by supplying what the “financial authorities” (the public)
demand, exposes the reader to the perversity of his social sphere. Not only do the legal
authorities rnistreat the immigrants, but the financial authorities also turn them into
objects of visual sexual gratification. The immigrants are assaulted from all sides. They

are doubly victimized: by the authorities who relentlessly harass them, and by bourgeois

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who see them as exotic objects. The young women’s “presence” is such that
(bourgeois) men “tend to think of it as an almost physical emanation, a kind of heat or
smell or aura” (Berger 46). As women, they appear trapped, because they were “born,
within an allotted and confined space, into the keeping of men” (46).

However, the three young girls manage to take advantage of their situation and
overturn it while reversing the power roles: with fake guns Shérazade has bought in a toy
store, the three young women become the ones in power. The irony of this is that the
photographer has just given them unloaded guns to add to the perversity of his scene:23

avec la dextérité du professionnel, il dégagea un sein ici, une fesse la, il échancra

davantage le décolleté de Shérazade. “Vous étes superbes. On aime beaucoup les
scenes de jungle et de forét vierge en ce moment... I] manque une panthere, mais
j'ai de quoi dans le coffre. Ce sera pour tout a l'heure. Attendez, j'ai une idée,
vous allez prendre chacune une mitraillette comme des guérilleres, j‘en ai des

vraies pas chargées” ( 154).

What the photographer does not know is that Shérazade admires "real life" militant
women, such as Rosa Luxemburg, a socialist, extremely anti-capitalist revolutionary, a
German of Polish-Jewish origins (yet another woman with a mixed cultural background).
The (unnamed) photographer become impatient because the girls refuse to reveal more of
their bodies and exclaims:

Bon vous avez des jolis culs, des jolis seins, vous étes jeunes, alors si vous vous

décidez pas, c'est pas difficile... mais moi je vous ai payées; c'est la petite la qui a

l'argent, c'est pas donné pour des petites putes comme on en trouve partout, alors

hein, je plaisante plus. Alors, merde, ca vient? (155).

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The second and third "merde" (uttered by Julien and by the photographer, respectively)
both emerge in circumstances when women refuse to be taken for objects. Julien's
explanation to Shérazade of what "odalisques" are is:

Elles sont toujours allongées, alanguies, le regard vague, presque endonnies...

Elles évoquent pour les peintres de l'Occident la nonchalance, la lascivité, la

seduction perverse des femmes orientales. On les a appelées 'Odalisques' dans

l'art du siecle demier en oubliant que l'odalisque, dans l'empire Ottoman, l'empire
turc, était simplement une servante, une esclave au service (les femmes du harem

royal (190).

Here again, the tables are turned: it is Julien and the photographer who try to capture this
exotic "odalisque" (Shérazade) by a modem means: instead of painting her, they want to
photograph her. Both of them attempt to, but their plans are thwarted; the girls "hold up"
the photographer with the toy guns and France says: "On va vous foutre en l'air et on se
tire. Si vous ouvrez votre gueule on porte plainte pour incitation a la prostitution,
proxénétisme caractérisé" (155).

The double-meaning of "France" (a métisse who bears the name of the country
that oppresses her) being the one who turns around the young women's situation is
indicative of the future racial composition of the country the immigrants live in: they
will permanently become part of it. J ulien predicts this: “Les Francais de souche seront
dans quelques décennies, les nouvelles minorltés..., dit Julien en riant et tout ca a cause
de filles comme toi" (191). So it is the "new" France (France) that dominates the "old"
France (photographer).

Just as the scene from the photographer is comical, so is the "auto-reduction"

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from the passage “Chez Olivier”: the youths are subverting "real" "hold-ups". Not only
do they take money and jewelry from the customers, but also silverware and wine (67).
They force the waiters to drink wine by holding (unloaded) guns to their heads, and then
distribute cigars to the waiters. Pierrot announces that the "étudiants" and the "fauchés"
(those who are broke) can abstain from giving their jewelry away (68). Incongruously,
after taking their time to be generous to the waiters, the narrator states "11 fallait faire
Vite" (68). If the robbers are in such a hurry, why take the time to take from the owner to
give to the employer? Are they merely trying to help the underdogs through the equal
distribution of wealth? Or are they simply not taking themselves too seriously and trying
to spoof a hold-up? By stealing from the bourgeois and the restaurant chain, by using a
French word instead of an American one in this instance, by using unloaded guns that
look like toy ones, by committing an act that is out of place in a robbery, the suburban
youth are reacting against a powerful force that robs the poor and gives to the rich. They
are undermining that authority in their own, comical, reckless, lawless way.

The chapter at the photographers's is tinged with humor and exaggeration: “Dans
les fétes ou elles allerent par la suite, elles n'entendirent plus parler du célébre
photographe mais une histoire semblable a la leur circulait. I] n'était pas question de
pistolet. Les filles dont on parlait avaient immobilisé un professionnel du porno a la
bombe anti-Viol et lui avaient donné une raclée" (156). By adding a comical dimension
to the hold-ups, Sebbar doubly mocks the established structures of bourgeois capitalism
and exploitative businesses. Because the young people succeed in their ventures, their
young, métisse power manipulates and supersedes traditional power.

Both the photographer and Julien fail to capture the young women and Shérazade

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on camera. Julien at first takes rolls and rolls of film of Shérazade and hangs them all
over his apartment; Shérazade’s reaction opposes what Julien would want. Immediately
after her experience at the photographers, she goes to his apartment:

Elle lui montra le pistolet qui n'avait pas l'air d'un jouet. Shérazade lorsqu'elle

terrnina 1e récit dit a Julien: ‘Tu vois ce qui t'attend, si tu continues avec tes

photos.’

~Mais je fais pas du porno, moi.

-C'est pareil. D'ailleurs tu vas voir...

Elle arracha toutes les photos d'elle que Julien avait collées, punaisées, épinglées

de la cuisine a la salle de bains, en passant par les panneaux couverts de la

chambre et de la grande piece, des photos de formats différents, de la photo

d'identité au poster (158).
Shérazade's not wanting photos of her circulating is created by her "prise de conscience"
that these men are orientalizing her: they want to capture her image and turn her into a
"modern" odalisque. She refuses and becomes empowered by her nineteenth-century
counterparts. The photographers, then, become the perverse ones who try to seduce her
through their phallic lens. Their failed attempts to turn her and her friends into lascivious
objects reflects the power switch that occurs. Since the two men are unable to control
and freeze the women on film, their pitiful cry of frustration is "merde". This "merde"
symbolizes their inability to dominate what they consider to be exotic, and ushers in a
new type of (multicultural) woman who refuses to be orientalized, exotified, exploited,
dominated, animalized and reified. Sebbar is damning the conventional male gaze by

replacing it with young ingenious free-spirited, elusive, outspoken women, exemplified

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by Shérazade, and later Djamila.

The last passage for this section we shall examine from Shérazade is taken from
a context when Shérazade is listening to Djamila (another young woman from the squatt)
as she tells her story, reversing the situation in 1001 Nights, where Scheherazade is
always the story teller, indicating that the modern namesake of the Persian queen has
more autonomy, and that her life does not depend on the listening ear of a king; Sebbar
mocks a situation with sexual roles reversed. Djamila is an independent prostitute who
financially supports her French starving-artist-junkie-boyfriend, Richard.24 Their
situation is unconventional and their roles reversed: Djamila, a multiply-marginalized
character (woman, Beur, prostitute, therefore unfaithful to her boyfriend because of the
nature of her profession) is the breadwinner, or in a sense, the "man" of the couple.
Richard is like a wife or a child to her: "elle en profitait pour l'habiller comme elle
voulait. Elle le trouvait encore plus beau" (85). He is her plaything, her boy-toy, her
"Monsieur Vénus".25 Sebbar takes what each half of the couple symbolizes and mocks it.
The irony in their names cannot go unnoticed: Djamila (a variation of Jemila) means
"belle au sens physique et moral" (Dib 48). We do not know whether Djamila is pretty or
not, but she certainly does not shine "au sens moral". "Richard" is a slang word in French
for a rich person. So both their characters reflect the opposite of what their names mean.

Djamila is also a "métisse," as an additional attribute: her mother is French and
her father Algerian. A drifter, like the others in the squatt, she has no place to call home
and wanders from city to city (Marseilles, where she comes from, to Paris; a prediction of
the "Marche des Beurs”?). The parallels between her story and Shérazade's are striking:

both young women have an impetuous desire to return to Algeria, but cannot bring

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themselves actually to cross the Mediterranean Sea. They always seem to float in their
third ambiguous space, France.

So, Djamila, unable to find a job suitable for her tastes, decides to enter the
world's oldest profession: "plutot crever que vendre des godasses et sentir les pieds des
bourges, avait-elle dit a Richard qui s'était marré, en pensant qu'ils n'avaient plus d'argent
et que la on ne plaisantait pas. [...] [E]lle commenca a se laisser racoler dans la rue et
sans jamais avoir a faire le trottoir ni a dépendre d'un mac." (84) The slang in the above
passage is "crever", "godasses" "bourges" (quoted in Djamila's direct speech), and
"marré", "racoler", "faire 1e trottoir" and "mac" (short for "maquereau", a pimp). It is
unclear whether Djamila or the narrator is using the expression "marré": at the end of the
chapter, the last words are "Shérazade l'écoutait." So, who is telling Djamila's story? Is
it she herself, the narrator, or Shérazade? The impossibility of telling who is narrating is
just as equivocal as Shérazade and Djamila’s characters. The context of the story is the
female bonding of Shérazade and Djamila, although Shérazade is the silent listener (in
Les Camets de Shérazade, she assumes the role of the story-teller, like Scheherazade).

What does Djamila represent? The slang and passé compose combinations we
have seen before have been in association with Shérazade. So why the switch to
Djamila? Could it be because the two young women are connected to each other with
their "métisse" identity, their restlessness, their disdain of French bourgeois culture, their
"voyou" mentality, and because they dominate the men they come in contact with?

By examining the interaction of slang and literary language in their contexts in
Shérazade, we can conclude that Sebbar's style not only ushers in a new type of literature

(of which the Beur are central characters), but a new type of woman, the other,

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postmodern, postcolonial side to the nineteenth-century framed odalisque. Shérazade’s
image will not be pinned down and reproduced; this elusiveness causes distress to her
would-be capturers, whom she eludes by cunningly using their own means of aggression
against them. Djamila will not depend on anyone: although she is a prostitute, she does
not depend on a pimp or on any one man to sustain her. She represents the other side of
the "new" woman: she uses her clients for their money, and her boyfriend to satisfy her
motherly instinct. The "oppressed other" has now become the "dominant subject".
Subverting the language is also subverting and taunting authority (bourgeois capitalism),
breaking the law, and reversing tradition (the woman as a dependent figure of man's
wishes and desires).

A seminal historical event that happened between the publication of Shérazade
(1982) and Les Camets de Shérazade (1985) heightened the awareness of the plight of
children of Maghrebian immigrants in France: the "Marche pour l'égalité et contre le
racisme" or the "Marche des Beurs" in 1983. Approximately twenty "marcheurs" left
Marseille (under the auspices of a priest, Christian Delorrne, and a pastor, Jean Costil) on
October 15, 1983, and arrived in Paris on December 3, 1983, where one hundred
thousand people assembled to show their support for the "marcheurs". It is precisely this
same route that Shérazade decides to take with Gilles, a truck driver.26 Because of this
pivotal event in Beur history, and because other Beur novels were being published at that
time, Les Camets de Shérazade can also be seen as a fictionalized account of a very
important development in Beur history. For the first time, the media were paying
attention to the Beurs. In a country where Protestants and Catholics were once bitterly

divided, both a pastor and a priest supported the march. And finally, the march showed

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that the Beurs were starting to claim their territory. Their identity and their voice was a
breakthrough for a community that had largely been ignored by the press.

Sebbar mixed spoken and written language more frequently in Les Camets de
Shérazade than in Shérazade. The metaphorical drifting is both literal and purposeful as
a source of writing. We have limited our examples to ones when the narrative's voice is
in the "passé simple" and the characters' voices use "gros mots" immediately afterwards.
In Les Camets, there are no instances of mixing of R1 and R3 in the same word (as in
Shérazade's "ll l'engueula"). However,

it is not always easy to identify the exact moment when the narrative perspective

changes; the continual movement from the thoughts of one character to those of

another obscures the trail. As the free direct or indirect discourse floats from one
person to the other to communicate different points of view, the interest seems to
lie not in the distinct individuality of each one but in the imperceptible slide from

one identity to the other... (Lionnet 180)

We have chosen seven passages that best illustrate high and low language within close
proximity of each other. The first four relate Shérazade's relationship (and chronicle its
evolution) with Gilles, a truck driver with whom she travels around France for seven
days; the fifth, her meeting with Basile (a reappearing character from Shérazade); the
sixth, a scene in which Shérazade and Marie, one of the many characters Shérazade meets
along the way, are bathing and have their clothes stolen; and the last one, an altercation
between Shérazade and another man at a truck stop

Shérazade and Gilles’ relationship resembles Scheherazade and Schahriar's,

legendary characters of The Thousand and One Nights: Shérazade's free ride throughout

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the countryside of France is contingent on the stories she tells Gilles (so that he will not
leave her at a truck stop, or worse yet, rape her). Scheherazade's life depended on the
stories she told Schahriar: she waited until the next morning to finish them, so the king
would want to hear their end and not kill her. According to Francoise Lionnet,
"...Sebbar's narrative progresses through a set of relations that always postpone and defer
the moment of conclusion" (179). Sebbar, Shérazade and Scheherazade's narratives
parallel each other because they all entice the reader/listener with similar strategies.

Les Carnets begins: “11 la regarda et la trouve belle, jeune, intrépide. Elle le
regarda et le trouva jeune, pas vraiment, beau, pas vraiment..." (7). These sentences
reappear later (56). They set a frame for the language Sebbar uses throughout the novel:
they again mix high ("regarda", "trouva") and low language ("jeune, pas vraiment, beau,
pas vraiment", which should be "elle ne le trouva ni jeune, ni beau" in R1, or "elle ne le
trouva pas vraiment jeune ou beau" in R2). They also reflect both Shérazade and Gilles's
interest in high and low culture; here, “low” corresponds with spoken language.

At first glance, Shérazade seems as a passive object. The next occurrence of
language levels takes place when Gilles opens the door to his truck and finds Shérazade
lying there, asleep. Francoise Lionnet notices when Gilles discovers Shérazade asleep
in his truck, we see him watch her as if she were a sleeping odalisque" (182): “Elle dort
en chien de fusil. On voit mal sa bouche renflée a cause de la position du visage sur le
ska'r' du siege molletonné. Elle a de longues paupieres bistre, orientales. Ses yeux seront
noirs" (m 13). However, the odalisques in paintings are frozen in an exotic setting
both on the canvas and in time by the male painter (cf. the paintings or odalisques or

other women mentioned in Shérazade and in Les Camets). Although Shérazade is an

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enclosed space (on the imitation leather seats in the truck cabin), and seen by a man, her

situation is different from that of the painted women: she has chosen to be there, and she

can escape at any time by the door that Gilles is not using. It is precisely while entering
his truck that Gilles is "introduced" to Shérazade:

La poignée de la portiere lui brfila la paume de la main. 1] jura et prit un pan de

son blouson en toile de jean pour l'ouvrir. “Merde alors!” Gilles se tenait debout,

a l'intérieur de la portiere qu'il venait d'ouvrir. Il répéta “Merde alors!” et se remit

a siffler, doucement cette fois. Il ne voulait pas la réveiller. Si c'était une auto-
stoppeuse, il la foutrait dehors. I] n'aimait pas les auto—stoppeuses. Des
allumeuses, saintes nitouches qui provoquaient, rninaudaient, jouaient les petites
putes et voulaient jamais coucher... “Merde alors!” 11 1e dit plus fort, la fille
sursauta sans se réveiller (12).
The verbs that are used in the "passé simple" in this passage express mostly strong
physical and emotional (re)actions: "brfila", "jura", "prit", "répéta", and "sursauta" ("se
remit" and "dit" indicate merely the narrator's statement ). The imperfect verbs, at the
beginning of the passage, do not express strong actions or volition ("se tenait", "venait
de", "ne voulait pas", "était"). They are "brusqué" in the middle by the conditional, the
hypothetical mode, "foutrait". After "n'aimait pas", they crescendo into much stronger,

vivid, and evocative, even sexual language: "provoquaient , rninaudaient , jouaient".

The nouns correspond to the rest of Gilles's thoughts: "allumeuses , saintes-nitouches",

"putes", "merde". We notice that while the reader is aware of Gilles' actions, thoughts,
and words, Shérazade (to whom they are directed), is not. By sleeping through his insu

and frustrations, she seems to ignore and mock them. However, she could be aware of

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his language without responding to it: "...la fille sursauta sans se réveiller" could be
Gilles' voice, and not the narrators. The implied author sets up a situation where Gilles’
vehement spoken words give him no power, showing that Shérazade escapes Gilles’
control. She might be fooling Gilles as well as the reader by pretending to be asleep and
not hearing what he says. Here again, Shérazade is a model of subversion of male
brutality, vulgar and sexual language. This produces a comical effect: by ignoring or
being unaware of him, she invalidates his words and actions.

Shérazade's identity (and that of the Beurs at large) is one of the main subjects of
Sebbar's novels. Not only does her physique mask her identity, but so do her
identification papers. In the next passage, her convoluted and purposefully, self-purported
confused/confusing identity is replayed:

"Tu as peur des gendarmes?" demanda Gilles. "Ils sont loin. S'ils nous arrétent,

je dirai que tu es ma smur, ou une niece, ou une cousine. Ils ne demanderont pas

tes papiers. Tu as des papiers?" "Oui," dit Shérazade, "des faux." "Merde et

merde" grogna Gilles. "Je savais qu'avec toi... Ca recommence" hurla
Shérazade. "C'est toi qui as peur, pas moi." "J'ai pas envie d'emmerdes, c'est tout.
Je te laisse a Orange ce soir" (56).

The R1 nouns "merde et merde" and "ernrnerdes" are juxtaposed with R3 verbs (they are

R3 because they are conjugated in the simple past) "grogna" and "hurla". The narrator, in

using "grogna", (Gilles' way of expressing himself) escalates into Shérazade's "hurla".

These two verbs show the intensity of each character’s situation and their reaction to

Shérazade's identity: Gilles is scared, but grumbles and although Shérazade is not

scared, she expresses herself violently. The gender roles and reactions are reversed in

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this scene; there is a contradiction. Although Shérazade is a woman, she is not scared,
and Gilles is. Ultimately, Shérazade is the one in control, because as we find out later,
Gilles does not leave her at Orange.

This effect recurs in the next passage we have chosen. The action takes place in a
truck stop, when Roland (another trucker) gets up to find Shérazade, who has returned to
Gilles' truck, most likely to have sex with her. He has just been aroused by the way
Shérazade eats “crépes sarrasines” (they are rolled into shapes of a cigar and she licks the
sugar off her lips); Gilles notices this, but is protective of her:

Roland poussa violemment Gilles qui faillit tomber, et courut vers la porte. Gilles

1e rattrapa, passa son bras gauche sous le cou de Roland qui stoppa en criant -

lfiche-moi fils de pute - Gilles serra plus fort - répete... La porte s'ouvrit a ce
moment-la et Shérazade, clignant les yeux, entra avec son sac militaire. Elle eut

le temps de voir Gilles lacher le cou de Roland qui la bouscula pour sortir (32).
Before analyzing the language, we cannot help but notice two intertextual references to
La Chanson de Roland, a fundamental myth affirrning French values (v. 3648-49: “Les
pai'ens sont morts, certains... et Charles a gagné sa bataille,” and v. 3671-72: “Bien plus
de cent mille sont baptisés vrais Chrétiens"). Shérazade is eating crépes sarrasines
(Shérazade's parents are North African, thus descendants of the Saracens), and the name
of the "harasser" is Roland.27 In La Chanson de Roland, Roland, the hero, dies
heroically, after blowing his horn to warn Charlemagne of the Saracens' attack. In
Shérazade, Roland is also violent ("Roland poussa violemment Gilles"); however, he
does not get what he wants (i.e. sex with a Saracen). The irony of the situation grows

stronger (Shérazade knows nothing of Gilles and Roland's altercation) when Shérazade

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"clignant des yeux" (indicating she is ignorant of the fight about to begin) enters with a
"sac rnilitaire": she is the cause of the "bagarre", and she carries with her a bag indicative
of the strife she causes (or is it a bag indicating that her guard is always up? The reader
knows that she carries a gun in it). Sebbar is again transforming the history of the canon:
Shérazade, (the Saracen), will not be conquered by the French hero (in this case, anti-
hero) Roland. She subverts the Song of Roland, and the Moor woman wins this time,
defended by a Frenchman. It is a double sabotage of the Western, male hero: Shérazade,
the daughter of the "invader", damns with her aloofness the literary canon and the
oppressor.

Now that Gilles and Shérazade's relationship has been strengthened by his heroic
action, their relationship intensifies. The following quote is in R3 with the exception of
two words that belong to R1, "conneries" and "démerdes", the first uttered by Shérazade
and the second by Gilles:

Gilles avait rnis la radio. C'était l'heure des jeux. 'Ah! Nonl' cria Shérazade, 'pas

ca!‘ Elle courut jusqu'au camion pour éteindre la radio. C'est beau ici et vous

mettez ces conneries... Il tira Shérazade en arriere, remit la radio; il se touma
vers elle, ses yeux étaient bleus comme l'encre, elle se demanda s'il allait la battre,
la prendre aux épaules et la secouer, la gifler d'un revers de main. 1] ne la toucha
pas. Il approcha son visage du sien et les dents serrées. I] lui dit: ‘Si tu touches
encore une fois a cette radio, je te laisse n'importe oil, tu te démerdes. Tu as

compris?‘ ll monta le son (Les Camets 45).

That both characters in this passage use the same linguistic register equalizes their status.

The passe simple is used by the narrator and indicates Shérazade's thoughts about Gilles'

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N H II H H II II II

actions ("il tira , il se touma , elle se demanda , il ne la toucha pas , il approcha",

"il monta"), but does not reveal her emotions. The first two Shérazade novels rarely
disclose her feelings, contributing to the enigmatic aura that surrounds her. But she
seems to be fearless. This suggests that she cannot be easily defined and pinpointed by
the narrator, other characters in the novel or the reader. At the end of the first two novels,
she disappears: this conclusion reflects her elusive personality and lifestyle. Sebbar
mystifies the reader regarding Shérazade’s destination.

The passage above from Les Carnets is important to the novel because it defines
each character according to his/her preferences for high or low culture. According to
Valerie Orlando,

[Mlusic and the radio become a topic through which Gilles and his companion
negotiate their cultural differences. The radio, in particular, represents a site of
mediation between French and Beur identity; however, it is also a constant source
of argument for the two protagonists. The radio at once presents typical French
programs, which Gilles finds amusing, and popular songs, which Shérazade
enjoys (175).

Gilles actually is a typical element or icon of popular culture: he is a truck driver. He
repeatedly says he does not care for opera, does not like art museums (he prefers the Jules
Verne museum; incidentally, Verne, although widely read and adapted to the screen, is
not considered part of the canon, but part of popular fiction), and listens to pop music on
the radio.

Not only does the quote define the tastes and preference of each character (Gilles

wanting to listen to the quiz shows on the radio and Shérazade wanting to enjoy nature,

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and the view of the river they are sitting next to), but also indicates the hypnotic effect
Shérazade's eyes have on Gilles. Shérazade's eyes were mentioned an earlier quote
("Shérazade clignant les yeux", 32) and are a leitmotif throughout the trilogy. That her
eyes here look blue "comme l'encre" to Gilles (they are green, as we know from the title
of Shérazade, 17 ans, brune, frisée, les yeux verts) suggests his opinion of her as an
"auto-didacte". She is always writing or reading to him from her "camets", and at the end
of Les Camets, she leaves one of them on the seat where she sat during her seven-day trip
with Gilles around France. Although Shérazade is younger and far less traveled than
Gilles, she is like a teacher and a gateway to other cultures; she is well-read and opens his
eyes to worlds yet unknown. They form an unlikely yet complimentary couple.28

Basile, another character whom we have seen earlier (the “dandy tropical”) and
whose identity is ambiguous, reappears in the next scene where R1 and R3 are used
together:

Basile dit: 'Les negres seront toujours des esclaves... vous ne 1e savez pas? Les

Blancs ne seront jamais mangés... Dommage... (89)

Alors, dis-moi, au musée des Beaux-Arts, qu'est-ce que tu veux voir? 'L'Esclave

blanche de Nantes' dit Shérazade. Basile s'esclaffa: ‘Répete, Shérazade, répéte...’

'Merde' dit Shérazade (99).
We learn a few pages earlier that he has forsaken the militant cause the squatters were
fighting for and that he has now become a traitor.29 This is foreshadowed in Shérazade
by the fact that he is embarrassed by a 4-L during the restaurant "auto-reduction." Basile
represents a fickle, shallow archetype. Shérazade's replacing the title of the painting (an

R1 concept) by "merde" (R3) (punctuated by Basile's laughter - “s'esclaffa,” a verb

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belonging to the R3 register, conjugated in the simple past), indicates her impatience
with his mockery, his ignorance, and his unwillingness to learn. In comparison to Gilles,
who, at the beginning of Les Carnets, is also ignorant about and uninterested in paintings
and opera, Basile merely mocks and disregards Shérazade's penchant for art. With
Gilles, Shérazade's relationship is much more equal, and is an exchange: she tells him
stories and teaches him about high art, and he lets her ride around in his truck around
France. On the contrary, her relationship with Basile is one-sided: he wishes to use her
for his own schemes and social advancement within his group of friends. (96-97)

That she quotes the name of the painting “The white slave” contradicts what
Basile had said earlier. She shames him in reminding him and his friends that although
white slaves were rare, they still existed. What Basile does not know is that surrounding
the white slaves, in the painting, there are two black slaves, attendants of the white slave.
While the black slaves have a lower status as the white slaves (being slaves of a slave),
the women in the painting are nonetheless all slaves and subject to men. However,
Sebbar's text changes this around by giving both an R1 subject and an R3 element of
speech to Shérazade; "s'esclaffa" is mentioned by the narrator (a neutral voice). Basile's
voice is not heard in this instance; we can only imagine the way in which he laughs, since
no adverbs are used to describe his mockery or uneasiness. We can deduce that he laughs
in a mocking disbelief, because he asks her twice to repeat the title of the painting.
Instead of submitting to his demand, she performs an R1 function "elle se leva, alla aux
toilettes..." (99).30

Sebbar seems to be fascinated by this painting, as she is by all nineteenth and

early twentieth century orientalist paintings (a sign of postcolonialism; cf. Assia Djebar

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and Edward Said). In 1991, she wrote a short story entitled “L’Esclave blanche de
Nantes” about this painting. In the story, a French photographer and volunteer at the
Musée des Beaux-Arts in Nantes falls in love with a métisse woman who cleans at the
museum in Nantes where that particular painting is exhibited. He seems to confuse the
painting with the real woman. Before meeting her, he was too shy to approach any
woman to ask her out. In his apartment, he has posters, computers, pornographic
pictures, and creates special effects of exotic or Arab women, especially those in
paintings. At the end of the story, he invites the woman to his apartment, where he has
destroyed his computers and slashed the replicas of the orientalist paintings. Now that he
has the “real thing” in front of him and that he has broken out of his shyness, he no longer
needs their representation.

The photographer’s destruction of the image of the other in orientalist paintings
symbolizes the need to see immigrant women (whether they are of African or Arab
descent), as people, not objects, to eradicate the neo—orientalist attitude still prevalent
toward them, and to end the reification of women at large in the visual media
(symbolized by the destruction of the expensive computers), and in print media (the
posters symbolizing magazines, billboards on which women’s bodies are shamelessly
exposed and exploited).

It is not by chance that Sebbar placed, in Les Camets, the description of a
“tableau vivant” that mimics and mocks all the orientalist paintings of nude women
mentioned in Shérazade and Les Camets.3 ' It also juxtaposes R1 and R3:

Tout a coup, Shérazade poussa un cri. Les vétements avaient dispam. D'instinct,

chacune croisa ses mains sur ses seins en disant - merde et merde — les sacs étaient

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encore 1a, mais elles seraient pieds nus. Marie décida que le voleur n'était pas
loin, sfirement derriere le tronc d'arbre le plus proche de la riviére. Elle sortit a
grandes enjambées de l'eau et se rnit a courir, nue dans la campagne. Shérazade la
regardait poursuivre quelqu'un qu'elle ne distinguait pas. Marie ne réussit pas a
rattraper 1e garcon mais il laissa tomber les deux paquets qui l'encombraient.
Marie l'insultait a pleins poumons, debout, les vétements sur le ventre. Shérazade

riait. (165)

,7 5‘ ,7 H ,’ 6‘

The verbs are in the passe simple, R1: “croisa,” “décida, sortit, se mit, réussit

,

and “laissa ,’ and the imperfect, “avaient,” “étaient, “regardait,” “distinguait,”

“encombraient,” “insultait” and “riait.” There are more verbs in the imperfect, a tense
that indicates an action that has taken place over a longer period of time. The last two,
“Marie l’insultait” and "Shérazade riait,” express opposite verbal reactions of the two
young women whose clothes have been stolen.

The two young women’s names, Marie and Shérazade, are part of their respective
(religious) Christian and (secular) Muslim cultural heritage. This episode shows the
solidarity between the two young women and the cultures they represent. Although the
two young women have been victims of a voyeuristic prank (a man, who evidently had
been watching them bathe in a river, stole their clothing), they are able to recuperate their
stolen clothes and, with them, their dignity.

The juxtaposition, again, of “merde et merde” (uttered by both of the young
women) with the passé simple suggests a subversion of "high culture”: Sebbar places a
“gros mot” (R1) in a replica of paintings of women bathing (an R3 subject). Shérazade

and Marie’s instinct, to show their surprise and to cover their breasts, is Sebbar’s way of

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expressing revolt against the (orientalist) representation of nude women. In the

paintings Sebbar mentions (see appendix), the women’s breasts are not hidden, but
exposed. Their instinct is to hide themselves, not to bare themselves as when they pose
for an artist. Finally, Marie’s chasing the thief, an unidentified man (we know it is a man
because the narrator states “1e voleur" and “le garcon”), symbolizes woman’s rebellion
against all men who have “undressed” these women in paintings with their gaze. Finally,
because he is tired and perhaps scared, the clothes thief drops the clothes; they are thus
returned to their rightful owners, unlike the women in orientalist paintings who never get
their clothes back because they are frozen on the canvas. Sebbar effectively subverts
male voyeurism, by mimicking and mocking orientalist paintings: in her text, the man
does not get away with exposing women’s bodies. This reversal is consistent with
Shérazade’s refusal to have her body be an object of male voyeurism and perversion: she
does not let the porn photographer take pictures of her, she tears up the pictures of her
that Julien has hanging in his apartment, and she does not let Basile’s friends take
pictures of her as a model. In short, she refuses to be taken for an “odalisque.” She
remains faithful to her convictions.

Not only does Sebbar place elements of “high culture” such as paintings in her
novels, but she also includes elements of “low culture,” such as Mac trucks, restrooms,
and in the following context, a bar with a jukebox. The last example that juxtaposes R1
and R3 language follows:

Tu sais que c'est pas vrai, hurla l'homme a l'anneau, et je vais te faire avaler ce

que tu dis, enculé... D'un coup de poing, i1 fit rouler l'homme qui l'avait interpellé

au bas du comptoir; la nuque faillit heurter la barre de cuivre. 11 se releva mais

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on les sépara et l'homme au débardeur quitta le relais. 'L'enfoiré, l'enculé,’ dit

l'homme qui s'appuyait au comptoir en se massant la joue gauche... Gilles arriva,

les cheveux mouillés. On lui raconta l'altercation et la remarque de Shérazade -

'c'est a cause de la nana, a cété de la machine. On sait pas si elle a fait expres de

dire ca ou non... On va lui demander, tiens' - Gilles parle avec Shérazade pres du

juke-box (Les Carnets 257).

The jukebox appears as a leitmotif in the Shérazade trilogy and in another short
story (described below) by Sebbar: it is an icon of popular culture. It is an object most
often found in bars, restaurants with lower-priced menus, pool halls and in France,
bistrots and cafes. It symbolizes movement and short-lived instant gratification: one
inserts money, selects a song, and the song is played. Shérazade, in this scene, is next to
the jukebox, and at the end of Shérazade, Pierrot selects a song for Shérazade by Eddy
Mitchell, “Couleur menthe a l’eau,” the symbolism and significance of which shall be
discussed in the next chapter.32

By placing both elements of high and low culture in her texts, Sebbar equates
those texts with a synthesis of high and low levels of language. Commonplace objects
serve as vehicles of popular culture (including the truck, the truck radio, juke boxes. . .),
and they form part of the vocabulary of literary description. Their presence side by side
with objects from high culture reduplicates on the level of the staging the code-mixing
already noted in the lexicon, and once again, affirms the cultural competence of the
implied author, who is a master of both high and low registers. The “distance” between
the two registers is reduced, weakening “the difference between high and low culture,

between the meanings, practices, and pleasures characteristic of empowered and

41

disempowered social formation." (Fiske, Cultural Studies 154).33 The R1 and R3
languages are placed in strategic contexts that are meaningful to Sebbar’s message of
“métissage” in cultural negotiations. Her characters move from one cultural space to
another; their language as well as their culture is complex, multinational and often
inexplicable.

Sebbar takes the French language a step further: she doubles the assault by adding
“anglicismes” and “arabismes” to her text (both in the narrator’s and the characters'
voices). She defies the official French policy of preserving the purity of the language,
which implies resistance to cultural blending. In fact, English was thought to have has
such a contaminating influence over French that the government passed several laws
(including la Loi Pasqua) forbidding the use of foreign terms in advertising unless a
French translation is provided. This same law also fines advertising agencies if they
misspell French words (so cute and clever spelling alterations are not allowed, as they are
in the United States: Kwik Lube, Kampgrounds of America, Rite Valu, etc.) However,
the policy was ignored, and Sebbar’s mixing is not unique. A country fearful enough of
linguistic to have a "Federation Internationale pour la Sauvegarde et l'Unité de la Langue
Francaise" or an Académie Francaise with its official grammar and dictionary surely
intends to guard its language zealously against any foreign influences.34 We shall
examine a sampling of the English and Arabic words that appear in Shérazade (they are
representative of the English and Arabic words that appear in her other works), as well as
the pronunciation of French with an “Arab accent” in Parle, mon fils, parle a ta mére.

In Shérazade, the following English words appear: “fast food” (7, ll), “squatt”

(27), cow-boys (26), “Ladies” and “Gentlemen” (39), “bronzing” (64), and “hold-up”

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(67).35 They are words equated with American pop culture and movies, (especially
“cow—boys”, “hold-up”, and “squatt”). This corresponds to French people’s fascination
with American films. Every Tuesday night during the 19805, there was a show entitled
“La Demiere séance,” presented by Eddy Mitchell. Most of the movies aired were
Westerns, followed by Tex Avery cartoons. The set on which Mitchell introduced the
moves was a replica of an old American movie theater, and there was usually a sexy
“cigarette girl” by his side. Although the relationship France has with the USA is quite
different than its relationship with North Africa (especially with Algeria), the infiltration
of foreign words (either English or Arabic) as part of the spoken lexis reflects the
“métissage” of France's inhabitants.

The American-English words Sebbar uses are not as symbolic as the Arabic ones.
The following Arabic words appear in Shérazade (they are transcribed as a French person
would say them, using the Roman alphabet): “fouta,” “kanoun” (l3), “moudjahidines”
(15), “fatiha” (108), “grand vizir” (124), “tayemoun” (136), “harki” (139), “roumiettes”
(147). The English words are not explained; however, some of the Arabic ones that have
not entered into the low register (R1) of the French language are explained in the main
text (i.e. not in footnotes or a glossary); still others have an explanation that is hinted at.
The first kind include: “fatiha” (“priere”), tayemoun (polished stone that Muslims use for
ablutions before they perform their ritual prayers). The second kind “fouta,” a cushion or
blanket; Sebbar writes “elle remarqua que la femme de gauche appuyée sur un coude, les
jambes repliées sur la fouta rouge et dorée, avait les yeux verts) (Shérazade l3).
“Kanoun,” a brass bowl in which one puts coals; this can be used to keep a pot of tea or

coffee warm, or, in this case, it seems to be the dish one puts the coals in for the

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“narguilé” (“Julien. .. parlait de la rose dans les cheveux de la femme au narguilé, du
kanoun au sol entre les trois femmes”) (Shérazade 13). And finally, “rourniettes” (“. . .au
pays des mirages comme il [le grand-pere] appelle la France. Elles deviendraient des
rourniettes Mériem et Shérazade, ses favorites qui repartaient en terre étrangere, chez les
Infideles.”) (Shérazade 147). Finally, the words that are not explained are:
“moudjahidines” (“maquisard” during Algeria’s war for independence from 1954-1962),
“vizir,” (in Arabic, pronounced “wazir,” meaning foreign minister or simply
minister/adviser; this word used in French has taken on the same meaning as “sultan,"
“pacha,” and “sachem,” or any Arabic word meaning “leader"); and “harki” (an Algerian
who fought for the French during Algeria’s struggle for independence; the opposite of a
“moudjahidin”).

The words Sebbar uses relate not only to Muslim cultures but more specifically to
Algeria. The words she uses reflect its recent history of colonization, war for
independence, de-colonization and post-colonialism. “Kanoun,” “fouta” and “narguilé”
are used in conjunction with Delacroix’s “Femmes d’Alger dans leur appartement,” when
J ulien and Shérazade go to the Louvre together, admire the painting, and discuss it.
Julien is obsessed with comparing Shérazade to one of the women in the painting; this is
merely the beginning of his desire to turn her into a modern “odalisque.” The mention of
“moudjahid” and “moudjahidines” (20) and “harki” are an obvious reference to Algeria’s
memory of its struggle for independence and the violence that took place during those
eight years. In mentioning “harkis,” she also reminds her French readers of the way the
Algerians treated the “harkis” during and after the war, and the way the French

mistreated them after the war. The French government offered them political asylum in

A

France, but they were ostracized by the Algerian community in France, and by the
French, who categorized them with all of the “immigrés” or “Arabes.” Finally, in
mentioning the “roumiettes” (in Arabic, the word “roumi” means “an Ancient Greek,"
but has now taken on the meaning of “a French person,” and the French suffix “-ette”
makes the word feminine), Sebbar reminds the reader in this context of the integration in
theory of the Maghrebis in France “Elles deviendraient des roumiettes Mériem et
Shérazade;” the use of the verb “devenir” in the conditional indicates a hypothetical
situation. Integration has not yet taken place, and some question whether it will. Perhaps
the wave of the future should not be integration, but the celebration of difference through
diversity. “Integration” is an odd word, because in some ways, it figures an aporia: how
much identity of the original culture should be lost (or can be lost) before one is
completely “integrated” into the new society?

By using Arabic words in her text, Sebbar is encoding the history of Algeria in
her texts. She is countering the hegemony of the English and French languages.
Although she does not read, write or speak Arabic or English, she is able to use them
successfully to defy the dominant culture.36 This creates a new “bi—cultural bricolage”
(Hargreaves 51), and is consistent with her juxtaposition of language levels.

The idea of “bricolage” (first developed by Claude Lévi-Strauss) is critiqued by
Derrida in L’Ecriture et la difference. Lévi-Strauss contrasts, in the manner of
ethnographical structuralism that is so inherent to his work, the “bricoleur”, “celui qui
utilise ‘les moyens du bord’, c’est-a-dire les instruments qu’il trouve a sa disposition
autour de lui, qui sont déja la, qui n’étaient pas spécialement concus en vue de l’opération

a laquelle on les fait servir. . .” (Derrida 418) and the “ingénieur”, “un sujet qui serait

45

A

l’origine absolue de son proper discours et le construirait ‘de toutes piéces’” (418).
Derrida claims “il y a donc une critique du langage dans la forme du bricolage” (418) and
“ce qui parait le plus séduisant dans cette recherche critique d’un nouveau statut du
discours, c’est l’abandon declare’ de toute reference a un centre, a un sujet, a true
reference privilégiée, a true origine on a une archie absolue” (419). Derrida is opposed to
the idea of there being an ethnographic, mythical, empirical “center” to which other
ethnographies can be compared, and he criticizes structuralist schemata for being finitely
informed through a limited experience. (422)

In critiquing Levi-Strauss’s concept of “bricolage,” Derrida is reforrnulating the
idea that history and myths can be reduced to finite language. He terms
“supplémentarité” the concept that the “center” of language and history can never be
established; and the idea that the ethics of presence longs for a purity of origins that it
will never find in its interpretation of ethnography.

How do Derrida’s ideas fit in with the analysis of language in Sebbar’s works? If
they are presented along side the theory of dialogism that Bakhtin’s propounds in m
Qi_alogic Imagination, the idea that “literary French” should be at the “center” of literary
writing is no longer a valid argument. Being the first woman novelist to write about
Beurs while writing against the grain of an established literary tradition, Sebbar’s
writings demonstrate “dialogism” or “double voicedness.” The high and low levels of
languages (or two “voices”) can have a conversation with each other (324), the end result
of which is “hybridization” (358), a mixture of two social languages. She de-centers
(both verbally and ideologically) the French language so that her readers become aware

of Beurs and their parents at the center of a novelistic world.

46

So as not to obliterate her homeland through an edulcorated myth of beneficient
assimilation, Sebbar transcribes French spoken with an accent by natives of the Maghreb.
_P_a‘rlen mon fils,parle a ta mere, is the novel in which this device appears for the first
time: it is a novel in which a runaway “Beur” son returns to his mother, stays for a little
while, and then leaves with her blessing. Contrary to what the title indicates, it is the
mother who does most of the talking, not in French, but in Arabic:

...ca brfile - elle dit ca broule — elle glisse des mots en francais dans sa langue

matemelle; elle veut que son fils lui parle en arabe, c’est sa langue quand méme,

mais lui s’obstine, i1 parle en francais, quand il parle; elle comprend tout, mais

elle répond en arabe et lui comprend aussi, alors ca va @131 12).

The older and the younger generations reach an understanding, and they do it both in
Arabic and French, whether or not they have an Arabic accent in French or a French
accent in Arabic. The end of the novel (which, incidentally, is dedicated “A tous les
Beurs”) is strongly humanitarian and ultimately indicates the acceptance of other human
beings: “Va, va mon fils, va. . .souviens—toi que tu as one time. .. La mere prononce en
arabe des paroles de benediction, embrasse son fils sur le front. 11 s’en va” (84).

Although there is only one instance in which Sebbar makes a character speak with
an Arabic accent, she has set the tone for other Beur authors. Two of the more well-
known ones are Mehdi Charef and Azouz Begag. In Charef’ s first novel Le Thé au
_h_agrn d’Archi Ahmed, the Arab mother of the main protagonist is trying to stop a young
mother, Josette, from committing suicide by jumping over her balcony:

Ya! Chousette, fi pas ca, Chousette, et 1i Stiphane y va pleurer, y va chercher la

maman partout. .. Je ti trouve di travail, moi, Chousette, je ti li trouve. .. a la

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cantine de l’icole...serveuse, tu serasl. . .Ya ! Chousette ya Allah a Rabbi.. .Ci

une bien place... Chousette. . .ti tranquille a la cantine, travail pour toujours. .. et

tu seras content, ya Chousette. .. si ti pli. .. Demain Chousette. .. ji demande

l’embauche pour toi. .. ci une place propre, i bien piyi. .. demain (Charef 160-1).
Josette ends up not committing suicide after all, but the end of the novel is grim for all of
the characters. The explosive narrative, grave situation and depressing tone in this Beur
novel are reversed in Azouz Begag’s Le Gone du chm. At the end, Begag even
included a “Guide de la phraséologie bouzidienne,” which starts out:

La langue arabe comporte des consonnes et des voyelles qui n’ont pas toujours de

correspondance dans la langue francaise. Elle n’a, par exemple, pas de lettre P on

V, pas plus que de son ON, IN, AN ou bien U. Lorsque vous maitrisez cette

régle, vous pouvez traduire et comprendre sans difficulté la phraséologie

bouzidienne.” (Begag 241)”

After listing several sentences, he then gives several “exemples de mots : “la boulicia (la
police), la tilifiziou (la télévision), 1e saboune d’Marsaille (le savon de Marseille), la
barr’mc‘z‘ (l’appartement), li zbour (1e sport), I ’alcoufe (l’alcove). Attention aux faux
amis : lefilou, c’est un vélo!” (emphasis in original 242).

Begag succeeds in narrating irony into the text. Begag’s father (called “Abboué”
by Azouz, the young narrator), although he is illiterate, speaks French well throughout
the novel. At the end of the novel, the “régisseur” has come to inform the Begag family
that they must vacate their current apartment and move into another one. Begag’s father
suddenly puts on a thick “Arabic” accent. When the “régisseur” asks him “‘Alors, quand

c’est que vous repartez dans votre pays ?’ ‘Hou la la!’ fit mon pere en levant les bras au

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Ciel. ‘Ci Allah qui dicide ca. Bi titre, j’va bartir l’anni prouchaine, bi titre li mois

9“

brouchain. (240). Begag’s father plays into stereotypes; this common practice, in
Begag’s novels, is enacted when the immigrants want to get out of a predicament by
pretending they don’t speak or understand French very well. They are subverting and
mocking both the French language and the French authorities in what they say and in the
way they say it; the reader, as well as Begag’s father, know well that the Begag family is
not going to return to their “pays”. Their duplicity is what Homi Bhabha calls a “sly
civilityz” they destabilize hegemonic authority and the language that represents it.38
Sebbar was the first woman to write about the Beurs, and the first woman to break
with tradition by softening conventional stylistic rules. Although Zola, Céline and
Queneau were among the first men to integrate both high and low styles in their texts, the
fact that Sebbar does this is ground-breaking. In a sense, she invited other immigrants to
follow in her footsteps. Infiltrating spoken French (orality) into the narration of a literary
text, contrary to what Roland Barthes has said, provides an opening for a new approach
to writing:
11 y a done une impasse de l'écriture, et c'est l'impasse de la société méme: les
écrivains d'aujourd'hui le sentent: pour eux, la recherche d'un non-style, ou d'un
style oral, d'un degré zéro ou d'un degré parle de l'écriture, c'est en somme
l'anticipation d'un état absolument homogene de la société. [...] La multiplication
des écritures institue une Littérature nouvelle dans la mesure ou celle-Ci n'invente
son langage que pour étre un projet: la Littérature devient l'Utopie du langage
(Barthes 64-5).

Sebbar’s texts stimulate diversity; they do not anticipate a homogenous state of society,

49

nor a utopia, whether it be in the language or in the subject matters she treats. She knew
that until both sides (French and immigrant) learn to accept differences and diversity as a
positive social force, unity or utopia are out of the question. The ingenious hybridity of

Sebbar’s language reflects an ambiguous period of cultural transition.

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Chapter 2
LYRICAL AND FILMIC ALLUSIONS 1N SEBBAR’S FICTION

As evidenced by Dina Sherzer, intertextualities proliferate in Sebbar’s works.
However, before investigating their relevance, it is necessary to explain what we mean by
“text” and by “intertextuality”. The term “text” shall be used loosely, and applied not to
literary genres such as novels, poems, short stories, etc., but especially to “other arts and
media, both popular and erudite” (Starn 203), specifically song lyrics and films, which
profoundly influence the lives of the fictional characters and the agency of the plot in
Shérazade and Les Carnets de Shérazade. Pasco's introduction to Allusion: A Li_teflr_y
Graft shows how texts are mosaics, with keys to their meanings provided by references to
other works. He defines three main categories of intertextuality: imitation (which echoes
a previous tradition), opposition (such as irony and satire, rendering the texts disparate),
and allusion (the different texts are integrated and metaphorically transformed into
something new). His approach is aesthetic and intrinsic, as is Gerard Genette’s in
Palimpsestes. Genette defines the term “transtextuality” by building on Bakhtin and
Kristeva (Stam 207) and breaks it down into five different categories, as follows:
intertextuality (quotation, plagiarism and allusion), paratextuality (the relation between a
work and its paratexts, such as prefaces, illustrations, book jacket designs), metatextuality
(the critical relation between one text and another, whether explicit or implicit),
architextuality (a texts’ willingness or reluctance to characterize itself directly or
indirectly as a genre), and hypertextuality (relationship between a hypotext, i.e. a
previous or anterior text, and the text in question, the hypertext, which transforms and

modifies the hypotext).

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In drawing from Pasco’s definition of allusion and Genette’s definition of
metatextuality and hypertextuality, it is possible to examine the type of transtextuality
found in Shérazade and Les Camets de Shérazade.39 Homi Bhabha, in The Location of
M, goes beyond Pasco and Genette and deploys extrinsic criticism to show how
texts mean in cultural-historical contexts (particularly in the colony and its aftermath, the
post-colony). The particular context that applies to Sebbar’s fiction of the 19808 is the
aftermath of colonialism, more specifically escalating racial tensions between Muslims
and French (Hargreaves and Learnan 7). Although Shérazade does not deal directly with
open, frontal racial attacks, her odyssey is affected by these racial tensions in a more
sinuous way. She seeks to evade a tradition of orientalist male fantasies, which fascinate
and repel her at the same time. In broadening the terrain of her explorations, she
encounters both popular and high cultural icons that impose certain demands on women.
She tries to shatter the traditional role of women having “been born, within an allotted
and confined space, into the keeping of men” (Berger 26).

The allusions considered "popular" have been ignored by critics, while those
belonging to the realm of "high" culture have not, distorting our understanding of
Sebbar's works.40 The arbitrary barrier between these two fields of allusions should be
broken down to reveal what Bhabha calls a "metonymic hybrid culture," a culture that
mixes and incorporates multiple facets/facts of highbrow and lowbrow cultures. French,
Algerian and Beur oral and popular culture hold an influential role in Sebbar’s works and
in examining the different types of allusions, we can elucidate the cultural “métissage”
inscribed in her works. Parallels, internal repetitions and especially "mises—en-abyme"

are created by these texts and images. Sebbar makes these cultural allusions

52

intermittently and without discrimination for high or low culture and sends the reader to
multiple cultural references.

Sebbar’s characters (mainly Shérazade and Julien) participate in activities
characteristic of both cultures, in spite of their different social classes. Shérazade is the
daughter of poor Algerian immigrants; her father is the son of a “pied-noir” and of a
French schoolteacher. They both are autodidacts. Their relationship is a fusion of their
cultures. This blending reinforces the notion of cultural hybridity that Homi Bhabha
explains, not in the sense of a mixing, but of the way cultures meet so as to evoke the
space created by différance:

Hybridity intervenes in the exercise of authority not merely to indicate the

impossibility of its identity but to represent the unpredictability of its presence.

The book retains its presence, but is no longer a representation of an essence; it is

now a partial presence. (114)

The particular context in which Bhabha uses this term of “hybridity” is colonialism. For
him, hybridity becomes an aporia by being a means of subverting colonial authorities:
“The display of hybridity-its peculiar ‘replication’-terrorizes authority with the ‘ruse’ of
recognition, its mimicry, its mockery” (115). In Sebbar’s novels, we are not dealing with
colonialism, but of the effects of colonialism and post-colonialism. Hybridity would then
be a way to mock the artificial cultural barriers and their reliance on essentialist
formation that authority (governments and society) imposes. Shérazade is a paradigm of
this hybridity: she is “indéfinissable” and escapes each time a character from the text or

the reader thinks s/he has found or defined her.

53

Regarding this hybridity, Anne Donadey posits that it is one with which both
fictional characters and reader can identify:
Sebbar's insistence on pictorial representation and popular culture is a way of
attracting a young readership whose eclectic learning is often done outside of
school, so that allusions to Marilyn Monroe will help them "digest" references to
Richard Wagner. Such a pedagogical strategy is meant to ease the learning
process, to make learning painless and even unnoticed, to use entertainment for
pedagogical purposes. There is no hierarchy of disparate elements, only a
juxtaposition, in which the reader is free to pick what she or he chooses to
remember. This pedagogical process is mirrored [by how] the protagonists
themselves learn about their cultural environment. (259)
The main characters’ tastes in Shérazade and Legamets de Shéraide are
indiscriminately partial to elements of both high and low culture; the two novels present a
mixture, a weaving of both cultures. Sebbar places the titles of popular songs and films in
her novels either because they are cultural references for her readers, or because they
strongly influenced her, or both. They are part of her personal identity; she is placing
herself in her novels."I For her, exile and nomadism are inextricably linked to a “culture
métisse”: “Si je parle d’exil, je parle aussi de croisements culturels; c’est a ces points de
jonction ou de disjonction ou je suis qui je vis, que j’écris, alors comment décliner une
identité simple?” (1% 126); they form the construction of an identity and exert a
fascination over her: “C’est ce mélange des pays, des cultures, des corps, des vétements,

des accents, des voix, des gestes qui m’a attachée et je ne l’ai pas retrouvé ailleurs, sauf

54

dans un imaginaire relié de loin au réel, dans des textes de fiction of: je mets ce qui
secretement m’importe le plus” (92).

This “insistence” that Donadey explains can be further examined by investigating
the similarities and differences between the plot of Shérazade and Les Camets and the
music and films mentioned in them. The song lyrics and films alluded to reveal parallels
with the plot of the novels. We will first examine the songs in the order in which they
appear chronologically in the novels, starting with “11 est cinq heures, Paris s’éveille” by
Jacques Dutronc, which is in the chapter entitled “J ulien Desrosiers” when Julien comes
home, at five o’clock in the morning, and sees Shérazade asleep on the bed. That specific
time, five o’clock, plays an essential role in the plot (we shall return to it when we
examine the second song). It is the time when the narrator of the song, who is not sleepy,
is going to bed, like Julien. The geography of the city of Paris holds an important place
in the novel. Although most of the action takes place in Paris, it is located in different
neighborhoods (sometimes specified) and even underground, in the metro. This shifting
points to the constant movement of the characters, especially Shérazade. At the end of
the novel, she leaves; Paris is not enough. This contrasts with the “métro-boulot-dodo”
portrayed in the song, which recounts the daily live of Parisians, from street cleaners to
bakers, tourists, transvestites, and strip-teasers. The song’s narration is similar to
Shérazade’s, which tells details of “everyman’s” daily life; however, Shérazade has an
added dimension that the song does not have: a rhetoric of displacement. For Shérazade,
“elle entend cette chanson et elle découvre Paris” (Personal Interview, 19 June, 1998). It
is through Julien, music, and painting that the young woman discovers, respectively, her

culture, modernity, and a tradition of orientalism.

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The second song “Chacun fait c’qui lui plait,” by the duo Chagrin d’Amour, has
been described as “un hymne pour une jeunesse libérée, bi-sensuelle et individualiste.”
(Pasqualini 6) The title is similar to Shérazade’s motto, “Je vais ou je veux, quand je
veux et ma place, c’est partout” (88). In contrast with Eddy Mitchell and Jacques
Dutronc’s phenomenal success during several decades, this song by Chagrin d’Amour
was a one-hit wonder. When it was released in 1982, it was often played on the radio. Its
title, “Chacun fait c’qui lui plait” has been forgotten, and the name of the band and the
title of the song are often confused, as is the case in Shérazade:

Julien regarda sa montre et chantonna "Il est cinq heures Paris s'éveille... Il est

cinq heures et je n'ai pas sommeil..." et aussitot celle qu'il entendait partout en ce

moment ‘cinq heures du mat’ j'ai des frissons, je claque des dents, je monte 1e
son... Seul dans mon lit sur mes draps bleus froissés, c'est l'insomnie, sommeil
cassé... Je perds 1a téte et mes cigarettes sont toutes fumées dans le cendrier...

Kleenex et bouteilles vides... Julien avait meme acheté 1e disque: la chanson

s'appelle "Chagrin d'Amour." (111)

The narrative of “Chacun fait c’qui lui plait” is the itinerary of a lonely Parisian, who,
like Julien, cannot sleep; he leaves his apartment, goes into a bar, and finds a blonde
woman with whom he tries to have sex in a hotel. He is unsuccessful and goes home.
However, Julien returns home, does not have sex with anyone, falls asleep, and when he
wakes up, finds that Shérazade has already left.

Why does “five o’clock” become a trope? There are numerous possibilities as to
what the number five symbolizes; the most plausible one lies in the protection that seems

to cover Shérazade: “contre le mauvais oeil, on étend les cinq doigts de la main droite,

56

en disant: ‘Cinq dans ton oeil’ ou ‘Cinq sur ton oeil’” (Chevalier and Gheerbrant 259).

The five fingers of Fatma’s hand protect against evil. But more importantly, five o’clock

is dawn. In The Thousand and One Nights, it is the time at which Scheherazade must

wake up to tell another story to her husband, so that he will not kill her; this continues

until he decides to keep her alive without her having to seduce him with stories.

Shérazade seems protected by this magic hour and by her green eyes.

The correspondences between “Chacun fait c’qui lui plait” and Shérazade are striking.

The following tables chart first the differences, then the similarities between the two

ICXISZ

 

“Chacun fait c’qui lui plait”

Shérazade

 

Main singer is male; female singer echoes;

male and female singers sing backup

Narrator looks for a woman, finds one, tries
to sleep with her in a hotel but is unsuccessful
because he cannot ejaculate; in his

disappointment, complains jpeux méme pas

jouir”,

 

 

Omniscient narrator, interrupted by the direct
speech of the characters (men and women)
who speak

Julien finds Shérazade, but does not sleep
with her; has a “prise de conscience”, falls

asleep, and wakes after she has left

 

 

“Chacun fait c’qui lui plait”

Shérazade

 

Woman leaves man in hotel

 

 

Shérazade leaves Julien in his apartment

 

57

 

 

 

 

Song lyrics in French and (sometimes
incomprehensible) English

Interrupted, non-linear narration

Popular language: “on s'en fout ;” ”je fouille
mes poches, je sais c'est moche;” ”c’est plein
d’cageots;” ” les chats qui s’tapent leurs p’tits

,r9 ’9

ronrons , madame pipi. . .” and colloquial

(Parisian) pronunciation

9”

(contractions/ellisions) : ”5 heures du mat
”J ’m’coupe la main; ” “j’crois qu’j ‘ai r’mis
la radio”...

Canonical literary allusion: Le Petit Chose

(by Alphonse Daudet)

Name brands mentioned: Kleenex,
Décalcomanie (transfers for children, very
popular in France in the early 1980’s), C(eur
Croisé (lingerie)

Color symbolism: blue “mes draps bleus,”
“Les anges pressés dans ce bleu glacé” (blues,
mélancolia, solitude); “toute seule au bar dans

un coin noir une blonde platine sirote sa

 

Written in French; English and Arabic words
appear from time to time

Narration often interrupted by another story
or another narrative voice

Popular language throughout the novel

Canonical literary allusions: Kateb Yacine,
Zola, Fromentin, Djebar, Rousseau, Dib,

Feraoun 42

Levi's, Tampax, a Waterman pen, Dior

lipstick, a Puma pen knife 43

Color symbolism: green (Algeria, Islam,
mint, an herb often used in Arab cooking);

red is the color of Shérazade’s underwear and

 

58

 

 

fine ;” black and blonde: contrast between
these two colors, this image references the
cliché of the “blonde bombshell” in the “film

noir” genre

 

 

of the Arab culottes the odalisque is wearing
in Matisse’s “Odalisque a la culotte rouge”;
this symbolizes the blood of the violence and
real and symbolic rape that was done to
women, and by extension, to the native North
Africans during colonization, de-colonization

and the post—colonial/ immigration period

 

Both song and novel share qualities in terms of popular culture. In spite of the

similarities (language and form), the novel presents a model of a powerful, free young

woman, situated outside of the masculinist discourse of popular culture; the song

presents, once again, the image of a reified woman, whose voice exists only to answer to

the desires of the masculine voice, or to echo what he has said. In contrast, Shérazade’s

identity eludes us. Although she is influenced by her friends, she does not allow herself

to be transformed into a passive, submissive woman or a sexual object.

“Chacun fait c’qui lui plait” and “Il est cinq heures, Paris s’éveille” come to

Julien’s mind immediately before he realizes the gravity of his relationship with

Shérazade:

[I]l aurait bientot trente ans et elle? Il ne savait rien. Elle n'avait pas beaucoup

parle jusqu'ici. [...] I] la regardait; du bout du lit, elle paraissait quinze ans. Et

lui... Si elle était mineure? Il n'y avait pas pensé. Devant Shérazade endormie, il

prit conscience soudain de l'incongruité de cette histoire. [...] A cinq heures du

matin... (111)

59

 

These songs are a revelation to Julien; they are like Proust’s madeleine. Along with
Shérazade, they remind him of his past, his childhood in Algeria, the oriental, the exotic,
everything that fascinates him. For Julien, Shérazade is the personification of the
odalisque of the orientalist paintings; he often seems to confuse the artifice of the painted
women with the reality of Shérazade. We notice that in this scene, Shérazade is dressed
the opposite way of Matisse’s “L’Odalisque a la culotte rouge.” Only the legs of the
latter are covered, and the upper part of her body is uncovered; for Shérazade, it is the
opposite:

Elle s'était endorrnie aussitot en t—shirt, ses habits jetés en désordre sur la

moquette au bout du lit. Son soutien-gorge et sa culotte étaient pliés et elle avait

pris 1e soin de les dissimuler sous son pantalon avant de se mettre dans le lit

(110).

Why this inversion of semi-nude bodies? By taking off her pants and her underwear (we
learn later that it is red, like the odalisque’s), Shérazade exposes herself, and making
herself more vulnerable (233). Why, then, does J ulien not try to rape her? Is it because of
his “prise de conscience”? Or is it because she is protected?

Contrary to the painted odalisques, no one is able to captivate and keep a
representation of Shérazade. Every time someone tries, the photos are destroyed. J ulien
has negatives of her, but she destroys the photos he took and developed, and which he
displays all over his apartment:

Elle arracha toutes les photos d'elle que Julien avait colle’es, punaisées, épinglées

de la cuisine a la salle de bains, en passant par les panneaux converts de la

chambre et de la grande piece, des photos de formats différents, de la photo

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d'identité au poster. (...) Shérazade déchira toutes les photos que Julien avait

affichées, consciencieusement, une a true, de la plus petite a la plus grande. (158)
The (male) photographers try to turn Shérazade into a modern odalisque, but do not
succeed, thanks to the protection her green eyes seem to give her.

The last song that appears in the novel is Eddy Mitchell’s “Couleur menthe a
l’eau”. The song is named twice at the end of Shérazade, when Pierrot (the young
revolutionary anarchist) and Shérazade are in a bar:

Pierrot a mis un disque au juke-box ca s’appelle “Les Yeux couleur menthe a

l’eau.” C’est Eddy Mitchell qui la chante. Elle prend la lettre, la déchire dans le

cendrier, et Pierrot la brfile au briquet-on briquet avec Marilyn dessus c’est Basile
qui 1e lui a donné. [.. .] Avant de partir, Pierrot a remis “Les Yeux couleur

menthe a l’eau.” (260)

The most obvious commonality (green eyes) appears in the title of the song and of the
novel. Green signifies both the real and symbolic “métisse” identity (Berber origin) of
Shérazade (green being the color of Algeria and Islam). This is not the first time the
color green appears in Shérazade. In the beginning of the novel, when J ulien sees
Shérazade and they meet for the first time, he speaks to her about Sheherazade and
Aziyadé. Shérazade then asks him: “Pourquoi vous me parlez de cette femme?
[d’Aziyadé]. Elle avait les yeux verts, comme vous. —C’est pas une raison” (8). It is at
that moment that the odalisques of Delacroix’s painting and Shérazade become confused
in Julien’s mind; reality and artifice cannot be distinguished. He will pursue her and be

obsessed by her during this novel and the two that follow.

61

Pierrot notices Shérazade’s green eyes; her brothers look for her in cafés, bars and
nightclubs after she has run away because for them, a girl with green eyes does not go
unnoticed. Finally, Shérazade is wearing emerald earrings. The story is framed by the
“green eyes” in the title; the color green is sprinkled throughout the novel, and always in
conjunction with Shérazade. It is also a reminder of

l'histoire merveilleuse de Khidr, on Al Khadir, L'homme Vert... C'est 1e patron

des voyageurs, i1 incame 1a providence divine... Celui qui rencontre Khisr ne doit

pas lui poser de questions, il doit se soumettre a ses conseils, quelque
extravagants qu'ils puissent étre. Khisr est, en ce sens, proche parent du

Compagnon de route d'Andersen, et, comme lui, il disparai‘t, service rendu

(Chevalier and Gheerbrant 1003).

Shérazade’s eyes protect her against evil and harm during her escapades and her travels;
she seems to have supernatural protection, because she escapes every time someone tries
to harm her. In fact, she knows this and says “Je vais ou je veux, quand je veux et ma
place, c’est partout.” (88) This seems to be part of her identity; she appropriates both the
urban and rural geography of France by doing her own “tour de France”.

Because green is associated with Shérazade’s physical and symbolic/constructed
identity, it is necessary to analyze the striking similarities between Eddy Mitchell’s song
and Shérazade. The narrative voice of the song reflects Pierrot’s feelings for Shérazade
(he is in love with her.) We also note that it reflects Julien’s feelings for her; he wants
her to be a star of a movie. Le Fou de Shaw jumps in medias res on a movie set; the
movie’s “tournage” must be interrupted because Shérazade has been kidnapped. In the

song, it is the young woman who wants to make movies: . .ses yeux couleur menthe a

62

l’eau cherchaient du regard un spot, le dieu projecteur.” Both Shérazade and the
nameless young woman in the song are megalomaniacs (egocentric) and mythomaniacs
(liars: Shérazade lies all the time; she steals; she rarely gives her real name, etc). Both
young women make movies but Shérazade, unlike the young woman in the song, does
not fall into the trap of pornography. The young woman “s’est soumise aux yeux noirs
couleur de trottoir” (parallel to the expression “faire 1e trottoir,” which means to
prostitute one’s self). Not only do Shérazade and her friends overpower the pornographic
photographer and his lens, but their subterfuge is exaggerated into an exploit: “les filles
dont on parlait avaient immobilisé un professionnel du porno a la bombe anti-Viol et lui
avaient donné une raclée” (156)."4 The heroine of the novel ends up better off than the
heroine of the song: although they both have green eyes, the young woman in the song is
not protected from the evil “black” eyes of the pomographer and of the violence that
ensues (“ses yeux noirs ont lancé de l’agressivité”). Shérazade escapes and the obscene
pictures of her and her friends will never be taken.

Written by a man and performed by a man, the narrative voice of “Couleur
menthe a l’eau” transforms a young woman into a porno star. Shérazade, written by a
woman, mocks pornography, and the heroine of the novel refuses to be dominated by
men. Sebbar, in subverting erotic exoticism (or exotic eroticism), ridicules the male
photographer and film director. In humiliating them, Shérazade situates herself outside
their games, and by extension, outside a patriarchal system that reifies women.
Shérazade transcends the popular songs that place limitations on women. The three
songs in Shérazade symbolize liberty beyond the barriers that cause Shérazade to flee

from home and travel around France.

63

As Shérazade travels around France in a truck with its driver Gilles in Les Camets
de Shérazade, more music is mentioned; in examining the lyrics and the context in which
it is heard or revealed, we learn more about the characters and their responses to music.
The five popular songs that appear are: “Elle est d’ailleurs” by Pierre Bachelet, “Leila et
les chasseurs” by Francis Cabrel, “Leila” by Pierre Perret, “Les Corons” by Pierre
Bachelet, “Mise au point” by J akie Quartz, “Que serais-je sans toi” by Jean Ferrat, and
“Toute premiere fois” by Jeanne Mas.45

Pierre Bachelet’s “Elle est d’ailleurs” is heard in the following two contexts:

I] met des chansons dans le juke-box. Shérazade, debout a l’entrée du café,

regarde 1e camion bleu Gauloises. Elle reconnait une chanson de Pierre Bachelet

qu’on entendait sans arrét dans la brasserie oil elle a travaillé a Marseille. Elle
chantonne, sans penser aux paroles, au hasard de la mémoire:

Elle a de ces lumieres au fond des yeux

qui rendent aveugle ou amoureux. ..

Pour moi c’est stir elle est d’ailleurs. ..

Et moi je suis tombé en esclavage

de ce sourire de ce visage

et je lui dis emmene-moi. ..

Pour moi c’est sfir elle est d’ailleurs. .. Dans le camion, Gilles siffle l’air de la

chanson. ..[Shérazade] dit: ‘C’est une fille qui est pas d’ici, de ce pays, de la

France. Elle est peut-étre pas francaise. C’est pour ca qu’elle lui plait. Elle est

pas comme les autres filles.’ ‘Oui. Ca doit étre ca. J ’aime cette chanson. Je sais

pas pourquoi,’ dit Gilles. (Les Camets 53)

And towards the end of the novel, Gilles and Shérazade are at a truck stop:

A “La Terrasse,” Shérazade penchée sur le juke-box cherche des chansons de

Karim Kacel, Charlélie Couture, Rachid Bari, Serge Gainsbourg. .. Elle secoue

l’appareil. Rien — c’est toujours les memes vieilles rengaines. . . [. . .] [E]lle se

retoume, furieuse, vers Gilles qui passe la porte des douches. Il lui dit en criant —
mets-moi. .. tu sais ? tu la connais, ca s’appelle : ‘Elle est d’ailleurs...’ C’est de
qui déja? Bachelet c’est son nom, j’ai oublié son prénom — Gilles disparait
derriére 1a porte a deux battants comme dans les westerns et chantonne. Shérazade

dit qu’elle la trouve pas, que ce juke-box est pourri. (257)

The relationship between Gilles and Shérazade has considerably evolved between the two
times the song is played — both times from a jukebox in a café or truck stop. The space
and machine from which the characters hear the song is significant: a café and truck stop
are temporary spaces, through which people pass without staying; the juke-box, a motif
that appears throughout Sebbar’s works, suggests both an element of pop art and the
temporary consumerism of such an object or icon. The customer inserts the money,
selects a particular song or songs, and instantly hears the song he or she has selected.
Although the gratification is instant, it is temporary; the jukebox stays where it is (in this
case in the café and truck stop). The customer is satisfied only momentarily.

However, in contrast with the “vieilles rengaines” Gilles and Shérazade so easily
tire of, the song “Elle est d’ailleurs” seems to have stayed in their memory. Their
relationship is a modified reflection of the song, which narrates (from a male perspective)
the love for a cruel woman who ignores the narrator (cf. “Couleur menthe a l’eau).

Shérazade, although she is “d’ailleurs,” talks and spins stories, (she is anything but

65

silent!) so that Gilles will want to keep her with him - unlike the unnamed woman in the
song, (“Elle a de ces manieres de ne rien dire,” “Mais elle passe et ne répond pas”).
Although Gilles and Shérazade’s relationship is not sexual, it is an exchange. Each one
has something the other wants: a free trip around France, and company and
entertainment, respectively.

Finally, the sexism of the song is neutralized in Les Carnets. The line “Quand
elle arrive in ma hauteur” expresses the male (voice’s) superiority over the woman he is
describing. The woman, not being depicted on the same level by the man, is thus
objectified, exotified, and belittled. Shérazade is on the “same level” as Gilles; this is
exemplified by her riding in the front seat of Gilles’ truck. Although he is literally in the
drivers’ seat, she manipulates him into going to several places that were not on his route.
Shérazade’s eyes protect her; whereas although the woman in the song “a de ces lumieres
au fond des yeux,” she has no protection from the inherent sexism depicted in the song
lyrics.

The image of the unprotected woman continues in the next song that Gilles hears,
“Leila et les chasseurs,” by Francis Cabrel.46 Here again, the eyes hold an essential place
in the song, and the following lines are quoted in Les Camets:

[Gilles] voulait des chansons francaises. L’anglais, 1e rock il en avait marre. Il

avait 1e choix, a l’heure des hit-parades. Il reconnait Francis Cabrel. I] ne

comprend pas le nom qu’il chante. Un nom pas d’ici. Il entend:

“Leila, si tu savais les yeux qu’elle a

Quand elle voit s’approcher les chasseurs”

66

Il retient ces paroles, pas les autres. H entend le titre de la chanson. “Leila,” dit

l’animateur. (88)

The song narrates the story of Leila, a woman who is “hunted” by men. It is unclear
whether she is a prostitute or a woman who easily gives in to men who proposition her.
She is young and dreams of someone shy who will want to be with her not for sex, but for
love. She is represented as a victim and target (“cible”), and men (“les chasseurs”) are
portrayed as secretive, cunning and fickle. Although Shérazade is often “hunted” by
photographers, men who want to spend the night with her, and especially Julien, she does
not let them exploit her body like “Leila.” Rather, she lets them think that she is
interested, and runs away before they have a chance to take advantage of her.47 Again,
instead of falling into a system of popular culture that degrades women, Shérazade is
situated outside it and does not fit into the mold of the attractive helpless woman who
resigns herself to exploitation by a misogynist system, and by the men who use women
and “discard” them immediately after they receive their pleasure.

Immediately after that song, one of the same title comes to Gilles’ mind: ”11 a
déja entendu ce nom—la, dans une chanson de Pierre Perret, c’était une tenanciere de
bordel a Marseille ou au Caire. .. D’habitude, Emma lui pre’pare un casse—crofite. . .” (88)
The second Leila is in fact a madam who also sells lace on the island of Java, and with
whom the narrator of the song has sex whenever he goes to her island: “Quand je passe a
l’i‘le de Java / Je vais chez Leila / Elle a un petit commerce a elle / [. . .] Moi c’est en ami
qu’elle me traite / J ’ai toujours table et cuisses ouvertes.”

Gilles’ train of thought is as follows: “Leila” by Cabrel, “Leila” by Perret, and

Emma, a woman who lives near Nimes and with whom he has sex whenever he drives

67

through that city: “Emma, sans retenir Gilles, lui offrait sa maison, sa chambre, son lit.
Sa cuisine aussi, elle est gourrnande.” (79)48 In Gilles’ mind, then, women are
simplistically associated with good food, comfort, and sex. However, his view of
Shérazade is different; he sees her as “une poe’tesse, une conteuse. .. [. . .] C’était pas une
fille comme les autres.” (88) This indicates that does not he see her as a commodity, but
as a valuable companion, someone that can not only entertain him, but who is extra-
ordinary because she has some kind of magical power to seduce him not sexually, but
metaphorically. Their relationship transcends the physical, and reaches for the spiritual.

Although Leila in Perret’s song bears a striking resemblance to Emma, she also
resembles Shérazade in a small way: “Elle nous débite un peu gouailleuse / Des tranches
de sa vie fabuleuse.” Shérazade, being a “brodeuse,” tells stories of her trek around
France before meeting Gilles, but both the reader and Gilles often wonder if they are true.
Her stories, then, are like those of Scheherazade; both women are necessarily
“gouailleuses” (cocky or cheeky) because their life depends on it. Scheherazade’s life
hinges on the king Shahriar’s interest in the stories she tells him so that he will not kill
her; Shérazade’s survival hangs on Gilles’ willingness to accept her into his truck as a
travel companion, and to listen to her stories.

Perhaps, then, Leila is both Shérazade and Emma. In the song, they are fused into
one name, which happens to be the first name of the author. Sebbar is inserting herself as
a “cameo” into her works. It is a reminder that she is the writer of the novel, and that she
is giving voice to the characters. In the Cabrel song, Leila never talks, she is talked to by
men (and, on a different level, about and by the singer/songwriter Cabrel): “Des mots

humides de pluie I Qui meurent aussitot dits/ [. . .] / 11s parlent tellement fort / lls sont

68

tellement nombreux,”. In the Perret song, Leila is again described (by the
singer/songwriter Perret), and is given a voice, but it is transmitted to us through the
(male) singer; Perret’s voice sings what Leila has “told” him. So, the only Leila who
really can freely express herself, i.e. not second-hand through a male voice, is the author
Leila Sebbar. She places herself, then, above the restricted Leilas of song, and helps to
create and maintain a free space for female expression without the need for male
interference. This observation can be extended to “beur” expression; she opens up the
forum for them to express themselves in literature instead of being expressed by others.
Although Sebbar depicts mainly the Beurs, she also represents the French
working classes, and the next song she cites “Les Corons,” by Pierre Bachelet, reflects
this. In our introduction, we have defined the Beur as belonging to the working-class.
This inclusion of both Beur and French workers demonstrates a leftist orientation and
indicates a gesture of solidarity among the masses and under-represented classes. “Les
Corons” is sung from the nostalgic viewpoint of a man who comes to understand his
identity, thanks to his parents (owners of a laundromat) and the miners who worked in the
north of France. The lines “Et je lui dois ce que je suis” (“lui” meaning “mon pére,”)
“Grace a eux je sais qui je suis” (“eux” stands for “men pere” and “ma mere”) and
“C’est avec eux que j’ai compris” (“eux” represents the miners) indicate the son’s
indebtedness to all of the miners to whom he pays homage in this song. The search for
his individuality is fulfilled by the memory of his idealized childhood, cradled by his
honest, hard-working parents.49 In contrast, Shérazade has not yet completed her identity
search. Whether she actually finds it is another matter; it is the actual journey that is of

importance to her.

69

The fact that the song by Bachelet is significant not only because it represents the
working class “en général,” but a search for meaning and identity, is confirmed by Pierrot
(who dies at the end of Shérazade) and a trucker from the north of France, Gabriel’s need
to replay “Les Corons” whenever they are in a bar or a bistro:

Gabriel parle sans s’adresser a quelqu’un en particulier. 11 se dirige vers le juke-

box et dit: [. . .] Je cherche “Les Corons” tu vas pas dire que c’est pas bien, tu

connais? - Ouais - bougonne Guido en débouchant le vin, tu crois que tu es le
seul chtimi a passer par chez moi? chaque fois, je sais que c’est un type des mines
parce qu’il cherche ‘Les Corons.’ Il est tellement content quand il l’écoute, [. . .]

[Shérazade] pense a Pierrot. Avant 1e flipper, il cherchait le juke-box, et s’il ne

voyait pas ‘Les Corons’ il quittait le cafe furieux, jusqu’au prochain ou avec la

méme fébrilité, appuyé les deux mains sur l’appareil a disques, i1 lisait a haute
voix les titres des chansons [. . .] Ecoute Shérazade, écoute, c’est une belle
chanson. Ne l’oublie pas. Quand tu l’entendras et que je serai loin, tu sauras pas
ou, ni pourquoi, tu penseras a moi. [. . .]

Au nord, c’était [sic] les corons. ..

Mon pére était gueule noire

Comme l’étaient ses parents...

Ils étaient de la fosse

Come on est d’un pays

Grace 3 eux je sais qui je suis. ..

Au nord c’était [sic] les corons (115 —l 17)

70

This constant necessity to replay a song about “who they are” emphasizes Pierrot
and Gabriel’s pride in being from the working-class and affirms their identity. By
insisting on depicting these workers, Sebbar and Bachelet create a joint space for them in
print and on the radio, thereby diffusing their validity as subjects. Bachelet also mentions
a “photo de Jean J aurés” that is on display ”a la mairie” during “kerrnesse.” Jaurés, the
founder of the magazine L’Humanité, was a leading socialist intellectual who fought for
the working classes in France. By inscribing a pictorial reference of J aurés in his song,
Bachelet is reinforcing a socialist ideology.50

After listening to “Les Corons,” the truckers invite Shérazade to watch a film with
them. In the meantime, Gilles has been flirting with Angéle, one of the waitresses of the
truck stop. The next song we will analyze happens during the following scenario:

Angele refusa de passer la nuit avec Gilles. Avant de monter dans sa chambre,

elle rnit une chanson de Jackie (sic) Quartz: “Just une mise au point.” [. . .] Gilles

et les autres regardaient un film porno dans la salle réservée an magnétoscope.

Shérazade écarta discretement 1e rideau interdit et apercut sur l’écran un phallus

géant. Elle ne put s’empécher de rire. Les hommes se retoumerent, furieux.

(120-21)

Although Angele is the one who plays the song, its lyrics reveal more about Shérazade
than about Angele. The song is the first one in either Shérazade or Les Camets by a
female artist. Ironically, it is about a woman pining for a man, regretting her relationship
with him, and waiting, as a “victime du romantisme.” It can be seen as the antithesis of
“Couleur menthe a l’eau” (a man remembering his impossible relationship with a

woman). “Misc au point” captures the spirit of the myth of Penelope and Ulysses:

71

Penelope pines and waits for Ulysses to return. The Shérazade trilogy can be seen as a
reversal of this myth: she is the conquering heroine, braving the “monsters,” and Julien,
although not waiting at home for her, does run after her, and after multiple attempts at
trying to catch her, is still not able to keep her as his own.

Like Les Camets, the narrative of “Mise au point” includes English (“1e blues, ”
“love story,”) a low register of French (“Ya de’ja moins de soucis a se faire” “tu t’envoies
ton petit creme,” “Pour foutre la merde ils sont champions”), and places in Paris (“la rue
de Clichy,” “la rue des Bemardins”). These obvious similarities link the song and the
novel to each other not only stylistically but also thematically. However, the most
important connection between the two lies in what happens immediately after the song:
Shérazade’s peeking in on the men admiring an inflated phallus makes her the “voyeuse”
on the truck-drivers (themselves “voyeurs” of a porn film). Her outburst of laughter is
the ultimate irritation and insult for the truck drivers: their sexual excitement is
interrupted by a young woman who finds their seriousness comical. The glorification of
the phallus (and everything it represents: patriarchy, male dominance, male manipulation
of the female body through a camera, itself being another phallic symbol) is belittled and
even ridiculed by someone who, in the truckers’ mind, belongs “in” the pornographic
film. This is evidenced by Gilles’ following comment: “11 allait lui demander de ne pas
suivre les routiers. .. la mettre en garde. . .” (120) Instead, Gilles does not warn her, but
merely states “Salut! A demain. Si tu es encore 1a.. .” (120), and as usual, Shérazade
ends up unharmed.

This reversal of voyeurism, and the surfacing of the multiple layers of voyeurism,

indicate that a woman, Shérazade, is capable of overturning the patriarchal system that

72

treats women as objects, that causes women to wait and pine for men, and to relive
wistfully their past relationship by rnisnaming it “romantisme.” The singer equates “les
plus belles images dc ma vie” with having a relationship; she cannot be happy without
being in a relationship with a man. This dependency fits her self-victimization and
situates her within patriarchal discourse; in her opinion, happiness and self-fulfillment are
impossible without a man. Shérazade laughs in the face of misogyny, and makes a jest
out of how seriously men take pornography.5 ' She is a disruptive force that shatters
men’s enjoyment of the glorification of their bodies.

Finally, the use of the cinematic or photographic metaphors in “Misc au point” is
apparent in the following situations: the title of the song suggests both focusing a
photographic lens and recapitulating the meaning of a story; “on se rcpasse lc film sur un
air dc romance” has a double meaning; it literally means viewing a film for a second or
third time and figuratively remembering or retelling a story. The insistence on reliving
and retelling the story indicates the narrator’s desire to have a third party lend a
sympathetic car; it is therefore a therapeutic re-tclling, useful for the narrator allegedly to
“move on.” Les Camets is also a re-telling: Shérazade re-tclls hcr adventures to Gilles,
and although there are no cinematographic terms per se, the trilogy is about making films
(Julien chases Shérazade and wants her to be a star in his films; this is more apparent in
Shérazade and Le Fou dc Shérgzade).

The next song mentioned is “Que scrais-jc sans toi” by Jean Ferrat (Sebbar
mentions it as “Que ferais-je sans toi”). The lyrics are based on a poem by Louis Aragon

and the music was written by Jean Ferrat. The song is played in the following context:

73

 

 

while 8

small \

The
ever
les c
10111

lie

wil

rel

Te

while Shérazade is traveling around France in the region of Correzc, she arrives in a
small village. She hears bells, enters the church, and attends a wedding ceremony:
On a écouté un air religieux enregistré au magnétophone, mais 1c son était faiblc.
A la fin, la chanson dc Jean Ferrat ‘Que ferais-je sans toi’ a éclaté dans l’église.
L’autrc magnétophone était meillcur. Les cloches ont sonné, tout lc monde s’cst
lcvé. Les mariés sont sortis les demicrs (207).
The song is a beautiful tribute to a lover-as-mother, who teaches the narrator/singer
everything: “Que serais-jc sans toi qui vins a ma rencontre/L . .]J’ai tout appris de toi sur
les choses humaines/ [. . .]/J’ai tout appris dc toi comme on boit aux fontaines/ [. . .] J ’ai
tout appris de toi jusqu’au sens du frisson ;” without her, he returns to the prc-ocdipal
(i.e. pre-languagc) stage: “Que serais-je sans toi que ce balbutiemcnt.” The song would
be a natural choice for a wedding; however, its relevance to the novel lies in its contrast
with the “air religieux”. “Que serais-je sans toi” is played loudly in the church and the
religious melody is barely audible. They respectively symbolize tradition and
Christianity, modernity and secularism. The religious air stands for “la vieillc France,”
its villages, its churches, its history; the popular “chanson” by Ferrat stands for
“banlicues, [. . .], les tours, les blocs.” (205) The new generation of immigrants and
“banlicusards” is slowly replacing the old generation. Sebbar is predicting the upheaval
of “Frenchness” and of what it entails; she questions the idea of a French identity.52
The last song mentioned in Les Carnets is “La Toutc premiere fois” by J eannc
Mas. It is a song about a woman losing her virginity and the pain that accompanies that

act. The song is about to be played “pour l’ambiance” when three young men are getting

ready to rape Shérazade. However, the song is never played because Shérazade asks

74

 

 

them if 51
l‘ltlltl, r01
lltlt as.
n'est p:
contre .
quinze
subve'
Gilles
coup;
qu'il:
nom

la f1?

0111:
'clllC
ra

org

C0

them if she can take a pill; she pulls out a gun from her bag, points it gun to one of men’s
head, robs all of them, and forces them to drive to the nearest police station (211-212).
Here again, Sebbar inserts humor in what could have been a horrifying situation: “Ceci
n’est pas un viol, dit Shérazade, c’est un hold-up dc campagne. [. . .] C’est un hold-up
contre des pauvres pctits chomeurs qui ont failli étre dcs violeurs passiblcs dc dix a
quinze ans de prison. Je vous sauve de la taulc, ca se paic.” (212) Again, Shérazade
subverts male dominance and turns it to her advantage. When she recounts the story to
Gilles, she says: “Pour eux, un viol C’est la fille qui a cherche, ils nc sc sentent pas
coupables. Jc t’assure. A Paris, j’ai assisté a un proces pour viol, lcs types pensaient pas
qu’ils étaient des salauds, mais vraiment pas. Et ils battaicnt la fille, ca leur paraissait
normal [. . .]. II faut avoir l’air d’étrc conscntantc, ils pcrdent leurs defenses et 1a, c’cst a
la fille dc trouvcr une ruse" (213).

Altough near-rape scenes of a Beurette by French youths do not appear in any
other of Sebbar’s works, the situation also can be interpreted as a metaphor for France
and Algeria. The French obviously thought it was “normal” to colonize Algeria, to
“rape” it. When Algeria revolted against its oppression, and started creating underground
organizations that fought for its freedom (for example, the Front dc Liberation
Nationale), it found ways to outsmart the French. It was up to the Algerians to find ruscs
that would confuse their opponents. The war lasted for eight years (1954-1962), and the
French finally abandoned their former department. “La Toutc premiere fois“ contains

99 ’9

un guenier que l’on blesse, son

9’ ‘6 99 ’9

war metaphors: “un couteau, souffrancc,

courage;” these can be applied to the historical situation mentioned above. Not only does

75

the song depict a woman’s distress because of a man, but a country’s loss of resources
and human life because of a hegemonic power.
The following chart recapitulates the manner in which women are depicted (the

songs are indicated by the last name of their performer, for the sake of space):

 

woman Mitchell Chagrin Bachelet Cabrel Perret Bachelet Quartz Ferrat
depicted d’Amour (Ailleurs) (Corons)
as:

Mas

 

victim X X X X X

 

whore X X X

 

exotic X

 

trapped X

 

suffering X

 

>< X X X
X

lover X

 

mother X X

 

dependent X X X

 

co—depen- X X X
dent

 

indepcn- X
dent

 

 

women’s X X
voice
heard

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As a group, the songs reveal the misogynist nature of popular culture. It can serve as an
instrument for women’s liberation, by shaking the foundations of classicism and creating
more room for women to maneuver. Women can oppose oppression with their own class

(whichever it might be) by reacting against the messages that music, television and

76

 

advertising send, and refusing to let themselves be seen as objects merely for aesthetic
admiration, sexual pleasure or domestic fulfillment. Sebbar provides Shérazade with a
way out of this sexist confinement: whenever the songs are quoted in the novel,
Shérazade reacts against them. Although these songs influence the men that play them or
think of them, Shérazade is portrayed as a reaction against them, and as an agent
independent of their oppression. Shérazade continually escapes society on all levels,
whether it be literally as a runaway teen-ager, culturally as a Beurette, or figuratively as a
subversion of songs and films, as we shall see in our next section.

The films that the characters refer to in Shérazade (Pierrot le Fou) and Igs
Qamcts (L’Eté meurtricr, Le Mépris, P_aris, Tcxa_s and A Bout de souffle) also reveal
information essential to the reader’s comprehension of the two novels.53 The novels are
intrinsically linked to the films, and their allusion goes beyond intertextuality to become
metatextuality. Their influence is intrinsically linked to the reader’s comprehension of
the text. Not only do the songs in Shérazade and Les Camcts reveal the sexism inherent
to French popular culture and the blatant disrespect that men can have for women’s
dignity; the films also suggest a stereotyping of women. However, the films add a visual
dimension that the music cannot. They contribute to the type of text that Sebbar writes: it
is a “hybrid” text, connected to multiple referents, in this case, examples of different
media. Sebbar’s texts exemplify the meaning of a “texte métisse.”

The one film cited on several occasions in both Shérazade (254-255) and Lg
megs (114) is Pierrot lc Fou, itself a “collage” of literary texts, paintings, music idioms,
other films, political and cultural references, which serves not only as a conversation

topic for Shérazade and Pierrot, J ulien and Shérazade, but as an agent for promoting the

77

awareness of art as political. Just as Godard, a left-wing film director, wishes (among
other things) to educate the masses of movie-goers through violent, shocking imagery of
the selfishness of complacent capitalist bourgeoisie, Sebbar wishes to inform her readers
of the reprehensible behavior of the French towards the Beurs, and of men towards
women. Sebbar has been more open about racism than sexism:
Contrc les immigrés, la droite et l’extréme-droite gagnent; alliées, elles sont plus
forte que la gauche avec ses bonncs intentions et ses bons sentiments sans effct.
Les enfants de l’immigration feront violence a la France comme elle a fait
violence a leurs percs ici et la-bas. Ils sont sans mémoire, mais ils n’oublient pas,
je crois. Ils auront, avec la France, unc histoire d’amour melee de haine, perverse
ct souvent meurtriere (Lettres 60).
Both Godard and Sebbar offer a leftist critique of society, yet find them unsatisfying and
unresolved.54 Their works do not propose an idealist or utopian solution, but ask the
viewer or reader to interpret their art and find solutions in the real world.55

The parallels between Pierrot le Fou and Shérazade are demonstrated below.

 

Pierrot 1e Fou Shérazade

 

 

Onomastics

Pierrot as icon: was a famous French
gangster (Vacche 49); character of the
Commcdia dell’Arte, painted by Watteau
Ferdinand/Pierrot : outsider, marginal. Pierrot: revolutionary anarchist/idealist,

romantic idealist marginal

 

 

78

 

 

Anna Karina (actress who plays Marianne)
played in a movie Sherezade (1962) by
Pierre Gaspard-Huit.

Marianne: main character; refers to
Marianne (painting by Renoir); refers to
France and its battle for “Liberté, Egalité,

Fratemité” (cf. painting by Delacroix)

Shérazade is the star of a movie by Julien

Shérazade: refers to witty, cunning Persian
Queen of the Thousand and One Nights;
often gives herself other names (Camille

and Rosa, referring to Rosa Luxembourg)

 

Colors

red: associated with Marianne

blue: associated with Ferdinand/Pierrot;
symbolizes death/male identity/national

origin (Vacche 49)

red: associated with Matisse’s odalisque
and Shérazade

green: associated with Shérazade;
symbolizes protection and her national
origin, religious and Muslim cultural

identity

 

 

Intertextualites and other allusions (art,
music and film)

a. pop art

easily identifiable icons: cars, walkie-
talkies, t-shirts, lipstick, juke-boxes, pinball
machines, guns, comic strips, pom
magazines, brand names such as Coca-Cola
b. “high” art

paintings by Velasquez, Picasso,

 

cars, t-shirts, lipstick, juke-boxes, pinball
machines, comic strips, radios, guns, porn

magazines, brand names such as Coca-Cola

paintings by Balthus, Bonnard, Chassériau,

 

79

 

 

Modigliani, Matisse, Rouault, Van Gogh,

Renoir

-Godard superimposes Marianne
w/Renoir’s “La Petite fille a la gerbe”
(reducing her to a little girl)

c. films

parodies American movies

d. literature:

starts and ends with allusions to Rimbaud’s
poetry; alludes to Bemardin de St. Pierre.
Céline, Garcia Lorca, Balzac, Poe

e. music

music composed by Antoine Duhamel, but

all types of music are in the score

“La tempesta di mare” by Vivaldi presages

Marianne and Pierrot’s death by the sea

Corot, Delacroix, Ingres, Dix, Fromentin,
Kisling, Lc’ger, dc Lempicka, Monet,
Matisse, Picasso, Renoir, Valadon, Vemet,
Pignon

-Julien compares Shérazade to Odalisques
in paintings (orientalizing her and reducing

her to a male fantasy)

parodies a hold-up

mentions of Rimbaud throughout the novel,
alludes to Kateb, Zola, Fromentin, Djebar,

Rousseau, Dib, Feraoun

music mentioned is jazz, popular, classical
Arab; Shérazade refers to a song sung by
Marianne (Anna Karina) in Pierrot le Fou
Pierrot’s preference for and listening to
Verdi’s “Requiem” presages his dramatic
death as he drives his car into the Loire

river; the car explodes and Pierrot dies

 

 

Auto-intertextuality (reference to Godard’s

other works)

 

(reference to Sebbar’s other works)

 

80

 

 

cameo by Godard

two songs with the name Leila are
mentioned in Les Carnets dc Shérazade:
“Leila et les Chasseurs” by Francis Cabrel

and “Leila” by Pierre Perret

 

topics

misogyny

leftist politics
anarchy/marginality

escapism

“road movie” (travel from Paris to
Southern France)

Marianne as “femme fatale”

misogyny, especially western orientalist
fantasies

leftist politics

anarchy/marginality

escapism

“travel novel” (travel from Paris to
Marseille)

Shérazade as “femme fatale

 

Language
love for language: alphabetical, literary,

graphic and acoustic

love for different levels of language,

English and Arabic

 

 

Ending
Pierrot kills Marianne, then commits
suicide by tying dynamite around his head

and setting it on fire

 

Pierrot dies, mimicking two scenes from
Pierrot 1e Fou (drives the car into the river,
car blows up); Shérazade gets out of the car

before it catches fire and escapes

 

81

 

By inserting multiple intergeneric references into their works, Godard and Sebbar
question the notion of genre. Integrated with the pictorial and literary references, these
intertextualities reinforce the linguistic and cultural métissage already present in Sebbar’s
works. Godard’s film is a “collage against painting,” (Vacche 39) and Sebbar’s novel is
a collage against painting and film.56 The following quote by Angela Dalle Vacche about
Pierrot le Fou can be easily applied to Shérazade and Les Carnets: “Collage replaces the
distinction between high and low with a structure where each element is as important as
the others. Furthermore, the advent of collage shattered into pieces a traditional view of
art as something separate from life.” (39) Sebbar mentions high and low intermittently,
and her art (novels) cannot be disconnected from the Beur experience. Sebbar and
Godard’s strong political agendas can create awareness and foster a better understanding
of social and political inequalities.

Unlike Pierrot 1e Fou, Jean Becker’s L’Eté meurtricr (1983) is more of a detective
film — the detective being both the main character, Eliane, known as Elle (played by
Isabelle Adjani), and the viewer. Based on Sébastien J aprisot’s novel of the same title, it
won the “Cesar du meilleur scenario” in 1984. Jeannot, a trucker in Les Carnets, talks
about it during a conversation with Gilles at a truck stop:

Si tu veux me la passer [Shérazade], c’est pas de refus. On va pas dans la meme

direction, dommage. Je vous aurais bien suivis tous les deux et je te parie que, le

soir meme, je l’aurais eue dans mon lit [. . .] Celle que j’aime bien, c’est Adjani,
la petite Adjani, avec sa grosse bouche et ses yeux tendres. J ’achete Mchh

chaque fois qu’elle est dedans. L’Eté meurtricr je suis allé 1e voir pour elle. Cette

82

fille qui est en train dc dormir toute seule la-haut, si c’cst pas malheureux ct tous

ces mecs en bas... (Les Carncts 34, 35)

Although Jeannot is a man who thinks of women merely as objects to satisfy his sexual
pleasure, his comments are ironic. He fantasizes about Isabelle Adjani, but the character
she plays in L’Eté meurtricr is a scheming, cunning young woman who uses sex for her
own vengeful, murderous purposes. Having recently moved to a new village, she seduces
Pin-Pon (a mechanic and volunteer fireman, played by Alain Souchon), moves in with
him and his family, and claims to be pregnant so that he will marry her. Her goal is to
become closer to the family, because the three men that raped her mother twenty years
earlier were from that very village, and Pin Pon’s family owns the organ that was played
during Elle’s mother’s rape. Elle wants to kill two of the men who allegedly raped her
mother (the third one, Pin-Pon’s father, is already dead). After finding the men, and
discovering that her mother’s husband had already investigated her mother’s rape and
killed the three perpetrators (who were not the same men that Elle had thought were the
rapists), Elle is committed to an insane asylum. We find out that she was mentally
unstable, that her neurosis had been building up for years, and that a traumatic incident
had caused her breakdown. Tragically, Pin-Pen kills the two men whom Elle had
originally thought to be the rapists.

The most important theme that links L’Eté meurtricr and Les Camets is Shérazade
and Elle’s all consuming quest for identity. Elle is both everyone and no one; her name,
Eliane, is an anagram of “aliéné,” and contains the word “lien,” a link to her sense of
identity (Kundu 135). Shérazade travels to find her cultural identity; at the end of _Le_Fg_u

de Shérazade, she returns to France, but has not firmly established who she is. Just as

83

Elle does not know (and cannot know) who her biological father was (her mother was
raped by three men), colonized nations (in Shérazade’s case, Algeria) do not know who
their “father” is. Algeria, also, has three “fathersz” the Berbers, the Arabs, and the
French. Kateb Yacine’s Nglija is an allegory that illustrates this aporia; it is even more
complex to extend it to the Beur nation.

In contrast, Shérazade is in search of her “mother.” In Shérazade, she leaves Paris
with Pierrot to go to Algeria, the country she lived in as a small child and where her
parents are from. She is fascinated by the “odalisques,” her metaphorical female
predecessors. In turn, J ulien, the porn photographer and other men try to turn her into a
contemporary “odalisque” by taking pictures of her or staring at her lasciviously.
Between Shérazade and Les Carnets, she is unable to take the boat to Algeria, and jumps
off at the last minute. Just as Elle never knows who her father is, Shérazade will never
know who her “mother” is. Her fascination with odalisques grows, but at the end of the
trilogy, she returns to her biological mother, abandoning her search for her mother
country. After finding out that her mother’s husband killed the men who raped her
mother, Elle regresses into her childhood. Before her “crise,” she cries out to her
mother’s husband: “J’ai toujours pense que s’ils étaient morts, tout reviendrait comme
avant. Mais voila, il y a longtemps qu’ils sont tous morts, et tout s’est cassé quand
meme.” Although her father executed vengeance when Elle was nine years old, she
grasps the fact that she will never be able to determine fully her identity.

The other significant similarities between the film and the novel are charted

below.

 

 

L’Eté meurtricr Les Carnets

 

 

84

 

 

Characters
Eliane (Elle): outsider (recently moved to
village where the action takes place);

daughter of a rape

-She’razade: outsider (runaway teen,
beurette)

daughter of a nation that was “raped”

 

Colors

Eliane’s dresses:

red: when she is ready to seduce

white: presages her wedding to Pin-Pon
blue: in insane asylum, the color of her
gown suggest melancholy, depression ,and

neurosis

red: associated with odalisques and

Shérazade

 

 

Intertextualites and other allusions (art,
music and film)

a. pop art

trucks, retro cars, fake nails, t-shirts,

Marilyn Monroe poster

b. literature

epigraph by Lewis Carroll from A_licei_n
Wonderland

e. music

Yves Montand, French folk songs, Strauss,

Joe Dassin, Elton John, Chuck Berry

 

cars, t-shirts, lipstick, juke-boxes, pinball
machines, comic strips, radios, guns, porn

magazines, brand names such as Coca-Cola

alludes to Kateb, Zola, Fromentin, Djebar,

Rousseau, Dib, Feraoun

music mentioned is jazz, popular, Arab,

classical; Shérazade refers to a song sung

 

85

 

 

The air from an organ that was played
during the rape of Elle’s mother is heard

throughout the movie

by Marianne (Anna Karina) in Pierrot 1e

m

Pierrot’s preference for and listening to
Verdi’s “Requiem” presages his dramatic
death as he drives his car into the Loire
river; the car explodes and Pierrot dies
“Les Yeux couleur menthe a l’eau” is a

leitmotiv in Shérazade and Les Camets

 

topics

misogyny: the camera has a “male” gaze,
focuses on Adjani’s legs, buttocks, body,
Elle travels from city to city to avenge the
rape of her mother

Elle as “femme fatale”; Elle uses her body

to get what she wants

misogyny: trucker comments on Adjani’s
sex-appeal in L’Eté meurtricr

“travel novel” (travel from Paris to
Marseille)

Shérazade as “femme fatale”; uses her wit

and her body to get what she wants

 

Number symbolism

number 9: Elle is 9 years old when her
father kills the rapists; Ellc’s marriage lasts
nine days; she returns to the mental state of

a 9 year-old at the end of the film

Number 7 on Shérazade’s notebooks

symbolize divine protection

 

 

Ending

Violent: Elle is committed to an insane

 

Non-violent: Gilles drops Shérazade off in

 

86

 

 

 

asylum; Pin-Pon kills the would-be rapists Paris
who conceived Elle; movie ends with
bullets coming toward the camera!

spectator

 

 

L’Eté meurtricr and Les Lamets dc Shéraide offer insights into two young
women’s search for their roots. Their searches do not provide them with privileged
information; if anything, they are more perplexed than when they first started their quest.
Elle’s desire for vengeance, the resolution of her revenge (she has other men, her husband
and her mother’s husband carry out her vengeance) and her subsequent nervous
breakdown contrast with Shérazade’s insatiable curiosity and, ultimately, her return home
— to the “banlieues” of Paris. Neither young woman can satisfactorily resolve her pursuit:
like the quest for the Holy Grail, it is the voyage that is more significant than the
attainment of the goal.

The second movie that appears in Les Camets is also about a search for identity is

Paris Texas. Shérazade and Gilles are driving in the truck. They see a man who looks

 

homeless; we find out on the next page that it is Jean-Luc Godard, who is looking for a
young woman to star in his next film:
Un homme marchait seul sur la route, pas tout a fait au bord. Il portait un
costume trop grand pour lui, des chaussures dc ville, une casquette américaine
comme celle de Shérazade a longue visiere, mais jaune. “On dirait le mec de
Paris, Texas,” dit Shérazade. “Tu as vu le film?” “Oui,” dit Gilles. “Je l’ai vu a

Rouen avec Estelle. Elle a pleuré tout le temps. Moi j’ai bien aime la premiere

87

 

scene dans le de’sert et l’histoire des deux freres, l’un qui a trop dc mémoirc ct

l’autre qui en a plus du tout. Les femmes m’ont cnnuyé.” (131)
The association between Godard and “1e mec de Paris, Texas” (Travis, played by Dean
Stockwell) is significant. That Gilles and Shérazade happen to run into one of France’s
greatest, most controversial filmmakers “sur la route, pas tout a fait au bord” places
Godard in a space barely within the margins of the road (symbolizing his revolutionary
space in society). Godard, whose activist films have been sometimes censored, exposes
what is at the heart of society’s malaise.S7

The first scene of Paris Texas reveals an amnesiac, Travis, in the middle of an

 

American desert. Shabbily dressed, he resembles a homeless man. The association
between Travis (played by Dean Stockwell) and Godard in Shérazade’s mind blurs the
distinction between fiction and reality. Godard is a “real” person, and Travis is
“fictional” (of course, all of this takes place in a fictional work!) This chance encounter
with Godard is similar to the one with Jessye Norman in Orange. Shérazade also runs
unto Isabelle Adjani and VS. Naipaul; this causes Gilles to question the authenticity of
her stories. The reader also wonders at times whether she is telling the truth when she
says she met Isabelle Adjani and VS. Naipaul or whether she is weaving them into her
anecdotes to embellish her tales she tells Gilles as they drive around France. Does having
Gilles as a witness support Shérazade’s claims? Whatever the case may be, the two
realize that they have more in common than they had originally thought.

Paris, Texas is a movie that questions identity: Travis’ (the protagonist) search
for his origins in the city of Paris, Texas; mistaken identity (when he enters a peep show,

he asks to see a blonde woman - suggestively dressed as “Nurse Bibbs” - whom he

88

believes to be his cx-wife; it ends up being a different woman); and a desire to flee from
one’s former identity or role in society. The name “Travis” is similar to “traverse.”
Traveling, and by extension, roads, are a leitmotif in the film. However, travel is not
necessarily associated with a positive search for the self as it is in the Shérazade trilogy.

Roger Bromley states that in Paris Texas "The abandoned roads are sites of decay,

 

wrecked cars, and memories absorbed by the desert: sites of loss.” (101) These
sites/sights of loss also emphasize the irreconcilable spaces between Travis, his estranged
wife Jane, and their son Hunter. The dysfunctional family shatters the myth of the
American dream; the impersonal desert landscapes, vertical scenes of Houston’s
cityscape and multiple road scenes confirm this. The shattering of the traditional family
is also a motif that appears in Sebbar’s works: in the Shérazade trilogy, the eponymous
heroine leaves the boundaries of her Muslim family by running away. Sebbar examines
this problem of preserving one’s ethnic heritage more thoroughly in Fatima ou les
Algérienncs au guare; but the impossibility of maintaining a traditional Muslim family is

more plausible when the family establishes itself in France. Just as Paris Texas reveals

 

the impossibility of the American dream and ridicules it, so the Shérazade trilogy
questions the faith that Maghrebian immigrants will improve their quality of life when
they settle in France.

The similarities between Wendcrs’ film and Sebbar’s novel are again depicted in

the chart below.

 

Paris Texas Les Camets de Shérazade

 

 

 

Main couple (Travis and Jane) live outside Main couple, Gilles and Shérazade, though

and on the margins of society not amorously connected, live on the

 

 

89

 

 

margins of society

 

Scenes in hotel rooms, truck stops
laundromats
Brand names: Sharp, Evian, Airborne,

Avis, La Vachc qui rit, Coca-Cola

Scenes in hotel rooms, truck stops

see previous charts

 

Symbolic colors: blue and red appear

throughout the film

see previous charts

 

men project their fantasies onto Jane and to
the other women who work in the red light
club; when Travis first enters the red light
club, he erroneously takes another woman

for Jane

men project their oriental fantasies onto
Shérazade and her friends; by extension,

they mistake her identity

 

voyeurism is present when Travis finds
Jane by looking through binoculars, by
looking through the one-way mirror in the
red-light club; there are numerous
television sets (the ultimate voyeuristic
apparatus), photos, and a film-within-a-

film

voyeurism is present when Shérazade looks
in on men watching a porn movie; TVs are
on in truck stops; Julien pursues Shérazade
to turn her into a movie star (film-within-a-

novel)

 

 

Travis searches for his identity through a
photograph of a plot of land he bought of
Paris, Texas, where he believes he was

conceived; he has a desire to possess Paris,

 

Shérazade searches for her identity through
paintings of odalisques, her symbolic
ancestors; she has a desire to possess

Algeria, and by extension, is looking for

 

90

 

 

Texas and by extension, his mother her “mother”

(Kadish 119)

 

 

-Travis had idealized and idolized his wife; -Julien idealized Shérazade, and she ran
he abused her and she ran away; it is the away; it is also the myth of Pygmalion

myth of Pygmalion “gone wrong” “gone wrong”

 

 

What does Paris Texas reveal about Les Carnets dc ShLmzade? The reversal and

 

update of both Western (Pygmalion) and Eastern (Scheherazade) myths represent both
works as post-modem tales, as twentieth-century urban legends. In the film, American
icons such as Coca-Cola, billboards and cityscapes are parallel, in the novel, to French
icons such as “menthe a l’eau,” the continuous reappearance of nineteenth-century art,
and charming villages with hospitable inhabitants.58 In turn, these icons contrast with
pornographic movies, “banlieues,” and racist slurs. Identity is questioned again and
again, and Travis’ and Shérazade’s desire to return to their roots is not satisfied. There is
no resolution at the end of the film and of the novel; this reflects the impossibility for
them to discover their identity.

After meeting Godard and comparing him to Travis, Shérazade, Gilles and he
have an altercation. Godard attempts to take Shérazade’s dark sunglasses off because he
needs a star with pure green eyes. She fights back, Gilles defends her, and they move on,
leaving him in his madness, walking this time in the middle of the road. They discuss his
personality and the film Le Mépris:

“Tu as vu Le Mépris?” “Oui. C’est lui, Le Mépris? je l’ai vu pour B.B. Elle était

toute nuc au debut, tres belle; on voyait pas trop sa gueule. Elle était allongée sur

91

 

un lit; on voyait ses fesses et ses reins, ses épaules, son cou, pas sa téte ou a peine.

Un type la caressait, il disait en meme temps — j’aime tes fesses, j’aime tes

cuisses, j’aime tes jambes. .. je me rappelle. Le reste, j’ai rien compris, j’ai

oublié. Alors, c’est cc mec-la, Le Mépris? Ce type timbre? Tu es sure?”

“Je l’ai vue une fois, a Paris. Julien m’avait emmenée a une projection prive’e a

laquelle il assistait. C’est rare.” (133)

Le Mépris recounts the story of Camille’s growing contempt for her husband, Paul, a
writer, who has been asked by Jeremy Prokosh (an American) to write a script for the
The Odyssey, which is being filmed by Fritz Lang. After a weekend in Capri, Camille
decides to leave Paul for Prokosh; Camille and Prokosh die in a car accident; Fritz Lang
continues to film The Odyssey.

The first and obvious similarity between Les Camets and Le Mépris that comes to
mind is the one that Gilles mentions: the display of Bardot’s naked body. Her pose is
strikingly similar to that of the odalisques painted by Matisse, Delacroix, and others.
Although the nude scenes were added at the request of Joe Levine, the American
producer, the scenes are either tragic (due to the musical score in the opening scene), or
“static, formally manipulated, and separated from the main line of action.” (Lev 45)59
Since they are not integrated into the plot, they were evidently added for commercial
purposes. Throughout the film, there are scenes of Bardot and other naked women
swimming — presumably actresses paid to play the sirens.

Jacques Aumont states that “Le Mé ris bristles with references, and insistent
ones at that; again and again acts of homage are paid, and models hinted at.” (177)

Godard made the following remark about his film: “The scenes of The Odyssey itself

92

[. . .] will have the effect of a painting by Matisse or Braque in the middle of a

composition of Fragonard, or a shot by Eisenstein in the middle of a film by Rouch.”

(Cohen 115) Both quotes may be applied to Shérazade and Les Camets. Although

Godard makes films and Sebbar writes novels, his influence on her works is

unmistakable. The similarities between Le Mépris and Les Camets are diagramed below.

 

Le Mépris

Les Camets

 

Quotes from canonical authors such as

Homer, Dante, Holderlein and Comeille

Quotes from canonical authors such as

Rimbaud, Zola, etc.

 

Fritz Lang appears and plays himself

Godard, Adjani, Naipaul and Jessye

Norman appear as themselves

 

Main character is named Camille

Shérazade repeatedly gives people the false

names of Camille or Rosa

 

Main story line is intercut with recreated,

painted plaster statues of Greek gods

Story line is intercut with titles of paintings

by Matisse, Delacroix, etc.

 

Bardot and other models’ bodies are

exposed like odalisques

Shérazade and other women’s bodies are

exposed like odalisques

 

Camille drinks Coca-Cola from a bottle
with a straw, announces she is going to

“faire pipi”

Shérazade drinks Coca-Cola from a bottle

with a straw; other characters urinate

 

 

Tragic, haunting music
adds to intensity and undoing of Paul and

Camille’s marriage

 

Character’s choices of music offers insight
into their personalities, and adds an extra
dimension to the scene in which it is

mentioned

 

93

 

 

Colors are symbolic: the red of Prokosh’s Colors are symbolic
car presages his and Camille’s death;
Paul’s yellow suit, Camille and the
interpreter’s yellow robes signify Camille’s
growing contempt and aborted infidelity to

Paul

 

 

Camille and Prokosh die in a car accident Pierrot dies in a car accident in Shérazade,
(filmed very statically; this is typical of but there are no car accidents in I_._c_§
Godard’s depiction of murders or otherwise Camets

gruesome deaths)

 

 

In examining the similarities between Le Mépris, Shéraiage, and Les Camets, we
understand by the multiplicity of allusions and intertextualities that both the film and the
textshave not only external influences (secondary texts that are outside the main text),
but internal ones as well. The internal influence on Le Mépris is the mise-en-abyme of
the story of Ulysses and Penelope that is being filmed by Prokosh. Paul is an updated
version of Ulysses, and Camille is obviously Penelope. Instead of rigidly modernizing
the legend, the film incorporates the myth and presents it as tragedy. Paul was obviously
the one to pursue Camille, a former stenographer; he had to work hard to support her
expensive tastes. Her slow enunciation contributes to show her boredom and disdain
with her relationship with him, and his fast speech demonstrates his escalating jealousy.
In this version of the Odyssey, Penelope-Camille wants to go off and experience riveting

adventures. Ulysses-Paul decides to stay and continue working. However, Paul’s

94

 

employer, Jeremy Prokosh, is Camille’s suitor. That Paul’s livelihood depends on his
rival adds an extra dimension to the myth. Prokosh is a god-like figure (somewhat
representing capitalism) since he controls both Camille and Paul, and Paul cannot kill
Camille’s suitors, as Ulysses killed Penelope’s. However, justice is rendered, Prokosh is
demythified and rendered human when he dies in a car accident with Camille at his side.
Order is restored: the unfaithful die, Paul continues his life, and does not seem upset by
his estranged wife’s death. The Odyssg continues to be filmed; classical myths live on,
but their modern interpretations do not - except to promote the film.

Contrary to the updated myths in Le Mépris, Shérazade as a modern re-
interpretation of Scheherazade and the Odyssey is a success. Although she should be
Penelope, she is Ulysses: she is the one fighting off suitors and finding adventures. Her
apparent success as Scheherazade keeps Gilles from killing or harming her. This
combination of Eastern and Western myths contributes to her own “métissage”: her
cultural heritage is Algerian (an artificial construct, since there is ethnic diversity within
Algeria) but she lives in a Western country, France (another artifice). She cannot be
separated (and cannot separate herself) from either country: she is unable to leave France
for Algeria, yet seeks it out in music, painting and literature.

The last film that is in Les Camets is yet another Godard film, A bout dc souffle.60
Its title appears twice; in fact, its influence is deeper than the others because when it is
mentioned, the characters seem to be acting out scenes from it. The first time is when
Julien runs in to Shérazade at the counter of a bar in a truck stop. As usual, she is

drinking a bottle of Coca—cola “a la paille” (175) (as Camille does in Le Mépris). She

and Julien go to a room, and an excited and passionate J ulien talks about how he looked

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for her all over France, ran into someone who looked like Godard who claimed that he
had seen her. Again, he cannot dissociate her from the odalisques (this is partly her
doing): “A cause de Matisse et de l’odalisque, j’ai recu tes odalisques, avant dc partir,
j’allais vers le nord, au Cateau-Cambrésis. Je t’aurais retrouvée au musée Matisse.”
(l76)‘5| And mimicking a scene from A bout de souffle when Patricia Franchini (Jean
Seberg) and Michel Poiccard (Jean-Paul Belmondo) playfully fight under the covers:
“Riant ct pleurant, ils jouerent sous les draps. ‘Mais pourquoi tu as toujours besoin de
penser a un film, dans ta vie?’ dit Shérazade a Julien qui parle d’A bout de souffle. Je ne
sais pas, dit Julien. Peut-étre parce que j’aime les images,” (176) the couple proceeds to
make love “Julien est doux ct violent, comme elle aime” (177), which is as erotic as it
gets in either Shérazade or Les Camets.

The next time A bout de souffle is mentioned and a scene is replicated, is after
Shérazade leaves Julien. Gilles and Shérazade are yet again at a truck stop: “Gilles fume,
la cigarette au milieu de la bouche. ‘On dirait Belmondo dans A bout de souffle,’ dit
Shérazade. ‘Vous, i1 faut toujours qu’un mec ressemble a un acteur dc cinema, celebre
naturellement, sinon c’cst pas un mec. .. C’est comme ca avec les nanas. . .” (202)
Although Gilles’ claim that women like only men who look like movie stars, he is
contradicted earlier in the novel when Jeannot, another trucker, makes degrading sexual
comments about Brigitte Bardot and Isabelle Adjani (we have already quoted part of his
statement earlier):

Moi, c’est pas Marilyn ni toutes ces grosses blondes. .. celle que je préfére c’est

Elizabeth Taylor quand elle était jeune, qu’est-ce qu’elle était belle... je me serais

ruiné pour elle. .. pas toi ? Nous en France on a pas dcs femmes comme ca, si

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cxcitantes. Brigitte Bardot j’ai jamais aimé, c’est un veau norrnand pour moi [. . .]

Celle que j’aime bien c’est Adjani, la petite Adjani, avec sa grosse bouche ct ses

yeux tendres. (34-35)
Shérazade can be included with the women that are reified and sexualized by several of
the male characters because they frequently make lewd comments about her.
Shérazade’s autonomy as a female character living on the margins of society can be
dangerous; it is linked to Pierrot’s death."2 On the contrary, Patricia, in A bout de souffle,
is continually denied a chance for autonomy by her dependence on the men with whom
she comes into contact (Michel, her father, the author Parvulesco who demeans her when
she interviews him, the journalist Van Doude with whom she sleeps to have an official
assignment, the police); she must depend on males for financial security (Radcliff-
Umstead 37). Patricia directly brings about Michel’s death because she denounces his
whereabouts to the police, who threaten that if she does not, they will revoke her visa and
she will be forced to return to the United States. After Pierrot’s death, Shérazade
continues her journey; after Michel’s death, we assume that Patricia will continue living
in France. Both young women are reincorporated into society, and order is restored.63

The other similitudes are demonstrated below.

 

 

 

A bout dc souffle Les Carnets
Cultural references: Faulkner, Rilke, References to Picasso (in Shérazade),
Aragon, Apollinaire, Brassens, Mozart, Aragon, and others

Renoir, Picasso

 

 

Main character’s fluid identity (to evade Shérazade goes by Camille or Rosa (to

police and authorities): Poiccard also goes evade authorities and hide her identity from

 

 

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by Laszlo Kovacs

men who try to pick her up)

 

Love for language: French, English, Italian

Spanish."4

love for language, mixing of different

levels of language

 

References, echoes and responses to the
tradition of film noir, not only in
Poiccard’s actions but in showing film
posters of Humphrey Bogart, police as

stereotyped characters

Characters like to imitate “film noirs” or

gangster films (re-enact hold-ups)

 

Poiccard has a fascination with the USA
and Italy; this signifies an “absence
d’identité intérieure” (Flambard-Weisbart

57)

Young immigrants’ are fascinated by
American music, electronics, clothes,
anything “Made in USA” (Shérazade 117);

this signifies their desire to be “in”

 

Radio is on in the background (scene in

Patricia’s apartment)

Radio is frequently on in Gilles’ truck

 

 

Poiccard kills a policeman; the police are
ridiculed and portrayed as unfeeling; this is

fueled by the stock phrases they utter

 

The young people in the “squatt” break into
a policeman’s house and either destroy or
steal his belongings (Shérazade 105-109);
police are mentioned but never depicted by

the author

 

The most influential element of the movie on the novel is the fluidity of

PoicCard’s identity, first as screen character -- from Michel Poiccard to Laszlo Kovacs,

who was an employee of Air France (reinforcing the restlessness of the character), and

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secondly as a fictional character. (Radcliff-Umstcad 36)"5 The characters constructed in
Les Camets and A bout dc Souffle share their marginality, their constant movement, and
their youthful exuberance for life. That A bout dc souffle mocks and mimics film noir
parallels Shérazade and Les Carnets’ interpretation of the canon.

The types of transtextualities that we have exposed can be categorized as evolving
from intertextuality, to metatextuality, to hypertextuality. After examining their context,
we realize that songs and film’s relation to Sebbar’s texts are at first explicit, then
implicit. Finally, the novels absorb and transform the songs and films. Sebbar uses the
character’s reactions to these references to develop them, to give them additional depth,
and to reveal them to the reader through their response to the culture with which readers
can most clearly identify, which conditions their response to Sebbar’s works. She refers
to an amalgamation of elements and events (which, incidentally, have strongly marked
her) that belong to high, popular and folk cultures. Her works can therefore elicit a
variety of reader responses from a multiplicity of cultural backgrounds. Textual
representations mixing high, popular, and folk culture convey a certain sense of realism,
immediacy or nostalgia to the text.

Kristeva’s definition of the term intertextuality means

transposition of one (or several) sign system(s) into another; [. . .] the term

“transposition” [. . .] specifies that the passage from one signifiying system to

another demands a new articulation of the thctic — of enunciative and denotive

positionality. If one grants that every signifiying practice is a field of
transpositions of various signifiying system (an inter-textuality), one then

understands that its “place” of enunciation and its denoted “object” are never

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single, complete, and identical to themselves, but always plural, shattered, capable

of being tabulated. (59-60)

By transposing sexist films and songs in Shérazade and Les Camets de ShéraLadc, Sebbar
is parodying French icons by having Shérazade mock and subvert them. To borrow
phraseology from Bakhtin, Sebbar is “ridiculing another’s language and another’s direct
discourse” (50), or rather she is ridiculing another’s text (film and song lyrics). In
appropriating and incorporating other’s texts into her texts, she repositions the
signification of the films and the songs, and breaks the chain of representation of woman-
as-object.

For Kristeva, the concept of intertextuality draws on Bakhtin’s idea of
“dialogismz” she sees it as “an open-ended play between the text of the subject and the
text of the addressee (Moi 34), and “any text is constructed as a mosaic of quotations; any
text is the absorption and transformation of another” (Kristeva in Moi, 37). The dialogue
within the various texts (the film or song and Sebbar’s text) provide a way for Shérazade
to be continuously transformed and emancipated as a woman.

It is of particular significance that three out of the five films we have studied are
by Godard, one of the founders of the “nouvelle vague,” a movement that promotes
cinematographic “collage,” with continuous reference to literature and painting. At the
time of its emergence, it was new, revolutionary, and revolted against old ways of doing
cinema. Sebbar’s works paved the way for a new literary movement, Beur literature, and
eventually, as Michel Laronde has termed it, “les littératures dc l’immigration.” That
Sebbar purposefully inserted references to French popular music and French films in a

novel about a Beurette questions the notion of cultural identity; indeed, there is an

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“indeterminacy of diasporic identity.” (Bhabha 225) In our next chapter, we will

examine precisely how the “Francais de souche” treat this diaspora in Sebbar’s works.

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Chapter 3
CULTURAL STEREOTYPES: THE REPRESENTATION OF “BEUR” AS “WOMAN”
1N SEBBAR’S WORKS

Sebbar subverts the constraints of family, society and its culture by having her
heroines and heroes escape them. This tactic is particularly exemplified by the female
characters of Shérazade in the Shérazade trilogy, Dalila in Fatima ou les Algériennes at;
m, and the young "beurette" in "La Jeune fille au juke box." The rebellious male
counterparts to these female characters are Driss in Shérazade, the young Beur with no
name in Parle, mon fils, parle a ta mere, and another unnamed Beur in “La Jeune fille au
juke box.” Characters of both sexes revolt against societal impositions by fleeing their
homes and in particular paternal dominance. Sebbar's characters frequently reflect the
experience of young Maghrebians in France, who often disregard the traditional Muslim
upbringing their parents have tried to impose upon them: “the crises of adolescence are
more likely to arise from contradictions between the positions adopted by young
Maghrebis on the one hand and the attitudes of their parents and/or members of the
majority French population on the other” (Hargreaves, “Resistance” 227). Cultural
escapism leads to an aporia: if one claims that culture creates identity, can the characters
successfully fill a cultural void by rejecting the past (Muslim culture and religion) while
being rejected by the present (French and self-professed humanistic and "enlightened"
culture)? Who is the villain: traditional French culture, traditional Muslim culture, or
both, acting in an involuntary, unholy synergy? We shall attempt to answer these

questions as we develop them.

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Before exploring further notions of “identity,” it is necessary to define it."6 There
are multiple definitions and theoretical claims about the term “identity.” However, those
most useful for our study are theorized by three critics: Homi Bhabha, Edouard Glissant
and Judith Butler. The first two critics center their discussions around colonial and post-
colonial dialectics, and Butler centers her around the notion of socially constructed
gender. Bhabha defines identity in two different ways: first, the “philosophical tradition
of identity [is] the process of self-reflection as located in the mirror of human nature; and
the anthropological view of the difference of human identity [is] located in the division of
Nature/Culture.” He continues to problematize the “process of identification” in “the
post-colonial text,” where “the Oriental stereotype [. . .] is confronted with its difference,
its Other” (46).

For Glissant, the notion of identity is linked to the quest for power. Cultural
identity is “une identité questionnante, ou1a relation a l’autre determine l’étre sans 1e
figer d’un poids tyrannique. C’est ce qu’on voit partout au monde: chacun veut se
nommer soi-méme” (283). He claims that colonialism has usurped the colonized natives
of their sense of time and their History; therefore, “la recherche de l’identité devient pour
certains peuples incertaine et ambigué” (158). To fight against a uniform view of History
“c’est peut-étre a la fois retrouver son temps vrai et son identité: poser en des terrnes
indédits la question du pouvoir” (159).

Judith Butler examines sociological and philosophical definitions of identity:
“sociological discussions have conventionally sought to understand the notion of the

person in terms of an agency that claims ontological priority to the various roles and

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functions through which is assumes social visibility and meaning. Within philosophical
discourse itself the notion of ‘the person’ [. . .] [assumes] that whatever social context the
person is ‘in’ remains somehow externally related to the definitional structure of
personhood, be that consciousness, the capacity for language, or moral deliberation” (16).
She questions what “identity” means; she sees it as continuously evolving and not
“unified and internally coherent” ( l6), and asks “to what extent is ‘identity’ a normative
ideal rather than a descriptive feature of experience? And how do the regulatory practices
that govern gender also govern culturally intelligible notions of identity?” (16-17) Butler
claims
the cultural matrix through which gender identity has become intelligible requires
that certain kinds of “identities” cannot exixt — that is, those in which gender dos
not follow from sex nad those in which the practices of desire do not ‘follow’
from either sex or gender. [. . .] Indeed, precisely because certain kinds of “gender
identities” fail to conform to those norms of cultural intelligibility, they appear
only as developmental failures or logical impossibilities from within that domain.
Their persistence and proliferation [. . .] open up within the very terms of that
matrix of intelligibility rival and subversive matrices of gender disorder. (17)
For Butler, then, identity is a cultural construction that is inextricably linked to sex and
gender. The “metaphysics of substance” constitute the idea that substance/subject and
attribute/predicate are linked to the institution of a psychological person (20)}57 To this
concept she adds Monique Wittig’s “alternative critique” that “persons cannot be

signified within language without the mark of gender” (21). In other words, a person and

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his/her identity are entrapped in the politics of gendered language. We can push this
notion further by adding that a colonizer is entrapped in the politics of the colonized’s
language, also binding him/her to the space and time of the colonizer.

The concept of an independent identity for the post-colonial subject cannot be
removed from its colonial past. Although it cannot be defined in opposition to its past, it
still must face the legacy of “Oriental stereotypes” that were promulgated. Even in the
post-colonial era, the native cannot break away from the lingering legacy of hegemony.
Homi Bhabha’s study on colonial stereotypes can also be adapted to post-colonial
stereotypes. The colonized’s identity is linked to a stereotype, which is “a false
representation of a given reality. It is a simplification because it is an arrested, fixated
form of representation that, in denying the play of difference (which the negation through
the Other permits), constitutes a problem of the representation of the subject in
significations of psychic and social relations” (Bhabha 75). The stereotype (and thus the
colonized subject’s identity) is “a sign of negative difference” (75) and is an impediment
to the “articulation of the signifier of ‘race’ as anything other than its fixity as racism”
(75). It seems, then, that identity, stereotypes and racism are inextricably linked to each
other. However, the three terms are not simply reducible, because

stereotyping is not the setting up of a false image which becomes the scapegoat of

criminatory practices. It is a much more ambivalent text of projection and

introjection, metaphoric and metonymic strategies, displacement, over-
detcrmination, guilt, aggressivity; the masking and splitting of ‘official’ and

phantasmatic knowledges to construct the positionalities and oppositionalities of

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racist discourse (82).

A stereotype requires a chain of other stereotypes (77), and is a limited form of otherness
- a reduction, in a sense. It leads to racial and cultural hierarchization as the stereotyped
native is treated as an object of difference (67).

However, as Fanon argues, even though the colonizer reduces the native both in
discourse and in negative, discriminatory treatment, the colonizer expresses a need for the
“negro” (Bhabha 78). The “negro” is seen as inferior, because he is a “lesser copy” of the
“white man”; his skin is construed as a “natural inferiority” (80). Thus, the colonized is
inferior because he is “modeled” on something that he will never attain (i.e. “whiteness”).
Being a copy of a model that one will never fully attain is precisely what Luce Irigaray
critiques in Ce Sexe qui n’en est pas un. Bhabha and Irigaray’s respective analysis of the
colonizer/man and and colonized/woman rejoin each other. Irigaray condemns Freud’s
phallocentrism and phallogocentrism, and “[audaciously claims] that women are
represented only on models that are masculine.68 We live in [. . .] a culture based on the
primacy of the male, the ‘home’, who can function only with others modeled upon
himself. [. . .] Women can be represented only by means of a violence that contains them,
and their differences, within masculine sameness.” (Grosz 107) The woman’s body is
represented as “not having”: “Her ‘lack’ creates and confirms his [the male’s] phallic
position” (108). “[Irigaray’s] project is both to undo the phallocentric constriction of
women as men’s others and to create a means by which women’s specificity may figure
in autonomous term‘s.” (109)

Irigaray demonstrates how Freud’s theories on sexuality are blatantly patriarchal

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and paternalistic, ultimately defining women’s sexuality as dependent on men’s (“a partir
de parametres masculins,” 23). Freud blames women’s inferiority on “des impératifs

9”

anatomo-physiologiques” (69), on “la ‘Nature (70) and claims that women should
resign themselves to their destiny, because they have been “moins favorisées par la nature
du point de vue libidinal” (70). But it is society and culture that have imposed this
“natural inferiority” on women and their psyche.

Irigaray argues for a radical subversion of the logocentrism of patriarchy. For her,
feminine writing “is to devise a strategic and combatative understanding, one whose
function is to make explicit what has been excluded or left out of phallocentric images.”
(Grosz 110). And “Contrary to popular misconceptions of her work, Irigaray does not
aim to establish a new language for women but to utilise the existing language system to
subvert the functioning of dominant representations and knowledges in their singular,
universal claims to truth” (127). This is precisely what Sebbar tries to do. She does not
attempt to create a new language, but rather to represent Beurs within the confines of the
French language, shedding light on their situations from the inside, causing them to
subvert and escape linguistic and societal dominance.

Irigaray’s analysis of Freud’s theories can be broadened, re-adapted and applied
to the “Beur” nation. If we specifically eliminate the anatomical and sexual vocabulary
(especially that pertaining to genitals) from her study, and expand it metaphorically to
encompass under-represented groups of people, or minorities, we can first link the

treatment of women to that of the former colonized peoples, and then update it and equate

it with the treatment of the Beurs by French society (more precisely by the representatives

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of French society, that is the police, known euphemistically as “les forces dc l'ordre”).
Comparing the representation of the Beurs in Leila Sebbar’s works from the early 1980’s
to a work from the 1990’s will reveal whether it has evolved since the emergence of Beur
literature in the early 1980’s.

We have chosen to use Irigaray’s writings for our analysis because the theories
subtending her radical break from patriarchy can be further extended to expose the
working of hegemony (used in Gramsci’s sense, meaning domination by the oppressor
and assent by the oppressed) and colonial imperialism. However, it would be unfair to
analyze the representation of “Beur” as “Woman” only through the lens of a Western
critic; therefore, we will also borrow from Amal Amireh’s essay, “Writing the Difference:

Feminists’ Invention of the ‘Arab Woman.”’ Although “Beurs” have North African
heritage and usually French passports, they are strictly speaking, neither. Theirs is the
hybridity and third space of culture that has been so intensely foregrounded by
postcolonial critics.

Amireh vehemently critiques writings by Arab women on Arab women in her

9”

article “Writing the Difference : Feminists’ Invention of the ‘Arab Woman. Moreover,
she cautions us to dispel our stereotypes and generalizations about all Arab women (187),
and demonstrates how they are seen as “a homogeneous mass, defined essentially by their
experience of oppression. Victims of a monolithic Islam and a tribal Arab culture, they
are permanently locked out of history and allowed to be only objects-~of study, of pity

and of liberation. They are denied agency and subjectivity and thought to be capable only

of the victims’ inarticulate whispers for help...” (186) And finally, Amireh synthesizes

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reification and persecution as victimization of the Arab woman. She states ”The Arab
woman is present only in her capacity as a victim. [. . .] She can only learn from her
rescuer, but she herself does not have anything to teach. She cannot initiate change on
her own and needs outside help” ( 189).

These statements, when slightly modified, reflect the attitude toward the Beurs’
situation in contemporary French society. Whereas the Arab woman utters “inarticulate
whispers,” the Beurs cry for help through violence. Their violent acts are blamed on the
stifling HLMs they live in: the oppressive concrete barriers of the “banlieues” where they
are stuffed into small apartments, the rampant unemployment in the banlieues, police
brutality towards them... All of these circumstances can be traced back to colonialism
and de-colonization. The “misérabilisme” characterizing the press’ attitude towards the
Beurs contributes to the representation that claims that they are trapped in a vicious cycle
of violence and brutality, and that their only way out of this cycle is to fight back. We
can apply Arnireh’s question to them, “Can they initiate change on their own and do they
need outside help?” By assuming that they cannot change on their own and that they
need outside help would be patronizing. Although violence has not been the only
response or action to racism, the Beur’s reaction to violence by violence as counter-
attacks does not seem to solve the problem of their depiction as outsiders, neither does it
seem to incorporate or assimilate them to the “insiders” (the “French,” or “Francais de
souche,” loosely defined as those having lived in the Métropole for generations and as
having a French family name).69

Before examining the current situation, let us return to Irigaray’s critique of

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Freud’s phallocentric definition of women’s sexuality and adapt it to the Beurs. The
following quote, inspired by Hegel’s master-slave dialectic, is applicable to the
domination by the French of the first and second-generation Maghrebian immigrants:
Reste cependant leur condition de sous—dévcloppement venant de leur soumission
par/a une culture qui les opprime, les utilise, les “monnaic,” sans qu’elles en tirent
grand profit. [. . .] Pouvoirs d’esclaves? Qui ne sont d’ailleurs pas nuls. Car,
pour ce qui concerne le plaisir, 1e maitre n’est pas forcément bien servi. Done
inverser le rapport [. . .] nc semble pas un objectif enviable. [. . .] Qu’elles fassent
tactiquement la greve, qu’elles se tiennent a l’écart des hommes le temps
d’apprendre a défendre leur désir notamment par la parole. [. . .] (31)
The inferiority way the Maghrebian immigrants are treated contributes to “la névrose
culturelle” of the woman, which she shares with “les autres opprimés de la culture
occidentale.” (50) Irigaray includes children and mentally ill people, and she might as
well include the colonized. As Keith Walker demonstrates in chapter four of
Countermodemism 3nd Francophone Lima Culture: The Game of Slipk_n_ot, the politics
of colonialism (by way of inherently racist “scientific” literature of the times), “placed on
one side the yellow, brown, red, and black savage, the child, the woman, and the poet,
and, on the other side, the European male.” (110) Citing Gobineau’s Essai sur l’inégalité
des races humaines and Gustave d’Eichthal’s Lettres sur la race noire et la race blanche,
“1e noir” (and, by extension, any colonized native) is at the bottom of the hierarchy of
races (Gobineau 205), and is considered to be the “race femme dans la farnillc humaine”

(Eichthal, “Premiere Lettre, 19 mars 1838,” in Eichthal and Urbain 22). And ultimately,

110

“In wielding power, the European culture, the European man or European woman, will
function as male. In power relations, the Black, Brown, Red, and Yellow cultures, the
women or the men will always already be female.” (Walker 117, emphasis in original)70
Although the European man and European woman do not have equal power, it is clear
that in the nineteenth century colonial mind, they considered themselves “superior” to all
other races, which justified, in their minds, the colonization of other world regions."
When the “passivité du féminin” (Irigaray 69) strikes back and revolts against the
“activité aggressive du masculin,” (69) the latter dismiss it at hysteria. Women are
allowed only one mode of expression: mimeticism, which entails subordination (73). If
colonized women imitate colonizer’s women, they are acting “uppity,” and superior to
their “condition.” It is acceptable for the servant to imitate the master by wearing his
clothes, as long as they are hand-me-downs. The colonizers imposed their culture, their
language, their values and their religion, and expected the colonized to mimic them.
Colonizers are the “model” or the “center” upon which they expected the “margins” (the
natives) to base their actions; this fits the definition of “phallocentrism” as Irigaray

‘69

defines it: Phallocentrism’ is the use of one model of subjectivity, the male, by which
all others are positively or negatively defined. Others are thus reduced as variations of
this singular type of subject. They are thus reduced to or defined only by terms chosen
by and appropriate for masculinity” (Grosz 105). Irigaray also “actively affirms a project
challenging and deconstructing the cultural representations of femininity so that it may be

capable of representation and recognition in its own self-defined terms” (101); Sebbar

seeks to challenge cultural representation of Beurs so that they are not modeled on

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representations of Frenchness.

Finally, women (for Irigaray) are seen as objects of exchange, as commodities, as
merchandise. (81) What happens when Beurs, and more specifically, Beur women,
become “objets parlants” (82) and refuse to be categorized as hysterical? The fact that
they speak autonomously “proves” they are “hysterical,” and out of the master’s control.
The more the Beurs deny their subordination, the more inappropriate they are judged. We
will examine how Sebbar portrays “talking” and “writing” Beurs in the four fictional
works we have mentioned earlier, and how surrounding society reacts to these self-
expressions.72

That Sebbar writes to support the independence of the Beurs and other immigrants
is obvious. Although she does not claim to represent a realistic picture of them, she
represents a partial reality of their struggles. In other words, she does not represent the
Beur as one would expect.73 She mocks the public’s ideas of what a Beur should be and
how a Beur should act. She thus fits the model of what Teresa Ebert calls the “ludic
feminist,” who, “deconstruct[s] and dehierarchize[s] the dominant discourses through
textualizing strategies that disturb representation.” (165) Ebert calls for a third wave of
feminism and emancipation (xi), “enabling the development of a transforrnative feminism
[. . .] for the beginning of a new century of transnational equality for all people of the
world.” (xiii) The last statement may seem idealist and even utopianist, and Ebert admits
to “the popularity of utopianism in ludic feminism” (ludic feminism is a postmodern

feminism) because “it disregards existing social contradictions and points to a ‘beyond.

(5) Ebert’s proposed solution is a “socialist society of united humanity.” (170), and she

ll2

justifies Marxism not as a utopian hope but as “a revolutionary theory and praxis devoted
to the very real historical struggles to emancipate all people from exploitative relations of
production and the unequal divisions of labor, property, power, and privilege these
produce.” (xi)

Although Sebbar questions existing social conditions and challenges social
contradictions, her works do not present a utopia. Her characters are clearly grounded in
their time (France of the 1980’s and 1990’s), and although they are fascinated with other
times and places and engage in physical and mental journeys beyond their everyday lives,
they do not attempt to create an ideal world, partly because of the French people’s limited
opinions of Algerians (and of their descendants): “French perceptions of Algerians have
always been traversed by two contradictory tendencies involving, on the one hand, the
obliteration of differences in an assimilationist optic, and, on the other, the accentuation
of differences for the purposes of domination or exclusion” (Hargreaves, Algerians 32).
Hargreaves’ definition fits in with the concept of patriarchy as Ebert conceives it:

Patriarchy organizes asymmetrical, unequal divisions of labor, accumulation, and
access to economic resources that guarantee not only the political privilege
(domination) of male over female, but, more important, the economic subjugation
(exploitation) of the ‘other’ gender as the very grounds of social arrangements.

[. . .] Patriarchy-—as a historically diverse ongoing system of gender differences for
exploitation--is necessary to the very existence of class societies. [. . .] Feminism
challenges this naturalization, including socially produced differences and the

exploitation it reproduces and legitimates. (5)

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These “socially produced differences” are lie at the core of Sebbar’s representation of the
Beurs. Ebert’s definition of “female” and “other gender” can be expanded symbolically
to represent the “other,” which, for our purposes, is the second-generation Maghrebian
living in France, or the Beur.

Shérazade presents a multitude of characters, both Beur and non-Beur. We shall
focus on the representation of Shérazade, as seen by Julien (her pied-noir boyfriend), and
of Driss, one of the Beurs who lives in the squat with Shérazade and her acquaintances.
The story plunges “in medias res,” with Julien’s incredulity: “Vous vous appelez
vraiment Shérazade?” (7) His astonishment at the young woman’s name becomes an
obsession; and we learn later that it is precisely because of her “oriental” heritage that he
falls in love with her. Their “connection” begins as a parodic depiction of romance:
“Elle l’avait regarde entrer, comme si elle l’avait connu depuis toujours. A cause de son
sourire, i1 s’était dirige vers sa table. [. . .] II dit: ‘Je m’appelle Julien.’ Et elle dit: ‘Moi,

Q”

c’est Shérazade. (11) This encounter happens in a fast-food restaurant; J ulien had
previously noticed Shérazade reading at the library. The incongruous places, a fast-food
restaurant and a library (both are places where Shérazade likes to go) contribute to her
“métissage.” Fast food symbolizes everything that is not French: North American
capitalism at its “best.” Although we do not know what kind of fast-food restaurant
Shérazade and Julien frequent in this instance (Shérazade usually goes to “MacDo”), even
if it is a European fast-food such as “Quick,” it is most likely based on American models.

The library, however, represents a bastion of “high” French culture and literature. In

placing Shérazade and Julien’s first encounters in both places, Sebbar foregrounds the

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“métissage” of high and popular culture in the text. And in showing Julien’s
astonishment at a woman’s name sounding “oriental,” Sebbar foreshadows the reification
and oriental fetishism that men attempt to impose on Shérazade’s name and body.
Although not all the men she meets will have the same visceral reaction to her physique
(Gilles, for example, does not see her in the same light as Julien and others), she elicits
demeaning patriarchal orientalizing responses, which are applied to other Beurs in
different contexts.

In the first chapter, Sebbar also places a passage about the notorious widespread
racism in the police force. This passage is the first in a series of others of the same tone
and on the same topic. It acts as a catalyst for the Beurs lashing out at representatives of
French “forces de l’ordrez”

Elle a remarque plus d’une fois que des jeunes gens qui portent une keffia

[l’écharpe palestinienne en coton] dont 1e blanc toume vite au gris si on ne la lave

pas régulierement, sont interpellés par les flics en brigade, au Forum ou dans le

metro. Certains étaient sans papiers, et les flics les menacaient de les arréter pour

vagabondage sans le faire. (9)

Sebbar does not say what nationality the scarf-wearing youths are.74 In delineating whom
to taunt with an arrest, the “flies” are marking their ethnic work territory, so to speak.
They are simplistically “grouping” all of the youths into one negative category, thus
reducing them to stereotypes.

In her book Declining the Stereotym: Ethnicity and Representation in French

Cultures, Mireille Rosello theorizcs that there are two racist stereotypes. The first is

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concerned with the semiotics of representation (especially in pictures, posters, or other
print media), and the second with the “political and social repercussions” of these
representations. (13) She validates the study of literary stereotypes by saying that they are
as dangerous as others, and that they “could be more accurately described as stereotype[s]
that happen to appear in a literary text.” (15) We will not be studying the literary
stereotype in the “first degree” (in the sense that the narrator presents characters as
stereotypes), but in the “second degree:” the representation of the Bcur as other characters
perceive it, and the implications of this representation as it appears in Sebbar’s literary
works.

Rosello reminds us of Frank Felsenstein’s pertinent argument, that stereotypes
“tell us far more about the endemic beliefs and prejudices of those who are the
stereotypers than they can reveal about the stereotypes.” ([emphasis in original,]
Felsenstein xiv cited in Rosello 17) She carries the analysis further by writing:

A tragic paradox of stereotyping is that the most violent stereotypes are produced

by some seriously mad and powerful people or institutions. If the stereotype is

indeed the stereotyper’s self-portrait, we should then remember that when a whole

ethnic group is diabolized, there is a distinct possibility that the source doing the

diabolizing has gone seriously mad, become dangerously paranoid. (17)75
It is precisely the “source doing the diabolizing,” i.e. the French and French authorities,
that needs to be examined, and to do this, it is necessary to establish the stereotypee as an
outsider. Rosello also posits: “As amply demonstrated in the eighties, there is such a

thing as a Beur literary generation. At the same time, Beurs remain outsiders as well, torn

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between the realization that their parents’ dream of future returns is a myth and the desire
to determine whether their persistent malaise may be solved by voluntary cultural or
religious identification processes.” (4) The first novels in which we will examine the
representation of the Beur were written and published before the Beur literary corpus
emerged and was well-established: Shérazade in 1982, Fatima ou les Algériennes au
M111 1981, and P‘arle, mon fils, parle a ta mere in 1984. The short story “La fille au
juke-box” (from the collection L_a Négresse a l’enfant) was published in 1990. By the
early nineties, Beur literature was becoming more acknowledged - at least in academic

circles (Hargreaves, Voices; and Laronde). Still, the racism and violence against two

 

Beurs in “La fille au juke-box” is graphically depicted and has tragic consequences. This
elicits the question of why the representation did not improve and portray a more
harmonious depiction of Franco-Beur relations.

There are two possible answers. The first is political and the second, literary. In
L_a lutte contre le racisme et la xéncmhobie: 1992, we find that “a sharp rise in racist
violence and threats was recorded each year by the Ministry of the Interior in France
during the late 1980’s and early 1990’s; [. . .] in the overwhelming majority of cases, they
[the victims] were of North African origin” (Hargreaves and Leaman 7).76 Also, “from
1983 to 1986, the rise of the extreme right, which reflected and further fueled popular
anti-immigrant sentiment, pushed the Socialist government toward a more restrictive
stance on immigration policy and increasing caution about being seen as too soft or
sympathetic to immigrants” (Blatt 44). It comes as little or no surprise that Sebbar’s

response is to depict the death of a young Beur at the hands of the police in “La fille an

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juke box.” The end of the chapter will analyze the intricacies of the web of violence in
that short story.

The second explanation might be found in what Caroline Clifford calls “anti-
imrnigrant texts of the 19803.” In chapter two of her dissertation, Clifford examines four
texts that pointedly present people of North African origins in a degrading manner:
“Serons-nons encore Francais dans 30 ans?” by Jean Raspail (Le Figaro Magazine, Oct.
26, 1985), Pourg France: programme du Front National by Jean-Marie Le Pen (1985),
Etre francais celese mérite by Jean-Yves Le Gallon and Jean-Francois J alkh (1987) and
2004 tons Musulmarg by J can-Pierre Hollender (1988). She states that Sebbar’s eighties
novels provide “a response to the racist discourse that was becoming more prevalent at
the time.” (80).” Clifford also demonstrates that Sebbar's reaction in her eighties novels
is to portray an “idealist message of multiculturalism.” (95) Sebbar not only reveals the
positive side of multiculturalism by creating characters from multi-ethnic backgrounds as
a celebration of France’s increasing diversity, but also the negative side by showing
prejudice and its nefarious consequences.

The four texts mentioned above were written between the time when Parle mon

 

fils, parle a ta mere and La Négesse a l’enfant were published. Because the Beur
generation and that of its parents is obviously depicted negatively in the racist texts, it is
predictable that Sebbar would present a short story portraying a downward spiral of police
violence toward the Beurs. Although she writes about and in favor of the Beurs, she did
not envisage the improvement of Franco-Beur relations in the early nineties.

Because the Benrs are considered “marginal,” their alterity automatically assigns

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them a lower status in society. Being harassed by the police simply because one is
wearing an “ethnic” garment, or being tagged as “exotic” because one has an “oriental”
name contributes to the categorizing of an individual’s identity. Such labeling can lead
the individual to behave defensively, as if he or she were being attacked, or can otherwise
alter behavior. Shérazade reacts both ways: she behaves defensively and is forced to alter
her behavior to avoid being pulled over by the police. In seeing Julien’s amazement at
her name (he starts talking about Aziyadé, linking her to the image he has of
Scheherazade), she says “Pourquoi vous me parlez de cette femme? J ’en ai rien a faire.”
(8) And upon noticing the young person being harassed by the police (and subsequently
arrested because drugs were found inside the keffia), she no longer wears the scarf:
“Shérazade avait dt’i remplacer la keffia par le foulard de Barbes” (9). The verb “devoir”
in the “passe compose” conveys the sense of necessity (and in this case, urgency) that is
imposed on the young woman. With J ulien, she actively receives the orientalization
process, and in witnessing the incident with the young man and the police, she becomes
an observer or voyeur of oppression.

Such situations are precisely where Irigaray’s study of the woman may be applied
to the Beur. In the first situation, at the fast food restaurant, the “J ’en ai rien a faire”
becomes a defense mechanism. In stopping the conversation by becoming assertive,
Shérazade refuses to assume the position that Julien expects her to have, that of the
passive female (Julien is the active male). She literally defends her name “notamment par
la parole” (Irigaray 31), by lashing out or “striking back against the Empire” (Julien, a

nostalgic neo-colonialist, is the son of former colonizers).78 By taking control of the

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situation and rejecting her expected traditional role, Shérazade does not reverse the
passive female/active male model, but refuses it, creating a new paradigm that allows
expression outside convention and patriarchy.

In trying to escape patriarchy, Shérazade is not completely outside of the system.
This leads us to question how a Beur or Beurette can attempt to break away from an
oppressive system while maintaining his or her North African heritage. Evidently, as the
passage with the keffia suggests, if the Beurs want to express their identity through their
clothes, it is not possible to go unnoticed, and the police become suspicions immediately.
If they cannot wear an accessory that tags them as Arab, they must subordinate
themselves to mimeticism. As Irigaray claims, mimeticism was historically the only
possibility of expression for women. She uses mimeticism in a particular way and turns it
into subversion: “She imitates/parodies women’s hysterical positions in discourse.
Rather than act as mimic - the mimic reproduces behaviour marked by its difference from
behaviour (this is what distinguishes the mimic from what he or she mimes), its
excessiveness over it, Irigaray mimics the hysteric’s mimicry. She rnimes the mime
itself” (Grosz 136), therefore mocking the whole process of mimeticism and mimicry.
During the colonial period, the colonized were expected to imitate. Now the Beurs are
still expected to imitate, and the keffia passage exemplifies this. If the Beurs refuse to
imitate, they are victimized.

To avoid being harassed, Shérazade cannot wear the keffia. Instead of completely
disavowing her heritage, she opts for a “foulard a franges brillantes, comme les aiment les

Arabes dc Barbes et les femmes du bled” (8). In displaying her taste for that kind of

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scarf, Shérazade links herself to both the immigrants of North African origins and to the
women who still live in the Maghreb. By keeping their Arab tastes and not conforming to
the occident, the women affirm their identity and refuse to adhere to mainstream French
styles. In fact, Shérazade accutely realizes that she is challenging authority, and derives a
certain “jouissance” from wearing the loud scarf: “l’agressivité des couleurs, l’évidence
de la pacotille lui communiquaient, les matins on elle décidait de le mettre, une sorte de
joie perverse qu’elle ne cherchait pas a manifester. [. . .] Et puis elle savait qu’elle avait a
se méfier de ces couleurs presque phosphorescentes qui l’exposaient. . .” (8) Instead of
overtly challenging the police by provoking them, Shérazade decides to affirm her tastes
and identity secretly, by reappropriating an item that demonstrates her ethnic heritage, and
refusing to let their gaze steal it. This subversiveness indicates her challenge to authority,
her break from nco-colonial impositions, but the impossibility of openly expressing her
independence from them. So, this “Beurette” rejects the traditional mimetic position
assigned to her by (neo)colonialism and patriarchy. To use the term propounded by
Bhabha (101), she displays a “sly civility.” She “estranges the image of authority in its
strategy of justification” (100) and escapes “the ‘idée fixe’ [of] despot, heathen,
barbarian, chaos, violence” (101) by her ambivalent behavior. She does not overtly incite
violence or revolution, but defies the French in a manner that overturns tradition and
suggests possibilities for examining power relationships in a new light.79

Although several male Beur characters (most of them moving in and out of the
squat) appear in Shérazade, it is Driss who most virulently expresses discontent on being

a Beur, which he equates with a target of oppression. This attitude is evident in his

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outbursts when he has withdrawal symptoms from his drug addiction. He first complains
about his father having repudiated his mother (who returned to Morocco), his father’s
mistresses and wives, and how they mistreated him, and then about how his father acted
toward him (his invectives are three pages long with no punctuation; we will quote only
the relevant parts): “je crois que ma mere préfere que jc travaille en France je suis parti
ma mere m’a dit que je peux aller la-bas quand je veux mais je vais pas y retoumer.” (52)
We then learn that he lived on his own, that he had a French girlfriend, but when he
called her house, he had to say “c’est Philippe et come on trouve que j’ai pas d’accent
on me prend pas pour un Arabe sa mere me croyait Francais elle me passait sa fille et
comme ca je pouvais lui parler elle m’a dit que si son pere savait i1 me casserait la figure
c’est son beau-pere et c’est un flic” (52). And finally, we learn about the end of the
relationship with his father and how the final break occurred, as the two meet at a
cousin’s wedding:
j’ai vu mon pere avec sa femme et ses enfants je me suis dirige vers lui pour lui
dire bonjonr il a refuse de me saluer devant tout le monde c’était un affront public
il m’a renié apres j’ai appris qu’on lui avait dit que je me droguais que les flics me
recherchaient et qu’ils étaient allés frapper chez mon pere ils lui avaient parle de
cambriolages dc casses et mon pere devant eux i1 m’a renié i1 leur a dit que s’il me
voyait si je revenais i1 me donnerait lui-meme a la police [. . .] je vais pas vendre
mon cul non plus alors je fais des casses ct ce que je trouve je le revends [. . .]
mais mon pere c’est fini je le revois plus il existe plus je préfere aller en prison

plutot que chez lui. .. Driss crachait le mépris en parlant. (53)

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The last sentence expresses a rejection of his family as he questions his (familial)
affiliation and identity. The insidious psychological torture that has been inflicted on him
by his father, the French people, and the police (symbolized by and synthesized into one
man, his former girlfriend’s step father) indicates his position as an outsider, in his
country of origin, (Morocco), and as a marginal in France, the country that has both
adopted and rejected him. Driss, then, is presented as a being victimized from all sides.
He seems to be an object of pity. How could the reader not feel compassion for this
young man, who cannot fit in anywhere? In turning to drugs, he has found solace and
comfort from the cruel reality that he faces. The world spits on him, so he reacts by
spitting back with disdain. In Driss, we have another example of a Beur who refuses to
be passive and mimetic. Is he, as Amireh states, “denied agency and subjectivity?” (186)
Is be crying for help? Does he need outside help? What can he teach us?

Because he has no home, he turns to the street and everything it represents. He
becomes the stereotype of the delinquent social dropout caught in a vicious web of
antagonism. We do not know whether his stereotyping is physical, but it is definitely not
linguistic (“j’ai pas d’accent on me prend pas pour un Ara ” [52]). Driss’ problem is
that he has not learned how to manipulate stereotypes. According to Mireille Rosello,
“Delinquents imitate or borrow models from the very dominant structures that exclude
them as outlaws.” (Rosello 50) Driss is merely following the “model” of the youth whose
parents have “kicked him out.” Although he affirms his Moroccan origins, his cultural
identity has nothing to do with his delinquency. His situation transcends his ethnicity. In

fact, he could just as well be a youth from any Western nation whose parents had

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disowned him, living on the streets and breaking into houses to feed his drug habit. The
villain in this situation is not society (although Driss avenges himself on society): it is his
father, who in turn, represents the stereotype of the Muslim man who consecutively
repudiates his wives to many, each time, a younger one. Although Driss’ father is not the
object of our study, it would be interesting to examine the stereotype of the first-
generation Maghrebi in Sebbar’s works.

The irony in how Driss is represented lies in the fact that while he claims to be a
professional thief, he does not participate in the restaurant hold-up (62-68) or the break-in
at the policeman’s house (105-109). Actually, the squatters who organize the hold-up and
break-in seem to prefer that he be left out of their crimes: “Pierrot vérifia que Driss
dorrnait.” (64) This indicates that those who carry out the crimes do not take Driss
seriously enough to show solidarity towards him, which problematizes the depiction of
this Beur as a stereotypical hoodlum. Those who organize and follow through with the
hold-up are of Polish, Guadeloupean, and Maghrebi origins (Pierrot, Basile, Krim and
Shérazade); and those who end up doing the break-in are of Polish and Maghrebi origins
(Pierrot, Krim, Mouloud and Shérazade). This multi-cultural group indicates that crime
is not linked to ethnicity, but to survival. Society’s indifference to these young people
creates in them a certain apathy, which incites an almost comical reaction on their part to
a primal instinct.80

The study of Driss’ character leads us to conclude that he is an outcast among
marginals. Contrary to Shérazade, who consciously chose to run away from home, Driss

was forced to flee paternal dominance, and his home. The presentation of both a young

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man and a young woman as run-aways re—negotiates gender hierarchy, because the “bande
de jeunes” who live in the squat are more open to having Shérazade help them out than
Driss. For them, gender is not what matters; instead, it is the efficiency of one’s
assistance. We have already noticed that ethnicity is irrelevant to inclusion within a
marginal group, although none of its “members” are strictly speaking “Francais de
souche” (the term “members” must be applied loosely because the group’s composition
changes from time to time). Although Driss has burning issues with his origins, it is his
drug habit, not his identity, that excludes him from the macrocosm (mainstream French
society) and the microcosm (the “bande” from the squat). He is not denied agency or
subjectivity in the squat, but in his family (where he his existence is denied) and in
society--although he is able to evade the police, thus maintaining a more or less aloof
distance between him and them. In Shérazade, the margins are not concerned with
stereotypes; they are more inclusive and less politicized than mainstream French society,
whose left-wing leaders supposedly attempt to adopt policies of inclusion, anti-
discrimination, and ultimately, assimilation and integration.“

The Beurs are in a double bind. They are not only faced with pressures from
“outside”: mainstream society wants integration and assimilation, but also from “inside”:
at home, their families (especially their parents) want them to remember their heritage
and retain their religion. We will examine two texts, Fatima ou les Algériennes an squag
and Parle, mon fils, parle a ta mere, to see whether Sebbar stereotypes the conflictual
relationship between first-generation Maghrebi immigrant parents and their Beur children

as the latter grow up in an occidental country. We will also compare the way the parents

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treat their sons and their daughters and question whether the restrictions they impose on
their daughters belong to a tradition of confining women in Islam. To this end we will use
Fatima Memissi’s The Veil and the Male Elite.

An important component of this study is that all the Beurs we discuss run away
from their parents’ home. In her article “On the Road: Leila Sebbar’s Fugitive
Heroines,” Mildred Mortimer tests “the premise that physical displacement (depicted as
flight, nomadism and the encounter with the other) results in contrapuntal awareness, and
that the ability to participate in more than one culture heals in part the rift of exile.” (196)
She concentrates mostly on Shérazade’s flight in the first two volumes of the Shérazade
trilogy (the third one was not yet published when she wrote the article). She answers the
premise both affirrnatively and positively, and demonstrates that Shérazade, through
traveling and writing, “achieves the contrapuntal awareness that compensates for exilic
loss.” (201)82 Mortimer touches on Dalila’s flight in mma and concludes that her exile
was voluntary, “from the parental realm, from the father who thwarts her independence
and the mother she views as a suffering victim and a prisoner of patriarchy.” (196-197)
She does not say whether Dalila successfully achieves “contrapuntal awareness.” Dalila’s
flight is much more difficult than Shérazade’s, and in running away, Dalila opens a
wound rather than heals the “rift of exile.”

F_at_i_rr_;a ou les Algéricnnes an squar_e differs from Sebbar’s subsequent novels
because it deals mostly with first-generation immigrants. The nomenclature in the title
problematizes the women’s categorization; the fact that women are classified as

“Algériennes” is misleading. In effect, the “Algériennes” of the title should read

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“immigrées d’Algérie.” After reading a few pages, it is clear that the story will focus on
first-generation immigrants rather than on their children. Most of the story takes place in
the square of the HLM compound, where the women talk about their daily lives, and lives
of other immigrants. As a child, Fatima’s daughter, Dalila, listens to the women’s stories
instead of playing with other children. Unlike Shérazade, who returns home at the end of
Le Fou dc Shérazade, Dalila leaves, and the story ends without the reader knowing what
will happen to her or where she will go. There are a few small hints, such as “Dalila
avait retenu de téte les numéros dc l’assistante sociale de Malika.” (Fatima 205) We also
learn that several young Beurettes, after running away, turned to prostitution. They are in
demand because of the orientalist fantasies of former pieds-noirs, (195) and they can earn
a living without working too hard: “Elles gagnaient dc l’argent et meme si elles en
donnaient a ‘l’ami de cccur’ il leur en restait assez pour vivre comme elles voulaient sans
travailler huit heures par jour dans un Monoprix ou derriere une machine, pour gagner
quoi? Elles achetaient sans compter et eux ne snrveillaient pas leur dépenses.” (194-195)
Dalila’s thoughts on her friends’ jobs are not revealed, although it seems unlikely that she
would turn to prostitution. Although her future is uncertain, the break with her family
does not ensure that her life will be better than it was when she lived with them. Through
Dalila, Sebbar presents the division between tradition and modernity; the two cannot
reconcile.

This rift is evident from the beginning of the novel and is revealed to the reader
through Dalila’s thoughts about her father: “Elle comprenait mal sa violence lorsqu’elle

rentrait tard a la cité. Pourquoi i1 s’acharnait contre elle. II l’insultait en arabe, il la

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battait.” (1 1) “Elle ne se doutait pas alors que son pere la battrait un jour et a partir de ce
jour-la les semaines qui suivraient tard 1e soir, jusqu’au moment on elle déciderait de
partir.” (108) And as if to impose his paternal authority even more, her father threatens to
send her back to Algeria: “Elle apprendrait a vivre la-bas. Elle saurait l’Arabe qu’elle ne
voulait pas parler en France, bien obligée. En Algérie an village, on ne lui parlerait pas
en francais, on bien elle ne s’adresserait plus a personne et plus personne ne lui parlerait.”
(108) It is perhaps this fear of return exile that forces Dalila into a different exile--one
much closer to home. What is the background of the father’s (Muslim) mindset, and why
does he attempts to exert so much control over his daughter?

In the preface to the English Edition of The Veil and the Male ELrtg, Memissi
explains, regarding the power relationships between men and women: “if women's rights
are a problem for some modern Muslim men, it is neither because of the Koran nor the
Prophet, nor the Islamic tradition, but simply because those rights conflict with the
interest of a male elite.” (ix) Memissi uses the word “elite” to signify the religious and
political leaders of the Muslim world. They base their practices on the Koran and the
“Hadith” (sayings of the prophet written down by his companions). The “Hadith” about
women who have been abused for centuries and are responsible for quashing women’s
power is “those who entrust their affairs to a woman will never know prosperity.”
Having historically and painstakingly researched the truth about the “misogynistic
Hadith,” Memissi concludes that the person who wrote it down was not reliable, and that
Mohammed did not utter it. (61) She also examines the Prophet’s life, and finds that he

was anything but a misogynist, and that he promoted equality of the sexes. However, she

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questions whether pre-Islamic practices and superstitions, “jahiliyya” (meaning “the era
of ignorance [74]) were integrated into Islam, a new religion that broke with tradition and
had “novel approaches to the world and to women.” (81)

Being an illiterate worker, Dalila’s father, (who remains unnamed throughout the
narrative — a sign of respect within the Muslim tradition), is the typical patriarch who
rules his family with an iron hand. The other fathers or husbands in fan—ma are presented
in the same vein: they violently punish their young daughters who play with boys, and
repudiate wives who go out to cafés with friends. (166, 204) This discipline is symbolic
of the Muslim tradition of keeping women inside the home or hiding them behind the
veil. According to Memissi, the verse in the Koran about the veil (verse 53 of sura 33)
has also been misinterpreted. She explains the various semantic, sociological and
metaphoric meanings and implications of the veil and the politics and politics that derived
from its institution, and concludes that “the Prophet, during a troubled period at the
beginning of Islam, pronounced a verse that was so exceptional and determining for the
Muslim religion that it introduced a breach in space that can be understood to be a
separation of the public from the private, or indeed the profane from the sacred, but which
was to turn into a segregation of the sexes.” (101)

While the women (both mothers and daughters) in Fatima are not physically
veiled, they are symbolically veiled by being cloistered (generally in the HLMs they
inhabit) by their husbands and fathers, or by their fear of French society (90). The
cloistering is within the Muslim society’s tradition; whether it is in accordance to what

Allah had in mind and revealed through Mohammed is irrelevant here. The point is that

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the men are represented as stereotypes of the “Muslim man,” wanting to uphold Muslim
traditions in a secular French society. In breaking with tradition and revolting against
their fathers, the daughters are refusing to carry on their faith and to let their heritage
fossilize. They are paving the way for modernity, although they do not totally embrace it:
“[Dalila] n’irait pas en Algérie. [. . .] Méme si elle ne voulait pas étre francaise. aller
vivre la-bas, elle le refusait aussi.” (Fatima 109)

Dalila, then, breaks with the stereotype of the Arab woman (as Amireh defines it)
and initiates change on her own. Although she starts out as on object of pity, she
eventually liberates herself from familial and religious oppression. As soon as she
becomes a subject (i.e., decides to run away,) the novel ends, closing the possibility of
further study of her character. The question of whether she needs outside help from the
French social worker is left unanswered; the statement above clearly indicates that her
identity is not firmly situated in either French or Algerian culture. Contrary to
Shérazade’s positive experience, Dalila attempts to solve the discipline she receives at
home by trying to find a voluntary identification process that is neither cultural nor
religious. In realizing the impossibility to re-connect with her roots in Algeria, Dalila
cannot fight tradition: she escapes it and opts for modernity, which will at least provide
her with a new but difficult beginning into the interstitial space of two cultures that she
and other Beurettes might be able to claim as their own.

In presenting a stern Muslim father and his runaway daughter who challenges his
paternal authority, Sebbar exposes from all sides the stereotypes that hit the first-

generation immigrants and their children. She is encouraging French people to

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understand where the immigrants and their children are coming from (especially
culturally), and the Beurs to look beyond their traditions and their homes while
attempting to grapple with an identity that neither their parents nor society comprehends
or is willing to give them. Her representation of them is not meant to serve as models to
imitate, but to recognize as valid subjects.

The cultural fissure between Beurs and their parents may be explained by
comparing the following conflicting quotes in 523.11%. The first one is uttered by a
policeman whose racist tirade lasts several pages: “les toumées du pere ne servent a rien
le pere et la mere pcrdent l’autorité en Algérie il parait qu’ils la gardent mais en France ca
marche dc moins en moins c’est un fait de société.” (141) The second one is stated by the
narrator, giving the reader insight into Dalila’s father’s mind, the night before she runs
away: “11 tenait [. . .] a rappeler a ses enfants nés en France qu’ils n’étaient pas d’ici, qu’ils
avaient un pays et une religion, qu’ils étaient encore, malgré les lois et les décrets qui
pouvaient en faire des petits Francais, Algériens et musulmans avant tout.” (233) In
revealing this dichotomy, Sebbar exposes two radically opposite sides of immigration: on
the one hand, the slipping authority of a patriarchal and paternalistic influence which does
not necessarily foreshadow the loss of paternal authority, but of paternal influence. By
placing the father’s wishful but implausible impositions on the last page of the novel
(thus giving them more weight,) Sebbar ironically exposes on the other hand what the
Beurs are not: Algerian and practicing Muslim.83 In Dalila’s case, traditional Muslim

culture is the villain, and French culture is an unknown lurking in the shadows of

discomfort.

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There is no indication that she will attempt to cross French borders; she will
attempt to find a better life and an identity within the hexagon. Although we can only
speculate what her future will hold, her “restricted” flight is transformed into an
“unrestricted” flight of the Beur in Parle, mon fils. He cannot limit his flight to stifling
French borders. The dis-location of his identity is cast as he listens to his mother, in an
afternoon, when he returns to her home in an HLM. Although he is not faced with the
same familial problems as Dalila (being a teenager and living with a strict Muslim father),
he nevertheless experiences similar difficulties. In studying the relationship between him
and his mother, we again envisage a male Beur as representative of “woman” of French
culture.

Parle mon fils is dedicated “A tous les Beurs.” The significance of this dedication

 

is political: it was written in close proximity to the event in 1983 that spawned media
attention to the Beurs’ situation: the Marche des Beurs. Because the protagonist is not
named, the text brings real Beurs and fictional Beurs even closer together: he represents
all of them. The short novel starts with a wayward son entering the home where he grew
up. The acerbic tone immediately places the Beur against his parents’ country and against
France, and immediately squashes any idealization of his travels: “La banlieue, toujours.
On prend le train, on s’en va et on revient. .. Le pays natal immigré, on le quitte, il est
rninable, on dit qu’on est du monde, pas d’un seul pays, on croit a l’Universel. .. Au
retour, on passe la, [. . .] ca n’a pas change.” (9) The transitory nature of his visit to his
mother is emphasized: “II a voulu passer, juste passer, ct voila... Partir, s’enfuir. . (10)

His position vis-a-vis his mother is obviously different than that of Dalila to her father;

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however, both Dalila’s father and the mother of the son in Parle, mon fils want their
children to claim Islam (or at least its practices), not necessarily to stifle them in a
Western society but to uphold tradition, so that its memory will be remembered.

The mother unknowingly predicts that the memory of Algeria will probably be
forgotten to a certain extent by the Beur generation: “si tu meurs, tu seras enterré la—bas
an village, [. . .] ton corps sera rapatrié en cercueil plombé, [. . .] jc le répete parce que ton
pere n’est pas la et qu’il perd la mémoire, le malheureux, ton pere maintenant c’est moi sa
mémoire, c’est moi la mémoire de la maison et des enfants. . .” (74) Her thoughts convey
the idea that her son’s identity is rooted in, and must be returned to, Algeria: his body
represents Beur identity, the casket that encases it represents France, and the eventual
burial “au village” represents Algeria. The layers of identity and memory remain
inseparable only in the mother’s mind; whether or not the son decides to respect them is
not specified. Because the Beur generation is a developing nation, it is still to be
determined whether or not they will choose to maintain their identity in both worlds.84

Stereotypes in Parle mon fils are constructed differently than in Fatima, where we

 

have seen the patriarch fail to preserve Muslim heritage for his progeny. In Parle mon

 

{15, the father is literally absent from the home and virtually absent from society: after
having been hospitalized, he was placed in a mental institution. (1 1) Because he is
unable to impart his heritage to his family, the responsibility falls to the mother. In

contrast to the violent father of Fatima, the mother of Parle mon fils tries gently but

 

firmly to transmit her understanding of Algerian culture to her oldest son. She also

reverses the stereotype of Arab as victimizer, hoodlum and terrorist, by presenting the

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“Arabs” as victims of racist crimes, from their point of view. The French, then, are
presented as victirnizers and perpetrators of hate crimes, as the rest of the world lies
apathetic and indifferent to the plight of North African immigrants in France:

On n’a pas parle, partout dans le monde entier, de ces hommes qui tuent des

Arabes a bout portant dans les cite’s de France? [. . .] Ils en ont blessé plusieurs.

Ils disent que c’est la chaleur, ct quand il a fait moins chaud, ca a continue. Qui

proteste? Dans les autres villes du monde, ils ne parlent pas de la France et de ces

crimes de l’été, de la mort des Arabes? [. . .] Peut-étre que les Arabes de France

ne les intéressent pas, c’est les Arabes du Golfe Persique ou les Palestiniens. (17)
In stating the conflict of interest between the local/personal (“les Arabes de France”) and
the transnational/political (“les Arabes du Golfe Persique ou les Palestiniens”), the
mother briefly transcends stereotype reversals and exposes the hypocritical vested interest
of powerful capitalist countries such the United States. It is highly unlikely that a barely
literate North African immigrant who has not been beyond the boundaries of her village
in Algeria and of the suburbs she inhabits would be directly attacking the United States;
this is most likely Sebbar’s personal opinion, which she textually links to the “ignored”
racism the North Africans in France must face.

Not only are the North Africans in France faced with outside pressures of societal
rejection and aggression, but with irreconcilable differences within families. The idea
that parents mistreat their children (as in Dalila’s case) is expanded in Parle, mon fils to
include children who in turn mistreat and lose respect for their parents. The generation

gap seems to widen when French society influences the children of immigrants. This is

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evidenced when French social services attempt to interfere and solve the immigrants’
problems by imposing a Western ideology of mediation between non-Westem children
and their parents: “11 a des copains, ils aiment bien ca [les foyers], ils profitent de tout un
max... [18 sont contents, et les vieux ils ont rien a dire; ils l’ouvrent plus. Lui, ses vieux,
il vient les voir, il crache pas dessus; il dit pas que c’est des pauvres cons qui ont tout
raté, la-bas et ici. Il dit pas ca. . (13) In essence, these statements contribute to the
stereotype of parent-child alienation that the policeman in Bram virulently portrays.
This is further confirmed by the mother in P_arle. mon fils, who laments the fact that her
son is losing his Muslim faith and Arab heritage: “tu ne sais pas lire l’arabe, tu n’as pas
voulu apprendre” (34), and “Pourquoi mon fils, pourquoi tu n’es plus un bon musulman,
pourquoi?” (54) However, the end of the end of the novel, she states “Va, mon fils, va. ..
souviens-toi que tu as une ame. .. La mere prononce en arabe des paroles de benediction,
embrasse son fils sur le front. 11 s’en va.” (84) “Ame” could be replaced by “culture,” and
would still be meaningful in the same context. In imparting her blessing in a tongue that
her son does not understand, she is resigning herself to his departure and to his
continuous, nomadic exile from her appropriated home--in contrast with her permanent,
sedentary exile.

The two distinct exiles of the experiences of two generations of Maghrebi
immigrants each symbolize of their “départenance.”85 Both groups are “transgressing”
the norm: their refusal to imitate and to become assimilated and integrated indicates a
refusal on their part to be mimetic. Is it possible for them to stake their identity while

remaining “woman” on the margins of French society? Is it likely that the French will

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stop stereotyping them and accept them with their cultural differences without prevalent
and prevailing discourses of assimilation and integration, without the need to negotiate
“le droit a la difference?”

In “La Fille au juke-box,” racial stereotypes are even more blatant. The short
story presents a Beurette, known as “la fille,” as literally living on the margins: she is an
alcoholic drug-addict who sells her body to feed her habits. She floats from bar to bar to
find and play the song “L’Aziza” by Daniel Balavoine, a beautiful love song that is also
“nn hymne a la tolerance.” A Beur friend of hers, “le jeune homme,” wants to help her
get rid of her bad habits and addictions. He is a bizarre combination of a superman
character (he wants to “save” her) and of a father, uncannily reminiscent of Dalila’s
father: “11 faudrait te battre, toi, pour que tu écoutes. .. Ton pere a été trop gentil avec toi,
il t’a pas assez frappée. . .” (80); “Le jeune homme giffle la fille, plusieurs fois.” (85)
Although he is of a different generation than Dalila’s father, the young man still
maintains his patriarchal position within his family, to guard it against the corrupting
influences of French society: “mes soeurs sont pas comme ca, mon pere les aurait
attachées. .. Elles avaient peur de lui, dc moi aussi, je suis l’ainé, chez nous, on respectc
les freres et l’ainé encore plus... tant que j’ai été a la maison, j’ai surveillé mes soeurs,
surveillé pas vraiment, je les protégeais parce que dans les cités, les filles, il faut les
protéger, c’est un devoir.” (81-82) In a twist of fate and bullets, it is ironically the
jukebox that becomes the young woman’s shield against the police’s gunfire. An
unidentified boy or young man (“1e garcon”) being chased by the police runs through the

bar and escapes; the “jeune homme” is accidentally shot in the crossfire. The last

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sentence continues in the same ironic vein “La fille continue a hurler, a genoux contre le
jeune homme, ses cheveux bouclés couvrent la chemise ouverte sur une petite main en
or.” (86) The “petite main en or” is no doubt a “main de Fatma,” a symbol used in the
Maghrebi world for good luck and protection. In the text, it is unclear whether the young
woman or the young man is wearing the “main dc Fatma;” in either case, it has failed to
keep its owner from harm.

In this short story, it seems that French culture is clearly the villain: the police
cause an innocent man’s death, the culprit manages to get away, and the French bar owner
and her employee do not hesitate to display, respectively, their blatant racism: “On va
avoir des histoires avec cette fille [. . .] si ca se trouve, elle est recherchée par la police.
Charlie! Je vous parle. J c vous interdis de la servir, vous avez compris ?” (71) “C’est le
monde a l’envers, il faut balayer la merde des Arabes, nous les Francais en plus de les
servir et cette fille, c’est elle qui devrait nettoyer, elle est sfirement bonniche dans le
quartier, et c’est moi qui fais la bonne. . .” (72) Perhaps the “patronne” is demanding that
the young woman not be served because she is drunk, but the reader cannot help wonder
whether this “refusal to serve” is merely a sign of xenophobia. However, the young
man’s ideas about “protecting” the young woman and his paternalistic attitude toward her
and his sisters are anything but egalitarian. He stereotypes them into two categories:
objects of pity that are unable to defend themselves against a villainous culture, or vicious
Vixens who must be tamed because they pillage men for materialistic reasons.

This is apparent when he describes one of the Beurette’s friends who died of an

overdose in a seedy hotel. Her behavior is inherently blamed on her lack of feminine

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qualities, and on having boys as friends instead of girls:
Sa copine, celle qui est morte a l’hotel, a dix ans, c’était déja un voyou, un garcon
manque. Avec une bande dc garcons entre dix et treize ans, elle a volé dans une
classe matemelle des bonbons et des gateaux. .. [. . .] quand on la reconduisait de
force chez son pere qui lui donnait des raclées pour qu’elle marche droit, elle
s’échappait pour retoumer a la rue. Un chat sauvage. .. D’ailleurs, elle avait des
yeux qui faisaient un peu peur; pas a moi, mais des yeux dc lynx, c’était pas des
yeux d’humains. [...] un vrai serpent, cette fille. (82)

The Beur implicitly contradicts the earlier statement he made about the Beurette’s father
not hitting her enough. Apparently, the “serpent” was beaten “enough,” but to no avail.
In his view, women can never have their own agency, they must always be defined
according to the way men treat them. This short story presents the Beurette as a victim of
“external stereotyping” (from a person or persons outside her ethnic or social milieu) by
the French, and of “internal stereotyping” (from within her ethnic or social milieu) by a
Beur. In sum, this story is more about what other people think of the Beurette. Little is
revealed to the reader about the Beur, except that he holds to traditional notions of
manhood and womanhood; his paternalistic opinions and actions extend beyond his
immediate family to include other Beurettes. Therefore, “La Fille an juke box” presents
the Beurette at the bottom of the social hierarchy, cloistered and exploited, yet she
remains after the Beur has been eliminated. Does this entail her liberation? Or will she
re-enter the vicious cycle of abuse that she came from?

In conclusion, Sebbar’s three texts present a multiplicity of stereotypes. Shérazade

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is conscious of external western stereotypes of the Beurette as exotic and oriental, and
uses them to her advantage. The text “steals” stereotypes by “turning us into an
accomplice, [. . .] making us aware of the existence and power of stereotypes” and we are
“delighted to witness an act of reappropriation” (Rosello, Declining 59). Driss, as a drug
addict and hoodlum, wallows in his self-representation of the excluded Beur. Both the
internal (by his father) and external (by his ex-girlfriend’s father) stereotype are
“cheated,” “dodged” or “eluded” (128), because in his case the readers can be “framed
and trapped by their own expectations and smug confidence” (137). His living on the
margins is purely a coincidence unrelated to his ethnicity; the reader must be careful not
to assume that his living on the margins has anything to do with his religious or cultural
heritage or his social class.

In F_at_ipr_a, the racist policeman describes an “invested” stereotype: Sebbar shows
the reader how “French language and culture integrate the presence of the Beurs and
blacks in their images, metaphors and rhetoric” (72). With Dalila’s character, the internal
stereotype of the girl who must stay inside and of the father who must uphold his ideals
and reinforce his ideas is “given away:” the characters (or reader) are presented with an
“encounter between hegemony and powerlessness”(92). French society is the ultimate
hegemonic power, the father is under it, and Dalila is powerless. However, she escapes
her father’s domination by voluntarily incorporating herself into the “ultimate hegemonic
power.” The question that remains to be answered is, will this power accept her or reject
her? It has obviously rejected the son in Parle, mon fils, who looks for acceptance and

identity beyond French borders. In some ways he is presented as the typical Beur who is

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not interested in learning his parents’ language and about his Algerian heritage, but in
other ways he breaks away from any stereotypical representation. He reveals his cynicism
about his identity: instead of mocking it and turning it around like Shérazade does, he
“steals” the power of his stereotype by not letting the French categorize him and integrate
him into their culture and society. In rejecting their Muslim heritage, both Dalila and the
Beur of Parle, mon fils display a double transgression of the authority that attempts to
restrict them and regulate their style of living. The first transgression invokes parental
authority (running away and refusing to live with their parents), and the second
transgression is state authority, which demonstrates a refusal of dominant nationalistic
trends and discourses. Dalila and the Beur’s parents also transgress much more subtly, by
holding on to their culture and not surrendering it to the dominant society. The
relationships between the two generations still present the same issues of exclusion that
the Beurs have to face, in spite of their desire to fit in: “young people of Algerian origins
wish to participate on equal terms in mainstream French society, whose values they
largely share. Their thirst for incorporation is being thwarted by widespread exclusionary
attitudes.” (Hargreaves, “Algerians” 45)86

This exclusionary stance is nowhere more evident than in “La Fille an juke box.”
By placing two Beurs as victims in one short story, Sebbar seems to reveal the hopeless
xenophobia that rules the French people’s actions and attitudes towards the Beur nation.
In this short story, a combination of “given” and “disarrned” stereotypes (when a white
French person meets an ethnic “other,” [Rosello 103]) are literally intertwined in the text:

the Beur is silenced by being killed by a stray bullet (but is it really stray?); the Beurette is

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exposed externally as being good only for cleaning French people’s “merde” by the
French barman, and internally by the Beur, who has unsuccessfully attempted to
reincorporate her into Muslim tradition. These representations culminate in the
affirmation of both Beur and Beurette as “woman” of French culture--although the
Beurette is more often on the lowest echelon of the ladder because of her restrictions
within a misogynistic Muslim tradition. Sebbar is conscious of stereotypes: she reveals
them, confronts them, and defies them, but in presenting characters that subvert them or
escape them, she shows that the representation of the Beur cannot be reduced to
simplistic notions of oppressor and oppressed. Although Sebbar presents escape as a
means of her characters' self-discovery while evading the problems they face in society,
she does not always offer an optimistic ending to her character's flight. The readers must
fashion their own interpretations about the runaway teens as Sebbar leaves her narratives

open-ended.

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Chapter 4
ETHNICITY, “ENGAGEMENT” AND ART IN SEBBAR’S WORKS

After 1991, Sebbar’s works broaden their focus from the Beur generation to
include other ethnicities; Michel Laronde posits that they belong to “d’autres dialectiques
post-coloniales [que le corpus Beur]” (I_.ittératures 41). Reverting to the immediate
aftermath of independence, J ’étais enfant en Algérie: juin 1962 (1997) presents a child’s
bewilderment when she and her family must leave Algeria for France. M (1999)
collects seven short stories recounting, as might be guessed from the title, the horror of
wars all over the world: in Algeria, Bosnia, Chechnya, Palestine, Afghanistan, Somalia
and Cambodia. La Seine était rouge (1999) weaves together the testimony of a woman
who witnessed the massacre of Algerians in Paris on October 17, 1961, and of several
young people «Algerian, Beur and “Francais de souche” who investigate what really
happened that fateful day. This short novel was no doubt inspired by the immense
publicity that surrounded the Papon trial in the late 1990’s, and which exposed the
injustices of the French government as well as the media’s subsequent successes in
concealing the facts about the Algerians killed during the massacre.

In expanding her focus, Sebbar problematizes the classification of her works.
Because the characters of SM are not immigrants, the collection of short stories
cannot be included in “littératures de l’immigration” or “littérature Beur.” Besides,
Sebbar claims: “[Shérazade] n’est pas un roman sur l’immigration. Aucun de mes
romans n’est un roman sur l’immigration. Le milieu est present, bien sfir” (Amhold 242);
and “Mon écriture n’est pas centrée sur l’émigration maghrébine.” (Sarnrakandi 37) The

two most prolific critics on Beur literature, Michel Laronde and Alec Hargreaves, differ

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on whether Sebbar’s works should be included in the Beur literary corpus. Laronde
characterizes her as a Beur writer: he includes several of her works in his study Autour du
roman beur: immiggation ct identité, because the novels she wrote in the 1980’s are
heavily anchored in Beur politics. He therefore applies the term “littérature Beur” more
broadly than does Hargreaves. For Laronde, what counts is “une dialectique a partir du
contenu de l’écriture et non de l’origine [de l’auteur.]” (Littératures 29) Hargreaves does
not include her in La Littérature Beur: un guide bio-bibliographiquj because of her
parents’ backgrounds. His definition of authors writing “littérature Beur” is
“essentiellement des fils et dcs filles d’ouvriers musulmans illettrés originaires du
Maghreb. Ces auteurs sont nés en France on s’y sont installés avant la fin de leur
adolescence. Nous excluons de notre corpus des écrivains comme [. . .] Leila Sebbar qui,
jusqu’a l’age de 17 ans, a vécu en Algérie, on son pere algérien et sa mere francaise
étaient instituteurs.” (7-8) Hargreaves contests and criticizes Laronde’s inclusion of
Sebbar in his study of Beur novelists:
While Laronde’s study contains many interesting insights, the criteria by which
his corpus is defined are not altogether convincing. According to Laronde ‘le
terme Beur est a prendre dans le sens ethnique (les romans écrits par les Beurs) et
a élargir dans le sens d’une dialectique: celle qui parle de la situation du jeune
Maghrébin dans la société francaise contemporaine’ [Auteur du romlan beur 6].
Jean-Marie Le Pen talks a great deal about young Maghrebians in France. Are we
to infer from this that Le Pen is an example of ‘l’esprit beur’?” (“Writers” 36)
I believe that anyone with Maghrebian origins whose works are about North Africans in

France may be included in Beur literature. Needless to say, Le Pen and his followers are

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definitely not in favor of the Beurs, and no one can claim that anyone belonging to the
extreme right is interested in the well being of immigrants and their descendants or in
giving them a voice, whether it be in literature, politics, or any other aspects of society.
But Leila Sebbar’s earlier works, to which Beur characters are central, and which
definitely give the Beurs a voice and speak in favor of them, can be included in the Beur
corpus. “Beur” seems to involve displacement, discomfort, victimization, and a militant
reaction against that condition. And although Sebbar denies that her (early) novels
derive from the experience of immigration, most literary critics claim they do.87
According to Charles Bonn, “la grande presse” assimilates Sebbar’s works to those of
other immigrants, because (as of 1994, and still in 2001) she was “l’écrivain femme
vivant en France et originaire du Maghreb qui ale plus écrit de romans consacrés a la
deuxieme generation de l’immigration maghrébine en France” (“Romans féminins” 99).
Bonn acknowledges the vexed political issue of finding a definition of Beur literature, as
for any “littératures qualifiées d’émergentes,” (99) and he characterizes it as literature

9”

that gives the reader “l’émigration/immigration ‘vue du dedans (99). This explanation,
like Laronde’s, is more permeable and inclusive than Hargreaves’s.

Sebbar may be the woman writer who has written the most about the Beurs, but
unfortunately some of her works are unavailable: three that have been analyzed in
previous chapters are out of print (Fatima ou les Algériennes au Scarare, Legamets de
Shérazade, and Parle. mon fils. parle aimereg as is Le Chinois vert d’Afrique (1984).
Sebbar stated that there was more interest in her work in the universities in the United

States than in France (Personal Interview, 19 June 1998). Perhaps the "Francais de

souche" are threatened by her works, whereas North Americans can read them without

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necessarily feeling directly concerned by the social problems she presents. The topics
she presents challenge French readers to confront discriminatory political and social
realities faced by North African immigrants. The novels she wrote in the 19808 can also
be qualified as belonging to the “écriture d’urgence” rubric, because they touch sensitive
colonial and post-colonial wounds in the literary arena - wounds that have been opened
and reopened constantly since France’s decolonization of its former colonies and
protectorates. These wounds include (but are not limited to) repatriation of pieds-noirs,
immigration, integration, cultural insensitivity and inhospitality on the part of the French
toward the immigrants.88 Her novels hardly paint a glowing portrait of a glorious France;
societal ills lie at the heart of her works. As first generation immigrants and Beurs are the
foci of the four out-of-print novels, it could be that since the 19908, the French public has
become less interested in the Beur’s plight, although other authors who treat the Beurs’
situations have remained in print. Other (Beur) authors treat their situation differently.
For example, Mehdi Charef focuses on the Beurs’ marginality, and Azouz Begag treats
them as picturesquely comical (with undertones exposing the apathy and racism of the
“Francais de souche”).

Perhaps the “real readers” have become unconcerned with social issues, and the
“virtual readers” and “ideal readers” of those four out-of-print works are too few.89
According to Stanley Fish, there exists an “interpretive community” responding to
literature. Louise Rosenblatt agrees that readers are shaped by society, but concentrates
on the distinctiveness of each reader’s response (xii). She contrasts an efferent reaction

(what the reader will carry away from reading) to an aesthetic reaction (what happens

during a reading, [24-25]), and turns Tompkins’ statement about literature’s influence

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into a more specific question: “How much of our own culture involves routine
acceptance of [...] callousness and brutality? (62)90 Although this question may be
answered only by individual readers, those who read about the Beurs’ situation in
Sebbar’s works should (in the moralizing sense) react against apathy and indifference.
Sebbar’s writings of the 1980’s carried urgent messages, exploding the traditional notion
of “Frenchness” and creating a new kind of literature dealing with immigration “from the
inside” (cf. Bonn), by a writer in a position of permanent exile. Beurs and other
immigrants are central characters, and the French “de souche” are peripheral, and in
direct conflict with the Beurs.

By acknowledging the Beurs as valid subjects, the French readers who
appreciated Sebbar in the 19808 were finally moving -- at least in the realm of literature —
toward “respectful understanding” in the ethnocentric continuum (“physical conquest”
and “cultural imperialism” being the two preceding reactions [Mailloux 17]).91 In
breaking with tradition and presenting the Beurs at the forefront of her novels, Sebbar’s
texts are political (in taking a stance in favor of immigration) and historical (in countering
an orientalist perspective on colonialism), but they present only a partial reality of the
Beurs’ situation; the texts are not meant to paint a sociologically realistic portrait of
minorities. They concentrate on adolescent energy, but they also depict the interface of
emerging French popular culture and Beur culture, implying a possible synthesis.

Mailloux conceives the act of reading as belonging to practical realms. He
explains that in the 19708, the different kinds of reader-response criticisms “tended to de-
emphasize or completely ignore the act of reading as a historical and political activity”

(76). In the 19808, “reader-oriented theory and practice turned more and more to the

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historical context and the political aspects of readers and reading” (76). He explains the
concept of “rhetorical hermeneutics” which argues to develop “understanding and
articulation within and between cultures” ( l9) and in which changes take place through
reading (71).

It is this kind of understanding that Sebbar wishes to cultivate and promote in and
through her works. When questioned on her position as a writer, she denied trying to
explain her political position (which is definitely “de gauche”) but conceded that political
readings of her work are definitely plausible (Ballenfat 4). “Tant qu’il existera des
femmes privées de droits - homes on femmes d’ailleurs — on doit s’inscrire en faux
contre ca. [. . .] Mais je ne pense pas a mes positions politiques quand j’écris, meme si on
peut en faire des lectures politiques” (6) And in answer to the question “Pensez-vous
que les problemes des jeunes beurs viendraient aujourd’hui de cette absence de dignité?”
Sebbar said “C’est d’abord l’absence d’une mémoire. C’est l’histoire qui donne la
conscience, l’intelligence. Quand je mets ces jeunes-la en scene, je me sens eux” (4).

In attempting to narrow the cultural divide between the Beurs and the society that
surrounds them, Sebbar’s works give rise to interpretations of rhetorical hermeneutics
(how we state our interpretation of the texts we read), both internally among the
multiplicity of cultures that exist in France, and externally between Beur rninorities-
within-the-French-majority and other countries. How do we, as readers, absorb another
culture and cultural references? According to Mailloux,

To understand and act within a foreign culture, the differences must be found in

the margins of our own. A completely other would be unintelligible. But as the

marginal comes into focus or even moves toward the center, the boundaries of our

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horizons can shift and even be expanded by the other within. Another way of

putting this: as we interact with other communities, traditions, cultures, we can

reweave our webs of belief to take account of the other, and we do this more or
less successfully from differing points of view within and outside our own groups.

( 15- l 6)

Mailloux’s interpretation of reader-responses clearly favors celebrating multicultural
differences and attempting to find common threads among cultures, even if none seem
apparent at first glance. Sebbar’s works encourage such an interpretation; even when
these works are read non-analytically by non-acadernics, Sebbar’s advocacy of a better
understanding of “others” comes across clearly to her readers.

However, why readers are less interested in Sebbar’s 19808 novels is a mystery,
as is the issue of why her works generate more interest in Anglophone countries than in
Francophone countries, particularly at the university level. Perhaps the topics she treats
hit too close to home in France, although one can find all sorts of critiques of the
treatment of immigrants widely disseminated in France. In the United States and
England, racism and ethnicity are definitely central social dilemmas, but they pertain to
different ethnic groups. Sebbar’s works are therefore only tangentially related to
different kinds of immigration and racism that are clearly at the heart of conflicts in
American and British societies. Aside from the issue of a scandalous foregrounding of
ethnicity, critics complain when Sebbar’s work does not conform to their expectations
and scenarios. They attack from two opposite directions at once: Sebbar’s realism

trivializes and popularizes what should be high art, and her esthcticism robs her work of

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any possibilities for political relevance. Both reservations may be enunciated by the
same critic.

To identify the differences among critics’ responses to Sebbar’s works, it is
necessary to turn to book reviews and articles that have appeared in various journals and
magazines in Algeria, Lebanon, France, England and the United States. Because they are
not consistently catalogued,92 it is difficult to obtain an equal number of reviews from
each country, especially Algeria, where her works were and still are unavailable:

. .aucune structure éditoriale nationale [algérienne] n’est disposée ni tenue d’importer
les écrits concernés” (Ouramdane 30); “les romans dc Leila Sebbar ne sont pas importés
en Algérie” (Ouramdane “& 31); and “l’édition algérienne est sinistrée” (Sebbar in
Achour, “Rencontres” 223).

Although Algerians are not the implied readers (Ouramdane “J._H.” 30) -- perhaps
because at the time, Sebbar was writing mainly about immigration -- the reviewer
nevertheless encourages readers to find her works, if possible, and to read them.
Ouramdane frames his reviews with an unavoidable yet constructive concept of
“métissage.” At the beginning of L_a Négresse a l’enfzflt review, he states: “Dans ses
oeuvres, races, ethnies et religions s’entrecroisent, s’acceptent, et sont solidaires.
Lorsqu’elles se repoussent, c’est que, quelque part, un égoi’sme dévastateur a pris 1e
dessus” (“Accords” 30); and at the end: “Leila Sebbar, en situant ces problématiques de
croisements dans tous ses écrits, s’inscrit de maniere tres originale dans la production de
ce qu’on appelle les écrits de la migration. Chez cet auteur, etre ‘ici et la-bas’ est somme
toute une position a assumer, transitoire, peut-étre, mais vers des lieux confluents et

spacieux” (30).

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Ouramdane’s review of Les Carnets de Shérazade is slightly less exuberant than
his review of LacNégresse g l’enfaLt; but he nonetheless again emphasizes the cultural
hybridity that lies at the heart of Sebbar’s works: “De décousu, le récit en retrouve ses
marques et le théme, laborieusement, émerge dans toute son originalité: il s’agit la,
comme dans Le Chinois vert d’Afrique, d’interculturalité” (“Géographie” 35). He also
insists, like so many other critics, that Sebbar is trying to paint a realistic portrait of what
Beurs experience daily:

l’écrivain poursuit le méme theme, on plutot le méme souci lancinant, et

finalement credible, de montrer, détailler et puis faire reconnaitre la réalité vécue

par nombre de jeunes issus de l’émigration. I] n’y a 1a aucun emprunt explicite on
non, a la sociologie qui pourrait apparenter l’muvre a L’ Hospitalité fra_nca§e de

Tahar Ben Jelloun qui lui, a réellement tenté une lecture exhaustive de choc des

deux mondes (35).

The emphasis on Sebbar as a “realist” writer is also apparent in other book reviews, such
as the following one by Evelyne Accad on Earle, Mon fils, parle a ta mere, published in a
Lebanese journal: “The novel, written in the style of an interviewed monologue, is
interesting from a sociological and anthropological point of view. From a literary one,
however, it lacks the dimensions of creative imagination” (24). This particular
interpretation could be a reason for Sebbar’s books not being republished. Salim Jay
(himself a Beur writer of fiction), in his review of Fatima ou les Algériennes au squaLe in
L’Afrigue littérai_re_ (a French journal), wrote “Leila Sebbar produit un constat qui a les
vertus de l’authenticité” (92), and in his review of Shérazade (in which, incidentally, he

misquotes the title three times, as Shérazade, 17 ans, frisée, brune, les yeux verts; on the

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book cover and on the title page, the “brune” comes before the “frisée”): “l’auteur réunit
les pieces d’un puzzle qui n’a qu’un rapport superficiel avec le veritable territoire de son
enquéte” (95). Serge Ménager’s position of Sebbar’s early works is one of the harshest.
He states:
However, whether [Shérazade] belongs to ‘Beur’ literature is very contestable
since Sebbar adopts in her portrayal of this milieu the very same sociological
approach she followed for her previous novel (Fatima ou les Algériennes au
square). She collected information on the rebellious youth she describes; her
characters speak its language, its slang, with a certain awkwardness. [. ..] [T]heir
way of life is somehow rather artificial. This group of marginalized young people
squatting together flirts with the world of drugs, prostitution, fashion, and
advertising that is used as an appealing background for the young reader but that
is a far cry from reality. The action has very little to do with the universe in
which immigrants must fight daily. (Postcolonial African Writers 421-22)93
Even critics who give Sebbar’s work glowing reviews emphasize its attempted
connection to reality, and in fact seem to confuse it with reality: “Through her extensive
sociological researches among immigrant communities, [. . .] Leila Sebbar has been able
to document two levels of ethnic minority in France. Unless young girls begin to put
down their own experiences in writing, and perhaps those of their mothers also, Sebbar’s
works will remain the only authentic record of a group of people the average reader
knows very little about.” (Abu-Haidar 263) Christiane Achour also highlights what she
thinks is represented reality: “le réel social s’impose” (Diwan 188), “le lecteur apprend

ou retrouve quantité d’informations sur l’émigration [. . .] sur les modes de vie de

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marginaux a Paris, [...] des milieux de l’émigration” (188); she links Sebbar’s work with
sociology, stating that the narration of Shérazade is “un peu comme une enquéte
sociologique” (190). And finally, Charles Bonn claims “Shérazade est tout récits, en une
suite de chapitres brefs qui narrent la quotidienneté marginale des jeunes immigrés de la
deuxieme génération. Récits-vérité, document sociologique: on hésite a parler de roman,
au sens littéraire du terme. Pourtant les marginaux [. . .] trouvent ici une voix, qui éveille
une écoute” (“Itinéraires” 856).

But Sebbar clearly indicated that she does not attempt to depict reality; it is
necessary to quote her at length to emphasize the disparity between how the author sees
her works and how critics interpret it:

Ce qui m’intéresse, c’est de jouer sur l’extréme réalisme et le merveilleux. Dans

Shérazade, il y a sans arrét des situations de conte, or) on a l’impression qu’un

ange gardien, un auxiliaire bienveillant intervient juste au bon moment pour

sauver l’héroi'ne. Dans Les Carnets de Shérazade, il y a aussi des situations a la
fois loufoques, insolites, bizarres. Shérazade sort toujours indemne de situations
extrémement tragiques. Moi, j’aime bien ce jeu-la; c’est le merveilleux réaliste.

(Amhold 243)94

These citations from book reviews and articles raise several questions. Why are
critics overly concerned with Sebbar’s “realistic” portrayal of immigrants and their
children? Why do they overwhelmingly insist on the sociological aspect of her novels,
and not the political dimension? Why do most of them criticize the “lack” of literary

value of her works? And does “branché” necessarily entail being “de mauvaise qualité?”

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Caroline Clifford, who studied reception in her dissertation, asserts that a more open
redefinition of the notion of culture is necessary to understand Sebbar’s novels: “Sebbar’s
work is often read quickly and superficially, a process which leads to misreadings,
misunderstandings, and prejudgments, and her work is often expected to directly reflect a
certain cultural reality, to give a (French) reader a privileged view of the ‘authentic’
Maghrebian immigrant experience” (10).95

It is necessary to dispel the myth that valid writing about the Beurs means
portraying their daily realities. Why must Beur literature automatically be linked to the
struggle for identity and the quest for a place in society? Why is late twentieth-century
French literature not criticized for describing the “reality” of life in contemporary
France? Although Beur literature is emerging, it can contain literary tropes that are
disconnected from questions of displacement and discomfort. In broadening the topics
they include in their works, Beur writers demonstrate their capacity to master not only
urgent social problems, but also their ability to master the richness of the French
language.

Certainly, partial elements of reality are described, but discerning readers must
caution themselves against the idea that fiction always represents reality. Whatever
happened to the idea of a suspension of disbelief? Why can this concept not be applied to
Sebbar’s writings? Why do we fail to see in her texts echoes of reality mixed with
fantasy? That Shérazade is a mythical character should be evident from her namesake,
Sheherazade, the Persian storyteller-tumed-queen: the character’s tag-name (the
mysterious, violent, sexualized “Orient”) also includes a covert generic signature

(“Contes merveilleux”). Sebbar’s explicit comments also reinforce Shérazade’s mythic

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origins. Two statements shed light on her perception of her early works. The first one
emphasizes the fictivity of her novels and short stories: “’Vous écrivez aussi des essais
sociologiques?’ ‘J ’en ai écrits, oui. Mais j’écris plutot des romans, des nouvelles, des

99’

ouvrages de fiction (Interview with Hugon 35). The second one clarifies the kind of
reality she was trying to portray: “Ma trilogie [de Shérazade] pose 1a question de savoir
ce qu’est une Arabe de France. Elle s’inscrit dans une réalité politique qui conceme 1e
début des années 80,” (Amhold 241). In inventing Shérazade, Sebbar has created a
character that is inscribed simultaneously in the mythical and political realms. The latter
focuses on the politics of identity. Therefore, Shérazade represents neither an exhaustive
reality nor an all-inclusive political position. The young Beurette is inscribed in two
different discourses, completely different from each other, yet synthesized into one
person. It is this synthesis that critics fail to capture and appreciate. Readers can live
vicariously through Shérazade, as Sebbar did when she wrote the trilogy,96 and they can
become aware (or reminded, if they are already familiar with it) of the immigrants’
situation in France from a more lyrical approach through literature, not just from the
media. Sebbar dignifies her characters by representing their fantasies and aspirations as
well as their daily routines and physical needs. She often does so not by ventriloquizing,
but rather, by bathing them in an atmosphere of iridescent implication.

Because critics fail to recognize that the implied author’s lyricism complements
her portrayal of her characters by suggesting where (imaginatively and intellectually)
they might be, while her realistic transcription of their everyday language shows where

they are (under the thumb of white society), they deny that Sebbar’s works belong to

“quality literature” and also attack the slang she uses. Ménager is not the first critic to

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comment on Sebbar’s attempts to transcribe the language of the young people she
depicts. Déjeux’s irony is apparent from the use of scare quotes (which signal a word or
phrase as representing an aberrant, nai've, inferior or unacceptable concept or way of
using language, creating ironic distance) in the following citations: “L’ auteur demeure
‘branchée’ sur ces jeunes gens qui jouent parfois aux ‘révolutionnaires’” (Déjeux 955);
“Comme par hasard, i1 s’agit d’une radio libre ‘branchée.’ [...] Shégzade. l7 an_s. frisée.
brunealsiclles veux verts est indubitablement un roman ‘branché’” (Jay “Shérazade” 94).
But, not all critics condemn her style in the Shérazade trilogy: Bei'da Chikhi calls it “une
langue nouvelle, active, dont le rythme et les formulations interpellent différemment les
lecteurs” (449),97 and Christiane Achour praises the “lyrisme” that might keep the
readers’ attention in Fatima ou les Algériennesau snug (Dim 186).

Sebbar has commented on the “style oral” of her early works, and by extension,
on the “hip” language that her characters speak. She defends herself magnificently:
“‘Dans votre écriture, vous semblez exprimer, au sens littéral, ce qui n’est souvent que de
l’oral.’ ‘C’est ce que je cherche. Ce n’est pas de l’oral écrit. C’est plutot, a la maniere de
Céline, quoique dans un autre registre, restituer l’émotion de l’oral, mais d’un oral
intérieur’” (Interview with Ballenfat 6). Why can Zola, Céline and Queneau, for
example, be included in the “canon,” and praised for their style (which contains
“popular” and “oral” language), while Sebbar is attacked for it? Is it because they are
dead white men? Regardless of their ethnic background, Sebbar’s critics fail to appreciate
the hybrid language of her texts. Instead of concentrating on the richness of her style,
and on her remarkable ability to master all levels of the French language, her reviewers

see only what appears on the surface during a rapid reading, a fashionable veneer of

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popular youth culture, which causes them to question the quality of her works (cf.
Clifford 10).

Not only is the allegedly excessive and unrepresentative reality of Sebbar’s texts
the main target of criticism, but so are the mention of art and “high culture” that appears
in the first two Shérazade novels. Salim Jay criticizes Shérazade’s avid desire to read
Francophone novels as implausible.98 His condescending tone indiates that he, as Beur
writer, knows more than Sebbar does, and that she should not attribute such lofty
characteristics to Shérazade. In the same vein of disapproval, other critics in France
have found fault with the “high” culture mentioned in the Shérazade trilogy, labeling it as
orientalist. In his review of Les CLmets de Shérazfi, Jean Déjeux states: “Mais cette
‘Beur,’ pour employer ce terme, en connait un peu trop; elle serait pour ainsi dire trop
cultivée, et ainsi trop fabriquée sur le plan de la fiction littéraire. Ces _C_a_m§£§ sont en
somme un moyen pour rafrai‘chir la mémoire des Francais sur leur passe ‘oriental”’
(881)?9 Bei‘da Chikhi merely comments (rather neutrally) on Shérazade’s interest in art
and literature: “Shéhérazade [sic] est, en plus, amateur d’art et de belles lettres. Elle
puise dans tous les répertoires” (449). But Denise Brahimi sees Shérazade’s “devouring”
of books as a positive aspect of the novel: “l’originalité de Shérazade est d’étre une
lectrice achamée” (166). Actually, the minority child as an avid consumer of her/his
adoptive culture is commonplace. Assimilation is the highest form of compliment.
Shérazade’s originality lies in her ability to absorb both canonical French literature and
Francophone Maghrebian literature. Her reading interests truly demonstrate her
hybridity: they indicate that her identity inseparably blends both French and Maghrebian

cultures.

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Shérazade evokes the demeaning orientalist cliché of the odalisques only to
demonstrate by implication how radically the young Beurette transcends it. I refer to
Eugene Delacroix’s “Femmes d’Alger dans leur appartement,” a “locus classicus” of
orientalist critique, and the title of a novel by Assia Djebar. Shérazade even takes the
book with her in her “bibliotheque portative” as she prepares for her journey to Algeria
(Shérazade 234) - a trip that will be aborted once she reaches Marseilles. Brahimi
interprets Shérazade’s fascination with this art as “bien plus que le développement d’une
forme de curiosité, c’est plutot comme une révélation.” (168). She sees it as a reminder
of colonial imperialism: . .le point d’appui de Shérazade est dans une certaine image du
Maghreb” (173); “Shérazade n’est pas une ‘odalisque modeme,’ ce qui ne voudrait pas
dire grand-chose. Mais les odalisques sont le signe qu’elle n’est pas une fille sans passé,
sortie de rien” (174). Therefore, the association between Shérazade and the painted
odalisques can be interpreted in two different ways: either as an excessive, unrealistic
fabrication that was invented to remind French people, wistfully, of their “glorious”
orientalist and colonial past, or as a symbol of the schism between colonial past and post-
colonial present/future. To attack Sebbar for her “orientalism” is insidiously to
reintroduce its phantom presence as a way of disparaging and restraining a Beur author.
But Sebbar’s Shérazade represents everything the odalisques were not able to be and
everything they could not have. Shérazade lives on the margins of society, she is
uninhibited, and gives herself the freedom to move around the city (Paris in Shérazade),
the oppressor’s country, France (in Les Camets), and the world, more specifically Israel
and Lebanon (in Le Fou de Shérazfle).loo In eventually returning to the city, and the

’9’

“cite where her family lives, Shérazade is reinstated into society, but as a much more

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educated, more sophisticated, worldly-wise young woman. She symbolizes a new kind
of modernity, one able to learn from tradition: “A travers elle, on percoit un aspect
bouleversant du monde d’aujourd’hui: et si la vie des petites Algériennes comme elle
était devenue un des hauts lieux du tragique modeme?” (Brahimi 170). “Tragique,”
here, is used by Brahimi in the sense of the classical genre, renovated and refashioned in
the Bonnie and Clyde style (171), centered on marginal characters.

There is a definite break between tradition and modernity in the Shérazade
trilogy, best exemplified in the generation gap that divides Shérazade and her friends in
the squat from their parents. The Beur generation restlessly endeavors to find its identity.
Its nomadism is personified in Shérazade, who wants to understand her North African
heritage as it is represented by Delacroix and other orientalist painters. She travels
around France to see the paintings mentioned in Les Carnets de Shérazade. She
gradually understands colonial impositions of (French) men on (native North African)
women as she explores various museums. Her desire not to be a contemporary odalisque
is sharpened whenever she sees a nineteenth-century odalisque on canvas.

Shérazade and the odalisques are connected indirectly. Every time someone
attempts to represent Shérazade as an odalisque, the attempt is thwarted (cf. J ulien and
the porn photographer’s attempts at photographing Shérazade). The person who comes
the closest to seeing Shérazade as an odalisque is the most non-threatening character,
Gilles. His gaze is at first objective when he sees the young woman; it then becomes
subjective, but not perverse: he merely expresses surprise and slight discontent as he sees
the young women asleep on the front seat of his truck. His gaze sees and the reader

imagines Shérazade’s body, but any attempt at seeing Shérazade’s body as exciting or

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erotic is immediately interrupted. For example, instead of seeing her hair as long, shiny
and sexy, it is presented as shiny because it is greasy and dirty; and viewing the young
woman on “skai” (a cheap imitation of leather) detracts from the sexual enticement of the
odalisques’s silky, intimate, cushiony surroundings in high art.
11 avait vu tout tres vite, d’abord les mains posées en croix sur le bord du siege,
des mains fines et brunes, mais pas a cause du soleil. ll remarqua les joues aux
pommettes saillantes, les boucles noires sur le front, une bouche enfantine dans le
sommeil. [...] Les cheveux brillaient parce qu’ils étaient sales. [...] Dans son
camion, a Marseille dans les docks, il y a une fille endormie, une inconnue. Elle
dort en chien de fusil [i.e. on her side, with her knees drawn toward her chin]. On
voit mal sa bouche renflée a cause de la position du visage sur le skai' du siege
molletonné. Elle a de longues paupieres bistres orientales. Ses yeux seront noirs.
Elle est jeune, trés jeune. (Les Carnets l3)
Christiane Achour notices that although Shérazade’s vulnerable position is indeed the one
of an odalisque, it can never be superimposed on the nineteenth-century painted
odalisques: “la premiere vision [. . .] est celle d’une jeune fille endormie dans un camion:
clin d’ocil a l’odalisque aussitot déconstruit par les differences de posture. ‘Elle a de
longues paupieres bistre, orientales. Ses yeux sont noirs,’ suppose le camionneur. Pieds
nus... mais dans les tennis” (D_iwar_i 195). Francoise Lionnet mentions the same passage
twice (“Narrative Strategies” 69 and Postcolonial Representations, 182), and posits: “the
text presents and dismantles the mechanisms through which she [Shérazade] became
aware of the conventions that surround the representation of odalisques” (Postcolonial

Representations 182). Instead of seeing the odalisques simply as reminders of the French

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orientalist past, Lionnet pictures them as a more abstract representation of the male gaze,
and concentrates on the “narrative journey” (167) that Shérazade undergoes to
“deconstruct European history and the cultural stereotypes it has served to transmit since
the beginning of the colonial era” (186). Lionnet is referring not to contemporary
cultural stereotypes, but to historical stereotypes imposed and promulgated by the
dominant colonial culture. Both kinds of stereotypes (traditional and modern) point to
the double bind in which the Beurs and their ancestors are placed by a dominant culture.
However, if viewed as a means to understand power, historical stereotypes (in
Shérazade’s case, the odalisque) provide an escape, and Shérazade is able to thwart
contemporary attempts to stereotype the exotic woman (the examples are again Julien and
the photographer’s desire to depict Shérazade as an “updated” odalisque).

Other critics in the United States have discussed the “high” culture in Sebbar’s
works as a post—modem, post-colonial subversion of the male gaze as an orientalist
fantasy (cf. Donadey, Merini, Hayes). Shérazade subverts and reappropriates this gaze.
In so doing, she affirms her identity as a Beurette. Therefore, the references to orientalist
painters and writers (such as Delacroix, Matisse, and Fromentin) are not included in the
narrative merely as some kind of perverse “reminder” of French hegemonic rule, but as a
rewriting of history as a “palimpseste” and a gateway to post—colonialism (Donadey). For
Merini, they are a subversion of the culture of voyeurism, and for Hayes, a
“deconstruction [of] the resistance/opposition distinction by incorporating both into her
[Sherazade’s] battle with the identity police” (216).’°'

On the other hand, Sebbar’s motives for evoking the orientalist novels and

paintings in her works are not only historical, but personal; through the images,

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Shérazade seeks her mother; she is forced to discover the past and reconcile it with the
present. Sebbar stated: “[Shérazade] ne s’intéresse pas a la peinture. Elle découvre une
certaine peinture qui intéresse Julien. C’est sa mere transposée dans la peinture
orientaliste. Elle découvre quelque chose de son peuple par J ulien” (Personal interview,
19 June 1998). The apprenticeship of colonial history that Shérazade undergoes is linked
to the popular, peripheral milieu where she grew up; the two cannot be separated from
each other because they eventually form Shérazade’s identity. Both history and milieu
are an integral part of Shérazade’s journey, and they are represented by the “high”
cultural references (paintings, novels) and “low” cultural references (songs and films)
that Shérazade encounters. The very point of Sebbar’s apparently incongruous mixture
of high and low culture is the dynamic interaction of the two registers, which allows her
work to elude our constraining expectations. Most critics have failed to examine the
“low” or “popular” cultural references and the intricate dimensions they add to a potential
interpretation. Critics in France have dismissed the popular culture and language as the
author’s attempts to appear “branchée,” without questioning the ideas behind it and
without examining the effect these cultural references might have on potential readers.
Dina Sherzer is the first critic to mention that popular and high cultures can be
interwoven harmoniously in Shérazade and Les Camets de Shérazade. She examines the
effects of all levels of intertextuality in the two novels — concentrating mostly on the
“orientalist” paintings and nineteenth century novels that interest Shérazade and other
characters. In her view, the texts were written for both Beur and French audiences:

Pour les Beurs leur lecture est une expe’rience valorisante puisqu’elle leur restitue

un passé, une culture, une mémoire, et un ancrage dans la vie francaise. [...] Pour

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les Francais ces textes sont un voyage de découverte et de redécouverte, [. . .] ils

sont amenés a se rendre compte de l’importance et de la signification de

l’orientalisme, a se souvenir de faits historiques cachés, ou présentés d’une facon

tendancieuse (30).
Sebbar’s texts present not only popular cultural references and lexicon, but orality as
well. Her use of passages of slang and orality forms part of a deliberately polyphonic
discourse larded with literary intertexts and allusions. Francoise Lionnet mentions the
“use of orality” and claims that “Sebbar tries to make orality intervene in the written,
thereby infusing the narrative with the everydayness of the spoken, with an idiolect that is
more or less recognizable to the reader, depending on the latter’s position with respect to
the microculture that is this being brought forth” (Postcolonial representatgms 186). She
concludes that the inscription of spoken language in written form is a positive aspect of
the text, as something that “maps out a narrative strategy that establishes a dialogue
between ‘high’ and ‘low’ culture, between the written record and popular experience,
bringing together disparate, often antagonistic traditions and thus proposing a creative
alternative to the polarizing and exclusionary approaches of dialectical thinking” (186).
Both Sherzer and Lionnet see the different levels of culture and language as valuable,
complementary aspects of the Shérazade trilogy, and as forming a coherent, lyrical
whole.'°2

Sebbar’s future plans include continuing to write short stories: “J c m’apercois que
c’est la nouvelle qui me convient le mieux” (Ballenfat 7). She will continue to write
about human rights, about the horrors of wars, and to speak out for those who cannot

write: “Tant qu’il existera des femmes privées de droits -- hommes ou femmes d’ailleurs

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——, on doit s’inscrire en faux contre ca. C ’est cette position simple, évidente, que je
continue a tenir, qui me parait si claire a avoir” (6). She will always fight for the
underprivileged and the underrepresented peoples. Because of her own internal exile, the
ethnicity of her characters will never be monocultural, her “engagement” will always be
for those located in the third space of culture, and the art will always be hybrid forms of
both high and popular icons.'03 Instead of seeing her works as “inferior” because they do
not represent litarary critics’ agendas, we should see in Sebbar’s texts a clever
“‘deforrnation of mastery,’ a vemacularism, based on the enunciation of the subject [in
this case, the Beur nation] as ‘never a simple coming into being, but a release from being
possessed” (Bhabha 241). The language and cultural representations Sebbar places in her
texts demonstrate their métissage: the representation of the Beurs contributes to the
realization that France is indeed a multicultural society, and its citizens “de souche” must
learn to accept ethnic others instead of imposing a monolithic French culture on them.
They must “reweave [their] webs of beliefs to take account of the other” (Mailloux 7),

because the Beurs and other immigrants are there to stay.

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Conclusion

Portraying the evolution of multicultural youths, Sebbar’s works of the 19808
present a positive, energetic generation, seeking to understand its colonized past, in eager
anticipation of its future. Nowhere is this optimism more present than in her work
Generation Métisse, a semi-fictional commentary on pictures of French immigrants and
Beurs. The photos, taken by a Senegalese photographer in the late seventies and eighties,
are arranged in chronological order, starting with more somber photos of North African
immigrants as they silently demonstrate, protesting the death of Abdeni Guemiah, who
was “accidentally” shot by a drunken shopkeeper in the northern suburbs of Paris (13).
Pictures on the next few pages follow the similar motif of the “manifestation silencieuse,”
where solidarity against police brutality and random shootings of North Africans is
evidenced. Photos of the “Marche pour l’égalité” are presented as a reaction against
racism, a celebration of multiculturalism, and finally, as a catalyst for inspiration of
artists from all backgrounds. At the end of the book, Sebbar’s comments celebrate
cultural “métissage” by juxtaposing a photo of a smiling young woman whose body is
painted, next to whom is a poster stating “Vaincre les peurs de l’an 2000: ‘Conférence
Publique’” (119), with a statement strongly demonstrating that the Beurs are an integral
part of France: “115 disent au monde qu’ils sont la pour toujours, que ce monticule
dissimulé est leur terre, leur base, parce qu’ils ont cessé d’errer dans le malheur.
Désormais leur nomadisme [. . .] est un nomadisme heureux, fécond, parce qu’il affirrne
son métissage” (118). In sum, “La generation métisse est celle des années 80, celle de

l’identité en gestation permanente, généreuse, ouverte, nourrie des idéaux fratemels et

planétaires, gagnée aux causes les plus nobles, emportée par la défense chaleureuse et

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vive de l’égalité des chances, chantant la marche de la jeunesse vers une France du
‘melting pot’” (Bekri 43).

The concept of “métissage” as Sebbar defines it coincides with Francoise
Lionnet’s definition of the same word: “‘Métissage’ [. . .] is the site of undecidability and
indeterminacy, where solidarity becomes the fundamental principle of political action
against hegemonic languages” (Autobiographical Voices 6). It is precisely solidarity that
allows minorities to unite not only against monolithic language, but also culture. Lionnet
continues “it quickly becomes obvious how subversive the very idea of ‘métissage’ —
biological and cultural — can be” (12). A written style like Sebbar’s that emphasizes both
linguistic and cultural “métissage,” can also resist traditional, imperialistic impositions:
“In this constant and balanced form of interaction, [transculturation], reciprocal relations
prevent the ossification of culture and encourage systematic change and exchange. [. . .] A
linguistic and rhetorical approach to the complex question of ‘métissage’ thus points to
the ideological and fictional nature of our racial [and ethnic] categories while underlining
the relationship between language and culture” (16). In her fictional works of the 19803,
and in Generation Métisse, Sebbar precisely treats cultural, linguistic and racial (or
physical) “métissage;” she affirms their mutually reinforcing validity and praises them as
they are manifest in France’s youth, as the future of the French Republic. Sebbar’s
optimistic views on immigration and its aftermath in the 1980s can be summarized in the
following quote by Emmanuelle Saada regarding the study of physical “métissage” (also
applicable to cultural “métissage”): “les débats sur le métissage indiquent qu’il s’agit

plutot de logiques complémentaires que contradictoires” (95).

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Since the 19803, Sebbar’s optimistic opinions on Beurs’ assertion of their
métissage by “un nomadisme heureux” (Generation Métisse 118) have been transformed
into a darker, more pessimistic acceptance of the impossibility of integration that
immigrants and their children must face in contemporary France. Her recent comments
directly contradict those she wrote in Gen—ération Métisse in 1988. When questioned
about the expression “métis heureux” in 1997, Sebbar answered “‘on peut étre heureux au
bout d’un certain temps parce qu’on a fait quelque chose dans l’exil.’ Mais que le
métissage rende heureux? Elle en doute. ‘Non, il rendrait plutot malheureux. Car, entre
la France, l’Europe, l’Algérie, [. . .] c’est une vieille histoire de violence. Et dans la
violence, il n’y a pas d’abord le bonheur’” (Sebbar in Achour, “Rencontre” 221). Five
years earlier, in an interview conducted in 1992 and 1993 and published in 1995, she also
insisted on the (personal) importance of cultivating exile: “Pourquoi faudrait-i1 toujours
étre dans la souffrance et la douleur? J’ai du plaisir dans l’exil. 11 me fait écrire. L’exil
qui n’est pas réfléchi en permanence, est meurtricr” (“L’Exil et la fiction” 239).
Therefore, if one sees exile (and, by extension, immigration) as a challenge that can
encourage creativity, one can transcend the negative forces that undermine one’s
freedom. However, Sebbar acknowledges that creativity is perhaps only an idealized
form of escape: “Je crois que la creation — s’il y a un avenir pour une création métisse —
est un lieu ideal” (“Paris” 93). For Sebbar, writing seems the only escape. But what is
the solution for those who do not have the gift of writing (or any other creative way out),
who are stuffed into bidonvilles and HLMs?

Jean—Loup Amselle, in his study of both physical and cultural métissage,

addresses the question. He asks: “Une politique sociale plus active de resorption des

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inégalite’s, plutot qu’une politique multiculturelle, serait-elle a méme de résoudre le
probleme du racisme dans notre pays?” (45). He anwers by explaining what the problem
is, and by proposing an alternative, optimistic solution:
Toute politique de découpage ou de zonage de quartiers difficiles ou de zones
d’éducation prioritaire ne peut que contribuer a renforcer les poches de handicaps,
ou d’exclusion positive, en somme a exhiber la difference. Faire dispara’itre les
frontieres et les barrieres entre les groupes en les mixtant socialement, tel parait
étre le seul moyen de contrer la racialisation a l’oeuvre dans le cadre de la
globalisation (46).
Since the 19803, Sebbar precisely illustrates a thwarted attempt at integration, specifically
the mixing of “blanc” with “Beur” in her short story “La Jeune fille au juke-box,” and
shows that it can have disastrous if not deadly consequences. When racism and
discrimination kill, the vicious cycle of retaliation begins (Sebbar ends her short story
before this happens; however, retaliation against the police and the bourgeoisie definitely
appears in her other works, especially Shérazade). Not only literature but also
sociological studies warn of such reprisals. Azouz Begag and Reynald Rossini, in their
study Du bonujsage de lad—istance chez les 8311M, state
la question de l’intégration sociale et urbaine persiste et gagne en acuité dans les
villes. Pis encore, elle se double a présent d’une dimension ethnique, dans la
mesure oil les phénoménes d’exclusion dans les quartiers sensibles touchent une
population francaise d’origine immigrée, visible (Africains, Antillais,
Maghrébins), de plus en plus importante, et de plus en plus discriminée dans

l’espace public central” ( 15).

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The young people belonging to these specific ethnic backgrounds
n’ont plus de reperes dans la société, [. . .] ‘transportent’ la ou ils vont leur
sentiment d’étre des exclus, qui sont en reaction permanente par rapport aux
autres populations dans les espaces publics, toujours en décalage quant aux regles
de la citoyenneté et de l’autorité. Ils ont la haine nomade. On les retrouve
souvent impliqués dans des conflits ou la demonstration physique sert d’argument
d’affirrnation sociale, a défaut d’autres moyens d’expression, comme 1e langage
par exemple (25).
This hate, when internalized, provokes “sentiments d’injustice et de discrimination [. . .]
violents adressés a une société ou ils ne percoivent pas leur place” (26), and is vented
through vandalism, intimidation, and aggression, especially in public spaces (bus and
metro). Their language likewise becomes, to borrow a term from bell hooks, “a place of
struggle” (l6). Sebbar exemplifies this “place of struggle” in the language she uses in her
fictional works of the 19803 (both in the narrator’s and the characters’ voices). The lack
of accepted physical, social and linguistic space for the young Beurs problematizes their
identity, and their sense of “belonging nowhere” stifles their ability to be creative and
productive. However, their process of becoming (and eventually belonging) could be
positive, although the space for such a process has not yet been carved out: “Quand on
parle de nomadisme ou d’errance, d’une autre maniere de vivre l’exil, je crois qu’on parle
d’un lieu qui n’existe pas encore. Il n’y a pas encore de terre” (Sebbar, “Paris” 93). It is
up to the French people and their government to integrate openness and understanding of
where the Beurs are coming from and where they are going before mutual respect can be

established in both camps. Sebbar’s characters exemplify the first stages of becoming,

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but have not arrived at the stage of belonging, precisely because most often, they are
running away from their parents’ “home.” In P_arle, mon fils,parle 5&1 mere, Fatima_ou
les Algériennes au saaiaLe, the Sherazade trilogy, and “La jeune fille au juke-box” (and
others that are not included in this study, such as Le Chinois vert d’Afrique and LI_l_.
cherche ame soeur), all of the Beur characters run away from home. To explain why her
heroines are always on the run, Sebbar claims “[Shérazade] part contre l’asphyxie. [. . .]
Ce désir de fugue correspond a un désir de liberté aussi, bien sfir” (“L’exil” 239). In
portraying characters who are already socially marginal in liminal spaces, she is setting
them up for further victimization. However, the Beurs’ marginal space (physical, social
and linguistic) can become one of “radical openness,” and understanding the margins as a
“place of resistance is crucial for oppressed, exploited, colonized people” (21).

At the moment, the “banlieusards” still resort to violence to express their
discontent at being marginalized; this problem has not changed in the past twenty years.
The attempt at celebrating multiculturalism in France has been suppressed and has given
way, unfortunately, to the same crude, brutal modes of separation between immigrants
and the rest of the population that existed in the 19603. Perhaps the exuberance of the
19803 will eventually return. Let us hope that next time it will generate actual
understanding between those in the margins and those in the center, to provide the
opportunity for cultural barriers to be transcended, if not destroyed, and for linguistic,
social and cultural “métissage” to begin anew.

In describing both the positive and negative sides of the métissage of Beur
culture, Sebbar situates the future of integration as uncertain. Her works of fiction and

non-fiction depict various schemes of possibilities that “Frangais de souche,” immigrants,

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Beurs, and the government must cope with and face. The long-term repercussions of
colonialism will not be forgotten, and the physical, social and linguistic barriers that exist
between the margins and the center will remain indefinitely unless all parties strive for a
better understanding of the other. Will interactions between the center and the margins of
society disintegrate? Sebbar’s final answer to this question is optimistic: “En tout cas,
[l’immigration] est dynamique. Je ne sais pas si c’est positif, l’avenir 1e dira” (“Entretien

avec Leila Sebbar” 7).

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Appendix

171

A NOTE ON ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF SEBBAR’S FICTION

Three of Sebbar’s works have been translated into English: Shérazade (as
Shérazade, Missing, Aged 11, Dark Curly Hair, Green Eyes), Le Silence des Rives (g
Silence on the Shores) and the collection of short stories she edited, Une Enfance
algérienne (as An Algerian Childhood). The last two are written in an entirely different
style, and although they treat the topics of exile and being caught between two countries,
their cultural references are not as specific as the ones in Shérazade. In examining the
English translation of Shérazade, the following questions arise: how do the different
levels of language translate? Does the division between high and low cultures subsist
once the book is translated? Would a reader unfamiliar with the French pop culture of
the 19803 derive the same meaning from Sebbar's book, or would the message of the
desirability of integration and cultural hybridity be lost?

Unlike the original French edition of Shérazade, the English translation contains a
glossary and an introduction at the beginning of the book. The glossary lists words that
might be unfamiliar to a reader of English, or even a reader of French. Words that
French readers would know, like “Beur,” are explained, as are certain words in Arabic,

’9 66

like “fouta,” “kanoun, medresa” and “willaya,” that are not explained in the French
Shérazadem There are additional footnotes throughout the English translation
explaining certain aspects of the vocabulary and culture with which a both a reader of
French and of English could be unaware. For example, there is a note explaining

9’ ‘6

“autonomes: . . .they played at ‘Indians,’ the name given to the Italian Autonomes”
(44), “autonomes, an extreme left-wing group in the 19703. See also note on p. 69.

(Trans.)” (Shérazade, Missiyg 44). “Autonomes” is explained later in more detail: “This

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untranslatable expression derives from the extreme left-wing group in the 1970’s, the
Autonomes. They called thefts, burglaries, etc. for which they were responsible ‘auto-
réduction,’ claiming that they were returning to the poor riches [that] should have been
theirs by right. (Trans.)” (69). The translator’s note adds an extra element to the text,
one that might be ignored when one reads the original. If a reader were not familiar with
Italian “Autonomes,” the allusion would simply go unnoticed. If a reader became
conscious of the specific allusion, he or she would be aware not only of the political
dimension of the hold-up, but also of its parodic nature. Because the English translation
includes additional information that the original edition does not, the reader of the
English edition would gain insights that a French reader might miss.

An additional example of the usefulness of the translator’s footnote is when “La
Redoute, Les Trois Suisses, La Camif” (Shérazade 195) are mentioned in the French
version, there is no need for an explanation, because they are mail-order department

stores that most people living in France have heard of, if not used. In Shérazade

 

MiLsigg, a footnote explains that they are “all mail-order catalogues. The first two for
the general public. CAMIF — ‘Coopérative d’Achat Mutuelle d’Instituteurs de France,’ a
cooperative for the sole benefit of teachers in government posts” (210). It is necessary
for the readers to be aware of what the catalogs are, because there is an ironic comparison
of the mail-order catalogs and a catalog of “une exposition retrospective de Matisse de
1956” (195). Julien avidly scrutinizes the Matisse catalog “comme on lit un bottin ou un
catalogue de La Redoute, des Trois Suisses, de la Cm, quand ca ne va pas tres bien et
qu’on se calme en décortiquant une page écrite, n’importe laquelle avec minutie, dans

l’obsession du moindre détail” (195). In reading a vintage catalog of an art exhibit as one

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would read a mail-order catalog, Sebbar is juxtaposing “high” art with everyday objects,
but both can be objects of envy. The reader is already aware of Julien’s obsession with
oriental art (especially languorously represented odalisques), and a reader might compare
it with longing for objects from a mail-order catalog — a modern desire for material goods
in a post—colonial, late capitalist society. In essence, the comparison of catalogs is a
parody of Julien’s obsession. Sebbar is poking fun both at his colonial longing for
paintings representing langourous women, and post-colonial bourgeois capitalism, as is
obvious from both the original and the translation. Therefore, the Indie and parodic
nature of allusions is not lost in translation.

However, the reference to paintings, songs and different language levels in
translation might escape the reader. Movie titles are left in French (161, 275), probably
because they are familiar to most British readers (they are still available for purchase in
Britain). The movies mentioned (“Pierrot le Fou” and “A bout de souffle”) represent for
Sebbar “une derive lyrique et meutriere de toute une génération” (Personal Interview, 19
June 1998). Painting titles are translated into English and no reference is made to the
original title in French, but the reader could easily reference the painting because the
artists’ names are next to the painting title. The only painting whose artist is not
mentioned (in either the French or English translation) is “L’Ouvrier mort” (262) (“The
Death of a Worker” [282]). It is unlikely that a casual reader would take the time to look
up the paintings Sebbar mentions, but it is obvious, by their titles in either French of
English, that most of them represent a colonial, masculinist gaze on native North African

women, and that Shérazade’s successful attempts at subverting this gaze that French men

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still attempt to impose on her reflects a partial triumph (at least in literature) of Beur
agency.

The references to popular culture are more problematic. If a reader were
unfamiliar with French popular culture of the 1980’s, he or she would merely think that
Shérazade has encounters with varying kinds of cultures (high and low, Arab and
French); but if the reader were familiar with such popular culture, the mention of songs
would bring about a certain nostalgia -- just as the mention of Godard’s movies is
symbolic to an entire generation of anti-capitalist idealists. In citing movies and songs,
Sebbar tries to appeal to several generations at once. In the English version, the painting
and movie references retain their meaning, but the songs (“11 est cinq heures, Paris
s’éveille,” “Chacun fait c’qui lui plait” and “Couleur menthe a l’eau”) lose their
culturally specific allusive significance because their translated lyrics are more than
likely unfamiliar to English readers. The names of radio stations are also translated into
English (except “Radio-Beur,” [33]). Again, if the reader were familiar with Parisian
radio stations in France of the early 1980’s, s/he would realize that they were actual radio
stations (Personal Interview, 19 June 1998). In reading the English translation, the reader
would not know whether or not they were real or fictitious radio stations, but would
realize that Parisian radio stations are quite diverse, and that Shérazade is familiar with
most of them: “Radio Beurs, Paris 106.1 MHz, [...] Radio-Libertarian, Paris 84.5 MHz,
[...] Rock Boulevard, Paris 94.6 MHz, [.. .] Judaic, Paris 103.35 MHz (33). In thus
acknowledging that Shérazade’s interests transcend her North African background,

Sebbar once again vindicates a multicultural society that transcends ethnicity.

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The final contrast between the original Shérazade and its translation is the
difficulty in translating slang. Because slang constantly changes, evolves, and falls out of
use, it is especially difficult to transpose that particular level of language from French to
English. An additional dimension of the English translation is that it was done by a
British professor, Dorothy Blair, and published by a British press. Slang is not only
specific to time, but also to place. It can vary from one country to another, from one
region to another, and from one ethnic group to another within the same region. It is
therefore up to the translator to negotiate a language that is closest to the original without
deterring meaning. Blair has done a remarkable job of translating Shérazade into British
English. Although it is intended primarily for a British audience, readers from North
America, for example, would understand most of the novel. The differences that might
escape a non-British readership are minor and do not impede the reader’s understanding
of the novel. Therefore, reading Shérazade in English can both detract from the original,
and illuminate and complement the original. The glossary and translator’s notes add
extra facets to understanding the multiple meanings and interpretations of Shérazade.

Translating a novel from one language to the next removes certain aspects of the
original but enriches others. Perhaps some of the allusions would be overlooked without
endnotes, but the meaning of Sebbar's works transcends national barriers. Her works do
not present a utopic picture of the world, but they can foster cultural understanding - an
understanding that has been misinterpreted by some critics. This leads to the question of
why Sebbar’s works became more “lyrical” and accepted by critics after the 1990’s,
when she started moving away from representing Beurs and toward other ethnic horizons.

It is also necessary to question why Sebbar is criticized for using the unconventional

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language of the Beurs when it is acceptable for male authors such as Zola, Céline and
Queneau to use lower levels of language and represent the working classes. Studying the
differences between a writer’s expectations about his or her works and reader’s reactions
expose conflicts between what the author had in mind and from how a work is interpreted
once it escapes into the public domain. But taking into account the writer’s ideas about
his or her works can deepen the reader’s understanding of why the author has written
about certain topics.

Unlike critics who try to force Sebbar to be either Beur or non-Beur on the
national plane, translators try to present her as both exotic and familiar on the
international plane. Although she is pleased that her works have been translated into
several languages and have received critical acclaim both in France and in other
countries, she is familiar neither with translations of her works nor literary criticism
pertaining to her works. She indicated that she was not concerned with what literary
critics think about her works, although she expressed dismay that Les Carnets de
Shérazade was out of print: “Si j’étais a l’université, je lirais les articles et les theses sur
mon oeuvre. Je ne m’intéresse pas a ce que les critiques disent sur moi. [. . .] Je ne
comprends pas pourquoi l’éditeur [Stock] n’imprime plus Les Camets. Ce n’est pas tres
logique, parce qu’on peut toujours acheter Shérazade et Le Fou de Shérazade. Les
C_a_me_ts, il faut le trouver en bibliotheque, et c’est tout de méme important dans la
trilogie” (Personal Interview, 19 June 1998). Again, her comments indicate that what an
author’s expectations about urgency and logic to publish his or her works can be far

removed from a publisher’s idea about marketing and sales.

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Notes

' Parallels can be drawn between the Pre—Columbian/Mexican/Chicano peoples and the Berber/Arab/"Beur"
peoples. Gloria Anzaldr’ra‘s seminal work Borderlands/La Frontera explains the migration. colonization,
and immigration of those peoples who are still considered underclass or second-class citizens today by the
"majority" (i.e. by Americans and, French -- the irony in this is that historically. both the United States and
France were populated by immigrants). Anzaldt’ia's cry for understanding and re3pect is channeled by the
desire to examine her roots and carve out her own physical and cultural space, as is Sebbar’s.

2 As defined by Deleuze and Guattari in Kafka: pou_r une littérgare mineug, a minor literature is defined as
having three attributes: “Une littérature mineure n’est pas celle d’une langue mineure, plutot celle qu’une
minorité fait dans une langue majeure. Mais le premier caractere est de toute faqon que la langue y est
affectée d’un fort coefficient de déterritorialisation. [. ..] Le second caractere des littératures mineures,
c’est que tout y est politique. [. . .] Le troisieme caractere. c’est que tout prend une valeur collective” (29-
31).

3 Throughout her interview with Monique Hugon, “Leila Sebbar ou l’exil productif,” Sebbar explicitly
addresses the political issues of cultural separation, the forging of one’s identity in exile. and the
marginalization of North African immigrant women. Her leftist political views are apparent in the fact that
she is not in favor of American capitalist culture (Personal Interview, 19 June 1998) and that her works are
published by leftist journals such as Liberation and Sans Frontieres. Cultural “métissage” is most apparent
in the choices of art, literature and music that her characters prefer. Her work Generation métisse also
exemplifies and extols cultural blending. She has only briefely commented on the different levels of
language that appear in her works (see endnote 10).

 

’ Sebbar’s 1981 novel Fatima ou les Algériennes au guare also introduces Beur characters to Franc0phone
readers; however, the plot does not center on Beurs, but mainly on first-generation immigrants.

5 "Chaque fois que j'ai a parler de moi écrivant des livres, j'ai a me situer dans mon métissage, a répéter que
le francais est ma langue matemelle. a expliquer en quoi je ne suis pas immigrée, ni Beur, mais simplement
en exil... [...] Je ne suis pas un écrivain maghrébin d'expression francaise... Je ne suis pas une Francaise de
souche." (Lettres Parisiennes 125-126)

6 The term 'Beur' was created in the 1980’s by an inversion of the consonants in “Arabe.” Such inversion
characterizes a common form of slang called “Verlan.” "Verlan" means "l'envers," a type of slang where
the consonants or syllables are inverted; for example, "bizarre" becomes "zarbi," "musique" becomes
"ziquemu," "femme" becomes "meuf." At times there is even a "verlan" of "verlan" (or reverlanization):
"Beur," becomes “reub” or “robeu;” "flic" becomes "keuf', then "feuk," and so on.

7 For an excellent documentary about the immigrants and their history, see Yamina Benguigui's
documentary Mémoires d'immigrés: l’héritage maghrébin. Canal +, 1998.

8 It is interesting to note that Sebbar is also the first to treat immigrant women; the film industry is a bit
behind. Although it is not a feature film but a documentary, Yamina Benguigui's Mémoires d'immigrés
(1997) was the first film made by a Beur woman.

9 It is also necessary to mention films and their depiction of "Beurs." Carrie Tarr gives an excellent history
of "Beur" cinema in her article "Questions of identity in Beur cinema: from 'Tea in the Harem' to 'Cheb'.
She situates films that represent immigrants in two different types of categories, the first generation films
directed by French that depict the "miserabilism" in the 1960's and 1970's, i.e. that Arabs are depicted as
”the wretched passive victims of French racism," in films such as Mektoub in 1964, L'Autre France, 1974,
and Train d'enfer. as late as 1984, featuring the notable Roger Hanin (324). The second generation films
(those by immigrants about immigrants) do not start until 1984 with Abdelkrim Bahloul's Le The a la
menthe.

178

"’ When I asked Sebbar about her particular use of language, she was seemingly unaware of her mixing of
levels and styles. When I asked her about the written and spoken French she used indiscriminately and I
pointed out the example of "11 l'engueula," she said "Ah, oui, c'est vrai. Je n'avais pas remarque. Et vous
auriez rnis quoi, vous?" (Personal Interview, 19 June 1998)

” See Valerie Orlando's article, "A la Recherche du 'devenir femme‘ dans le troisieme espace de culture:
ShérazadeJ? ans. brune, frisée. les yeux verts." Women in French Studies 2 (1994): 19-31

'2 Although Batchelor and Offord use only three divisions of formality in language, they add that they have
"confined these register divisions to three, as being more practicable to handle although scholars in the field
often distinguish five." (6) The five registers they refer to are "(1) oratorical, or frozen; (2) deliberative, or
formal; (3) consultative; (4) casual; (5) intimate" (Bolinger and Sears 212). I too will limit my analysis to
three registers.

'3 The third volume of the Shérazade trilogy (Le Fou de Shérazadg, published in 1991, nine years after the
first Shérazade) and Sebbar's other works of fiction do not have the same style or cultural allusions as the
first two Shérazade volumes.

'4 The mixing of passe simple and curses or slang is not new in French literatures: see for example, g
Chiendent (1933) and Un rude hiver (1939) by Raymond Queneau. Also, Albert Camus’ L’Etranger
(1957) inaugurated the option of writing formal literary discourse in the “passe compose.” Camus contrasts
such discourse with the use of the “passe simple” as an index of hypocrisy and pretensions to privilege and
authority.

'5 For further analysis of Shérazade's flights, see Mildred Mortimer's "On the Road: Leila Sebbar's fugitive
Heroines." Research in African Literatures 23.2 (1992): 195-201.

 

'6 Bakhtin used the term “comic rejoinder” to analyze the macaronic verse from “Carmina Burana" and
other liturgical dramas. He claims “There, national languages often serve as a comic rejoinder, lowering
the lofty Latin portions of the drama” (79).

'7 Shérazade's physical displacements are even more frequent in Les Carnets de Shérazafi (she travels
around France with a truck driver) and in Le Fou de Shérazzfi (she is kidnapped and ends up in war-tom
Lebanon).

l8The significance of the color green (and of the other colors that appear in Shérazade) will be discussed in
the next chapter.

l9As we shall see in chapter two, inserting everyday acts such as urinating is part of Sebbar’s way of
making her text seem more real to its readers.

20 Nowadays, fast food restaurants, the ultimate symbol of impersonal capitalism, have resorted to false
"personalization" of their advertisements: Burger King’s “Have it your way" and McDonald's "My
McDonald's" (incidentally, this also extends to computers: "My Netscape" and "[1an Name Herel's
Bookmarks" are also insidious devices for creating a commercially profitable illusion of personalization in
an impersonal age of electronics). Perhaps those who make the advertisements think consumers will be
more willing to buy from them (instead of from a mom-and-pop restaurant) if they refrain from reminding
us that there are thousands of Burger Kings and McDonald's around the world.

2' "Mais chaque fois qu’il le fallait, Pierrot retrouvait une habilité manuelle qu'il n'avait pas perdue malgré
ses activités politiques et militantes. [...] On lui demandait d’enseigner aux autres la fabrication d'un
cocktail molotov mais aussi de petites bombes qu'il fallait savoir exactement doser" (Shérazade 42, 43)

22 Michel Toumier’s La Goutte d’or contains a similar motif in a homosocial vein. Also, John Berger’s

Ways of Seeing compares the depiction of women in classical paintings to modern advertisements: their
representation as sexual beings for the enjoyment of men has not changed much in hundreds of years.

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2" Cf. the opening scene of Quentin Tarrentino's film Jackie Brown, where the actor Samuel L. Jackson is
looking at a video tape of (illegal) guns for sale. They are presented by buxom models in bikinis adorned
with the American flag. There is a sense of perversion about the scene; do the huge guns somehow make
the women sexier. more appealing? Could the guns symbolize a large phallus in the fantasy of the
onlookers? Are they a symbol of man's desire to be dominated and taunted by women?

2" This is not the first time a Beur women is given the role of a prostitute. It would be interesting to do a
study on Beur women as prostitutes in literature and film; cf. Fatima ou les Algériennes au sguare, by
Sebbar, and a young Beurette in the movie Rail At least prostitutes' lives and jobs are not glamorized as
they were in the blockbuster film Pretty Woman (1990), featuring Julia Roberts and Richard Gere, and
flag; with Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland (1971).

 

25 There are, of course, other literary instances when women (or wives) seize the man's (or husband’s) role:
see Rachilde's nineteenth-century novel Monsieur Vénus. about a young woman who assumes a sadistic,
masculine role in the couple. At the end of the novel, she kills her lover and has his teeth and nails
extracted to become part of a mechanical sex doll.

2" “What seems like a whimsical journey is in fact meticulously planned by the heroine. Her route is the
exact itinerary of the famous 1983 Marche des Beurs that began in Marseilles and continued through Lyon,
Strasbourg, Lille, and finally ended in Paris. The Beurs’ pilgrimage was one of their first organized
movements and definitively solidified their identity, creating what is now known as the Beur Nation.”
(Orlando 171)

27 For a more complete analysis of the intertextuality of La chanson de Roland, see J .H. cherche ame soetar,
where Shérazade juxtaposes and transforms heroes of Western tradition (Roland) and Eastern tradition
(Jaffar). In Arabian and Persian literature, Jaffar is always the coward: he is Ali Baba's brother (the one
who secretly follows him into the cave and tries to steal its wealth. However, he forgets the magic words
he must say to open the cave door and is shut inside with the treasures. She creates a modern
transformation of the two heroes, who are doomed to fail. She thus deconstructs both mythologies.

28 Gilles perhaps perceives Shérazade's eyes as blue because they are by a river, and its water is reflected in
her eyes. As we shall see, water is a significant symbol for Shérazade. But her eyes change from their
natural color of green to blue, indicate her both the sudden changes of identity she assumes and the
different cultures that compose the make-up of her identity: green is a symbol closely associated with
Islam; blue, being the color of ink, is the color she uses to chronicle (in her "carnets") her experiences as
she travels throughout France. Although unaware that her eyes guard her from harm, Shérazade's eyes
seem to have that power. In Muslim culture, a small (or large) representation of a blue eye (the evil eye) is
one of the charms that is supposed to ward off harm. Muslims wear them around their necks or have them
hanging in their houses, hang them in their cars, etc. to protect themselves. The eye is blue because it is
traditionally considered to be the color of the eye of the foreigner or stranger. Thus, Shérazade's eyes, by
appearing to be blue, could be warding off any harmful intentions Gilles may have toward her. He merely
turns up the volume on the radio and Shérazade is unharmed.

29 "ll ne militait plus pour les pauvres, les immigrés, les opprimés de toutes les couleurs, il voulait pas
laisser sa peau pour de misérables negres qui voulaient encore étre des esclaves... Maintenant, disait-i1
dans un rire sonore en montrant ses habits, je suis un ‘dandy tropical’ et il parlait musique, look... Tout ce
que Pierrot et lui méprisaient..." (Les Carnets 96)

3“ Although Basile is portrayed as a “traitor” to the cause in Les Carnets, he is redeemed in Le Fou de
Shérazade. “Sebbar’s heroine encounters Basile in Jerusalem, where he is conducting research for a book
on the Falashas, a black Jewish tribe from Africa. Like Shérazade, Basile demonstrates his versatile
personality, the ease with which he transforms his identity, and his ability to migrate between cultures and
nationalities.” (Orlando 173). Also, his ability to change occupations (from militant socialist, to gigolo in
Shérazade, from dandy and head-hunter for his friends in Les Carnets to scholarly researcher in Le Fou de
Shérazade) suggests a positive transformation and search for his own unconfined identity in a space that

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allows him to “find the true individuality” he seeks (Orlando I73).

3' For a film in which this happens, see Painted Lady by Julian Jarrold, which recounts an imbroglio of
murders and stolen paintings. Famous paintings are replicated in the film using the actors and embedded in
the plot; the paintings actually constitute a mise-en-abyme of the plot.

32 In the short story by Sebbar, “La Jeune fille au juke-box,” a young girl of Maghrebi descent insists on
ordering wine in a bar and replaying “L’Aziza” (a song released as a single in 1985, written and sung by
Daniel Balavoine for and about his wife of Algerian descent, Corine). A young man, also of Maghrebi
descent, attempts to calm the young woman. Tragically. as they leave the bar, the police accidentally shoot
the young man. In 1986. of Balavoine died (along with five other passengers) in a helicopter crash between
the border of Mali and Burkina—Faso during the Paris-Dakar rally. Balavoine had participated in the rally
for humanitarian reasons; he was investigating a site for a well to be built. His songs reflected his
humanitarian endeavors and his striving for lower—class rights.

3" In “Cultural Studies and the Culture of Everyday Life,” John Fiske argues that there should be less of a
distance between high and low cultures, and that the boundaries between the different types of culture are
somewhat artificial “Cultural distance is a multidimensional concept. In the culture of the socially
advantaged and empowered it may take the form of a distance between the art object and reader/spectator:
such distance devalues socially and historically specific reading practices in favor of a transcendent
appreciation or aesthetic sensibility with claims to universality. [. . .] This distance takes the form of
distance from economic necessity [. . .] This critical and aesthetic distance is thus, finally, a marker of
distinction between those able to separate their culture from the social and economic conditions of the
everyday and those who cannot. [. . .] Both Bakhtin and Bourdieu show how the culture of the people
denies categorical boundaries between art and life: popular art is part of the everyday, not distance from it.
The culture of everyday life works only to the extent that it is imbricated into its immediate historical and
social setting. This materiality of popular culture is directly related to the economic materiality of the
conditions of oppression.” ( 154-155)

3" In his dissertation “Leila Sebbar ou l’affirmation ambigué,” M’hamed Wahbi separates the language
Sebbar uses into several different categories that he calls cultural isotopes: bilingualism, diglossia, sabir,
“xénismes” in Arabic and in English, as well as pronunciation of French with an” Arab” accent. He mostly
analyses the “arabismes” as a social phenomenon in the “banlieues.”

35 It is interesting to note that some borrowed words in French have become combination words; for
example “bronzing” is a combination of a French word, “bronzer,” and an English suffix, -ing. It sounds
English but is not.

3" Sebbar states, about her relationship to the Arabic language, “Ma langue matemelle n’est pas l’arabe...
Ces remarques reviennent, lancinantes, lorsqu’il y a, du cote du public, des Maghrébins intellectuels en
transit, en exil ou en immigration qui ne réussissent pas a m’identifier et qui m’agressent, les hommes en
particulier. pour savoir qui je suis, de quel droit j’introduis dans mes livres des Arabes alors que je ne parle
pas l’arabe, et pourquoi j’ai besoin de ces Arabes (hommes, femmes, enfants) puisque je n’en suis pas a
part entiere. .. Lorsque je dis que je ne parle pas l’arabe, c’est Ie scandale. . (Lettres Parisiennes 125) A
few pages later, she reveals that she actually studied Arabic: “Je connaissais des phrases, des expressions
de la langue populaire que parlent les medias et les institutions aujourd’hui. Je n’ai jamais parle des
morceaux d’arabe que dans des cas particuliers: une langue simple, quotidienne, stéréotypée que je ne
pratiquais pas assez pour la connaitre. Pendant sept ans au lycée, j’ai appris l’arabe classique. . .en vain. Je
savais lire les mots, les phrases parce que je connaissais l’alphabet, j’avais un accent qui faisait rire les
filles qui parlaient l’arabe comme langue matemelle. .. Si je l’avais appris comme une langue étrangere.
j’aurais pu devenir une arabisante erudite, comme certaines Francaises. .. (148. 149).

37 Begag explains that a “bouzidien” is a native of Sétif (a city in Algeria) (243).

3” Alec Hargreaves cautions “One of the most striking features of many Beur narratives is the heavy
incidence of colloquialisms. While this may be linked to genuinely shaky levels of literacy in one or two

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cases, it would be a mistake to interpret most of these works in such a fashion. The novels of Azouz
Begag, for example, are among the most colloquially-flavored of Beur narratives, yet there can be no doubt
as to the author’s mastery of written French. Trained as a social scientist, Begag is a full-time researcher
with the CNRS. The reading and writing of academic papers in formal French is an everyday part of his
professional life. If he chooses to adopt a conversational tone in his novels, he does so not because of any
lack of linguistic competence, but on the contrary, as a mark of the depth and intimacy of his engagement
with the French language (“Language and Identity” 54).

39 Architextuality is useful in the study of the title Shérazade, 17 ans. bru_ne, frisée. les yeux verts. It
simultaneously sends the reader to two conflicting references: Scheherazade, the narrator of the Thousand
and One Nights, and a “missing persons” description. These references are expanded and multiplied in the
novel itself. Les ganets de Shérazyafi is less problematic.

40 Paintings by Delacroix, Matisse, references to Loti, Fromentin and Zola, which are found in the first two
novels of the Shérazade trilogy, have been examined by Anne Donadey and Rafika Merini; the last novel,
Le Fou de Shérazzfl, does not have the same pictorial and textual references.

4' Sebbar stated: “La musique et les films, dans mes romans, ce n’est pas un hasard. [. . .] Pierrot 1e Fou fait
partie de mes emotions, et celles de Shérazade” (Personal interview, 19 June 1998).

42 For a complete list of books that Shérazade takes with her on her trek across France, see p. 234.
‘3 See Shérazade p. 233-235
4" See the chapter “Jungle” in Shérazade (151-156).

45 There is a sixth song that we have not been able to find on page 194. Also, other types of music are
mentioned (Indian, Japanese, Algerian); these contribute to the multi-ethnicity and hybridization of the text.
Because no specific songs, styles or idioms are mentioned, it would be impossible to find parallels between
the music and the novel.

‘6 The title of the album on which this song appears is of particular importance: “Quelqu’un de l’intérieur.”
Shérazade is obviously on the margins of society; the name Leila (an Arab name), both the author’s name
and the name of the woman in the song, could also be considered from the exterior, i.e. not a “French”
name or a “prénom chrétien.” It is also interesting to note that this song is the first one in which a women
has a name; in the others, she does not.

47 See the chapter “Ritz” in Shérazade (185-187).

‘8 It is significant that Emma’s daughter is a “métisse.” Emma followed an African to his country and lived
there for three months; after realizing that she had no future there, she left him and returned to France.
where she stayed and gave birth to his child.

49 There is a striking parallel between Sebbar and Bachelet. Sebbar places “herself” as a cameo in Lgs
Carnets, and Bachelet’s song “Les Corons” is about himself, therefore autobiographical. We have found it
useful to include the following excerpts from his biography: “Pierre Bachelet est né a Roubaix dans le Nord
de la France 1e 25 mai 1944. Sa famille qui tenait une blanchissen'e, s'est installée a Calais avant de venir
sur la région parisienne. Si les études du jeune Pierre ne sont pas extrémement brillantes, il s'inscrit tout de
meme un peu plus tard a l'école du cinema de la rue Vaugirard a Paris. [...] Au fur et a mesure, Pierre
Bachelet se constitue un univers musical qui lui est propre et commence a écrire la musique de
documentaires ou de films publicitaires realises par ses amis. [.. .] En 74, i1 s'essaie vraiment a la chanson
avec "l'Atlantique", titre qui lui vaudra son premier succés de chanteur. Mais c’est en 79 que deux
producteurs francais Francois Delaby et Pierre-Alain Simon lui proposent de faire un album qui sort l'année
suivante "Elle est d'ailleurs". Le 45 tours du méme nom se vend a quelques 1,5 million d'exemplaires. Cette
chanson est co—écrite avec Jean-Pierre Lang avec qui Bachelet va travailler de nombreuses années. C'est
d'ailleurs avec lui qu'il va composer "Les Corons", hymne au Nord de la France, region des terrils et des

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mines de charbon dont 1e chanteur est originaire. Succes immense, ce titre est devenu au fil des années un
veritable classique du chanteur qui figure sur l'album sorti en 82.” <http://www.rfimusique.com/fr/
index.html>

5° The song presents a Marxist depiction of women, i.e. outside a gendered space; the unity, identity and
experience of the workers (be they men or women). The working class is seen as a community, striving
against subjugation by the elite upper classes, which is why traditionally oppressed groups from which
power has been removed (such as women, minorities, and third-world countries) have identified more
readily to communism and socialism. When attracted to communism and socialism, women can be
empowered to oppose oppression with their own class (whichever it might be), but only by reacting against
domination and exploitation, and by refusing to submit to traditional roles assigned to them.

5' This is the third time Shérazade shatters men’s enjoyment of voyeurism: the first time is when she and
her friends hold-up the porn photographer, the second time is when she tears down the pictures of herself in
Julien’s apartment. Also, in Le Fou de Shérazzge, Julien’s crew has hung large posters of replicas of
odalisques along side a large poster of Shérazade in the “cite” where they are to make a movie. The crew
removes the odalisque posters, but Shérazade’s sister, Mériem, removes the poster of Shérazade (8 l ).

52 “Que serais-je sans toi” can also be further interpreted as a song from the French to their former colonies:
what would France be if it had not been a colonial power, and if the indigenous cultures of Africa had not
supplied it with manual labor and natural resources?

53 Although the film Camille Claudel is not specifically mentioned in Les Carnets, it is interesting to note
that Shérazade runs into Isabelle Adjani while she is on her way to do research on Camille Claudel. One
could study the parallels (especially those of patriarchy and its subversion) between Camille Claudel and
Les Carnets. I will limit my study to the films that are actually quoted in the novel.

5" For a Marxist/Structuralist investigation of Pierrot le Fou, see Stephen Snyder, “The Space Between:
Self/Society in Godard’s Pierrot le Fou.” Film and Society. Douglas Radcliff-Umstead, ed. Kent, OH:
Kent State UP, 1990.

55 Sebbar also includes Godard’s films to pay homage to him and because his films strongly influenced her
youth. (Personal Interview, 19 June 1998)

5” In the early twentieth century, painting evolved through cubism to collage. Picasso and Juan Gris
achieve freedom first from the tyranny of perspective (through cubism), and then from tyranny of
representation (through collage).

57 To find out what films have been censored, see Julia Lesage’s _J_e_an-Luc Godard: A Guide t_o References
and Resources. A few examples are: Le Mépris by the Central French Catholic Film Censor Board (55),
Pierrot le Fou censored for those under 18 because of its “intellectual anarchism” (68), Weekend was
condemned by the Legion of Decency in the USA (87).

58 Travis’ brother, Walt (cf. Walt Disney), who makes billboards for a living, represents the American
corporation that destroys individuality and attempts to influence the masses through conniving capitalism.

59 Le Mépris was an ltalian-French-American co-production, guaranteeing its distribution in all three
countries (Lev 44).

w J ulien also watches A boume souffle “encore une fois” in Shérazade. (150)

6' It is interesting to note in an article about A bout de souffle that “. . .film noir obsessively uses images, in
the form of mirrors, paintings and photographs, as dramatic figures for the birth of desire in their
transgressive male heroes.” (Smith 68) It seems that Julien’s desire for Shérazade was born from the
paintings, before he even met her, but that the paintings support his obsession. For a more detailed analysis
of photography in Sebbar’s works (and in the works of Ben Jelloun, Toumier and Le Clézio), see Mary

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Vogl's dissertation Picturing the Maghreb: Orientalism. photography and representation in contemporary
francophone texts.

”2 It is important to remember that men such as Gilles, who defends her whenever someone tries to attack
her, also protect Shérazade. She is never fully duped (cf. the potential rape scene in the car when the song
by Jeanne Mas is mentioned). She is always smart or lucky enough to turn the tables on her would-be
aggressors.

"3 We must not forget that in Shérazade, Pierrot most likely was transporting explosives in the car when it
blew up: he was a violent anarchist, and he was perhaps killed off to demonstrate that violence is not a
solution to social inequalities.

(’4 Michel Marie posits that “In A bout de souffle, Godard was exploring every facet of verbal language”
and “To sum up. A bout de souffle is a tragedy of language and of the impossibility of communication.”
(168)

65 This reminds us that it is ultimately the director and writer who construct the identity of the character.
6° For the concept of “culture,” see the introduction, where l have given Edward Said’s definitions.

(’7 Butler borrows the term “metaphysics of substance” from Michel Harr’s study of Nietzsche in
“Nietzsche and Metaphysical Language.” Harr “argues that a number of philosophical ontologies have
been trapped within certain illusions of ‘Being’ and ‘Substance’ that are fostered by the belief that the
grammatical formulation of subject and predicate reflects the prior ontological reality of substance and
attribute. These constructs, argues Han, constitute the artificial philosophical means by which simplicity,
order and identity are effectively instituted.” (20)

”8 Grosz uses the term “phallocentrism”(defind further in this chapter); Butler goes further with the term,
adding an extra syllable and turning the word into “phallogocentrism” (“logos” being the Greek for
“wor ”), adding an extra dimension to the concept not only of persons but also of language.

”9 Although it has become a cliche by now, the term “French” itself is problematic, because immigrants
have always composed France’s population. Even in the early years of France’s history (before it was
called France), there were tribes warring against each other. Certainly, those who claim their “Frenchness”
are not all descendants of the Frankish tribe.

7" Walker quotes the blatant. galling racism and sexism in Eichthal’s letter: “De méme que la femme, le
noir est privé des facultés politiques et scientifiques : il n’a jamais crée un grand état, il n’est point
astronome, mathématicien, naturaliste; iI n’a rien fait en mécanique industrielle. Mais par contre, il
possede au plus haut degré les qualités du cmur, les affections et les sentiments domestiques ; il est homme
d’inte’rieur. Comme la femme, il aime aussi avec passion la parure, la danse, le chant. [. . .] J usqu’ici
domesticité et servitude ont été des choses a pen pres identiques. Aussi le noir, étre essentiellement
domestique, comme la femme, a été jusqu’ici condamné comme elle a un esclavage plus ou moins rude.
L’émancipation de la femme devra donc étre accompagnée de celle du noir. . (22-23, quoted in Walker
116) Urbain was a “métisse” who eventually became a Muslim; in his letters to Eichthal, he exhorts the
virtues of the Africans (contrary to Urbain).

7' Although Gobineau claims that the Semitic peoples are “white” (146) and therefore superior (although
the Aryans are superior within the “white type” [205]), he contradicts himself by stating “Civilization is
incommunicable, not only to savages, but also to more enlightened nations. This is shown b the efforts of
French goodwill and conciliation in the ancient kingdom of Algiers at the present day. [. . .] There are no
more striking and conclusive proofs of the unlikeliness and inequality of races (171). Also. it is interesting
to note a certain irony in The Inequality of Human Races’ publisher: it is Heinemann, renowned for
publishing excellent books on post-colonial studies.

72 We include “writing” with “talking.” I believe Irigaray’s terminology is expansive and is closer to the

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meaning of “expressing,” rather than “talking” in the strictest sense of the word.
7" We will discuss literary critics’ reactions to Sebbar’s depiction of the Beur in chapter four.

7" The fact that Yasser Arafat wears a “keffia” in his appearances on television, in magazines and
newspapers contributes to the mediatized world’s association of the “keffia” as Arab.

75 This delusional diabolization is not only present in literature, but also in film. For example, in Salut,
Cousin!, the two main characters are walking along the streets of Paris when they run into someone who
appears to be of North African descent. The cousin from Algiers, Alilou, says “Salam Alikoum.” Mok, the
Parisian, hastily warns him not to use any Arabic. because the innocent Maghrebian-looking man might be
an undercover policeman. In La Haine, one of the policemen is in fact of North African descent, and police
brutality and its dramatic consequences are graphically depicted. In fact, the film was inspired by a real
racist murder of a Zaierean in a police station in Paris (Vincendeau 321). For a deeper discussion of the
aesthetics of violence in this film, see Tom Conley’s article “A Web of Hate.” However, the police and
government (albeit local, the mayor) are parodied in the lighter 100% Arabica, and although they are
presented as racist, it is through a comical lens.

 

7” Statistics are tabulated separately for different ethnic origins, at least differentiating between racist
incidents against those of Arab origins and those of Jewish origins. (Hargreaves and Learnan 7)

77 As a child growing up in Marseilles in the seventies and early eighties, I remember the widespread anti-
Maghrebian “jokes.” One that was often told by the French children with whom I went to school is in the
same vein as the anti-immigrant texts: “Qu’est-ce qu’elle a de spécial, la France?” “C’est le seul pays
arabe qui est pas en guerre.” Another variant was “C’est 1e seul pays Musulman qui est pas en guerre.”
This “joke” was particularly rampant during the war between Iran and Iraq, displaying the ignorance of the
difference betweens Persians and Arabs, and reinforcing the two stereotypes that all Muslims are Arabs,
and that all Arabs and Muslims wage holy war.

7" The terms “the empire strikes back” and “the empire writes back” have been borrowed from the second
installment of the Star Wars trilogy and used in post-colonial studies to indicate how the colonized natives
avenge themselves, particularly in writing “against” the colonizing forces. See Bill Ashcroft, et al.’s IE

Empire Writes Back: Theory and Practice in Post-Colonial Literature.

79 Shérazade rejects mimeticism and reverses power roles (which causes her to hold the power) in two other
situations that we have already examined in chapter one: when Shérazade and her friends overpower the
porn photographer (151-156) and when she leaves a note for Julien in his apartment, claiming: “Je ne suis
pas une odalisque.” (206)

80 For the comical aspect and linguistic play, see chapter one.

3' For an in-depth study of French politicians and integration, see chapter four, “National Identity,
Nationality and Citizenship” and especially chapter five, “Politics and Public Policy” in Hargreaves’
Immigration, “Race” and Ethnicity in Contemmrary France. As for the difference between the terms
“assimilation,” “integration” and “insertion,” Jim House defines the first “in relation to socio-cultural
traits,” the second “for socio-economic, political and administrative aspects,” and the third as “ fallen out of
use and usually applied to a specific domain--the economic in general and the employment in particular” as
well as referring to “integration of entire communities, with the idea of retention of their specificities.” (80)
David Blatt defines them as follows:
Intégran'on implied the simultaneous rejection of an exclusionary conception of nation associated
with the far right which saw immigrants as unassimilable and called for their expulsion. [. . .]
Intégran'on was framed as a mid-point between the opposite poles of insertion, the buzzword of
government policy of the 1970’s and early 1980’s, which was interpreted to imply the
perpetuation of immigrant’ cultural differences and/or the recognition of constitutive communities.
and assimilation, which evoked a coercive abandonment of cultural affinities.” (48, emphasis in
original)

185

"2 Mortimer borrows the term “contrapuntal awareness” from the following quote by Edward Said: “Most
people are principally aware of one culture, one setting, one home; exiles are aware of at least two, and this
plurality of vision gives rise to an awareness of simultaneous dimensions, an awareness that - to borrow a
phrase from music — is contrapuntal.” (Said, “The Mind of Winter” 55, qtd. in Mortimer, “On the Roa ”
195) Contrapuntal literally means "note against note," or “melody against melody;” the two are sounding
at the same time but create harmony as well as tension and drama .

m For specific information on statistical evidence that the Beur generation is primarily non-practicing
Muslim, see Hargreaves’ “Algerians” (42) and Immigration (99-122).

"4 I use the term “developing nation” not as a synonym for “third world nation” but rather in a positive
sense, such as an “expanding” or “increasing” nation-within-a-nation.

85 “Départenance” is a term coined by Mireille Rosello in her article “The ‘Beur Nationz’ Toward a Theory
of ‘Departenance.’” It is a fusion of the words “depart” and “appartenance,” symbolizing the relationship
of the Beurs to mainstream French society. I believe it can be applied to describe the experiences of the
first-generation Maghrebi immigrants as well as to the Beurs.

8" See also David Blatt’s article “Immigrant Politics in a Republican Nation.” His conclusion is highly

relevant to our study and provides a political and sociological explanation for the difficulty the Beurs have

of integrating into French society:
Despite the much-heralded ability of France to incorporate and assimilate regional minorities and
previous waves of European immigrants, the acceptance of former colonials as full and legitimate
members of the French nation remains highly problematic. The universalist model of French
citizenship, which was mostly fully elaborated in the heyday of French colonialism during the
Third Republic, never fully encompassed Muslims or other colonial subjects. [. . .] So long as a
colonialist legacy of ethnically based discrimination and limited socio-economic opportunities
continues to exclude ethnic minorities from the full benefits of citizenship, the unfulfilled
promises of the republican model of integration will breed bitterness and disappointment. (53)

87 This placement is by proxy through francophonie, thus excluding Beur literature from the “littérature
francaise” category. This confirms the permeable boundaries within Francophone literature. The critics
who have analyzed Sebbar’s work are, for the vast majority, specialists in Francophone literature (Anne
Donadey, Valerie Orlando, Michel Laronde, Mildred Mortimer, Winifred Woodhull, and Francoise
Lionnet, among others). Francoise Lionnet seems to be the only critic who places Sebbar in the realms of
both French and Francophone literatures: “She belongs, it seems to me, both to French and Francophone
literature and her writing undermines our academic distinction between ‘French’ and ‘Francophone’ areas”
(“’Logiques métisses’” 127). Several years later, Lionnet brings up the question again:
Her [Sebbar’s] novels are examples of texts that are “unclassifiable” according to the traditional
criteria that oppose “French” and “Francophone” literatures, since the standard opposition between
the center and the margin is rendered inoperable. Neither “francophone” nor exactly French, Leila
Sebbar herself is the type of postcolonial writer whose “French” works published in Paris force us
to rethink our pedagogical and ideological categories (“Narrative Strategies” 66)

88 A sensitive area that Sebbar does not treat in her novels is the plight of the “harkis” (Algerians who
fought on the French side during Algeria’s struggle for independence). Few literary works have been
devoted this group of men who were even more marginalized than other immigrants. In his second novel,
Leiarki de Mériem. Mehdi Charef tells the story of a ”harki,” his subsequent immigration to France, and
his children’s fate as they are faced with problems of integration.

"9 One can distinguish different kinds of readers as follows: the “empirical reader” is the person who holds
the book in hand, the “personified reader” is the one dramatized (addressed, quoted, described) by the text,
and the “implied” or “virtual reader” is the one that can be inferred from the text as a whole. The “ideal
reader” is the one who fully understands and appreciates the text. The dedicatee is often an ideal reader.

186

9" Rosenblatt was obviously not referring specifically to Sebbar, but to a short story in which inhabitants of
a village stone a woman to death.

9' Francophone Maghrebian literature has been around since the 19503 and has been widely followed in
France. The notion of a public that still reads Maghrebian literature and some Beur literature and not other
Beur literature is difficult to understand.

92 The most comprehensive cataloguing of book reviews on Sebbar we have found is located on the
LIMAG (Littératures du Maghreb) database at http://www.limag.com. The information on Sebbar’s works
was updated in June 2000. Although LIMAG‘s format is not consistent and there are minor errors, it is the
most useful database to date on Maghrebi authors. It contains many articles and reviews that are not
indexed in the MLA Bibliography, for instance.

9" Serge Ménager has repeatedly condemned Sebbar’s eighties novels in two other articles: “[Sebbar] prend
en marche le train de la littérature ‘beur’ et c’est 1e début de sa trilogie centrée autour du personnage de
Shérazade, accompagnée d’autres romans dépeignant le méme monde interlope des jeunes émigrés de la
seconde generation qu’elle a de toute evidence du mal a maitriser (Iittérairement s’entend)” (“Forme” 62),
and:
La trilogie dont le personnage central Shérazade se veut l’exemple d’une jeune fille d’origine
nord-africaine, née en France et représentant la deuxiéme génération émigrée est parfois assez peu
convaincante, voire méme laborieuse. Les efforts de l’auteur pour rendre réalistes une culture et
un mode de vie qu’elle continue a observer de l’extérieur, en sociologue, ne sont guére
convaincants. Elle les analyse selon un crédo et des motivations qui sont ceux de sa génération a
elle et non celles du groupe d’age qu’elle tente de mettre en scene (“Traces ” 67).
Ménager obviously prefers Le Silence des rives and claims that it came as “more lyrical inspiration” after
its author “need[ed] a renewal of inspiration” (Postcolonial African Writers 422). He also claims that
“Very few studies have been undertaken on Leila Sebbar” (423). He obviously has not taken into account
the (approximately) twenty-five articles/book chapters and five dissertations written before 1998 (the date
of Postcolonial Africaa Wrim). Seven dissertations (excluding this one) that deal in whole or in part with
Sebbar’s works have been written since then.

9" For another scene that seems related to magic realism, see Salut, cousin! in which the two main
characters, Mok and Alilou, are riding on a motorbike on the streets of Paris. They take off on the bike and
fly above the city for a short time. Perhaps this scene was inserted to allow the characters to transcend the
racism and discrimination they face in other parts of the film.

95 I have twice quoted the same passages as Clifford, from the reviews by Salim Jay (in the main text) and
the sixth footnote, from Serge Ménager’s article “Traces”. Although the beginning of my analysis is
similar to Clifford’s, it eventually diverges from hers.

9” Sebbar stated: “Shérazade fait ce que je ne peux pas faire. Elle s’habille comme je ne peux pas
m’habiller. Elle porte des vétements seyants. sexy, tout ce que je ne m’autorise pas. Shérazade se
l’autorise parce qu’elle est jeune et belle et elle le sait bien. J’ai recu une education Iai'que stricte.”
(Personal interview, 19 June 1998).

97 Although Chikhi praises a new style that Sebbar is fashioning, there are three blatant mistakes in her
short article: first, the spelling of “Shérazade” as “Shéhérazade:” second, the incorrect dates for the two
novels that complete the trilogy: “Le Fou de Shéhérazaglg (1985) [sic] et “Les Camets de Sheherazade
(1991) [sic]: ” (Les Carnets was published in 1985 and Le Fou in 1991); and third, the incorrect title of
Michel Laronde’s book which includes a study of Sebbar’s novels: “Etude: M. Laronde, Existe-t-il une
littérature Beur?, L’Harrnattan, 1993” (449). “Existe-t-il un roman beur?” was the title of the round table
organized in 1993 at L’ Institut du Monde Arabe for the discussion of Michel Laronde’s book Autour du
roman beur (Laronde, Littératures 27) . These errors are surprising for a publisher as prestigious as Le
Robert. Also, in Samrakandi’s interview with Sebbar, Shérazade’s name is spelled “Sheherazade” (340).
When asked why “Shérazade” was not spelled “Sheherazade comme la tradition de l’Orient”, Sebbar said:
C’est un raccourci d’état civil qui dit de maniere tres courte et tres réelle que ce prénom qui

 

 

187

appartient a l’Orient, est capté par la France et francisé. L’huissier francais qui n’est pas habitué a
des ‘h’ aspires, simplifie l’orthographe et la prononciation. et cela devient Shérazade. Pour moi,
c’est tres important qu’elle s’appelle Shérazade parce que c’est véritablement une Arabe de France
(Interview with Ballenfat 241).
For an additional discussion of errors in book reviews (including more misspellings of “Shérazade”), see
pages “Errors in Book Reviews” (1012) of Caroline Clifford’s dissertation.

98 “La bibliothécaire, raconte sans rire Leila Sebbar, ‘parla de Shérazade avec chaleur, leur dit qu’elle lisait
beaucoup et en particulier des écrivains d’Afrique du Nord, elle cita Feraoun, Dib, Boudjedra, Djebar,
Fares, Haddad, Yacine, Robles, Memoni [sic], Chouleri [sic], Mammeri, Chraibi, Ben Jelloun, des poetes
marocains. . (94). Jay is (mis)quoting page 132 of Shérazade: “Memoni” is actually Memmi, and
“Chouleri” is “Choukri.” Perhaps Jay should have checked the spelling of North African author’s names
before again criticizing Sebbar for listing Kateb Yacine as “Yacine”: “A propos de ‘Yacine,’ ce n’est que
le prénom, signalons-le de l’écrivain KATEB Yacine” (94). What Jay fails to realize is that it is the French
librarian who is quoting the North African authors. Sebbar most likely made the woman say “Yacine”
instead of “Kateb” intentionally. Earlier in the novel, the librarian exposes prejudices and snobbery of
French readers regarding Francophone literature (i.e. literature written by authors of non-metropolitan
French origins): “La bibliothécaire avait compris, en lisant la fiche que Shérazade avait remplie pour la
carte de lecteur, que certains livres que les Francais ne lisaient jamais parce qu’ils ne les connaissaient pas
ou parce que tout ce qui n’était pas du Patrimoine ne les intéressait pas...” (Shérazade 97). If the two
passages are linked, the subtleties of the text emerge as a form of criticism of the French people who are
mostly interested in French-language literature of their own country and fail to acknowledge the richness of
the French-language literature of other countries. Just because the librarian catalogues Francophone works
does not mean she has read them; someone unfamiliar with the territory of Francophone literature could
easily think that “Kateb” is a first name and Yacine a last name. It is obvious that Sebbar is well familiar
with Kateb’s work. Although all of the following references are dated after Jay’s review, they are evidence
that Sebbar does not have a superficial knowledge of Kateb’s works, and that she was familiar with them
before she wrote Shérazade. J .H. Cherche ame soeur is dedicated to Kateb Yacine (7), and one the
characters, Jaffar, reads Nedjma in prison (199-200, 206, 209). Sebbar has written several articles in honor
of Kateb in Pour Kateb Yacine (1990), Awal: Cahiers d’études berberes (1992), Actualité de l’émigration
(1987), and in Q BibliothEQue des deux rives (1992), even stated “Si je m’arréte aux livres, c’est Nedjma
que je préfére” (33).

Jay also claims that Shérazade meets Julien at the Louvre in front of the Delacroix painting “Julien
Desrosiers [. . .] rencontre Shérazade devant ‘Les [sic] Femmes d’Alger dans leur appartement’” (93). The
sentence contains two more blunders: Julien first sees Shérazade in a library and starts talking to her in a
fast-food restaurant. He takes her to go see the Delacroix painting after they have met, but they do not
actually meet in front of the painting: “Lorsqu’elle alla au Louvre avec lui pour les ‘Femmes d’Alger’...”
(Shérazade 13) and the name of the painting is “Femmes d’Alger dans leur appartement,” without the
definite article. The numerous mistakes in Jay’s review and the textual intricacies that escape him are more
indicative of his careless reading of Shérazade than of the novel’s shortcomings.

99 It is interesting to note that there is no gender polarization regarding Shérazade’s taste for high culture:
both male and female reviewers feel that Shérazade is uppity for being cultured. Caroline Clifford quotes
another critic’s view of Shérazade’s interest in high culture: “[Vilaine’s] sarcasm when describing
Shérazade’s passion for art and literature, ‘c’est qu’elle est trés cultivée, Shérazade, pour ses dix-sept ans
[53]’ shows that she finds this character unbelievable” (14).

'00 Although Shérazade is taken hostage in Le Fou de Shérazade, she still enjoys a certain kind of freedom,
because she is protected from harm in her captivity.

'0' Hayes bases the “difference between resistance — the project of overthrowing oppressive systems — and
opposition - that of transforming them from within” (215) on the distinctions Ross Chambers makes in

Room for Maneuver.

'02 Of course, other critics have examined other angles of Sebbar's texts, mostly concentrating on the
multiculturalism of the characters’ background, and on Shérazade’s search for identity (cf. Hayes.

188

Mortimer, Orlando, Woodhull, and Laronde in particular).

'03 I use the term “internal exile” to signify a permanent exile that one carries inside one’s mind and soul,
and “external exile” to represent the external, visible implications and consequences of living in another
country or culture than one’s own.

N” “Fouta” is explained as a “length of striped material worn by rural women of Maghreb round their waist,

over their dress,” “kanoun” is “a brazier,” “medresa” is “Qur’anic school” and “willaya” is “a Department
in Algeria.” (“Glossary,” N. pag.)

189

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C. Films
100% Aram. Dir. Mahmoud Zemmouri. Perf. Khaled, Cheb Marni. PolyGram, 1997.

A Bout de souffle. Dir. Jean-Luc Godard. Perf. Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jean Seberg.
Impéria,1960.

200

Camille Claudel. Dir. Bruno Nuytten. Perf. Isabelle Adjani and Gérard Depardieu.
Orion, 1988.

L’Eté meurtrier. Dir. Jean Becker. Screenplay by Sébastien J aprisot. Perf. Isabelle
Adjani, Alain Souchon. Universal, 1983.

La Haine. Dir. Matthieu Kassovitz. Perf. Vincent Cassel, Hubert Koundé, Sai'd
Taghmaoui'. Gramercy, 1995.

Le Gone du Chaaba. Dir. Christophe Ruggia. Perf. Bouzid Negnoug and Mohamed
Fellag. AFMD, 1998.

Jackie Brown. Dir. Quentin Tarantino. Perf. Pam Grier, Samuel L. Jackson, and Robert
DeNiro. Miramax, 1997.

Klute. Dir. Alan J. Pakula. Perf. Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland. Warner Brothers,
1971.
Mémoires d’immiggés. Dir. Yamina Benguigui. Canal +, 1997.

Le Mépris. Dir. Jean-Luc Godard. Perf. Brigitte Bardot, Michel Piccoli, Jack Palance.
Marceau-Cocinor, 1963.

Painted Lady. Dir. Julian Jarrold. Perf. Helen Mirren, Franco Nero, and Iain Glen.
Granada Television and WGBH Boston, 1997.

Paris Texas. Dir. Wim Wenders. Perf. Dean Stockwell, Harry Dean Stanton, Natassja
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Pierrot 1e fou. Dir. Jean-Luc Godard. Perf. Jean-Paul Belmondo, Anna Karina. Impéria,
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Pretty Woman. Dir. Garry Marshall. Perf. Julia Roberts and Richard Gere. Buena Vista,
1990.

Bag. Dir. Thomas Gilou. Perf. Samy N aceri, Mustapha Benstiti, Tabatha Cash. M6 Films,
1995.

Salut Cousin! Dir. Merzak Allouache. Perf. Gad Elmaleh, Mess Hatou. Seventh Art,
1996.

Scherezade. Dir. Pierre Gaspard-Huit. Perf. Anna Karina. Mercurio, 1962.

201

D. Sound Recordings

Bachelet, Pierre. “Les Corons.” Dix Ans pour touiours. BMG, 1998.

---. “Elle est d’ailleurs.” Dix Ans pour touiours. BMG, 1998.

Cabrel, Francis. “Leila et les chasseurs.” Quelqu’un de l’intérieur. Sony, 2000.
Chagrin d’amour. “Chacun fait c’qui lui plait.” Culture France. MCA, 1994.

Dutronc, Jacques. “Paris s’éveille.” Dutronc 33 ans de travail, volume I: les années 60-
]Q. BMG, 1998.

Ferrat, Jean. “Que serais-je sans toi ?” Ferrat Chante Aragon. Polygram, 1998.

Mas, Jeanne “Toute premiere fois.” L’Essentiel. EM], 2000.

Mitchell, Eddy. “Couleur menthe a1’eau.” Ballades et mots Qmour. Polygram, 1998.
Perret, Pierre. “Leila.” Grands Succes. BMG, 1998.

Quartz, Jakie. “Mise au point.” Culture France. MCA, 1994.

202

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