Women's Studies International Forum 32 (2009) 347–353

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Answering to “Muslim” language, country, and religion in Zahia Rahmani's“Musulman” roman

Alison RiceDepartment of Romance Languages and Literatures, University of Notre Dame, 343 O'Shaughnessy Hall, Notre Dame, IN 46556, United States

a r t i c l e i n f o

0277-5395/$ – see front matter © 2009 Elsevier Ltd.doi:10.1016/j.wsif.2009.07.007

s y n o p s i s

Available online 14 August 2009

In the very title of her recent publication “Musulman” roman, Algerian-born writer ZahiaRahmani calls attention to the complexity of Muslim identity. Placing “Muslim” in quotationmarks–and in the masculine form–and juxtaposing it to the generic classification of novel aremovements that establish a distance between the female narrative voice and the labels appliedto her. The autobiographical text draws from various crucial moments from her past to point tothe reasons why the writer is compelled to address her linguistic, national, and especiallyreligious belongings in the present. While international current events and political tensionsare only evoked in metaphorical terms, it is nonetheless clear that the post 9/11 global climate,and specifically the treatment of Arab prisoners during the war in Iraq, have prompted thiswork. Defining herself in the light of recent historical developments, Rahmani answers to thename “Muslim,” but with an informed hesitancy. Her innovative prose draws from sources asdiverse as the Koran, oral tales from her native Berber tongue, and children's books in French topresent a composite image of an idiosyncratic heritage that cannot be fully encapsulated in theassignation “Musulman.”

© 2009 Elsevier Ltd. All rights reserved.

In the very title of her 2005 publication “Musulman” ro-man, Algerian-born Francophone writer Zahia Rahmani callsattention to the complexity of Muslim identity. Placing“Muslim” in quotation marks–and in the masculine form–

and juxtaposing it to the generic classification of novel aremovements that establish a distance between the femalenarrative voice and the labels applied to Rahmani. Theautobiographical text draws from various crucial momentsfrom her past to point to the reasons why the writer iscompelled to address her linguistic, national, and especiallyreligious belongings in the present. While internationalcurrent events and political tensions are only evoked inmetaphorical terms, it is nonetheless clear that the post 9/111

global climate, and specifically the treatment of Arab prison-ers during the war in Iraq, have prompted this work. Defin-ing herself in the light of recent historical developments,Rahmani answers to the name “Muslim,” but with aninformed hesitancy. Her innovative prose draws from sourcesas diverse as the Koran, oral tales from her native Berbertongue, and children's books in French, in order to present acomposite image of an idiosyncratic heritage that cannot befully encapsulated in the designation “Musulman.”

All rights reserved.

The author's resistance to labels is an underlying themerunning throughout this work. The inclusion of the word“novel” in the title is just the first in a series of gestures thatare meant to challenge–and disrupt–the reader's expecta-tions. For, unlike a novel, “Musulman” roman is divided intofive acts preceded by a prologue. These divisions seem toimply a play, and the possibility of performance arguablychanges the reader's approach to the text. But, while dialogueplays a crucial role in this text, it is clear that this is not atypical theatrical piece of writing. What seems to be high-lighted by these unusual chapter divisions is instead theirdramatic content: the work revisits striking episodes thatdate from an ancient and recent past and that range fromreligious roots to personal struggles, from the epic to theintimate. The author has chosen to evoke these episodes in anelliptical style, with a syntax and a rhythm that do not belongto the typical structure of the French language in which shewrites. She has also opted to include a variety of names thatmake the reader question who is who and what a name–proper or otherwise–really signifies in the end.

The book opens with a return to origins: the first-personnarrative voice admits that shehas become “Muslim” again. The

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identity she had fled as a five-year-old child just arrived inFrance is one she has been forced to re-adopt as an adultbecause of a polarized international atmosphere that hasdeveloped in the aftermath of the attacks on the Twin Towers(see footnote 1). As a prisoner of this term, the narrator iscaptive to the connotations it has taken on in recent times:“Nous sommes, ont-ils dit, le mal. Ainsi ont-ils décidé”(Rahmani, 2005, p 17) [We are, they said, evil. Thus did theydecide].2 This subtle reference to the discourse of AmericanPresident George Bush and the words pronounced followingthe September 2001 terrorist attacks is not solely meaningfulwith respect to the United States; it carries significance forFrance as well. The narrator makes it clear that she has knowncompartmentalization and exclusion from early on. In fact, thisnovel can be seen as a continuation of the reflections found inthe author's first publication, Moze, (Rahmani 2003) in whichthe tragic story of her father's life–and death–is revealed withpoignancy. Forced to leave their Algerian homeland in 1967because ofher father's status as aharki, or anAlgerian serving asan auxiliary with the French army during the Algerian War ofIndependence from 1954 to 1962, the Rahmani family had nochoice after the French loss but to take up residence in thecountry for which her father had fought. But France did notmake them feel welcome; to the contrary, they were given acold reception marked by suspicion and deep-seated mistrust.The situation was so humiliating and her father's shame sogreat that he finally committed suicide on a meaningful date:the11th ofNovember, thedaywhen France commemorates theend of the First World War with fanfares, parades, andcelebrations marked by great military flair.

As she grapples with this tragic familial event whilewriting this first work, Rahmani has occasion to revisit a briefhistory of the mistreatment of Muslims in North Africa:

Les musulmans ont été méprisés. On les a tués en si grandnombre et si librement tout le long des décenniesprécédentes que vraisemblablement ils n'étaient bonsqu'à être exploités et domestiqués pour les nécessités dumoment. Ceux d'Afrique du Nord l'ont été, à force deluttes, de vols et de séquestres. Ensuite, et par milliers, àforce de privations, d'épidémies et de famines. Certainsétaient même montrés dans les foires. On a envoyé aubagne ou fusillé ceux qui ont fui la conscription, refusé deservir le drapeau français. Il y a eu ceux des lignesavancées de 1914, et ceux qui, après cette guerre, furentenrôlés comme force de travail étaient déjà des hommesfinis. (Rahmani, 2003, pp. 94–95)

[Muslims have always been scorned. They were killed insuch large numbers and so freely throughout thepreceding decades that really they were only good forexploitation and domestication for present necessities.Those from North Africa were looked down on, firstthrough skirmishes, thefts, and sequestrations. Then, theywere disdained through deprivations, epidemics, andfamines. Some were even shown off in fairs. They weresent to the gallows or executed if they fled the draft, ifthey refused to serve the French flag. There were those inthe front lines in 1914 and those who, after this war,recruited as a labor force were already finished men.]

This text reminds us that the Algerian War was not by anymeans the first time Muslims from Algeria were called to thebattlefield to risk their lives on behalf of France. The poeticlines composed by this womanwriter call attention to the factthat an important precedent can be found in the First WorldWar, and that forced participation in this monumentalcombat was only one example of a series of abuses committedagainst Muslims from her place of origin.

The circumstances of her father's engagement in theAlgerian War were particularly complicated, however, sincefighting on behalf of the French in this conflict necessarilymeant fighting against fellow Algerianswho sought liberationfrom longstanding French domination on their soil. Thedilemmas that result from Moze's conscription are multiple,and his loss is unspeakable. The daughter revisits the father'shistory in a manner reminiscent of an earlier summary ofMuslim mistreatment:

Moze était un Algérien. Un musulman d'origine algérienneselon les termes en vigueur. La France conquérante etreconnaissante, aimant ses terres, ses ancêtres et sonpouvoir, l'a fait Français musulman d'Algérie. C'est ce qu'ilest devenu. La guerre venue, ce Français a été réquisitionné.Moze a été le soldat d'une guerre. C'est ce qui le distinguedes autres. Ce n'est pas en tant que réfugié appartenant à unpeuple qu'il est parti. Ce n'est pas un rapatrié ou quelqu'unqui a volontairement quitté son pays. C'est en tant quemilitaire qu'il n'a plus de pays. (Rahmani, 2003, p. 112)

[Moze was an Algerian. A Muslim of Algerian origin ac-cording to the terms in use. France, the conqueror and theindebted, appreciatinghis land, his ancestors andhis power,made him a French Muslim from Algeria. That's what hebecame. When the war came, this Frenchman was requisi-tioned. Moze was a soldier of a war. That is what distin-guishes him from others. It is not as a refugee belonging to apeople that he left. It is not as a repatriated individual orsomeone who has voluntarily left his country. It is as amilitary man that he no longer has a country.]

This profoundly creative text delves into the multipleproblematic identities that clash in her father's experience.Rahmani underscores in this particular passage the fact thatMoze has been batted about and redefined by a nationalentity that used him and no longer has any use for him. Sincethe French have lost the war, he is forced to leave his nativecountry, Algeria, but France can never become his countrybecause the French do not see him as a Frenchman. Theironies of this situation abound, marked perhaps mostnoticeably by Moze's mastery of French:

Parlons-nous d'un Français? Il parlait lui un français trèscorrect, comme il sied à un indigène éduqué des colonies.Moze n'avait aucun accent. Cette langue, il la pratiquaitavec l'élégance du beau Français qu'il était. (Rahmani,2003, p. 123)

[Are we speaking of a Frenchman? He spoke very correctFrench, as is proper for an indigenous person educated in

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the colonies. Moze did not have any accent. He used thislanguage with the elegance of the handsome Frenchmanhe was.]

Moze is a book that paints a well-rounded portrait of a manwho embodies the ambiguity of the twentieth century, as thewriter puts it. In a striking passage replete with exclamations,the cost of this embodiment becomes quite clear:

Mon père portait l'ambiguïté de ce siècle: l'humanitéignominieuse. L'ignominieuse humanité de ce siècle! Nousavons été donnés parce que nous n'étions rien! Des Arabes,des musulmans. Nous avons servi à couvrir la fuite d'unearmée! Un tapis de corps morts en guise de souvenir. Cettelâcheté est abjecte! Nous avons payé! Mais faites quemaintenant je puisse réunir les miens en un même lieu!Faites-le! Il faut en finir! (Rahmani, 2003, p. 128)

[My father carried the ambiguity of this century: ignominioushumanity. The ignominious humanity of this century! Wewere sacrificed because we were nothing! Arabs, Muslims.We were used to cover up the flight of an army! A carpet ofdeadbodies to serve asmemory. This cowardice is abject!Wehave paid the price! Now make it so that I can reunite myfamily in one place! Do it! We must bring this to an end!]

The plight of the harki is well expressed in passages like thisone, in which intense suffering and alienation are brought tothe forefront in a plea for rectification. The pain the father hasknown is not dissimilar to that the daughter has experienced,she who inherits a similar status without any choice: “je suis lafille du harki numéroté” (Rahmani, 2003, p 120) [I am thedaughter of the numbered harki].

The daughter is like the father inmoreways than one, as thefirst-person narrative voice affirms when she declares that shenow has the same writing as Moze:

J'écris comme lui, jusqu'à ma signature qui est la sienne. J'aihérité de son écriture. Je pourrais refaire toutes ses lettres, lesfalsifier, changer sa vie, faire des faux, continuer à le fairevivre, harceler ses supérieurs, sesmaîtres, écrire à ses geôliers.Devenir un fantôme. Un fantôme qui aurait compris ce qu'il aà faire. Un soldatmort revenu de la mort! (Rahmani, 2003,p. 77)

[I write like he does, down to my signature, which is his. Iinherited his writing. I could rewrite all his letters, falsifythem, change his life, draw up false documents, continue tomake him live, harass his superiors, his masters, write to hisjailers. Become a phantom. A phantom who will haveunderstood what must be done. A deadsoldier come backfrom the dead!]

The daughter who has taken up the pen with her father'sown handwriting is on a striking mission. It may not be that offalsifying documents, but it is undoubtedly that of continuinghis life, in the sense that writing revives the personal story in

potentially permanentways. In literary form, the daughter usesher signature that is the father's in order to call attention to theinjustices he suffered and to harass his superiors by exposingthe faults that have been committed against an individual and,by extension, his family. The “deadsoldier” in Zahia Rahmani'sneologistic juxtaposition is not forgotten because she hasbrought his plight to the forefront of herwork. Highlighting themetaphorical death that preceded his literal passing, thedaughter wields a mighty weapon that makes use of thisinheritance to bring attention to the ills that a forced partic-ipation in the other's war has brought to the victim, and to anentire country. The harki, Algerians who had suffered fromFrenchdomination for so long and then became soldiers for thisdominator, were thus forever unable to rid themselves of thecolonial yoke.3 Rahmani signs her father's story with a handthat hasmergedwithhis, recountinghis experience inpoignantterms so that the ambiguity of his “betrayal” of his nativecountry comes out against the backdrop of the monstrousbetrayal he suffered at the hands of the French, a betrayal thatcontinues to this day, if we follow Rahmani's logic.

The daughter, effectively stripped of father, fatherland (lapatrie), and her father's faith, as she describes it in “Musulman”roman, hoped that the latter's deathmight help her “justify” and“guarantee” her life on the “European continent” (Rahmani,2005, p. 38). This second novel is the desperate, disparate ac-count of her disappointment upon discovering that the latter'sdeath changed nothing with respect to her own belonging inFrance. As soon as the slightest thing went wrong, in her words,“onme soupçonna. Onme désigna. Onme redonna un père, unereligion et une vocation; un Nom. “Musulman”, je sais que c'estsans fin” (Rahmani, 2005, p 38) [I was suspected. I wasdesignated. I was once again given a father, a religion and avocation; a Name. “Muslim,” I know it is endless]. Rather thanfight this title, the narrator affirms it in the text, claiming to “fleeahead”of thenameshe foresees assigned toher. Anticipating thelabel doesnot necessarilymake it easier to bear, but it does allowa moment to reflect on it and to redefine it according to herpersonal history, study, and understanding.

Coming back to her “Muslim” beginnings entails a revisitingof the beginnings of Islam, and “Musulman” roman contains aplayful yet precise account of the early history of the threemonotheistic religions. Rahmani places Islam in context along-side Christianity and Judaism as she evokes the Koran. Sheimmediately situates the Muslim holy book linguistically,indicating that Arabic is the language of Islam but also callingattention to the Koran's borrowings and adaptations from other,foreign languages, those of the Old and New Testaments(Rahmani, 2005, p. 29). Rahmani asserts that transmission ofthe Muslim faith took place not only in written, but also in oralterms: “la nuit, jusqu'à il y apeuencore, lesmères instruites par laseule parole continuaient à bercer leurs enfants de la belle saveurdes mots” (Rahmani, 2005, p 30) [at night, until very recently,mothers educated only in the spoken word continued to rocktheir children to the beautifulflavor ofwords]. Islam is tied to theArabic tongue, but not exclusively, and the narrator recounts thatshe was introduced to this faith as a young child thanks to thefemale voices of Berber speakers; this mother tongue she hadonce ‘squelched’ has recently come back to her, much like herearly religious designation, and her ties to Algeria.

Grappling with her “Muslim” heritage reminds the first-person narrator of her childhood experience, of the geographic

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dislocation and the European education that brought her so farfrom her roots. “Musulman” roman contains a powerfulrendering of the mental acrobatics that accompanied theunrelenting linguistic apprenticeship its author received as ayoung girl. Learning to read the French language found in thechildren's books, Le Petit Poucet, the girl left behind her Berberlanguage for a full ten years; between the ages offive andfifteenshe did not pronounce a single word in this tongue, not evenwith her mother. She maintains that the French were unawarethat she even knew another language, and that she left behindthe “minor language” into which she was born in order tofully enter the “living” tongue of her new place of residence(Rahmani, 2005, p 73). If the French language was not beyondher grasp, the country unfortunately was, and this was mostlybecause of a complexpersonal history and its intersectionswithan unacknowledged larger history.

Zahia Rahmani's third novel (2006), published just oneyear after her second publication, boasts a title that hints at itsautobiographical content: France, Récit d'une enfance [France,story of a childhood]. Born in 1962, the author's life began inAlgeria at a crucial moment in history, for this year markedthe loss of the last of France's colonies. But as a child growingup in France, she discovered that the war that determined thefate of her family and the course of her life was not recognizedin her adopted country, either in official or unofficial form. Inan essay inserted in italics into this book, Rahmani explainsthis lack of recognition:

La guerre d'Algérie n'a pas eu lieu, disaient les manuelsscolaires. Il est vrai qu'en France, on ne trouvait pas tracede cette guerre. Et le silence des soldats, on le sait, ne faitpas de bruit. Cette guerre avait eu lieu ailleurs et moi, je latrimbalais dans ce qui me semblait être un décor repeint.Derrière il y avait une couche que l'on s'était empressé decouvrir. Silence, disait le peuple français. Cette guerre jene l'ai pas vue. (Rahmani, 2006, p. 109)

[The Algerian War didn't take place, the schoolbooks said.It is true that in France, there was no trace to be found ofthis war. And the silence of soldiers, it's known, doesn'tmake any noise. This war had taken place elsewhere and Iwas bringing it into what seemed to me to be a repainteddécor. Behind there was a layer that they had been hastyto cover up. Silence, said the French people. I didn't seethis war.]

Rahmani is unable to deny war, unlike the French historybooks and people who surround her during her childhood.She addresses the subject directly and doesn't hesitate totackle the contentious topic of the 1990s, a brutal decade ofcivil war in Algeria that could hardly leave her indifferent:

Je ne connais pas de guerre propre. La décennie qui a suivifut pour moi une affliction. L'Algérie cognait trop fort. Dèsque j'entendais parler de bombes et de morts à Alger,j'attendais avec peur l'appel qui me délivrerait de l'inquié-tude. (Rahmani, 2006, p. 111)

[I know no such thing as a clean war. The decade thatfollowed was an affliction for me. Algeria hit too hard. Assoon as I heard about bombs and deaths in Algiers, I

fearfully awaited the phone call that would deliver mefrom my worry.]

Remaining in touch with family members back in Algeria,she experienced this war with great emotion. From afar, shecould not understand how those in the midst of the violencemanaged: “Au téléphone je ne cessais de dire à mes cousines,Comment faites-vous? Comment faites-vous. Dites-moi, com-ment faites-vous pour tenir comme vous tenez?” (Rahmani,2006, pp 111–112) [On the phone I never stopped asking mycousins, How do you do it? How do you do it. Tell me, how doyou do it, how do you keep on holding up?].

It is significant that these questions are posed to thefemale cousins, to the girls and women who have to put upwithwar in their country andwhomust navigate a violent realityon a daily basis. In an unpublished interview (Rice, 2005) Iconducted with Rahmani, the writer eloquently addressed thecentral role women play in wars, indicating that large-scaleconflicts could not take place without their contribution: “ellesont toujours une réelle présence, ne serait-ce que parce que leslieux vers lesquels on revient pour pouvoir soit se reposer, soit senourrir, sont des lieux des femmes” [they are a real presence, ifonly because the places we come back to for rest andnourishment are women's spaces]. Women may be “anon-ymous,” practically “absent” from “histories,” but they areessential to the “transmission” of those histories in Rahmani'sculture. The specificity of women's suffering and women'schallenges emerge at various points in Rahmani's literary work,as do questions of gender equality. As a young student receivingan education in France in the 1970s, the girl naturally began towant things to work differently in the microcosm of her home:

À ce moment je veux que la maison soit l'affaire de tous etnondes seules femmes etfilles. Je veux lesmêmesdroitsquemes frères. Je ne ferai rien qui les soulage. Je le dis et je leurdis. Ce genre d'attitude ne souffre aucun compromis.J'ignore donc comment on fait le couscous et toutes cesbonnes choses que régulièrementmes soeurs font pourmoiaujourd'hui. (Rahmani, 2006, p. 93)

[At this moment, I want the house to be a question ofeveryone and not just that of only women and girls. I wantthe same rights as my brothers. I will not do anything torelieve them. I say it and I say it to them. This sort of attitudewill not allow any compromise. I still don't know how tomake couscous and all these good things that my sistersregularly make for me today.]

The narrator brings the consequences of the past into thepresent when she avows that cooking is something she hasalways refused because of the gender connotations thisactivity carried for her. This “feminist” revolt finds expressionin the same paragraph as a reflection on the physically andverbally violent relations she had with a particular sister, anolder sibling whose past would explain why she was prone tooutbursts of rage:

Je ne peux comprendre sa violence, je ne sais rien de sesannées terribles en Algérie et de son enfance massacrée. Cen'est que bien plus tard que je l'apprendrai. L'horreur de ce

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qu'elle a vécu je nepeux l'envisager enfant. (Rahmani, 2006,p. 93)

[I cannot understand her violence, I know nothing of herterrible years in Algeria and her massacred childhood. Itisn't until much later that I will learn of it. The horror ofwhat she lived I cannot envision as a child.]

The incomprehension she experiences as a child who isunaware of the brutality of armed conflict is quickly changed intoa deep understanding of war as a daughter of a harki.

The lessons of war have not been easy for Algerian childrenon French soil, but Rahmani affirms that rejection from bothsides of the Mediterranean have taught her that the mostimportant “duty”of theoffspringof this unfortunate conflict is to“live”:

Il nous a fallu dépasser l'état de lamentation et dedemandeur permanent dans lequel on souhaitait nousmaintenir de part et d'autre. De la condition de nos pèresnous avons su tirer leçon. La question du choix et de lafaute, de la trahison avec les frères, nous l'avons éprouvéedès notre plus jeune âge. En endossant l'expérience de nosparents, nous avons plus que tout autre compris ce quesignifiait une guerre. (Rahmani, 2006, p. 113)

[We had to go beyond the state of lamentation and ofpermanent requester in which they hoped to keep us onone side and the other. We know how to learn from thecondition of our fathers. The question of choice and offault, of betrayal with our brothers, we have known itfrom the most tender age. By taking on the experience ofour parents, we have known more than any other whatwar means.]

Rahmani (2006, p 112) bravely claims that she and otherchildren of harki are the “legitimate heirs of a war” and thusturns around a situation of shame and judgment, makingpossible the personal expression of pain when only silencehas reigned in the past. The writer suffered especially becauseher father never spoke of his anguish, he never found wordsfor his distress. Her writing project seeks to remedy thatsilence by giving voice to the complexity of her ownexperience alongside that of others.

Rahmani's inspiration for her third book stems from adesire to tell her ailingmother howmuch she owes her. It is inthis poignant and profoundly personal text that bears thename “France” in its title that the writer pays homage tosomeone who has refused to assimilate in this adoptedcountry. Unlike the daughter who is a published author ofliterature in French, the mother does not speak the languageof this land, nor does she accept its message that she shouldbe ashamed of her history. The mother has long sought toinstill in her daughter a sense of pride in her origins. It seemsparadoxical that the erudite writer's mother is illiterate; shewill never read with her own eyes the phrases her daughterputs to paper. But this strong female character who has beenthrough so much, who has weathered the war in Algeria andsurvived her husband in France, is not without wisdom.

In a short story published in 2007, Zahia Rahmani allowsthe mother's knowledge to shed light on the “figure of a man”of the title. It is this informed parent who speaks, informingthe daughter of her progenitor's true status in ways the silentman never had: “Ton père ne portait pas d'uniforme, me ditma mère” (Rahmani, 2007, p 255) [Your father didn't wear auniform, my mother tells me]. The mother goes on to explainthat he was a mayor and therefore only put on the scarfsporting the three colors of the French flag when he wasalongside soldiers from the French army. The daughterprotests, saying that official documents stamped in Francein 1973 indicate otherwise, providing him with a militaryhistory that the mother insists is fictional. In the latter's solidassessment, “harki” was the only description they could findfor him when he emerged from prison: “Oui mais quepouvait-il être? Un rapatrié? Il avait fait cinq ans de prisonquand même. Alors, un harki? Pourquoi pas”(Rahmani, 2007,p 255) [Yes but what could he be? A repatriated man? He hadspent five years in prison. So, a harki? Why not]. It issignificant that the words “why not” are not followed by aquestion mark. There is no hypothetical element to this well-used phrase in this instance, for the father had no say in thematter. French officials labeled him a harki in their hastyeffort to dismiss his case as efficiently as possible.

The narrator of the short story sees things differentlyfollowing her mother's illuminating comments. She begins tolook in the archives of her familial history and discovers howvery unreliable official documents are:

Depuis ce temps je me méfie de l'archive. Donc mon pèrequi est harki n'a jamais porté l'uniforme. Au lieu de voussoulager, cette découverte est comme une infamie. J'ai ditque je savais tout de la guerre. La première leçon, ce qu'ilfaut savoir, ce dont il faut se prémunir c'est le documentde guerre. (Rahmani, 2007, p. 255)

[Since that moment I have been wary of archives. So myfatherwho is a harki neverwore a uniform. This discovery isnot a relief, but rather an infamy. I said that I knoweverythingaboutwar. Thefirst lesson,what youmust know,is that you have to arm yourself against war documents.]

Rahmani makes this statement with good cause, for shefinds a validateddocument indicating that her parents and theirsix children were killed by gunfire in Algeria in July 1962, priorto the author's birth. The strange irony of this obviouslyerroneous discovery incites the autobiographical narrativevoice to restate her intimate knowledge of war: “Je sais toutdes guerres, puisque j'en suis revenue” (Rahmani, 2007, p 255)[I know everything about war, since I have come back fromone]. Thewomanwriter arguably pitches her own battle on theinjustices of the past through the written word thanks to theinsights gained from the mother's spoken words. The mother'sperspective provides her with the tools she needs in order torevisit the past and reformulate the present outside therestricted terms that contemporary Western societies havereserved for her. Recent scholarship has demonstrated that thelabels applied to Algerian-born women in France are inade-quate to describe their multiple identities. In Remnants ofempire in Algeria and Vietnam: Women, words, and war, Pamela

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Pears (2004, p 108) calls our attention to the way a femalecharacter in a recent novel is “pluralized,” marked by a“betweenness” that “creates a fragmentation to which nounique name can be attached”. Lamia Ben Youssef Zayzafoon(2005)also brings to the forefront theplural forces contributingto “the production of the Muslim woman” in her eponymousbook, a judicious studyof the complexity of definingoneself as awoman and a Muslim today.

In Rahmani's third novel, religion emerges as a source oftrouble in the particular “ghetto” that she inhabits in theFrench village of her upbringing:

Je ne vis pas dans un ghetto noir de Memphis où tout meserait interdit mais dans un ghetto blanc où touteparticularité m'est refusée. Le mot de Dieu n'est jamaisprononcé en ma présence, mais on me reproche lareligion de mes parents sans me dire en quoi celle-ci estmoins bonne qu'une autre. Leur conviction, c'est que jesuis musulmane. Pour eux, c'est un degré de barbarie.(Rahmani, 2006, p. 133)

[I don't live in a black ghetto in Memphis whereeverything would be forbidden to me but in a whiteghetto where every individuality is refused me. The wordGod is never pronounced in my presence, but theyreproach me for the religion of my parents withoutsaying why it is worse than another. Their conviction isthat I am a Muslim. For them, it is a degree of barbarity.]

This statement on the way she has been ostracized dueto her family's faith serves as an echo to her earlier work,“Musulman” roman, in which she explains the thoughtlesslumping that has effaced all idiosyncrasy, that has effectivelydone away with all personality:

À longueur de journées, on ne parlait que d'eux et on nevoyait qu'eux: les musulmans. Les musulmans. Pas desfemmes, des hommes, et des enfants à qui on faisait la plusvieille saleté dumonde, mais seulement des musulmans. Età force de les vouloir comme on les voulait, à force de sefaire peur avec eux, ils ne faisaient plus qu'un: une hordesauvage. (Rahmani, 2005, p. 97)

[All day long, one talked only of them and one saw onlythem: Muslims. Muslims. Not women, men, and childrenwho were being done the oldest injustice in the world,only Muslims. And by wanting them to be what onewanted, by being afraid of them, they became one: asavage horde.]

What is so especially aggravating about this unproductivetag that has been applied to all, without distinction, is that itfails to take into account the wonderfully rich nature of eachindividual and demonstrates a pernicious racist attitude thatis nearly impossible to overcome.

In “Musulman” roman, Rahmani laments a personal situationthat defies all easy categorization. The Algerian-born girl at thecenter of this autobiographical work discovers that all of thelabels applied to her do not fit:

En France, je venais de vivre ma révolte. Je détestais monpère. Je lui reprochais notre vie misérable de Français

arabes que nous n'étions pas. Si seulement nous étionsarabes, lui disais-je, si seulement nous l'étions, mais nousne l'étions pas. Si seulement nous étions des immigrés,mais nous ne l'étions pas. Si seulement nous étionsfrançais, français depuis des décennies, mais nous nel'étions toujours pas[…] Je me suis mise à haïr toutes cesmarques d'identités qui s'accrochaient à moi comme lechiendent à la terre. Arabes, immigrés, exilés, musulmans,je nous voyais maintenus dans un univers infect où mêmela plus misérable des vies se devait quand même d'êtresatisfaite de sa condition. (Rahmani, 2005, pp. 84–85)

[In France, I had just gone through my revolt. I hated myfather. I blamed him for our miserable life as Arab Frenchwhichwewere not. If onlywewere Arabs, I told him, if onlywe were, but we weren't. If only we were immigrants, butwe weren't. If only wewere French, French for decades, butwewere still not[…] I began to hate all these identity marksthat attached themselves to me like crap to the ground.Arabs, immigrants, exiles, Muslims, I saw us kept in aninfectious universe where even those who led the mostmiserable lives owed it to themselves to be satisfied withtheir condition.]

The country may elude her, but she is officially a Frenchresident, as the narrative reveals in an interesting way. Uponentering the lycée, the girl is asked about her nationality andfinds herself puzzled, unable to respond. She finally producesthe proper papers, proving her French citizenship, and “French”is the adjective that fills in the appropriate blank on the form.But years later, the narrative voice tells us that the papers werenot enough for her then, or now: “Aujourd'hui, cette nationalitéje l'ai égarée” (Rahmani, 2005, p 86)[Today I have misplacedthis nationality].

In light of the uprisings in France inOctober andNovemberof 2005 and then again in December of 2007, Zahia Rahmani'stext takes on special resonance. Thewords she has put in printextend far beyond herself: “Je ne serais pas qu'une exilée, uneimmigrée, une Arabe, une Berbère, une musulmane ou uneétrangère, mais plus” (Rahmani, 2005, pp 92–93)[I would notbe only an exiled, immigrant, Arab, Berber, Muslim or foreignwoman, butmore]. Those ethnicminoritieswho flamboyantlymanifested their anger and frustration may have felt equallydisgruntled with regular identity checks that single them outas visibly different from those who have been French fordecades, or even centuries; they may have felt similar con-tempt for the tags that have quickly been applied to theirsituation but that fail to take into account the multiple factorsthat make up any identity. When it comes to Islam, thepersonal quest Rahmani describes in “Musulman” romanattests to the fact that this religion is varied and complex andthat, for her, it is made up of scholarly, familial, and emotionalfactors. Indeed, her assertion that she is much more than theaforementioned components of her identity is a timely state-ment that, read in the context of hermultifaceted “novel,”mayserve as an antidote to the contemporary syndrome of hastilyclassifyingmembers of a faith that is far fromuniformby usingthe word “Muslim” as sole descriptor.

The word “musulmans” in the masculine plural form iswhat takes over the opening paragraph of the novel's fourth

353A. Rice / Women's Studies International Forum 32 (2009) 347–353

act, as the word “fear” pervades the text for the first time.What instills such fright in the narrator is the omnipresenceof “Muslims,” an indistinct, nondescript entity that occupiedevery word and every image. The autobiographical “I”expresses sorrow because she has been grouped togetherwith others under this heading. She has been named thisway, accused of this crime. When the government func-tionary hounds the narrator in the dialogue that makes upthe bulk of the fourth act, insisting that she provide herFrench papers as proof of her identity, she determines totake refuge from such questioning in the desert. But theviolence of the civil servant's invasion of her privacy isechoed in the following act, entitled Desert Storm, when asoldier ruthlessly interrogates a woman prisoner, assailingher with question after question about her birthplace,nationality, progeny, beliefs, occupations, travels, history,and plans. These interpellations inspire the narrator to go tothe origins of her name. She locates its roots in a time thatpreceded Islam, when the God of the Jews and the Christianswas called “Rahman,” a word meaning merciful (Rahmani,2005, p. 140). The singularity of this name is what thenarrator would like to confer to her child, not a religiousbelonging to one particular faith rather than another; thisname is what she would give, were it possible. In Hebrew,the root of “rahman” is said to refer to the womb (Rahmani,2005, p. 140). She does not have any offspring, but departingfrom current prisons to give birth to new horizons is whatZahia Rahmani would like to do, in her name. “Musulman”roman is the incarnation of that wish.

Endnotes

1 On 11th September 2001, two planes struck the Twin Towers of theWorld Trade Center in lower Manhattan in New York City, U.S.A. Each of theplanes had been hijacked by several Muslim terrorists.2 Zahia Rahmani's work has not yet been published in English. Alltranslations are mine.3 In his comments on the “historical irony” of the harkis, Alec Hargreaveshighlights the danger of remaining in Algeria after the war because of theirstatus as traitors, all while underscoring the unfriendly welcome theyreceived in France: “Many harkiswere massacred by triumphant nationalistswhen independence came in 1962. Those who were able fled the country,resettling in France. Today, they and their descendants are an embarrassingreminder of the war of independence” (Hargreaves and McKinney, 1997,p 233).

References

Hargreaves, Alec, & McKinney, Mark (Eds.). (1997). Post-Colonial cultures inFrance London: Routledge.

Pears, Pamela (2004). Remnants of empire in Algeria and Vietnam: Women,words, and war. Lanham, Maryland: Lexington Books.

Rahmani, Zahia (2003). Moze. Paris: Sabine Wespieser.Rahmani, Zahia (2005). “Musulman” roman. Paris: Sabine Wespieser.Rahmani, Zahia (2006). France, récit d'une enfance. Paris: Sabine Wespieser.Rahmani, Zahia (2007). Figure d'un homme. Mon père (pp. 245−256).Rice, Alison (June 20, 2005). Unpublished interview with Zahia Rahmani.

Paris, France.Zayzafoon, Lamia Ben Youssef (2005). The production of the Muslim woman:

Negotiating text, history, and ideology. Lanham, Maryland: Lexington Books.

Further Reading

Hargreaves, Alec (1997). Resistance at the margins: writers of Maghrebiimmigrant origin. Post-Colonial cultures in France (pp. 226−239).

Sebbar, Leïla (Ed.). (2007). Mon père Paris: Chevrefeuille étoilée.