VOLUME SIX (2020): ARCHIVES ON FIRE

Monday, November 30, 2009

‘Tunde Awosanmi, "Wole Soyinka’s Africa"

‘Tunde Awosanmi

AFRICA, GENDERIZATION AND WOLE SOYINKA’S CONSTRUCTION OF MATRICENTRIC POWER


Gender intellectualization has been globally framed on war of ideas, ideologies, races and knowledge. Modern feminism is premised on the central tenet that “all women are oppressed” (Hooks, 1998: 340). This belief provides the rationale for the symbolization of “the conquered land” with “female bodies” by colonial and post-colonial Western writers and visual artists (Loomba, 1998: 152). The purpose of the feminist movement, then, is to secure the liberation of women from the artificial restraints of historical gender inequality (Baradat, 2003: 284). In the Western cultures, difference is strictly implied in the social conceptualization of gender. Since the influence that gender has been able to control in world politics of the sexes rests on its being a system of structuring social life, it can only be organized along “two socially and legally recognized gender statuses, man and woman” (Lorber, 1994: 26). Subsequently, then, by insisting that the male and the female are images of difference, modern humanity becomes polarized, therefore mis-gendered. This politicization of gender, and the consequent politicization of humanity, cuts across the corridors of world’s ebony towers and the pages of, even, the United Nations’ policy papers.

Postcolonial feminist discourse is steeped in the malady of politicization of representation and the representation of a narrow and obverse gender politics. This has thrown Africa into a patriarchal monologue in which the matricentric component of the African humanity has glaringly disappeared. Unfortunately, many African scholars of feminism have found themselves enmeshed in this intellectual dilemma as their European mentors. A gender ladder has even been constructed in post-colonial discourse in such a “carefully hierarchical manner” that “the racial other, figured as female or effeminate”, was always phallocolonized. This direction of gender reflectivism and sex differentiation has its archetypal conceptualization in the very source of the feminist orthodoxy itself, the West where “women were placed in a subordinate role in judicial, cultural and historical texts” (Quayson, 2000: 109). The obvious misgenderization of Africa by Western scholarship, and its African minions, is not unconnected with the subordination of the continent’s cultural intellect to the Euro-American scholarship war-machine. The vision of difference is yoked with the intent to polarize.

Epistemologically, social, gender and feminist frameworks have seriously intersected with the global analysis of gender. Conceptual and theoretical problems such as “relationships of intimacy; reflexivity and gender identity; relationships between sex, gender and embodiment; and masculinities and sexualities” are what Ann Brooks (2006: 211) considers crucial to this epistemological intersection problems. The traditional conceptualization of gender through class, racial, ethnic, and nationality epistemological paradigms has been deconstructed by what, according to Brooks (2006), Beck and Beck-Gernsheim (1995) view as “new modernity” - “a highly westernized notion of modernity (211). This position is what Brooks critiques in her essay; “gendering Knowledge”, which problematizes the relationship between modernity, reflexivity and gender as critiqued by Gole (2000) and Roces and Edwards (2000). The latter had noted that in the process of constructing a form of modernity that is conceptually non-Western, Asian women are reaffirming “the distinctiveness of a particular national subjectivity from a putative hegemonic Westernising identity” (4-5).

Chandra Mohanty (1994) is of the view that, by discursively producing a separate “third world woman”, Western feminist scholarship has parochially created a homogenized species that matches the imagined ‘Other’ of the Western cultural and material female. By critiquing Julia Kristeva’s feminist study of Chinese women for its shallow historical foundation and speculative generalization, Gayatri Spivak (1981) expresses disgust at how Western feminist discourse operates through a narrow prism and superficially brands the universal through the specific. Patrick Wilmot’s (2007) hint that “the first intellectuals were probably women” (101) is another of many statements of difference to such Eurocentric patriarchal monologism. Ifi Amadiume (1997) also notes a missing system of matriarchy in the study of African societies by European intellectuals by insisting that the matricentric production unit is “the basic material structure of African matriarchy” (29), which was pervasive in all of African traditional social systems. His observation that the matriarchal principle that upholds “the basic presence of this matricentric production unit” renders “even male-focused ancestor worship, although separate and in binary opposition to matriarchy, not monolithically masculine”, is quite correct. Both the Egungun and Sango cults in which rituality, art and socialization cannot be isolated from feminine symbols, bodies, principles and values which the Iya Agan and Iya Sango represent are strong attestations to this submission in the Yoruba world. Cultural correctness is, therefore essential in scholastic explanation of peoples, systems and experiences.

Nzegwu (2004) thus warns against the “misinterpretations of the cultural ethos of African societies”, especially by African feminists for whom “the impressive thesis of oppression offers a powerful analytical tool that provides a neat overarching explanation for women’s obvious disadvantages in societies” (565). Hasty gender politicization and representation stemming from “misrepresentations of cultural ethos” in many world societies and how it is capable of undermining the potential radicalism of feminist struggle itself is what scholars like Marie Eboh (1998), Helen Chukwuma (1990) and Bell Hooks (1998) have objectively critiqued. Getting the analytical frames right by African feminist writers and critics, then, would not only be gender correct, it would also help in tackling what Papoulias (2006: 231) observes as the “methodological impasses in the theorization of gender across disciplines”.

CULTivating gender: The Gelede paradigm

The creation and perpetuation of knowledge and order in community is at the heart of human involvement in artistic production in Africa. Gender ordering is only a branch of this supreme goal. Two major reasons could be adduced for my reliance on the Gelede cult-performance idiom as the theoretical cement for this paper. First, the Gelede is a matricentric cult of indigenous communal power construction – what Ibitokun describes as a system of “traditional African feminism” (1993). It is equally a cult, just like the theatre, of social rectification. Second, the Gelede performance tradition is a veritable satirical idiom. This is definitely relevant to Soyinka’s dramaturgy which corpus sufficiently resides in the domain of socio-political satirical tradition.

The Gelede tradition is one of the paradigms of Yoruba folk-spirituality through the masking art and mysticism. It is a major manifestation of the Western and coastal sub-groups of the Yoruba. Lawal (1996) identifies Ketu, Sabee, Ohori, Egbado, Anago and Awori as some of the most prominent sub-ethnicities that perform the Gelede masking art. The socio-cultural and spiritual cultivation of the Gelede invests it with a communally constructed power of the matriarchal type. Though it may be recalled for performance in veneration of any significant Orisa (deity) or culture hero, the original justification for the cultivation of the Gelede masking art-cult is the recognition, reification and preservation of the indubitable primacy of the maternal essence in the Yoruba cosmology:

“Its most popular function is to placate Iya Nla (the Great Mother), and her earthly disciples, the powerful mothers. Often identified as the first female in the Yoruba universe and the wife of the artist deity, Obatala (alias Baba Nla, the Great Father), Iya Nla remains an enigma. This is because she is Mother Nature. She is Yewajobi, Iyami, Iya (the Mother of All and Mother of Mothers), epitomizing the maternal principle in the Yoruba cosmos, combining in her nature the attributes of all the principal female deities…Iya Nla was the primeval sea out of which habitable land emerged at Ile-Ife, the cradle of the Yoruba civilization. As ile (the Earth), venerated by the Ogboni, she sustains life, humanity and culture…an embodiment of good and evil of the physical world” (Lawal, 1996:71-73; emphasis mine).

The relationship of Iya Nla, Gelede’s primary divinity (or deitress), with The Earth is notable. This projects Iya Nla, and women, generally her offsprings, as the store of abundance, fertility, and productivity essences - attributes that echo Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ (1992) wild woman archetype. Iya Nla’s conception as the Almighty provider reverberates in the descriptive praise name of Yemoja as Iya Oloyon oruba (the pot-breasted mother). Being the custodian of the Gelede cult-reality, the Earth is personified in her as ‘inexhaustible sea’ and ‘vibrations from the deep’ (which echoes the “mystery” associated with the female genitalia) (Lawal, 1996: 73).

Gelede is the paradigmatic cult, which fuses the Yoruba concept of the functionality of art, religion and performance. The Gelede ritual act is an agent of dissolving social tension through satire, lampooning, invectives and social criticism. Etymologically, Gelede as a term may be an allusion “to the mythical image of Iya Nla as the plentiful, pot-breasted mother; nursing mother with the rolling buttocks”. Secondly; Gelede may connote “a phenomenon treated with indulgence”. Thirdly, Gelede “refers to something that cools and relaxes” (Lawal, 74-75). One thing that should be understood is that, semantically and onomatopoeically, the word – Gelede – by implication corresponds to the socio-functionalist goal of the masking art, which resides in the application “of poetic humour to pacify the Great Mother and the aje on the one hand, and to dissolve social tension on the other” (75).

The difference between the Gelede mask and those of the mask representations of Egungun and Epa is so striking. While the headdresses and costumes of the latter two are characterized by, sometimes, fearful charms and ritual items, the Gelede costume is more domestic and friendly. It is rather “an assemblage of women’s headwraps (gele) and baby sashes (oja) contributed by the female members of the society”. The masker in the Gelede socio-ritual performance, instead of carrying dangerous cudgels and weapons, “holds only a ceremonial horsetail whisk for dancing, acknowledging ovations, and blessing admirers”. By “reflecting gender through distinct male and female costumes”, the Gelede mask, therefore, publicly acknowledges the complementarity of the two sexes” (75). This masking tradition, by nature, is more democratic since the cult-institution that produces and manages it places high premium on male-female interaction. While it is mainly the men who don the mask and are its preferable performers, they do so under the directorial conception, philosophical guidance and spiritual blessing “of the Iyalase, the woman who holds the highest title in the society” (77-78).

As a carrier of the mask and performer of its art, masculinity symbolically becomes submissive to femininity. Through the Gelede tradition, men “humble themselves by dancing with masks specifically dedicated to the maternal principle” (79). It is equally “a public acknowledgement of the contribution of the female sex to the community: for as mothers, they embody the procreative power of ase, on which depends the survival of organized society as well as the human race” (79). The terrestriality and the femininity of the Gelede mask make it a symbolic forum for the mystical unity of both the male and the female essences. As a cult, which promotes social harmony, the philosophical pivot of the Gelede socio-performative engagement is the Yoruba concept of irepo (communal unity and harmony). Gelede, thus, presents a femino-masculine world, a society where matricentricism has been able to assert itself through its power relations with the phallic element.

Wole Soyinka’s construction of matricentric power

In the last quarter of the twentieth century, African gender epistemology became a political zone of vibrant intellectual engagement. Bifurcated between the feminine and the masculine paradigms, productive energy and knowledge circulation on the African stage witnessed de-masculinization. Feminism, the complex and dynamic ideological champion of this cause intends the ascertaining of ideo-political balancing of representational sexualities in the performative and philosophical orientations of modern African dramatic and theatrical productivity.

Socio-gender change, a radical re-genderization of the world (Baradat, 2003), is the radical vision of ideo-feminist writers, critics, theorists and performers. For them, the supposed hitherto heavily masculinized African stage’s gender order needs urgent reversing. The need to locate the sociology, politics and culture of power-construction in a believed male-occupied arts producing environment centralized both male and female sexes in literature and performance. Gender reconstruction, then, subsumes female re-invention and male de-invention – the whipping of male writers for parochial phallocentricism and the eulogization of females for breaking feminine silence. Clamouring for women-centered revisionism, new female presentational agenda, counter-stereotyping, etc., for effecting textual elevation of women in African literary drama have been Molara Ogundipe-Leslie, Carole Boyce Davies, Catherine Acholonu, Marie Umeh, Okonjo-Ogunyemi, Helen Gilbert, Mabel Evwierhoma, Irene Salami, etc.

Wole Soyinka - Africa’s first Literary Nobel Laureate – is a favourite scapegoat of most feminist critics on accusation of male-centricism and gender hubris displayed through subversive performance of the feminine identity and gender insensitivity. Two recent feminist criticisms of the drama of Wole Soyinka that feature in After the Nobel Prize: Reflections on African Literature, Governance and Development (2006) - a book of essays dedicated to the celebration of two decades of the Literary Nobel Prize in Africa - shall be apt investigative references on this topic. The two essays - Irene Salami’s “Women Writing and the Landscape of Social Advocacy: Women Literature since Wole Soyinka’s Nobel Prize” and Mabel Evwierhoma’s “Soyinka after the Nobel Prize: Towards An Agenda Setting, Women-Centred Revisionist Stance” - put Soyinka on a “women-centered” surgical slab and attempt to re-position him on the familiar subject of female character depiction.

An interesting cliché that seems to dominate most of the femino-critical positions on the ‘male-dominated’ Nigerian pre-Nobel written literature (Brown, 1981: 3 and Salami, 2006: 124) is the alleged masculine creative “bias against strong female characterization” (Evwierhoma, 2002: 78). While I agree with the feminist critics that the manner of depicting women in the drama of the Nigerian expression may have been influenced by traditional values and culture, they may want to agree with me too on the point that ordinarily dichotomizing between “weak” and “strong” female characters from a mere sexist fringe cannot be a recommendable paradigm for literary critical engagement. Façade reading of texts such as this is derogatory to the feminist cause itself that has gained such profound theorization and philosophization in scholarship. Tasking their scholarly patience a bit more, especially in sub-textually interrogating the writer’s exploitation of the theatrical art’s truthful lie potential would have, indeed, aided our feminist critic’s discovery of African drama as a site of philosophizing the real and deeper essence of womanhood. Since it is more deeply entrenched in the ideology of gender activism, matricentric power-construction, therefore, gender balance, Soyinka’s gender philosophy appropriately proffers, then, an exemplary channel for adventuring into the directly opposite and yet harmonious femino-masculine poles.


Two diagnostic dimensions could explain such superficial feminocratic reading of drama. Firstly, our antinomically ordered universe has locked females in gender struggle against an imagined patriarchal colonialist universe. Psychologically, then, female manifestation of a developed phobia for male - a pathology conditioning most feminists’ dilemma about their unavoidable male correspondents – is a potent reason. The second reason is the intellectual vogue-effect of the metaphysics of gender - which, in Nzegwu’s (2004) words, “generates distortions” – on the part of “many African women scholars” who “employ it without considering its cultural nuances”, especially, its “impressive thesis of oppression” and thematic of social roles. But it is instructive to note that social roles must be essentially and interpretively socio-culturally contextualized in both literary creativity and criticism.

Since the creation of the female character, Iyaloja, in Death and the King’s Horseman (1975), Mabel Evrwhieroma believes that Soyinka has not accorded women any role of significance in any other play of his until the creation of Mama Put in The Beatification of Area Boy (1999) and that, rather, women have merely been assigned secondary functions. According to her, masculinocratic criticism of the playwright’s works has tended to worsen the matter. In her own words, a critic like Robert July who has done an “in-depth patriarchal analysis of Wole Soyinka’s works, especially his poetry, drama and prose” (149), obviously excludes the mentioning of women. Therefore, the justification for recognizing characters describable as counterstereotypes – echoing Nellie Mckay (1997) – a perfect example of which is Mama Put, resides in the fact that critics “sometimes excavate Soyinka’s works without coming across any female tradition or evidence” (149). Resting her case on the definition of patriarchy through the lenses of Isaac Ssetuba (2005, 37) as a “social system where much of the power rests in the hands of men, who also dominate private and public spheres of life”, Evwhieroma goes prescriptive:

“Some people may exonerate Soyinka from this patriarchal position and claim he has done well for humanity, because he chronicled the world as he met or saw it. One however wagers here that it is often expected of the writer to give an account of the universe as it ought to be” (149).

A lacuna is therefore observable in Evwhierhoma’s (2006) argument. Insisting that writers must prescribe “the universe as it ought to be” before or without chronicling it as they “met or saw it” (149) is asking them to revise reality and suspend the actual truth. This judgmental gap becomes even more disturbing in the concluding section of the article where the feminist critic “attempts to (re)position Soyinka to generate more central women in his future dramatic plot” by magnanimously offering an “agenda for plays becoming” (151). She refers to a previous article of hers to provide a conceptual rationale for this display of generosity:

“Soyinka’s stance where woman beings are concerned, fall short of some textual expectations. I make reference to the poem “Gulliver” for here, I see him as the giant tied down and obstructed by his own belittling of the stature of women in society through his plays. A run through most of his plays reveals this failure; whether deliberate or unconscious, to depict the passageway of all life with forte” (2005: 36).

She, then, goes ahead to recommend some “centring options” necessary for Soyinka’s dramatic foregrounding of women for the writer to be seen as being ”sensitive to the depth of humanity’s greater half” (151 – 152). Those prescriptions range from creation of more lowly placed, but strong women like Mama Put; to women of the future like Miseyi who are activists; employing symbols and satire to sheath his newly created militant female characters and assigning women a fifty-fifty position of dominance wielded by men and women in his forthcoming plays; among others (152).

Being a bit more complimentary, Irene Salami observes that while Soyinka’s winning of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1986 “exposed the fact that women are invisible as writers, readers and subjects in literature”, it also facilitated their incursion “into Nigerian literary space, especially drama” (123). Declaring that Soyinka’s 1960 Masks and later Orisun Theatre “established the female character on the Nigerian stage” (127), she explores the influence of Wole Soyinka’s dramatic works on Nigerian women’s literary theatre by proceeding to thematically categorize this trajectory of impact along the lines of what she identifies as “strong female character”, “messianic figure/redeemer”, “political activism/revolutionary struggle”, “re-enacting past heroines”, “women perpetuating traditional practices”, and “greedy leaders who usurp power”. She then goes ahead to discuss Nigerian female writers such as Tess Onwueme, Tracy Utoh, Julie Okoh, Stella Oyedepo and herself in terms of how Soyinka’s dramaturgy has been influential as a worthy exploitable archetypal model especially in female characterization. Though this position may have sharply conflicted with that of Evwierhoma on the surface, their prescriptive conclusions are the same:

“The literary theatre of Wole Soyinka no doubt is a great asset to women writers. His legacy will continue for a long time to give direction and help to sustain the dramas by women. However, a more sustained attention to the issues of women in his works, and an in-depth treatment of his female characters will further enhance his creativity…Although Soyinka has clearly stated that his use of women in his works is for symbolism and essence, there is the need to craft more worthy characters who engage in careers as the male characters” (emphasis mine;140-141).

Aside from the intellectually trivial appearance of the recommendations, this mode of prescription is capable of projecting the feminist critics as authoritarian agenda setters with robust lack of respect for the freedom of artistic creativity or the license of the artist. Their critical vision seems a bit distant from the reality that art, unlike law or science, is not an automatic venture that can be tailored according to a priori rules, principles, regulations and pre-existing knowledge deliberately constructed for its straitjacketing. Their mode of femino-centric criticism is as weighty and offensive, when contextualized in relation to artistic freedom, as gender indifference, domination and contempt, which feminist critics have alleged most African male writers and their critics of.

Actually, a fundamental contention arising from their critical and theoretical positions is the question: which comes first, the creative art or the theory applied in critiquing it? Must art be forced on theory or must theory be forced on art? I think that it is the art work that should be allowed to yield its own critical perception and not vice versa. Why then castigate a critic for his, so called, patriarchal analysis, if, for instance, that is his perception of a literary work? Forcing theory on art, such as Evwhieroma and Salami are advocating will be, certainly, creatively reductionistic and murderous. Equally, asking a writer to revise reality as depicted in his drama is asking him to revise the truth. Moderate suiting of theory to art would be more beneficial to literary studies in its service of humanity than dogmatic suiting of art to theory and ideology. Art should be freely and truthfully expressed according to the artist’s perception and instinct. Before feminist critics commence the setting of mandatory theoretical agendas such as this, the substance and the likely futuristic impact of such imperative, as well as the inter-mediationism of gender roles, should be contemplated.

Life’s continuity rests on the conflictive interaction of opposites and positive-negative inter-correspondence. In Soyinka’s gender power construction, characters like Madame Tortoise, Gudrum and Maariya exemplify the feminocratic negativity that exposes the masculinocratic hyper-negativity of Mata Kharibu, Kamini and Bash Abash in A Dance of the Forests (1963), A Play of Giants (1975) and King Baabu (2002) respectively. The anti-social and counter-productive entrenchment of male power by female power, an age long reality, is depicted in the wire-pulling status of the matriarchs in the palaces of the psychosocial patriarchs in the plays. Creative marginalization of women, then by the playwright, as charged by feminist critics, must be profoundly reconsidered and lucidly re-contextualized.

The trans-boundary behaviour of the paradigm wars ensuing from gender epistemology, within a globalized knowledge framework, actually situates Soyinka’s gender sensitivity. The social border-crossing characteristics of gender itself in sub-paradigmatic contexts such as sexuality, identity, masculinity, femininity, etc. indicate that gender, roles and power sharing are subjects of the law of existential flux and change. Conceptualization of gender, then, within a universal existential co-interactive matrix, has therefore, informed the playwright’s attitude to gender constructivism and activism in a manner that links the three existential worlds of the unborn, the living and the dead together in Soyinka’s vision. Gender, just as time and space, as revealed by Plummer’s (2003) model and Wole Soyinka’s existential theory, “is not a fixed identity” (Brooks, 2006: 213) and cannot be treated as such. Gender and roles in the African society are subjects of situational changes. Thus, Soyinka’s temperament demonstrates a flexible engagement of gender as a constructive reality of the elasticity of the African human existence. Feminist reading of the works of Wole Soyinka, then, deserves a deeper understanding of his existentialist philosophy, which respects the male-female balanced instinct as symbolized in the Edan Ogboni’s male-female interface. Actually in the Edan, the major symbol of the Yoruba Ogboni socio-cultural and mystical cult of elders, both the female and male dimensions of humanity are symbolically wedlocked with the subsistence of the male premised on the well being of the female.

Mosse (1993: 2) defines gender as “a set of roles which, like costumes or masks in the theatre, communicate to other people that we are feminine or masculine”. Gender, then, is marked by role distribution according to a culture’s socio-existential dynamism and specificity. Not only are gender-determined roles culture-specific, they do obey the principle of change within the context of time and are equally subject to such variables as class, age, ethnic affiliation and biological sex. Women and men command legitimacy to varying degrees of gender roles in every society. Age and sex confer responsibility status, and power within different human domains. The evolution of gender roles is aided by natural, environmental, mythological, and communal relationship factors.

In Africa, gender roles do overlap. Contrary to the stereotypical conceptualization of masculine rights and feminine privileges, which Western gender and feminine theoretical frames resolve in favour of women and upholds as the social nuisance of male domination in women’s psyche, inter-class and intra-class roles are shared and diffused in Soyinka’s Afro-Yoruba culture. Gender role allotment observes a balance in gender recognition, respect and responsibility.

The basis of Wole Soyinka’s gender construction and activism, therefore, is femino-masculine role indispensability. Women fulfill their social, moral and spiritual roles in his dramas as the nemesis of men; enforcers of discipline in men; critics of men; and conscience of men and vice versa. Eboh’s (1998: 336) observation of the “awareness by women of their indispensability to the male” is correct, but, contrary to her thinking, it is not a one-way affair. To the radical feminist and the orthodox genderist, development may be a gender issue, but to Soyinka, a gender existentialist, development is beyond gender. Rather, gender flexibility and freedom as reflected in the Afro-Yoruba social perception of gender roles within the context of the male-female symbiotic components of society, guided by the collective zeal for communal progress, is a factor of development. The intertwined questions of development and underdevelopment transcend the mere barriers of gender and address the core issues of social order and human security. Wole Soyinka reflects, in his dramatic writings the disordered status of post-colonial African states. Within this purview, both males and females are either heroes or villains, strong or weak. The human factor, not gender, is what, existentially, counts.

Artistic creativity is an existential preoccupation. The human community derives its essence from social, psychological and spiritual conflicts. Men and women are vehicles of these conflicts since we are individual sites of conflict of good and evil, therefore of different quests and this is the world which Soyinka’s drama usually presents. No Soyinkaresque art exists, therefore, that satirically chronicles the society as the writer has “met or seen it” without a balanced vision that prescribes, profoundly, how “it ought to be” – because, inherent in conflict is the dynamics for its resolution. The three plays earlier mentioned, A Dance of the Forests, A Play of Giants and King Baabu, like other plays, belong in Wole Soyinka’s dramatic pool of cleansing rites, for his political satires too, and not only the ritualistic plays, have their communal purificatory dynamics. Prescription of an imagined universe, then, is premised on the necessity of atonement, which mechanics is built-in in the plays. More positive and stronger women as much as men, therefore, are central tools to the realization and continuity of this cleansed future of humanity. This is Soyinka’s gender activism and existentialism in the context of how the universe “ought to be”.

Madmen and Specialists (1971), Kongi’s Harvest (1967) and Death and the King’s Horseman (1975) present women as socio-spiritual correctionists, revolutionaries, humanists, eco-activists and guardians of the cult of human continuity in a world of mostly anti-life men. Of the three categories of social system in the Merina culture discussed by Ifi Amadiume (1997) – “the matricentric system dominated by a motherhood ideology; the descent system dominated by elders and a patriarchal ideology; and an invisible, inverted and externalized matriarchy in the Vazimba category, owners of the land and natural force from which the power of blessing is derived” (42) - the Vazimba autochthonous category is pronounced most important. The Vazimba is “considered to be the original owners of the land and natural fertility…Vazimba cults are usually dominated by women” (42). Symbolized by wild cattle, the Vazimba – almost like the Gelede cult - is the cult-guardian of fertility, wild and unbounded nature, strength, power, vitality and nature’s watery surplus. This position coming from Amadiume is not surprising.

The Vazimba cult, strikingly, equals the matricentric Earth Cult created by Soyinka in Madmen and Specialists as a counter-force to the patricentric Cult of As – a life eroding power cult. Women being the custodians of the Earth Cult in the play are as originally African as in the Gelede, Osun, and Vazimba cults of earth continuity. And the intention of the playwright to ensure the perpetuity of the Earth Cult in the safer hands of women is obvious in his enrolling of the youthful Si Bero as the only apprentice under the guardian of the matriarchal figures – Iya Agba and Iya Mate. Si Bero, in a philosophical sense, is also a femino-positive opposite character to the masculino-negative Dr. Bero. This, actually, is a dialectical projection of life’s good-evil matrix. Soyinka’s achievement here resides in maintaining the objective neutrality of the profound African gender order. Mystico-symbolically, then, Madmen and Specialists emerges as a strong operative and campaign site for ecofeminism - a brand of feminism observed and coined by Francoise d’Eaubonne in 1974:

“The male traits of wishing to dominate had been manifested no less in attempt to subdue nature than in the oppression of women. The suggestion that women are more in tune with nature and threatening to it than men has gained resonance among feminists. They claim that their biological role of giving birth and nurturing is more compatible with the Earth Mother than is the male drive to conquer. This notion has led some feminists to conclude that the fate of nature and the fate of women are joined and that salvation of each is dependent upon the same thing: vanquishing patriarchy” (Baradat, 2003: 300).

Thus ecofeministically, the evocation of the destructive energy of the earth through fire, at the end of the play, by the two matriarch-guardians of the Earth Cult to consume Dr. Bero and his surgery – a laboratory of de-earthification – is in fulfillment of the cult’s duty of earth’s protection through the de-masculinization of an anti-Earth patriarchy.

Segi, the Ogunnian heroine in Kongi’s Harvest, shares the same revolutionary mission with Mama Put and Miseyi, in Beatification of Area Boy (1995). The former paradigmatizes the Yoruba agbajo owo (collectivism) philosophy, which informs the art-cult practice of Gelede, (see Lawal, 1996) as well as irepo (harmony) concept of the Ogboni cult in the Edan symbol, in taming the despotism of the chief protagonist- character, Kongi: an anti-Earth figure - and making him atone for his infringement on humanity, through the combined effort of Segi and Daodu. Indeed, Segi, the feminocratic Ogunnian, is more catalytic to the exposition of Kongi’s ori buruku (negative inner/spiritual head) than Daodu, a masculinocratic Ogunnian. Both Mama Put and Miseyi join her in this Ogunnian mission to activate the satiric energy and revolutionary potency of the post-colonial society depicted in the latter drama for change.

The Bacchae of Euripides (1973), which merits the sub-title: the feminocratic fantasia, reifies Dionysianism - a fertility cult that owes its existence to the bacchic and maenadic indulgence in “peasant’s natural evocation of, and self-immersion in, the mysterious in Nature” (vii). In this agrarian play, certainly one of the most credibly mytho-revolutionary of Soyinka’s dramas, the writer evokes the Ogunnian-Dionysiac-impulse-for-change in women, led by the tragic hero’s mother, Agave, to assert the imperative of life’s continuity. Life, Soyinka affirms, transcends parochial sexist view, gender warfare and even mother-son tie. Not only is Pentheus, the masculinocratic anti-life factor, de-phallicized, Dionysus, the god himself, is feminized. Agave has to choose between her errantly tyrannical son and Mother Earth. She chooses the latter, midwives the process of her son’s dismemberment and ensures the continuity of life.

In Death and the King’s Horseman, Soyinka philosophically employs the society’s conceptualization of matriarchal power to subvert the myth of patriachy; thereby reducing men’s imagined superiority through a process of symbolic demasculinization. This de-phallicization is contained in the role played by Bride – mundanely or supernaturally instigated – as Elesin’s nemesis. Elesin’s tragicity is an exploitation of a good dose of his hedonism. The Bride is created to be a key character-critique of the manifestation of the king’s horseman’s erotic instinct at the wrong moment. Iyaloja, the human balancing force in the play, is one of Soyinka’s most memorably dignified characters. She is the custodian of the Market, which she personifies. As the insurer of the Market’s well being, she is endowed with the Great Mother image of the Gelede cult’s object of veneration.

Actually, there is a relationship between the Market and The Earth in Yoruba cosmo-communalism. The Market is not just a spatial site of commerce. It is more a spatial continuum of the Earth. The logic of this assertion is sustained by the fact that apart from being the space that attracts people most after the Road, the Market is the final spatial destination of both the agricultural products of The Earth as well as the eventual products of the human labour. Iyaloja’s role, then, as the Mother of the Market, is politically, economically and spiritually critical. Aside being a force for checking and balancing the excesses of the usually patriarchal governmental establishment – a responsibility she fulfills with dignity, her usually towering image in terms of wealth and influence is a great source of nourishment to the entire community. Thus, she personifies The Earth itself. Iyaloja completes, the symbolic triad that Soyinka intends constructing via the dead king and the union of Elesin and the Bride. Within this construct, the king represents the past; Iyaloja the present; the Elesin-Bride-union the future. Among the Yoruba, the Market is more matricentric than patricentric for there has never been a Babaloja (Father of the Market). Symbolically, therefore, the Market is the community’s pulse center.

On the platform of these plays, women’s role as actors in socio-spiritual re-ordering of community validates Soyinka’s matricentric power construction and activism in which the wild-wolf instinct in women is variously reified. The Soyinkaresque drama, then, can be understood as a Jungian site with the dramatist as a committed tapper and restorer of “women’s flagging vitality” via “extensive psychic-archeological digs into the ruins of the female underworld” (Estes, 1992).

Conclusion

Though gender has been paradigmatized within a global scholarship-war construct, in the Soyinkaresque world, gender-scale is balanced with a conscious spirituality, knowing full well that in the Yoruba pantheon, goddesses are as important as gods. This view is supported by the cultural position of women, in many African cultures, as “sacred, particularly as mothers” (Ogundipe, 2007: 22). This balance is informed by the race’s mysticism, which has the principle of correspondence as a cardinal fork. The Edan Ogboni, for instance, is a male-female symbol in which both the feminine and the masculine harmonize in one spirit of the race. As a matter of fact, the Edan is regarded as the sign of the Feminine Plus – for within its construct, initiates refer to one another as omo iya (maternal siblings), and not omo baba (paternal siblings). Iya in Ogboni metaphysics, simply refers to Ile (Mother Earth). The popular maxim on the lips of Ogboni initiates – omu iya dun, gbogbo wa la jo n’mu (we all suckle at Mother’s nourishing breasts) – parallels Yemoja’s praise name as iya oloyon oruba (the pot breasted mother) and Osun’s well acclaimed motherhood status in Yoruba cosmogony, thus the veneration of Iya Nla (Great Mother) in the Gelede art-performative-cult. Now, even in Yoruba cosmology itself, the feminine heart and body, just as the masculine, is balanced by being a deposit of nature’s creative-destructive provinces - a paradigm whose mysticism has greatly influenced Soyinka’s dramatic matricentricism and patricentricism. Soyinka’s gender activism, then, hinges on the correspondent law that posits a cross breathing between the male-female and good-evil conflict and resolution sections of humanity.

African scholars, then, have the mandate to be wary of vogue-scholarship and its sometimes stereotypical frames. Being truthful to the continent’s metaphysical reality is recommended as the most potent antidote to the raging Afro-modernist intellectual dilemma and its latching-on to the apron of orthodox feminist legislation. A deep knowledge of a writer’s operative philosophy is imperative for critics who have chosen the feminist path, to make profound and well honed critical statements and contributions to African literary and theatrical scholarship. Afro-feminist criticism should take into cognizance the metaphysics of gender, rather than the politics of gender. Actually, this is what Soyinka’s creativity and some other African neo-primitivistic writers explore. Soyinka is a gender mystic.

Social and spiritual change are as necessary as they need a catalyst (Mosse, 1993) and women, as well as men, have been demonstrably employed as catalysts of socio-spiritual change in Soyinka’s works. Not only are they vessels of revolutionary underpinning of his works, they are introspective voices of protest, cultivators of communal value and preservers of revolutionary ethics with strong implication for society’s future. Mosse is convinced that “the resurgence of women as actors on the world stage is one of the most potent dynamics in the struggle against an unjust social order” (202). This theoretical position authenticates Soyinka’s gender creative pragmatism.

Aside fictional characters, Soyinka presents factional characters to underscore his belief that women are as intellectually and socio-politically capable and enthusiastic as men. His oeuvre reflects the inscribed spaces of matricentric leadership within which code women integrally function as equal and capable partners in the social developmental project. Madam Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti and Wild Christian, his own mother, in Ake: Years of Childhood (1983) are ardent civil society organizers whose strength of personality, underscored by their unwavering commitment to the cause of social justice, successfully actualized the Egba Women’s Riot of the 1940s in colonial Nigeria. This is an incontrovertible historical fact. Though feminine images, their Ogunnian importance, within a social fabric that recognizes men and women as partners in progress, made them leadership instruments of the de-masculinization of the then Alake, the paramount ruler of the Egba people, over the unpalatable issue of women taxation.

Socio-culturally, the Yoruba ethically philosophizes the necessity of moral correctness by proverbially expressing: K’okunrin r’ejo, k’obinrin pa, k’ejo ma saa ti lo ni (A man may sight a snake first while a woman may eventually kill the beast; what is most important is for the snake not to escape). The sub-text of that proverb is that it would be an unforgivable crime for both man and woman if either of them has to abandon his or her social duty to the extent that the future of community is left unprotected and subsequently imperiled and destroyed. Role-playing in the African society, then, is gender-boundless and relies, to a great extent, on the male or female individual’s sense of pragmatic responsibility. In recognition of the courage and self-sacrifice of Kudirat Abiola - wife of late M.K.O. Abiola, a candidate in Nigeria’s controversial June 12 1993 presidential election that was annulled by the military dictator, Ibrahim Babangida - Wole Soyinka, in defiance of the military might of Sani Abacha, named the pirate revolutionary radio, one of the most potent mass media of the civil society engaged during the period, “Radio Kudirat”. Winnie Mandela’s courageous role in the organized struggle against the now crumbled apartheid order in South Africa is eulogized with a poem in the collection, Mandela’s Earth and Other Poems (1989):

“…She was
The rare illuminated scroll in whose prophesies
Humanity discerns its fate. The world would read her
In a hundred tongues” (1989: 10)

Female characters with positive vision and demonstrable involvement in social re-engineering like Winnie Mandela, Mrs. Ransome-Kuti, Wild Christian and Alhaja Kudirat Abiola - who capture the image of Iya Nla of the Gelede ritual-mask performance’s ancestry - are constant in Soyinka’s works and they have some form of attachment with the Earth and community. Iya Agba and Iya Mate are custodians of the Earth Cult in Madmen and Specialists; Iyaloja in Death and the King’s Horseman is the mother of the Market. As matriarchal power-figures, the replication of Iya Nla of the Gelede cult through Ogunnian women in Soyinka’s plays remains permanently established.

The male-female correspondence is conceptually fundamental in the African existentialist spirituality. The African mind seeks balance and unity between the ever-opposing poles in the correspondent matrix. This ideal is what the Gelede cult pragmatises. The Gelede, essentially the most communocratic of all Yoruba masking arts, as well as the Edan, Ogboni’s sacred symbol, acknowledge the ako-abo and ibi-ire (male-female and evil-good) complementarity. Thus the Gelede ritual performance is a methodic aesthetic neutralization of evil. Carrying and dancing the highly feminine mask that is “specifically dedicated to the maternal principle” does not only imply the willing submission of patriarchy to matriarchy, the insertion of the miniaturized symbol of the mainly patricentric nocturnal Oro cult in the Gelede-Efe headdress – “which the uninitiated must not see on pain of death” (Lawal, 1996:77-79) is a conscious and symbolic self-de-phallicization by men themselves. The sub-textuality of the Gelede mask’s patricentric terrestriality is the celestiality of matriarchy. Its self-reflexivity indicates the patent invocation and mirroring of “the mystic, spiritual essence of the second sex” (Ibitokun, 1993: 40).

Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ classic, Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype (1992), seeks to restore women’s flagging vitality through extensive “psychical archeological digs into the ruins of the female underworld” (3). What Estes refers to as the Child-Self/Soul-Self companion to femininity is never a missing force in the African originary matriarchal/patriarchal socio-spiritual gender systematization. For “womanity” to be rescued from the tendency to forget who she is and what her responsibilities and worth are, it must be constantly interrogated. Wole Soyinka’s observation of this artist-philosopher’s obligation in the human domain must have necessitated his socio-mythopoetic response through the creative site. Womanity remains an ancestral site of antiquated ruins. Converting the space into an archeological site of astounding discoveries profitable to humanity’s continuity is the responsibility of a mythographer like Pinkola Estes and a mytho-dramatist like Wole Soyinka. Archeological digs and findings, we must know, not only preserve memory, they equally validate the truths about myths, legends and other remote facts. They validate the truth about us: the truth about the only humanity of woman and man.

Works cited

Adeoti, Gbemisola and Evwierhoma, Mabel. After the Nobel Prize: Reflections on African Literature, Governance and Development. Lagos: Association of Nigerian Authors. 2006.

Amadiume, Ifi. Re-Inventing Africa: Matriarchy, Religion and Culture. London and New York: Zed Books Ltd. 1997.

Baradat, Leon P. Political Ideologies: Their Origins and Impact. New Jersey: Prentice Hall. 2003.

Brooks, N. "Gendering Knowledge." Theory, Culture, Society. 23 (2-3) March – May. 211- 214. 2006.

Bryan, Sylvia. “Images of Women in Wole Soyinka’s Works”. In Women in African Literature. London: African World Press. 1987.

Davies, C. Boyce and Graves, Adams (Eds.). Ngambika: Studies of Women in African Literature. New Jersey: African World Press. 1986.

Eboh, Marie Pauline. "The Woman Question: African and Western Perspectives." In E. Chukwudi Eze (ed.) African Philosophy: An Anthology. Malden and Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Ltd. 333-337. 1998.

Estes, Clarissa Pinkola. Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype. New York: Ballantine Books. 1992.

Evwierhoma, Mabel. Female Empowerment and Dramatic Creativity in Nigeria. Ibadan: Caltop Publications Nigeria Limited. 2002.

Gilbert, Helen (Ed.). Postcolonial Plays: An Anthology. London: Routledge. 2001.

Gole N. "Islam in Public, New Visibilities and New Imaginaries”. Public Culture. 14 (1). 179-90. 2002.

Hooks, Bell. "Black Women: Shaping Feminist Theory." In E. Chukwuma Eze (ed.) African Philosophy: An Anthology. Malden and Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Ltd. 338-345. 1998.

Lawal, Babatunde. The Gelede Spectacle: Art, Gender and Social Harmony in an African Culture. Washington: University of Washington Press. 1996.

Loomba, Ania. Colonialism/Postcolonialism. London and New York: Routledge. 1998.

Lorber, Judith. Paradoxes of Gender. New Haven and London. Yale University Press. 1994.

Mohanty, Chandra Talpade. "Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourses." In Williams and Chrisman (eds.) Colonial Discourse and Postcolonial Theory. 196-220. 1994.

Mckay, Nelly. “Reflections on Black Women Writers: Revising the Literary Canon” in Feminisms. Eds. Robn R. Warhol and Diane Price Herndl. Basingstoke: Macmillan Press Ltd, 1997: 151-163.

Mosse, Julia Cleves. Half the World, Half a Chance: An Introduction to Gender and Development. Oxford: Oxfam. 1993.

Nzegwu, Nkiru. "Feminism and Africa: Impact and Limits of the Metaphysics of Gender." In Kwasi Wiredu (ed.). A Companion to African Philosophy. Malden, Oxford and Victoria: Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2004.

Ogundipe, Molara. Indigenous and Contemporary Gender Concepts and Issues in Africa: Implications for Nigeria’s Development. Lagos: CBAAC and Malthouse Press Limited.

Papoulias, Constantina. "Transgender." Theory, Culture, Society. Vol. 23, Nos. 2-3, March – May. 2006.

Plummer, K. Intimate Citizenship. Seattle: University of Washington Press. 2003.

Quayson, Ato. Postcolonialism: Theory, Practice or Process? Cambridge and Oxford: Polity Press and Blackwell Publishers Ltd. 2000.

Roces, M. and Edwards L. "Contesting Gender and Narratives 1970-2000." In L. Edwards and M. Roces (eds.). Women in Asia: Tradition, Modernity and Globalization. St. Leonards, NSW: Allen and Unwin. 2000.

Salami, Irene. “Nigerian Women Playwrights: Beyond the Nobel Prize”. In After the Nobel Prize: Reflections on African Literature, Governance and Development. Lagos: ANA. 2006.

Soyinka Wole. A Dance of the Forests. Oxford and London: Oxford University Press. 1963.

---. Kongi’s Harvest. Oxford and London: Oxford University Press. 1967.

---. Madmen and Specialists. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 1971.

---. The Bacchae of Euripides. London: Eyre Methuen Ltd. 1973.

---. Death and the King’s Horseman. In Six Plays. London: Methuen. 1984.

---. A Play of Giants. London: 1984.

---. Mandela’s Earth and Other Poems. Ibadan: Fountain Publications. 1989.

---. Beatification of Area Boy. London: Methuen. 1995.

---. Samarkand and Other Markets I Have Known. Lagos: Crucible Publishers
Limited. 2002.

---. King Baabu. London: Methuen. 2002.

Spivak, Gayatri. "French Feminism in an International Frame." Yale French Studies. 62. 154-184. 1981.

Ssetuba I. “The Hold of Patriarchy: An Appraisal of the Ganda Proverb in Modern Gender Relations”, in Gender Literature and Religions in Africa. Eds. Elizabeth le Roux, Mildred Ndenda, George Nyamndi, F.E.M.K. Senkoro and Isaac Ssetuba. Dakar : CODESRIA, 2005, 37-47.

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Wilmot, Patrick. Nigeria: The Nightmare Scenario (Interventions VI). Ibadan and Lagos: Bookcraft and Farafina. 2006.
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‘TUNDE AWOSANMI, Ph.D., Department of Theatre Arts, University of Ibadan, Nigeria, atundah@yahoo.com
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RECONFIGURATIONS: A Journal for Poetics & Poetry / Literature & Culture, http://reconfigurations.blogspot.com/, ISSN: 1938-3592, Volume Three (2009): Immanence/ Imminence
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Jen Bouchard, "The Essays of Suzanne Césaire"

Jen Westmoreland Bouchard

(Re)Writing the Martinican Subject: Surrealism and Natural Imagery in the Essays of Suzanne Césaire

“Qu’est-ce que le Martiniquais fondamentalement, intimement, inaltérablement ? Et comment vit-il?”[1] These seemingly simple questions, which encompass a broad range of philosophical and moral implications, are at the base of the socio-literary project of Suzanne Césaire, co-founder of the Tropiques journal. Though her work is often overshadowed by that of her influential husband, writer and politician Aimé Césaire, the notions she unearthed during through her work in Tropiques laid the foundation for future defining Caribbean movements such as Antillanité and Créolité. In her two best know essays, “Le Grand camouflage” and “Malaise d’une civilisation,” Suzanne Césaire unpacks myriad colonial stereotypes associated with the disenfranchised Martinican subject, in order to restore to him his lost and mutated voice. Throughout both essays, Césaire employs a highly descriptive register of organic and natural imagery to assist her in defining and uncovering the Martinican identity. This vocabulary, highly influenced by the work of André Breton and the Surrealist practice of automatic writing, aided Suzanne and fellow Tropiques contributors, René Ménil and Aimé Césaire, in their location of the essence of the Martinican identity.

Tropiques was founded in 1941, shortly after Suzanne and Aimé Césaire returned to Fort- de –France after completing their studies in France. During their time in the Métropôle, both Césaires were members of the Association des étudiants martiniquais. It was during her time with this group that Suzanne became interested and engagée[2] in issues of black identity, assimilation, and colonialism. She brought these notions back with her to Martinique and began teaching with Aimé at Lycée Schoelcher in Fort-de-France. Along with their colleagues, René Ménil, Lucie Thésée, and Artistide Maugée, they launched the first issue of Tropiques in April, 1941. The journal was designed to serve a dual purpose : instigate the renewal of Martinican culture and identity, and provide a form of active resistance against the Vichy régime (to which France had recently fallen). Since Vichy officials censored all material they deemed subversive at the time, the Tropiques editors were forced to camouflage their publication as a journal of West Indian folklore. The abstract nature of Surrealist prose also aided in disguising their anti-colonial message. Despite the repression and intolerance of the Vichy regime, Tropiques survived and became an influential forum for Surrealist discourse. The essays published in Tropiques were critical to the evolution of a sophisticated anti-colonial stance, and eventually led to the development of a postcolonial future and re-birth of a Martinican culture. The editors of Tropiques promoted a vision of liberty that drew from modernism and a profound affinity for pre-colonial African thought and practice. This unique approach to the colonial condition produced an ideological merging of Négritude, Surrealism, and Marxism.

Surrealism and Négritude

Both Aimé and Suzanne Césaire employed a "Negritude inflected with Surrealism- a poetic movement steeped in Hegelian dialectics and Freudian psychoanalysis, equally committed to a human freedom."[3] Suzanne’s acceptance of Surrealism as a viable critical mode allowed her to expand Négritude’s African parameters to include the Caribbean, specifically the Martinican, situation. She theorized a specific sort of Négritude that encompassed the racial and cultural métissage of the Martinican subject. Césaire based her understanding of Négritude on a hybridized state, an adaptation of the theory that could still survive within the essentializing theoretical parameters of Négritude thought. Since hybridity is inherent in the Surrealist state (somewhere between waking and sleeping), Surrealism was essential to the theoretical formation of her Négritude perspective.[4] Her recognition and avowal of the Martinican subject as a hybrid entity allowed her to transcend the fixed binary structure of the time: whites-blacks, Europeans-Africans, civilized- savages. Moreover, her adherence to a hybrid definition of the Martinican subject was based on the complex history of the island. The majority of those who were considered “Martinican” (excluding the Europeans) at the time, were from a variety of backgrounds: African (primarily West African), Hispanic, European, and East Indian. In addition to revolutionizing theoretical discourse at the time, Suzanne’s brand of Négritude also offered an intellectual base for the innately hybridizing theories of Antillanité, created by Eduard Glissant, a formed student of the Césaires, and Créolité, conceptualized by Raphael Confiant, Patrick Chamoiseau, and Jean Bernabé.

René Ménil’s 1932 pamphlet entitled “Légitime defense,” (titled after Breton’s 1926 work), clearly states that the future of Martinicans was tied to Surrealism. His myriad reasons behind this declaration were essential to the foundation of Tropiques as a literary forum. As Sharpley-Whiting observes:

“On an artistic level, Surrealism rejected aesthetics, moral concerns, and literary and artistic values as elitist, repressive, and requiring conformity. Such values and ideas clashed with the Surrealist credo of calling into question "reality"- which was seen as essentially rooted in exploitation and inequality- with the hope of creating a “superior reality,” a sur-réalité…The mind was to be freed of rationalism, logic, reason, and Cartesian philosophy, the supposed cornerstones of Western bourgeois culture and ideology, which occasioned auto censorship and repression of basic drives.”[5]

Thus, the Surrealist practices of automatic writing aided in re-establishing a Martinican culture (as subjects were encouraged to reject Western notions of formalism), by revealing the soul of the Martinican poet, (which, in turn, re-established a Martinican identity). Like Ménil, Suzanne viewed Surrealism as a way in which one could get in touch with the essence of the Martinican subject in order to liberate him or her from the oppressive mentality of the colonizer.

“Telle est l’activité surréaliste, une activité totale : la seule qui peut libérer homme en lui révélant son inconscient, une de celles qui aidera à libérer les peuples…Mais, lorsqu’en 1943 la liberté elle-même se trouve menacée dans le monde entière, le surréalisme qui n’a pas cessé un seul instant de se tenir au service de la plus grande émancipation de l’homme, se veut résumé tout entier en ce seul mot magique: liberté,”[6]

According to Césaire, this liberty can be achieved only through a full knowledge and acceptance of one’s cultural identity. In order to more accurately describe the psychological state of the Martinican, Césaire turned to the work of the nineteenth century Prussian ethnographer, Léo Frobenius.

The Ethiopian State

Suzanne Césaire addresses the notion of basic drives in her discussion of the “Ethiopian subject” in the work of Léo Frobenius. Frobenius was the first person to recognize the historicity of African cultures, which others referred to as being "without history" or "backward", and to grant them full equality.[7] Frobenius combined history, archeology, cultural morphology, and ethnography in his cultural studies. His work carried great meaning for Césaire and Senghor, who often cited him in their essays. Regarding Frobenius’ valuing of concepts such as emotion and intuition, Senghor writes that Frobenius redefined “concepts or synonyms which we confront when we are considering Negroes…It is easy to guess the consequences of this discovery and the increased self-confidence which it gave us.” Frobenius was the first person who attempted to illuminate the apparent darkness of African history and to bring those African cultures conceived by him into a historical relationship. He theorized a flexible binary into which he attempted to classify all civilizations: Ethiopian and Hamitic. According to Frobenius, each type of civilization subscribes to a different mode of interpreting reality : “intuitive” or “mechanistic.” The Ethiopian mode processes reality intuitively rather than mechanistically, and therefore leads to outbursts of emotion which lend themselves to the creation of art and poetry. In addition, this style is one of great abandon, always in harmony with nature, whereas the Hamitic mode is primarily concerned with struggle, strife, and the domination of nature. Frobenius states that each culture vacillates constantly between the two poles and cannot be purely classified into one discrete category. He also stresses this binary should not be a tool for moralistic judgment, only a way of comprehending different modes of being.

“As for superiority, every culture we know has oscillated between the two poles of mechanism and intuition…However, in advancing the theory that we are moving into a new cultural era, the advent of which can be felt rather than proved, I am bound to support the revival of an intuitive attitude. It must also stressed that there is no such thing as an absolutely mechanistic or an absolutely intuitive outlook. It is a question rather of the predominance of one or the other or two tendencies.”[8]

Suzanne Césaire’s work recognizes that the Martinican subject falls somewhere in between these two poles. However, she is clear that the culture lends itself more readily to an Ethiopian mode of existence. Through the colonization of Martinique by France, the Martinican was forced to repress his or her Ethiopian mode of behavior. Suzanne Césaire attempted to unearth this Ethiopian side of the Martinican poet as a way to re-establish a Martinican cultural identity. “Le problème actuel est de déterminer si l’attitude éthiopienne que nous avons découverte comme étant l’essence même du sentiment de la vie chez le Martiniquais peut être le point de départ d’un style culturel viable, donc grandiose.”[9] In doing so, her brand of Négritude, which includes the possibility for a hybrid Martinican subject (not purely Ethiopian, but somewhere between the two pole of Hamitic and Ethiopian) is still essentializing, as it does not allow the opportunity for individuality among Martinican subjects. She attempts to define an essential Martinican mode of existence, rather than a subjective mode of experiencing Martinican culture.

Breton and the Césaires

In a 1945 interview with René Bélance, André Breton refers to this Ethiopian mode of existence:

“Le surréalisme a partie liée avec les peuples de couleur, d’une part parce qu’il a toujours été à leurs côtés contre toutes les formes d’impérialisme et de brigandage blancs, ainsi qu’en témoignent les manifestes publiés à Paris contre la guerre du Maroc, contre l’exposition coloniale, etc. ; d’autre part, parce que les plus profondes affinités existent entre la pensée dite “primitive” et la pensée surréaliste, qu’elles visent l’une et l’autre à supprimer l’hégémonie du conscient, du quotidien, pour se porter à la conquête de l’émotion révélatrice.”[10, 11]

The Césaire’s conquest of revelatory emotion was highly influenced by their meeting with Breton in 1941, shortly after the publication of the first issue of Tropiques. Breton left France in 1941 to escape the oppressive intolerance of the Vichy Regime. En route to his destination in America, he was detained in Martinique after being identified as a suspect by local governmental officials, namely l’Amiral Georges Robert. During this time, Breton and the Césaires had ample time to discuss the influence of Surrealism on the re-emerging Martinican identity. Aimé Césaire speaks fondly of this encounter with Breton:

“Breton nous a apporté la hardiesse ; il nous a aidés à prendre une opinion franche : il a abrégé nos recherches et nos hésitations…Breton m’a littéralement fasciné. C’était un homme d’une culture extraordinaire, avec un sens étonnant de la poésie, il la renflait, comme n’importe quel pollen dans l’air. La rencontre avec Breton a été pour moi une chose très importante, comme avait été importante pour moi la rencontre avec Senghor dix ou quinze ans plus tôt. J’ai rencontré Breton à une croisée des chemins : à partir de ce moment-là ma voie a été toute tracée ; c’était la fin des hésitations, la fin de la recherche, si l’on peut dire- car, en fait, dans ce domaine, rien n’est jamais terminé.”[12]

Breton’s Surrealist work highly influenced the Césaire’s conception of Négritude as well as the design of their socio-political mission. Perhaps the greatest influence on Suzanne Césaire’s writing was Breton’s use of natural imagery to explore the human condition. An extensive use of organic imagery can first be observed as early on as the crystals and coral reefs in L’amour fou. In this work, he provides the following description of crystal during his discussion of the notion of Convulsive Beauty:

“Nul plus haut enseignement artistique ne me paraît pouvoir être reçu que du cristal. L’œuvre d’art, au même titre d’ailleurs que tel fragment de la vie humaine considérée dans sa signification la plus grave, ma paraît dénuée de valeur si elle ne présente pas la dureté, la rigidité, la régularité, le lustre sur toutes ses faces intèrieures, extèrieures du cristal.”[13]

Here, Breton associates the natural element of crystal with the human condition. His comments about the beauty of crystal and the light of each of its faces could also be read as a discussion of feminine beauty, a recurring theme in Breton’s work. This same use of natural imagery can be observed in the pieces he wrote about his experience in Martinique.

As a result of his stay in Martinique, Breton was compelled to write two influential pieces: ‘‘Martinique, charmeuse de serpents,’’ and ‘‘Pour Madame,’’ both published in Tropiques. ‘‘Pour Madame,’’ was written for Suzanne Césaire, with whom Breton shared an intimate intellectual relationship. In her work of historical fiction describing the encounter between Breton and the Césaire’s, Ronnie Scharfman creates a voice for Suzanne Césaire through which she conveys the details of their relationship.

“Je constate avec certitude et sans rougir que pendant quelques semaines glorieuses il m’écrivait, ou bien il écrivait à travers de moi. J’ai joué le rôle de muse, de médiatrice surréaliste entre son ancien monde et le nouveau. Moi, à mon tour j’écrivais sur lui, de lui, pour lui. J’avoue qu’André m’a profondement inspirée.”[14]

Suzanne served as the creative muse for Breton, especially in his writing of ‘‘Pour Madame.’’ In this passage, much like in Amour Fou, Breton employs organic imagery to evoke an aura or sentiment of femininity:

“Puis les cloches de l’école essaiment aux quatres coins les petites chabines rieuses, souvent plus claires de cheveux que de teint. On cherche, parmi les essences natives, de quel bois se chauffent ces belles chairs d’ombre prismée : cacaoyer, caféier, vanille dont les feuillages imprimés parent d’un mystère persistant le papier des sacs de café dans lequel va se blottir de désir inconnu de l’enfance. En vue de quel dosage intime, de quel équilibre durable entre le jour et la nuit comme on rêve de retenir la seconde exacte ou, par temps très calme, le soleil en s’enfonçant dans la mer réalise le phénomène du “diamant vert” - cette recherche, au fond du creuset, de la beauté féminine ici bien plus souvent accomplie qu’ailleurs et qui ne m’est jamais apparu plus éclatante que dans un visage de cendre blanche et de braises?”[15]

Breton employs the natural images of Martinique, or “les essences natives” of “cacaoyer, caféir, vanille” to evoke a sense (or scent) of desire for the feminine subject about whom he writes. He writes of the “belles chairs d’ombre prismée” and the “visage de cendre blanche et de braises,” to illustrate the natural, organic skin tone of the Martinican female subject by whom he is entranced. This intimate use of imagery to describe the highly individual condition of love or desire contrasts with Breton’s use of imagery to articulate a collective condition in “Martinique, charmeuse de serpents.”

In “Martinique, charmeuse de serpents,” he utilizes the same register of organic vocabulary, this time addressing the physical landscape and cultural norms of the Martinican subject. Here, he addresses the melancholia of the Martinican community. The imagery of the mountainous landscape and celestial bodies enhances the power of this description of the Martinican psychological state. “Nos amis l’appellent le siffleur des montagnes, écoute : ils sont plusieurs et leurs chants conjugés composent autour de la belle liane en forme d’étoile que nous allons avoir peine à cueillir, une aura mélancolique.”[16] Breton associates the collective voice of Martinique to the permanence of the mountains and the stars. The distress of the Martinican collective rises above the physical borders of the island, into the celestial realm. His choice of vocabulary amplifies the disenfranchised state of the Martinican as a collective entity and touches on a deep sense of melancholia.

Suzanne Césaire writes of this same collective melancholia in “Malaise d’une civilisation.” Just as Breton connects the Martinican community to its natural surroundings, so does Césaire to begin her essay. She begins by exploring the geographical setting of Martinique in hopes of eventually comprehending the condition of the Martinican subject. “Interrogeons la vie de cette île qui est nôtre. Que voyons-nous ? D’abord la position géographique de cette parcelle de terre : tropicale. Ici, les Tropiques.”[17] Her insistence on the term tropiques lends itself to a connection with the term tropisme, relating to the instinctual behavior or natural mode of plants. Working under the following definitions[18] of tropisme, “Croissance orientée dans l’espace, chez les végétaux et les animaux fixés, sous l’influence d’une excitation extérieure, “ one could argue the identity of the Martinican subject might be defined through his or her instinct or natural orientation. This notion connects to the Surrealist practice of automatic writing. During this process, the subject submits oneself to his or her subconscious, thereby revealing his or her natural instincts and desires. The natural orientation of the subject is revealed, without pretense, thereby opening a new avenue for comprehension of the true self. However, the following definition, “Force obscure qui pousse un groupe, un phénomène à prendre une certaine orientation,” lends itself to a more colonial reading of the Martinican subject, who has been forced to adapt his or her mode of behavior in order to conform to the norms and desires of the dominant hegemony. This definition contradicts the Surrealist credo, since it privileges structure, hegemony, and order over chance and instinct. To offer my opinion on Suzanne’s conception of the term, I believe it would mirror the experience of the Martinican, a hybrid of the two definitions stated above. Originally, the Martinican was free to follow his natural instincts and desires. With the onset of colonialism, he was forced to adapt his mode of behavior to the life imposed on him by the colonizer.

Later in the essay, Césaire compares the life of the Martinican to that of a plant, brutally transplanted from their natural mode of existence into colonial soil. In the following passage, she lists the various ways in which the Martinican (including the subject’s African ancestors) has been forced to adapt. She goes on to describe the Martinican as a plant, a technique that subverts the dominant discourse (which states that the Martinican is lazy and idle). She proposes a new phrase to describe the activity of the Martinican “il végète,” rather than “il est paresseux.” “Son indolence ? celle du végétal. Ne dites pas : ‘il est paresseux’ dites : ‘il végète,’ et vous serez doublement dans la vérité. Son mot préféré : ‘laissez porter.’ Entendez qu’il se laisse porter par la vie, docile, léger, non appuyé, non rebelle ---amicalement, amoureusement.” This way of viewing the Martinican corresponds with the Ethiopian mode of life. Césaire states that the Martinican has not become disenfranchised as a result of his Ethiopian state, however, the fact that he was forced to assimilate to a lifestyle different from his own, that of the “Hamitic” colonizer. This, and the fact that he was forced to adhere to the social guidelines of a harshly oppressive colonial regime, were the causes of his psychological alienation. Sharpley-Whiting reminds us of the specific history of Martinique:

“A legacy of slavery, colonialism, and modern capitalism has effectively altered the balance between humanity and the island’s natural beauty, harnessing first the slave and then the worker to the land; fusing racism, wage labor, and class exploitation into modern capitalism... Césaire reminds her reader that Martinicans, both métis and black, were socially politically, and culturally disenfranchised. Assimilation was initially strictly forbidden, but deference to whites was demanded as early as 1764. By 1788 the primary occupation open to free men of color was manual labor, "the hoe and the cutlass." The abolition of slavery did not result in an opening up of economic avenues for the Martinicans on the island…An almost slavish desire for assimilation to Frenchness preoccupied the psychic impulses of Martinicans.”[19]

Mimicry and Camouflage

Inherent in the process of assimilation is a certain level of mimicry of French cultural norms. Césaire discusses the dangers of mimicry in the colonial structure, blaming this mentality for the current melancholic state of the Martinican.

“Mais sa conscience, ou plutôt sa préconscience accepte le désir hamitique de lutte. Course à la fortune. Aux diplômes. Arrivisme. Lutte rapetissée à la mesure de la bourgeoisie. Course aux singeries. Foire aux vanités. Le plus grave est que le désir d’imitation, naguère vaguement conscient---puisqu’il était réaction de défense contre une société oppressive---est passé maintenant au rang des redoutables forces secrètes de l’inconscient.”[20]

According to Césaire, the act of mimicking the colonizer profoundly alters the psyche of the Martinican, allowing him to lose himself in his drive to emulate the colonizer. In a 1922 essay entitled “Lâchez tout,” in which Breton rails against the Dada movement, he also warns against the dangers of mental mimicry:

“Nous sommes soumis à une sorte de mimique mentale qui nous interdit d’approfondir quoi que ce soit et nous fait considérer avec hostilité ce qui nous a été le plus cher. Donner sa vie pour une idée, Dada ou celle que je développe en ce moment, ne saurait prouver qu’en faveur d’une grande misère intellectuelle. Les idées ne sont ni bonnes ni mauvaises, elles sont : à concurrence pour moi de déplaisir ou de plaisir, bien dignes encore de me passionner dans un sens ou dans l’autre. Pardonnez-moi de penser que, contrairement au lierre, je meurs si je m’attache.”[21]

His natural image of the ivy in the last phrase recalls Césaire’s description of the Martinican subject as plant. Just like Breton, the Martinican will die if he or she clings too hard to the Western ideals of the colonizer. During a certain period, Breton worked closely with the biologist, Roger Caillois, who researched mimicry in nature. Caillois and Breton often write of vertigo, the stomach-lurching feel of hollow ground; the dream-sensation of falling. He also addresses a parallel vertigo of the psyche in which we lose the boundaries of ourselves and become completely dissociated. As Caillois once said, describing insect behavior: "I know where I am, but I do not feel as though I’m at the spot where I find myself."[22] In subscribing to Western rhetoric, the Martinican subject loses the “spot where he finds himself” and becomes dislocated from his cultural identity. The term mimicry should also be viewed as synonymous with the term camouflage (used in the title of Césaire’s essay). Caillois described the ability of chameleons to camouflage themselves, by taking on the colors of their surroundings, in psychoanalytic terms as the "dissolution of the self." This idea is often associated with Lacan's Mirror Stage of self-awareness. Here, Caillois employs the natural image of the chameleon to evoke a psychological sublimation of the subject’s own traits by that of the dominant force (that which is being imitated). In “Le Grand camouflage,” Césaire uses this same register of natural vocabulary to evoke not the complete dissolution of the Martinican, but his merging with the qualities of the White bourgeois, thereby becoming a hybrid subject. I am writing specifically about her use of the terms “s’épanouir” and “fleur” in the following passage.

“Le voici avec sa double force et sa double férocité, dans un équilibre dangereusement menacé : il ne peut pas accepter sa négritude, il ne peut pas se blanchir. La veulerie s’empare de ce cœur divisé, et, avec elle, l’habitude des ruses, le goût des « combines » ; ainsi s’épanouit aux Antilles, cette fleur de la bassesse humaine, le bourgeois de couleur.”[23]

Césaire’s concerns regarding the prevalence of mimicry among Martinicans is echoed later in the work of Frantz Fanon, who claims that the goals the colonizer puts forth for the colonized are consistently unattainable, leaving the colonized in a constant state of inferiority and “doubling.” In the following passage, Fanon describes the experience of the colonized Martinican child as his or her self-conception begins to change.

“Peu à peu, on voit se former et cristalliser chez le jeune Antillais une attitude, une habitude de penser et de voir, qui sont essentiellement blanches…Mais c’est que l’Antillais ne pense pas noir ; il se pense Antillais. Le nègre vit en Afrique. Subjectivement, intellectuellement, l’Antillais se comporte comme un Blanc…Pour le nègre, il y a un mythe à affronter. Un mythe solidement ancré. Le nègre l’ignore, aussi longtemps que son existence se déroule au milieu des siens ; mais au premier regard blanc, il ressent le poids de sa mélanine.”[24]

Fanon began to see that by speaking French, the language of the colonizer, the Martinican began to internalize the colonizer's values, thereby equating Blackness with evil. In such a situation, according to Fanon, the Black man wants to see himself as white and therefore becomes alienated from his true self. In essence, the Martinican is living a dual-existence. He conducts himself as a white man, but the moment he looks in the mirror or is gazed upon or “othered” by the white man, he once again experiences the weight of his blackness. In addition, Fanon eloquently articulates the tension which exists at a muscular level within the colonized subject. He also writes of the subject’s physical response of the subject, namely nausea brought on by the colonial condition. I cannot help but wonder if he took his cue from the highly descriptive passages describing the internal violence and pain of the Martinican subject in Césaire’s “Le Grand camouflage.”

“En attendant, le serf antillais vit misérablement, abjectement sur les terres de « l’usine » et la médiocrité de nos villes-bourgs est un spectacle à nausée. En attendant les Antilles continuent d’être paradisiaques et ce doux bruit de palmes…L’ironie était ce jour-là un vêtement luisant d’étincelles, chacun de nos muscles exprimait de manière personnelle une parcelle du désir éparpillé sur les manguiers en fleurs.”[25]

In this passage, Césaire expresses the cruel irony of the Martinican condition: he is of the island, however he may not reap the benefits of his heritage and his labor. According to Césaire, the only way for the Martinican to be truly free is to liberate himself from this double-consciousness and embrace his cultural heritage for what it truly is. Césaire’s essentialized Martinican is a hybrid subject, an amalgam of African, Hispanic, and European origins. However, his Martinican identity should not be conflated with that of the European colonizer whom he has mimicked and idolized for so long. He must embrace his pre-colonized hybrid nature in order to take the first steps on his path to psychological freedom.

Conclusion

Through her use of organic imagery, Suzanne Césaire began to relocate a Martinican identity intimately tied to the Ethiopian state of existence (as defined by Frobenius). In addition, she evoked the historical experience of the Martinican people on a physical and psychological level through her use of physical imagery and her examination of mimesis. One finds this same registry of imagery at play in the work of André Breton. Though his project was not specifically focused on relocating a true “French” identity, he encouraged rejection of order and paradigmatic constructions in favor of chance and instinct (two qualities that describe the “Ethiopian state” of the Martinican). Due to the close nature of their relationship, one cannot but assume that the work of André Breton powerfully influenced Césaire’s writing, specifically her use of natural imagery to evoke a collective Martinican expereince in “Le Grand camouflage” and “Malaise d’une civilisation.” With the aide of Bretonian Surrealism, Suzanne Césaire was able to propose answers to the questions posed at in the opening of this paper (“Qu’est-ce que le Martiniquais fondamentalement, intimement, inaltérablement ? Et comment vit-il?”[26]). In “Le Surréalisme et nous,” she writes:

“On sait où nous en sommes ici à la Martinique. Notre tâche d’homme, la flèche de l’histoire nous indiquait vertigineusement : une société tarée en ses origines par le crime, appuyée en son présent sur l’injustice et l’hypocrisie, rendue par la mauvaise conscience peureuse de son devenir, doit moralement, historiquement, nécessairement disparaître. Et parmi les puissantes machines de guerre que le monde moderne met à notre disposition "leddites et cheddites" notre audace a choisi le surréalisme qui lui offre actuellement les chances les plus sûres de succès.”[27]

Through the analytical mode of Surrealism, Suzanne Césaire began the enormous task of uncovering the history of the Martinican and unearthing his identity as a means of colonial resistance. These important steps laid the foundation for the next generation of revolutionary writers, such as Fanon, Glissant, and the creators of Créolité, to carry on the struggle toward identity location and liberation.

Works Cited

Breton, André. “Lâchez Tout,” Les Pas perdus. Paris: Gallimard, 1969.

---. Manifestes du Surréalisme. Paris: Gallimard, 1924.

---. “Martinique, charmeuse de serpents.” Tropiques: Collection Complète, 1941-1945. Paris: Éditions Jean Michel Place, 1978.

---. “Pour Madame,” Tropiques: Collection Complète, 1941-1945. Paris: Éditions Jean Michel Place, 1978.

---. L’Amour fou. Paris : Gallimard, 1937.

---. trans. Mary Ann Caws. Mad Love. Omaha : University of Nebraska Press, 1987.

Caillois, Roger. “Mimicry and Legendary Psychasthenia,”(1932). October: the First Ten Years. Cambridge: Cambridge Press, 1984.

Césaire, Suzanne. “Le Grand camouflage,” Tropiques: Collection Complète, 1941-1945. Paris: Éditions Jean Michel Place, 1978.

---. “Le Surréalisme et nous,” Tropiques: Collection Complète, 1941-1945. Paris: Éditions Jean Michel Place, 1978.

---. “Malaise d’une civilisation,” Tropiques: Collection Complète, 1941-1945. Paris: Éditions Jean Michel Place, 1978.

Fanon, Frantz. Peau noire, masques blancs. Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1952.

Frobenius, Léo, “Nature of Culture,” Léo Frobenius: An Anthology, ed. E. Haberland Wiesbaden, Germany: Franz Steiner Verlag GMBH, 1973.

Rosement, Franklin, ed. What is Surrealism? Selected Writings of André Breton. London: Pluto, 1978.

Rosemont, Penelope, ed. Surrealist Women: An International Anthology. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1998.

Sharpley-Whiting, T. Denean. Negritude Women. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2002.

Notes:

1. Suzanne Césaire, ‘‘Malaise d’une civilisation,’’ Tropiques : Collection Complète, 1941-1945 (Paris : Éditions Jean Michel Place, 1978), 85.

2. Term denoting political involvement.

3. T. Denean Sharpley-Whiting, Negritude Women. (Minneapolis, MN : University of Minnesota Press, 2002), 83.

4. As decribed by Breton in the Manifestes du Surréalisme, (Paris : Gallimard, 1924).

5. Sharpley-Whiting, 84.

6. Suzanne Césaire, ‘‘Le Surréalisme et nous,’’ Tropiques, XIII, 14.

7. Sharpley-Whiting, 90. Text originally taken from : Léo Frobenius : An Anthology, ed. E. Haberland Wiesbaden, (Germany : Franz Steiner Verlag GMBH, 1973).

8. Sharpley-Whiting, 92. Text originally taken from : Frobenius, Léo, ‘‘Nature of Culture,’’ Léo Frobenius : An Anthology, ed. E. Haberland Wiesbaden, (Germany : Franz Steiner Verlag GMBH, 1973).

9. Suzanne Césaire, ‘‘Malaise d’une civilisation,’’ 86.

10. My emphasis.

11. Franklin Rosement, ed. What is Surrealism? Selected Writings of André Breton. (London : Pluto, 1978), 275.

12. Tropiques, ‘‘Introduction,’’ vii.

13. André Breton, L’amour fou, (Paris : Gallimard, 1937), 16-17.

14. Ronnie Scharfman, ‘‘De grands poètes noirs : Breton rencontre les Césaire,’’ Nouveau monde, autres mondes : Surréalisme et Amériques. Eds. D. Lefort, P. Rivas, et J. Chénieux-Gendron. (Paris : Lachenal et Ritter, 1995), 235.

15. André Breton, ‘‘Pour Madame,’’ Tropiques III, 41.

16. André Breton, ‘‘Martinique, charmeuse de serpents,’’ Tropiques XI, 119.

17. Suzanne Césaire, ‘‘Malaise d’une civilisation,’’ Tropiques, V, 45.

18. Found in Le Petit Larousse, (Paris : Larousse, 1999.

19. Sharpley-Whiting, 95.

20. Suzanne Césaire, ‘‘Le Grand Camouflage,’’ Tropiques, XIII, 268.

21. André Breton, ‘‘Lâchez Tout, ‘’ Les Pas perdus. (Paris : Gallimard, 1969), 110.

22. Roger Caillois, ‘‘Mimicry and Legendary Psychasthenia,,’’ (1932) (October: the First Ten Years. Cambridge : Cambridge Press, 1984), 76.

23. Suzanne Césaire, ‘‘Le Grand Camouflage,’’ 268.

24. Frantz Fanon, Peau noire, masques blancs. (Paris : Éditions du Seuil, 1952), 120.

25. Suzanne Césaire, ‘‘Le Grand Camouflage,’’ 267.

26. Suzanne Césaire, ‘‘Malaise d’une civilisation,’’85.

27. Suzanne Césaire, ‘‘Le Surréalisme et nous,’’ 16.
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Jen Westmoreland Bouchard holds a B.A. in French and a B.A. in Interdisciplinary Fine Arts from St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota, and a M.A. in French and Francophone Studies from University of California-Los Angeles. She has presented her research on Francophone women’s writing, postcolonial literatures and world language pedagogy throughout the United States and Europe. Bouchard is currently a faculty member in the World Languages Department of Normandale Community College in Bloomington, Minnesota and a French instructor at Holy Family Catholic High School in Victoria, Minnesota. Her recent articles and chapters have appeared in The Journal of African Literature and Culture, The Journal of Pan African Studies, Migrations and Identities (Liverpool University Press), and in myriad anthologies and reference volumes published through Gale Cengage Learning, Pencraft International Press, Diversion Press, Greenwood Press, M.E. Sharpe, Wiley-Blackwell, ABC-CLIO, Handel African Books Network, and Facts on File. Bouchard serves on the editorial board of The Journal of African Literature and Culture. She is a film, literary and arts reviewer writer for Global Woman Magazine and a travel writer for Europe Up Close (http://www.europeupclose.com/). Bouchard is the owner of a freelance writing, editing and translation company, Lucidité Writing, LLC (http://www.luciditewriting.com/).
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RECONFIGURATIONS: A Journal for Poetics & Poetry / Literature & Culture, http://reconfigurations.blogspot.com/, ISSN: 1938-3592, Volume Three (2009): Immanence/ Imminence
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Peter Ciccariello, "3 Works"

Peter Ciccariello

3 Works


Meta-Narrative















Words in a Room—Scene VI















World-before-Word
















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Peter Ciccariello’s work is an inquiry into what lies beneath and between. It is about the indefinable gap that separates one person from another, lipstick from a Lamborghini, a disease from a rapture, or text from meaning. He lives and works between a rock and a hard place and is constantly trying to mind the gap.
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RECONFIGURATIONS: A Journal for Poetics & Poetry / Literature & Culture, http://reconfigurations.blogspot.com/, ISSN: 1938-3592, Volume Three (2009): Immanence/ Imminence
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M. Neelika Jayawardane, "Life in Transit"

M. Neelika Jayawardane

Life in Transit / Love is a Homesickness

(For Miriam “Mazi” Makeba: who collected passports, never kept her pass)[1]

ABSTRACT
This essay is an analysis of why immigration to a powerful nation creates ambivalence and rebellion in those of us who fashion our “otherness” into a position that gives us strength. Being outsiders allow immigrants the power to construct ambiguous political and psychosocial positions – it is a source of agency, rather than something over which to lament. Whilst immigration to powerful nations such as the US gives supplicants a “Magic Pass” to mobility, it also requires a commitment to ideologies that many resist. When I could situate myself within that in-between lounge, always on the way Elsewhere, I had the freedom not to pledge allegiance to any dominant group. Laying to rest the anxiety surrounding the process of immigration – an often demoralising journey marked by enormous expense, perplexing directions, and the humiliations of negotiating with immigration officials at various borders and checkpoints – is accompanied by an overwhelming experience of loss. The supposed “end” to the journey is signified by simultaneous feelings of being “homed” and “unhomed”.

KEYWORDS
Immigration, immigration laws, Greencard, visa, passports, otherness, belonging, ambiguity, mobility, colonial subjectivity, agency.

I’ve lived my entire life under the gun of immigration officials, paying for countless visas, and enduring the ordinary ignominies that those who come from powerless nations get used to as they attempt to be mobile. In the 30 years during which I had been “unhomed” from my origins, I had no idea that I was developing a version of what I later came to realise, as an academic, was termed a “colonial subjectivity”: my own experience involved something more complex than the traditional mock-Fanon-esque conceptualisations of the colonised as those who are perpetually displaced and insecure, masking the transformed, “white” interior behind a “black” mask. I found that I had difficulty giving up displacement, and the accompanying itinerancy.

I preferred to be in transit.

Situating myself within that in-between lounge, always on the way Elsewhere, meant that I had the freedom not to pledge allegiance to any dominant group, though I could, when it was necessary – or politic – attempt to mask and assimilate. It was only when I was finally offered the possibility of belonging – settling into a useful alliance with one powerful nation – that I saw myself engineering a series of spectacularly destructive behaviours that would have, if I’d been successful in meeting this goal, ended my entry into a position of power: I was going to sabotage my chance at stability and belonging if I could. This essay is my attempt to analyse why immigration to a powerful nation creates ambivalence and rebellion in those of us who fashion our “otherness” into a position that gives us strength. Being outsiders allow us the power to construct ambiguous political and psychosocial positions – it is a source of agency, rather than something over which to lament. Immigration, especially to the United States of America, which requires the public avowal of allegiance during a ritualised ceremony, requires a commitment that I resisted; whilst I knew very well that immigration would give me a Magic Pass to mobility, I also knew that this nation requires a loyalty to certain ideologies that I would, naturally, resist. Laying to rest the anxiety surrounding the process of immigration – an often demoralising journey marked by enormous expense, perplexing directions, and the humiliations of negotiating with immigration officials at various borders and checkpoints – was, for me, accompanied by an overwhelming experience of loss. The supposed “end” to the journey was signified by simultaneous feelings of being “homed” and “unhomed”.

This is the story of how I nearly gave up the pass that every supplicating immigrant at the doorstep of America is supposed desire: a Greencard.

My historical family roots are in the port city of Colombo, Sri Lanka; our ancestral home is located in Kelaniya, a revered and ancient seat of Theravada Buddhism. My family moved to the south-central African country of Zambia in the late seventies, after my father was offered a job as a technical advisor in ZCCM – the Zambia Consolidated Copper Mines – ten years after he had first applied for the job, when the nation changed its laws to allow “Asians” into the country. Because he’d been educated in Moscow, Russia, during the time when Khrushchev came up with the brilliant plan to use cultural exchanges as a means of building loyalty in its satellite nations, my father’s degree – and his mechanical and mathematical wizardry – was deemed useless by any “western” nation. He wanted his daughters to be educated in English – he knew that it was the language that would give us mobility; and Zambia was the only nation that offered him employment. His contract stipulated that children would be enrolled in English-medium schools.

Soon after our arrival in Zambia, my father disappeared, largely, into his labour. I adjusted as any seven-year-old does: with excitement and relative ease, stumbling on the new language and new customs, but assimilating fast to the necessity of maintaining a double identity: one for At Home, where Sinhala determined my personhood, and another for At School, cultivated by the then largely Anglican-English staff employed at our trust school. It was my mother’s life that experienced the most drastic transformation: she was a Colombo socialite who loved trying new hors d’oeuvres on her friends, and sneaking out to watch early Bollywood dramas in which Lata Mangeshkar’s voice expressed the contradiction that is South Asian femininity: the knife’s edge coupling modesty and knowing sensuality. She went from organising elaborate birthday parties for her two daughters – replete with fire twirlers, fancy-dress costumes, and astrologers to pinpoint the auspicious moments in our lives – to being a housewife in an isolated mining town in the Copperbelt province: endless grassland, flat-topped acacias, and ore-rich soil inhospitable to the roses she tried to grow.

The ore that was dug from the bowels of this nation, and my father’s labour, 5 and a ½ days a week in a mine office located in an area so close to the processing plant that we could feel the clouds of sulphuric acid burn in our lungs as we approached it, would later finance my university education outside the country. The chemicals used in the copper-extraction process, and the heaps of slurry from the mine dumps that polluted the Kafue River were most likely the cause of two different autoimmune disorders from which both my mother and I suffered – I at puberty, and she at menopause; the effluent polluting our drinking water was also the conduit to what I saw as my escape from being trapped in a go-nowhere Third-World nation.

My father used the access that his labour gave him to show us the world – his world – before marriage and children. We saw mountainous piles of snow in Moscow winters, the twinkle of Budapest when the aeroplane landed at night, black caviar on the darkest of rye, and borcht that made our bowel movements just as red. He, though an accomplished Buddhist scholar who taught me Pali verses, had no qualms about introducing us to Eastern European sausages and pork and potato dumplings. He never failed to smile, cajole, and charm his way through borders and borderkeepers: immigration officers and the Berlin Wall were adventures to experience, not gates through which the likes of us were barred from entering.

Later in life, wherever I went, the multiple strands of my cultural and geographical histories have never come together in a manner that allowed me to feel fully comfortable within the strength that travel and mobility promised to those from more powerful locations. These migrations in our lives – full of the inconsistencies and beauties that multiplicity is supposed to offer the recipient of travel – have meant, also, that I’ve never had one location to call home, an origin to specify when people say, “Where are you from?”

And Origins, I’ve come to find, are indelibly linked to the imaginary of love.

* * *

In August 2006, after living for 18 years in the US under various temporary and unstable guises – including being an under-the-table pastry chef – I got a Greencard. I handed over $5,000 to an immigration lawyer, had a slew of blood tests completed to test me for TB, syphilis, gonorrhea, HIV, all-the-letters-of-the-alphabet types of hepatitis, measles, mumps, and rubella, and drove an hour and a half in a November ice storm (after spending the better part of an hour scraping and chipping the centimetre-thick sleeve of ice over my 1996 Honda Civic, slamming my gloved hand in the car door in my hurry to get to my appointment on time, and giving myself a swollen, purple thumb that throbbed for the duration of the excruciating drive) to an immigration services-approved doctor who tapped me on the knee to test whether my reflexes were in order: his tick marks, placed correctly in the list of boxes verifying that I was free of disease, would be the last in a line of defences meant to keep the unwanted out of this country. I knew that this doctor understood the power that his position entitled him: he examined me alone in a room, without a nurse present. He did “ask” me, dismissively, if a nurse was a “necessary” presence – I, smiling and agreeable, as any supplicant should be, replied, “No, it’s not a problem”. The examination seemed like a formality, and I didn’t want to seem demanding or deserving of “special” treatment. Besides, when the question was asked, I was already lying down on the examination table, wearing the usual paper gown: this is not a position from which one makes demands. He groped the area where my ovaries should exist. I asked what he was looking for – why examining the extensions attached to my genitals was necessary. He said that he was checking to see if I had fibroids. Had my fertility been compromised by fibroids, would I be deemed unworthy of being a professor of English literature in a backwater town on the shores of the great lakes?

A month after this examination, having completed all the tasks that would prove me worthy of America’s hand, I left for South Africa. I was going to spend my Christmas and New Year with a man for whom I’d fallen, a man I met on a previous academic research stint in Cape Town; in hindsight, I see that I simply wanted an exit, to be in Some Other Country – the romance provided the necessary explanation for my leaving. During the first week of January, 2006, whilst I was lying on a sunny picnic table in my knickers, pleasantly high on a tobacco and weed spliff, I checked my email: my immigration lawyer in New York had sent me an urgent note to inform me that the doctor who examined me had “forgotten” to mark the small box that declared me HIV negative. This omission cost me more in terms of the amount of time it took to process my passcard – it is, perhaps, unnecessary to mention the details of the anxiety that resulted. There I was, in a nation with the second highest HIV+ rate in the world, having to find a way to prove that I was not.

Yes, I subjected myself to the humiliations that all immigrants must negotiate, those indignities that allow us the privilege of working legally in a functioning, powerful nation.

I shared the trials, details, and weekly developments of my immigration process with my students in the Literature in a Global Context course I taught at the university at which I was now employed, a branch of the State University of New York located on the shores of Lake Ontario. This “telling” – making public the often-nebulous details of immigration – was part of my defence against the humiliations I endured. Most immigrants keep the story to themselves, sharing their private experiences of abusive, arrogant officials only with other immigrants. I wanted to communicate, to my American students – many of who believe, I think, on some unconscious level, that immigrants slipped in as a nuisance horde – the shock that my psychosocial body experienced as I went through this process. Mostly, they were surprised by the expense of immigration, of which I kept a detailed list. To begin with, I had to pay $1,000 for an “emergency” H1B visa when I first gained employment at the State University of New York; the hiring process for my position as Visiting Assistant Professor had been delayed by various factors that had to do with the university’s budget, and a regular H1B (or temporary work visa that was valid for the period of a year) would have taken too long to process. If I wanted the job, it was I who had to pay this extra fee to expedite the process. In addition to this fee that would ensure the processing of the visa would be funnelled through faster, I had to pay the $321 as a regular application fee, as well. A year later, my position was changed from “visiting professor” to a tenure-track post (when the university’s budget permitted). I had to return to my country of residence (Zambia) to renew my H1B visa for a further 3 years of employment – paying, of course, for my airline ticket there ($1,500+), and another $300+ processing fee at the US Embassy in Lusaka. Before 9/11, it was possible to apply to renew one’s work visas whilst still in the US; but after that date, immigration attorneys and personnel officers in universities recommended that we return to our nations of origin. At this point, I was in my early 30s, and had been living with my feet on shifting ground for all my adult life. When the US consular officer in Zambia asked “how” I’d been able to get the job as a university professor, I looked him straight in the eye – through the bullet-proof window behind which he was ensconced – and said, “I guess no American who speaks five languages wanted to live in Oswego.”

At this point, I was wondering about the lunacy of remaining in this country – the idiocy of clinging, barnacle-like, to a rock that leached off most of my savings – savings I struggled to put away, earned via the very employment that I fought to keep. It took me a year more to decide to apply for my Greencard – the more permanent work visa. Everyone to whom I spoke – who had, her or himself, already gone through the process, or were in the middle of the process – told me how foolhardy it was to wait and waffle as I was doing. Discomfort like mine, existential angst, and indecisiveness about an alignment with such indenture was too much of a luxury for the likes of us.

In the end, a year after I really should have, I rang an immigration attorney in New York City, a man whom my Spanish neighbour recommended. I was lucky: the university had gone though most of the necessary processes, and my immigration attorney only had to work through the final steps (other, larger universities paid for the whole process, but ours, being smaller and less prestigious, didn’t have the funds to prioritise their foreign hires’ immigration fees). My attorney fees were actually miraculously low: $5,000. I knew of other people who had paid $10,000. But of course, besides the lawyer’s fees, there were separate fees associated with each step of the remaining process: I had to get that medical examination by an immigration services-approved doctor ($75). All the blood tests for various diseases also had a separate cost. And the submissions of paperwork at each stage of the application had separate fees attached to them.

I regaled my students with the horror of the slew of time and savings-consuming steps: none of them had any idea that one had to be tested for diseases in order to be allowed into the country – a process that many felt was inherently unfair, and distinctly un-American: I appreciated the solidarity that they provided. One kid cheekily informed me, “Professor Neelika, this means that Pam Anderson cannot be a US resident.” (Pamela Anderson, she of the infamous size-DD watermelon chest and the original internet-distributed sex-tape footage, is a public crusader for finding a cure for the hepatitis she had unknowingly contracted. She was born in Canada. I doubt that she had much trouble earning an income in the US.)

One wise dude asked me, “What’ll protect you from the syphilis and gonorrhea in our country?”

“A rubber,” I answered, to much raucous laughter, “and the nil-to-zero eligible bachelors in this region.”

I was eventually found to be disease and fibroid free, over-educated, already employed, with a substantial savings account and access to a good lawyer, as any good immigrant should. And thusly, I was allowed to continue to labour for the State University of New York system. My neighbour from Madrid, Spain, who recommended the immigration attorney who brokered both our Greencard processes, claimed that we’d probably paid this exorbitant sum for the three hours of labour that our Manhattan man’s Japanese assistant carried out.

Suddenly, after years of living with ever-changing immigration laws, border hassles, and the threat of being denied entry whenever I left the country, I was free of the worries that had hounded me all my adult life. Here was this little plastic-covered card – every out-of-place immigrant’s dream – in my hand.

And just as suddenly, I wanted to find a way out. Here was my document – for which I’d paid an amount that had taken two years of frugal living to accumulate – and I could not face the idea that now, I would have to commit to this country.

* * *

Over the previous three years, whilst employed at my home institution in the US, I had been travelling to Cape Town, South Africa, to conduct research on contemporary literature and art. Cape Town is a port city in which the contestations that unleashed the inequalities that accompanied the Enlightenment – and the subsequent modernity from which Europeans benefitted – took place. It is a place in which African, European, and South Asian bodies were brought together: some willingly, many more by force. As a result of these minglings, bodies here – bodies of knowledge, as well as physical bodies – display an Otherness – the history of conquest is marked on them.

The Cape of Storms was the place on which the Portuguese landed, to get fresh water for their ships, on the way to the “Indies”: the indigenous peoples reportedly threw stones at them for trying to take water without asking for permission first (this is a dry zone, where water is a valuable resource), and one of them ended with a Portuguese crossbow though his torso for protesting too much. When the Dutch arrived, they, too, thought of this as a watering station – not as a place in which to stay. But soon thereafter, it became useful for the Dutch East India Company (the VOC) as a prison colony, much like the US now uses Guantanamo Bay – to remove, maroon, and erase political and religious leaders from the South Asian countries they were trying to take over. The first Asians that the VOC shipped to South Africa were political prisoners – princes and Imams, and other men of high standing, brought over with entire entourages of family and followers. In 1694, the Sheik Yussuf, “the saintly man who established the first Muslim settlement in South Africa”,[2] was brought to The Cape Colony from the Indonesian archipelago, abroad a ship named the Voetboeg. He was “accompanied by 49 supporters, including two wives, two slave girls, twelve children, twelve imams, and a number of sympathetic friends”[3]. Yussuf and his entourage were transferred to the sandy wasteland near the area now known as Macassar near Stellensboch, where, before his untimely demise (of illness), established the first Muslim community in the Cape of Good Hope.[4]

But later, slave labour became the solution to the drudgery of everyday life. Allesverloren, Vergelegen, and Meerlust – wine farms, some of which have been around since the 1600s – are dotted with stately mansions and wineries constructed by the slave labourers brought from Malaysia, Ceylon, India, and other islands along the Indonesian archipelago – places to which the VOC sent their militarised ships to monopolise the spice trade.

Here on the Cape, post the 1994 democratic elections in South Africa, the question of what makes a person, a landscape, or a way of being – physically, psychosocially, sexually – particularly “African” (and therefore “legitimate” in this location) is a living question; it is a debate that is relevant here, more than in any other location in the enormity that is the continent of Africa. When visitors first land on this port, they are not simply disembarking on a spectacular, modern city located in the gentle bowl created by surrounding mountain ranges and two oceans, its beauty supported by vineyards, beaches, and cobblestoned courtyards built in the 16 and 1700s; they may, if they are aware enough, learn that those picturesque avenues were laid down by the slave labourers brought here by the VOC. They may realise that the labour that supports the “first world” portion of this nation – those cleaning their hotel rooms, those clearing the streets of rubbish, those cultivating the vines in breathtakingly beautiful vineyards – are the descendants of the same subjugated peoples who were brought here to labour on the roads, buildings, the kitchens, the vineyards: inscribed on their bodies is South Africa’s (and European modernity’s) deeply exploitative history. Things have changed here in South Africa, but nothing has moved that much.

Contained within the everyday nomenclature used to describe bodies within this nation is inscribed the desire to sidestep history, to maintain control over “Othered” bodies. Most American visitors believe, from news footage of the apartheid era, that the polarisation was between those deemed “white” and those who were “black”– yes, just like in the US: they transpose their vision of history to that of South Africa. But Afrikaner nationalists went much further in creating categories than race purists in the US. Under apartheid, there were four main “racial” groups in South Africa: White (of European descent); Bantu (or “Native”); Asian (anyone whose family origins were from the Indian subcontinent); Coloured (of “mixed race”). You’ll note, first, that “Black” South Africans were not officially referred to as “Black”, but as “Natives” or “Bantu” (a large grouping invented by European classifiers to denote any person “authentic” to this region, and not “mixed” with any immigrant group from either Europe or Asia). Apartheid classifiers did not use the word “Black” because, by a delightful linguistic twist, the word “black” translated, in Afrikaans, into the word “Afrikaner”: the same name white Dutch descendants used to denote their own “racial” group[5]. Afrikaans – the language that the white supremacists of South Africa claimed and elevated as their “own” language, and displayed as proof of their ascendancy – is not without historical ironies: it was, in fact, the language that resulted from the creolisation of Dutch, South Asian, and local African languages, and was “invented” and used as a ligua franca by the slave labourers brought here. When the white supremacists of South Africa subsequently adopted this language, they consciously articulated it as a “white” language; they “borrowed” words and structures from the Netherlands in order to “purify” and “refresh” their language, signify their alignment with Europe, and – more importantly – separate themselves, linguistically, from the descendants of the slaves – the “Coloured” people of the Cape.

And yet another fun detail: the fact that in Southern African languages, the word “bantu” merely means “people” was lost on those who invented the nomenclature of apartheid. So although the racist nomenclature used “Bantu” to refer to an “indigenous” black person from Africa (denoting, in fact, the lowest ranking on the nomenclature ladder) that word simply means “people”: in all their human glory and fallibility.

And whilst American history produced the classic polarisation between “white” and “black”, South Africa not only created four main categories of “races”, but came up with no less than eight subcategories of “Coloured” to deal with the large, Creolised population that resulted from four centuries of slavery: The Coloured Proclamation Act of 1959 defined these eight different categories as Cape Coloured (largely Christian); Malay (Muslim, of South Asian descent); Griqua (described as “people of mixed Hottentot and slave descent with an infusion of European blood” in the South African Native Affairs Commission (Sanac) report of 1903-1905)[6]; Chinese; Indian (those brought to South Africa in later waves of indentured and free labour by the British), Other Indian (whoever didn’t fit that former category, but was Indianish – like a Sri Lankan, for instance); Other Asiatic (the remainders – Asia is a big place); and Other Coloured (who knows). The Japanese had a special status: “honorary white”. Apartheid, though colossally illogical, was clever: they did not ignore that certain expediencies were required for maintaining relations with a nation with financial prowess in the world.

In the twenty-first century, apartheid may be over in the legal books, but the Cape remains a location that highlighted and entombed the geographical origins of one’s ancestors, the precise shade of one’s skin, slant of the eye, shape of the nose, texture of hair: one can read the physical, historical, and political bodies of the people and the landscape of the this region – as inscribed by 400 years of history – and the privileges and disparities that these origins donated to their historical and current bodies.

* * *

The year on which I received my Greencard, I’d found a way to be in South Africa for a year – to work on a couple of academic papers that would help me get tenure at my home university, yes, but it was also a way to get out of the US, and to be with the man for whom I’d fallen on a previous visit.

I was at the University of Cape Town, on this gift of a research fellowship, when the US postal service forwarded the Greencard to my address at the Centre for African Studies, where I had an office. Our long-legged, voluptuous receptionist – much visited by every eligible and non-eligible man within a five-mile radius of Table Mountain – came to my office door to announce, in the glorious accent that marks those who were forcibly moved to the Cape Flats during apartheid-era, in accordance with the Group-Areas Acts[7]: “Neelika: you have ano-ther letter from Amerrica, hey?”

My Greencard arrived in Cape Town by mistake.

The envelope looked like it contained a bill. The Department of Immigration actually stipulates that Greencards must be sent to a US address – after all, that is what we immigrants wanted, right? To be in the US? Whilst many in North America will not believe how reliable the American postal service actually is, I knew and feared the cheerful nosiness of small-town postal branch employees that made them especially efficient. In Oswego, the northern port city located on the shore of Lake Ontario where my American home is located, the three regulars at the post office know me as The Visiting Professor. I come a couple of times a year to fill out a hold-the-post form; and without fail, they ask me if I will enjoy the “hot” weather in “Africa”, adding that they wouldn’t really like it when it’s “that hot”, and that they would “miss the seasons”. When I told them that I was actually going to face a winter in “Africa” that produces snow on the tips of the mountain ranges, giving a short lesson about the tilt of the Earth on its axis (sometimes including an anecdote about how the water runs counter-clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere), my stories were met with puzzlement and dubious delight. But some of my fellow Upstaters knew: they’d watched an episode of “The Simpsons”, where the Springfield natives went to Australia, and discovered the wonders south of the Equator.

(When I told my students about these encounters, one of them quipped, “Neelika, you are the Peace Corps in Oswego. You’ve come to educate us Natives.” I seemed to be confusing the Natives, instead. I suppose that’s what the Peace Corps does.)

Before I left for South Africa for an entire year, the US Postal Service employees in Oswego told me that they have a service that will actually forward all my first-class mail to any place – including the Other hemisphere – for the duration of the whole year. My Greencard arrived at the Cape of Good Hope, though it was not meant to, only because nosy people in a northern town knew me because of my difference. Here, one of the wintertime hobbies is to park one’s car on the bluffs facing the lake to watch winter waves leap up and over the breakwater wall, forming great frozen mounds with the energy and movement of each successive wave etched into the ice. These people knew didn’t forget who I was. They might have seen the fine print on the envelope stipulating that this document must be delivered to a US address, but I imagine that they thought: “She probably needs this.”

* * *

It was in the Cape that I met an Afrikaans-speaking, white South African academic – he became, as he described, my lover. I resisted the nomenclature he used to describe his role in my life – the word seemed inherently silly and hyperbolic to me – something that would have to be accompanied by large muttonchops and, perhaps, bouquets of violets. He did have some unruly sideburns (he fancied himself a Romantic, and a scholar of the period), and spoke longingly of the mountainscape and the Cape flora using borrowed lines from other poets – though I believe he thought I was a young novice who wouldn’t be well-versed enough in English literature to recognise those stolen lines he passed off as his own.

Also, he drove an ancient black Beetle – the vehicle of choice of those who wanted to display their ‘70’s hippie credentials. The fact that this was the vehicle invented by Nazi engineers as part of Hitler’s campaign to conquer the deserts of North Africa (Beetles do not need to have water put into their radiators. My father drove home the significance of this fact by opening the hoods of all his friends’ vehicles, showing me that all other cars had a little coolant reserve) was not lost on me.

I liked these private jokes of mine – it was part of the enjoyment of being with a man. Nevertheless, I fell for this particular man, my irony collapsing just short of a sensible decision.

I’d chosen badly. This man: born in the Free State, the stronghold of apartheid. Who could be more unlikely a man for me, a South Asian born in a port city that hosted Arabs, Greeks, Thais, Portuguese, Dutch, British, and a host of Indians from Kerala to Calcutta? I was the most dis-located person he could imagine, with a uselessly old-fashioned existential angst expressing my lack of nationhood; he, one of the most located persons I’d ever known – with a raging mandate to prove that his language, his beleaguered history, and he himself belonged in this New South Africa. That the doings of his ancestors and contemporaries did not eject him from a place at the table.

It was the ferocity with which he claimed belonging that I found irresistible.

He had been a conscientious objector when the National Party drafted young white men to fight against black South Africans in the late seventies and eighties. After his university education, he taught at one of the first universities set up in the black townships. These two anecdotes proved his credentials to me (and others): they billboarded his anti-apartheid views, and therefore made him politically attractive: I thought, Ah! Someone who was born into one set of circumstances, but made personal choices to transform the self through making active decisions.

Just as I had.

I, like others who listened to the many anecdotes that this Afrikans man told at conferences and symposia, was spellbound by his stories: he had been an eighteen year old, no plan for the future except to get high on weed, hijacked by the history of his nation. He attempted to leave for England, as did many whites of his era, to escape the draft – but abandoned that escape when the cramped London bedsit, the slush of sleet and rain, and morose roommate who repetitively polished a pointless surfboard failed to provide the adventure and freedom that a mythical “return” to Europe promised for white South Africans.

He came back to his country, and lived through being derided and isolated in an army camp, being spied on, and having his home ransacked by the police. He loved his nation that much.

He believed that I was more committed to the prowess that was America, rather than to him. That there was no nation, no person, no nothing to which I would ever be loyal. I was trying to prove otherwise: that I left the US and came to the Cape to be with him. Rather than making the all-too predictable Greencard marriage to an American citizen, I was having an affair with a non-American in order to figure out a way that I could reject the clout that American residency would give me, without seeming to be doing something certifiably insane. I imagine that I could accept the impracticality of giving up employment in a powerful nation if I could use “love” as my reason.

My American friends believed, justifiably, that this love was sheer lunacy.

What I fell in love with were his stories, and the firmness with which he coupled himself to his landscape, his country, his history, his Africanness in being Afrikaner: his narratives of belonging had a grave solidity. Like any settler or immigrant, he was more invested in being identified as an African than any African who didn’t have to question her or his belonging in this landscape: it is the language with which the usurper speaks of the landscape of conquest. Though I had no great loyalty nor attachment to any of the locations on which I’d grown up, lived and worked – be it in Asia, the Americas, or Africa – I marvelled at how committed he was to being here, within a nation that had once told him that he had to fight to belong to “Africa” as a member of an extraordinary race, that his right to a place in this location would mean the violent exclusion of Others who were also located on this landscape. How much of his stories were his real experience, and how much of them were borrowed from others, I have no idea. How much of his decision to stay on in South Africa – whilst his brothers emigrated to the UK and the US with their exceptional educations and ambitions – was because he was a consummately ill-disciplined dreamer who could only get by as an academic here because apartheid still privileged his whiteness (despite his objections), I do not know. But he recounted the narrative of his decision to stay as if he had eaten of that commitment.

* * *

More than all of that romanticism about wilfully constructing belonging in a hostile landscape, I fell in love with the possibility that this man might give me a way back to the mythical Africa: he homed me in a location that I felt I should find belonging, but never had. As a child who grew up within Southern Africa’s socio-political landscape, I found no easy existence here – South Asians were always Indians in Africa: and Africa’s encounter with Indians taught them not about the seven temples of Mahabalipuram desiccating into the Indian Ocean; the finesse of Madras silk saris that could be threaded through the eye of a needle; of Calcutta as the city of cafes and trams, the city beloved as the seat of Indian literary knowledge; or of Kerala as the hotbed of Communist Party politics, and a level of literacy to rival that of Japan. Africans thought of Indians in much the same way as, well, much of the world thought of India and Indians back then: dusty, diseased, starved, overpopulated.

For Africans, India was a broken nation. And Indians in Africa were the shop-keeping, corner-crisps-shop-running, trader-cum-smuggler-cum-briber, arse-kissing, yes-no-head-lolling-and -“r”-rolling, expel from your African nation Asians.

I remember that Sri Lankans did everything they could to differentiate themselves from Indians in Africa; but for all practical purposes, no one on the continent (or anywhere else, for that matter) could remark on the difference. We corrected those who mistakenly misidentified us. We listed and elaborated upon our differences from Indians. But our attempts to separate ourselves from Indian barbarity was to no avail.

In my youth, I’d wanted nothing but leaving – the voluminous otherness that was America was such high pleasure that I forgot to return home for nearly two decades.
When I left my rural backwater mining town in Zambia for an equally backwater college town in the US, I wanted nothing but to run away from the narrative of expatriate-Asian unbelonging in Africa. I thought I’d never return: it was neither a negotiation that I imagined wanting to encounter, nor was prepared in any way to face.

But of course, we all return to Origins – especially those that trouble us, eject and reject us, unbelong us. We sometimes attempt to try to make those Origins acknowledge our legitimacy. We circumnavigate them, satellites mapping and documenting the surface of an ultimately unknowable location from a distance.

During the time I was undecided about whether I could be devoted to America, I believed that entertaining a man born into apartheid South Africa – one from a family that positioned itself in the isolated heart of an old Afrikaner stronghold – would solidify my claim to belonging here, back in the location of my initial dislocation.

Being with an Afrikaner was, for me, about creating belonging to a place that rejected me, or perhaps never desired me in the first place, using the blueprint of another Other in Africa – one whose people’s history spelt the enormity of power, a wilful construction of located-ness though brutal reconfigurations, an engineered belonging to this location, whilst simultaneously ejecting, rejecting, and erasing that same Africa.

I thought that being with him would un-Indian me.

* * *

When I had time off from my university job, I returned to the Cape to live with him in a cottage in the de Trafford vineyard, settled into to the joint between the Helderberg and Stellenbosch mountain ranges. On the Mont Fleur estate, where the farm was located, the workers saw me running through the clay roads before the sun set in the winter, and before the sun rose in the summer. I knew that if I ever injured myself running, everyone’d get notice of it via the bush telegraph immediately. My lover used to say that they liked him more for being with me – they recognised my shade of skin and my unplaceable features; they recognised the markings of another historical contact in my undefinable physical features. They approved of the Afrikaner more now that he was with a person whom they recognised as their own.

From him, I learned of birdcalls and migratory patterns: what I had to train my ear for at different times of the year. The sun only peeked over the granite of the mountaintops at 11 am, greeted by the excited twittering of Cape white-eyes. I usually experience a night or two of insomnia every month – usually associated with full-moon nights. During this period of my life, the insomnia became a regular occurrence; I would wake up at 3AM and listen to nightjars calling out to each other on moonlit nights: ‘two-two twirlydoooo!” I kissed my lover awake, and we listened to the voices of the nightbirds, the howling winter winds rustling through fields of fynbos, the bullets of bluegum pods scattering on the roof. We made love. At the end of August every year, when I left him and came back to my job in the US, I woke up at 3am, hearing the burbling watervoices of the nightjars.

The dislocations I experienced travelling back and forth between the South and North, winters and summers, were more than the usual confusion that I experienced as a traveller, not knowing whether I was in a hotel room, my uncle’s home in Sri Lanka where ring-necked parrots squawked till they were fed morning treats, or in my own flat on the shores of Lake Ontario in upstate New York. When I left the Cape to return to New York, I was seasonally dislocated, shocked by the streaming summer sunshine that awakened me, when I expected blowing rain and grey cloud of a Southern Hemisphere winter.

When I looked up at night to the rural northern sky above the great wash of Lake Ontario, the arc of stars was as brilliant as that of my vineyard sky: the long skirt-train of the Milky Way swept the dark sky above. Orion, here, existed the wrong way around; and the Southern Cross, the stars composing the two arms as brilliant as finely cut diamonds, a great and lonely absence.

In this northern place I returned to in order to make money, and to have stability, I felt nothing but absence. I was out of place without love to locate my body. I was out of place without his sense of location. Without him to locate me.

I knew he was right when he said, “Love is a homesickness”.

I would come to find that I will never feel “homed” in location, or in love; that I live in the transit lounge, always on the way to home and love. And I knew that neither thing – love nor home – existed, not as I wanted to have them, in my memory or desire.

* * *

In the Cape, sexual relations between European settler tribes, the indigenous people (the Xhosa, the Khoi, the San), and the slaves and indentured servants brought from the Dutch colonies in South Asia, as well as those from the island of Madagascar and various other parts of Africa produced the eight categories of those who came to be classified as “Coloured” during the apartheid era. Zimitri Erasmus, in her “Introduction” to Coloured by History, Shaped by Place, clarifies that as with any group that came to exist “under conditions of marginality”, Creole people of the Cape, too, constructed their identity “out of elements of ruling as well as subaltern cultures”[8]. The racial hierarchy that placed “coloured identities midway between ‘white’ and ‘African’” created a legacy that has been tainted with complicitous relationships with those in power[9]: Coloured people – like Indians in Africa – are known for the desire to identify with that which is “white” whilst, simultaneously, distancing themselves from all that is “African”. However, though people who are classified or seen as “Indian” in Africa are known to contain sober cultural habits, “being coloured is…clouded with sexualised shame…and associated with drunkenness and jollity”[10].

Being Coloured is about that history: that of the “loose” sexuality of female slave labourers, their drunken, jolling culture, their permissive behaviour that permitted white sailors, Company soldiers, and farmers to create this “remainder” of people outside of definable “races”. Being Coloured is about the ability to collude with those in power, to make compromises with one’s body in order to garner favours: to use one’s poes to get a Pass.

Erasmus illustrates that Coloured identities arose from the need to “survive and resist on terms dictated by slave-owners and colonisers” as well as the “compromises and opportunities that arose in the context of settlers’ encounters with indigenous Africans”[11]. How cornered or threatened one had to be before one made such bodily compromises rarely enters the imaginations viewing Colouredness in terms of “shame” and “looseness”.

That we must “buy into notions of ‘race purity’”[12]– that is, believe in the existence of “pure” races (black and white) in order to construct an idea of a “mixed race”; that we must agree, on some level, with “nineteenth century European eugenicists” in order to define identities “in terms of ‘mixture’”[13]; that all cultures (and, I’d add, all genetic bodies of people) are “hybrid”, though they may not be “seen” and “read” as such[14]: all this is lost in the discourses that define Creolised populations as those that resulted from “miscegenation” or “race mixing”.

In a nation that is hair-trigger-sensitive to particular physical markers as signals of “race”, my body screamed of Otherness. In Durban – the location to which indentured labourers from India were brought by the British colonisers to work on the sugarcane plantations and the railroads in the nineteenth century – I might be seen as a fellow Indian – but of a slightly strange variety: Indians brought to South Africa came, largely from the South of India: Telegus, Tamils, Keralites. I didn’t have the markers that carried that particular history: not the right shade of skin, not the right texture and colour of hair.

But in the Cape, which simply ruled anything that looked “neither/nor” as Coloured, I was just garden-variety, ordinary Cape Coloured – maybe Cape Malay, if one were looking for specifics. As long as I did not open my mouth to speak – betraying an accent that had more to do with a British colonial education and phrases that displayed an American enjoyment in the inventiveness of language – I passed as local.

I could disappear into a crowd. My body could pass here, in this location of contact. This was the first time in my life that it had happened to me: walk down a street, enter a market, a church, or a classroom, and not be asked, “Where are you from?”

I’d never imagined how significant that feeling would be – how powerful it would feel to never be asked to legitimate one’s right to be within a location – to simply belong.

Here, I got to drop the enormous weight of the history of being “Asian in Africa”. And at first, the removal of the old heaviness associated with being “Indian” was an exhilarating freedom. I’d not yet experienced the burden that was to come with being Coloured in the Cape.

That was to come soon enough.

Early in this essay, I wrote: origins are indelibly linked to the imaginary of love. And being Coloured is to be without clear Origins. Or at least, to have one’s origins clouded in shame. As a coloured woman in the Cape, I was agreeing to behave as History determined for me to behave: to collude with power, to make compromises with the body in order to curry favour, to accept these arrangements as the reality of being part of a “remainder” left behind by Europe and Africa.

* * *

The very things I adored about my lover – the solidity with which he belonged to his language, his home, his country – these were the same reasons I was neither able to stay with him, nor he with me. What I’d been attracted to was, in fact, the sense of power that surrounded his belonging to this location – something I did not have, but longed for. But what I didn’t realise, then, was that attempting to ride the coattails of others’ power is always accompanied by problematic fine print: they always decide the spaces you enter; they decide the pace at which you go; they may decide, eventually, to shake you off. And then, having never learnt how to stride into a room without hiding behind some powerful persona, your only option may be to find another coat to hang on to, if you are still desirable enough.

The dissonance between us was spelt out clearly whenever I encountered the world outside the cottage in which I shared a bed with him – and then, it entered the cottage. This happened at random encounters: at university conferences, where these notions of belonging and identity were debated with a ridiculous passion that only served (for me) to prove the silliness of academia, providing fodder for fun-making; for him, however, these debates denoted the seriousness of his life’s journey as an Afrikaner academic. At any given public presentation, the stupidity of competitiveness arose between us: when we presented together, there were few questions directed at his paper, whilst there were many who asked about mine – only, perhaps, because I was working with visual images and text, things that younger scholars respond to. Whilst he badgered me about the men who spoke to me, or exchanged cards with me, it was I who looked jealous if I questioned his behaviour around young, female academics.

I tried to situate these arguments as misunderstandings about love, or – simply, as idiotic jealousies that would go away, once he saw that I had no intentions for any man but him.

At other times, a conversation with a colleague in the hallway of his department highlighted the hypocrisy between what he professed in public (the importance of providing access to underrepresented groups, hiring young, Black scholars, etc.), and how he behaved in situations where he would not be seen. In private, he regaled me with tales involving older, established, white academics, and young, female scholars – how many black and coloured women had only been able to arrive where they had because they had been “initiated” into academia by much older, white men in South African academia. He had amassed some detailed stories and anecdotes to bolster his argument, and to illustrate that this was, in fact, a fair “deal” enjoyed by all involved.

He was clear about the benefits for the women.

What did the men get, besides sexual favours? Credentials as “non-racists” in the New South Africa. What better way to display one’s lack of prejudice than to be seen with a black woman? In the Bad Old South Africa, a white man would have to cloak the sexual encounter, pay the woman, live in fear of being found out by family, wife, and community. In the New Nation, a white man, soon after divorce or separation, paraded black women in public like a passport.

Whilst these conversations were taking place, I was educating myself about the particularities of the history of the Cape. Especially significant was Cheryl Hendricks’ article, “Ominous Liaisons”, in which the scholar details the manner in which the “European encounter with Africa…utilized sexuality to describe, define, categorize, and symbolize the ‘Otherness’ of the indigenous inhabitants of the Cape”, focusing particularly on the sexuality and the sexual organs of the local women as markers of “Otherness”[15]. She argues, further, that it was “damning to admit to any sexual liaisons” with Khoi Khoi or San, given that these indigenous groups were described as the missing link between animal and human. Hendricks’ writing helped me add depth to the discussions on the life of Sara Baartman[16], the so called “Hottentot Venus” who was brought to London in 1810 as a sexual display item; upon her eventual death, her body was dismembered by the French evolutionary biologist and anatomist Georges Cuvier, who made a plaster cast of her body, and preserved – for display in the Musée de l’Homme in Paris – her brain, buttocks and vaginal organs. Baartman was born in 1789, the same year that the French Revolution – which, ironically, eventually inspired the Declaration of the Rights of Man – also erupted; she died at age 25, of complications arising from, possibly, a combination of syphilis and alcoholism. While Baartman’s remains were repatriated, 187 years later, for burial in 2002 (after petitions supported by the new democratic government of South Africa, and much debate in the French Parliament), Cuvier has a dolphin-flanked fountain to commemorate his contributions to science near the Jardin des Plantes (with his motto, "Rerum cognoscere causas" – "to know the causes of things" – emblazoned upon a tablet held by a host of adoring animals) with no mention of his fascination with the brains, backsides, and labia of African women.

Fascination with the African body and sexuality: no doubt about it. But shame associated with being known to derive pleasure from the African body: no doubt about that, either. Hendricks argues that whilst such encounters between “Europe and Africa” did take place, it was less shameful to have sex with “people of ‘mixed’ descent” because “they were differently situated in the racial hierarchy…occupying an interstitial space which was valued for its conferred advantages – gained because of an approximation to whiteness, yet despised for its association with ‘bastardisation/hybridity’ in a world that came to privilege ‘authenticity/purity’”[17].

Yes, I shared my newfound knowledge with the man who argued that there was some sort of “equal” gain in present-day sexual liaisons in South Africa that involved men and women who arrived at the erotic table with vastly different levels of power. I thought I was being clever, using scholarship and wit to argue back and forth – and that he, too, was simply challenging me, enjoying an intellectual game. Surely, he didn’t think that my being with him meant that I could be positioned as a young, “Coloured” scholar, benefitting from his largesse? Nor that he could, possibly, be with me, as physical proof of his “liberal” credentials? I didn’t realise, then, that being with a person who looked as I did, for a man tainted with the baggage of South Africa’s colonial and apartheid politics, was part of an inescapable, long history of exploitative sexual relations that white men enjoyed with the “safer” version of the Other – claiming, always, that this relationship was useful and productive to both parties involved.

I’d forgotten, because I was in love, that a nation’s history plays a bigger part in shaping individuals and their thought processes. In this landscape, this location of colonial encounter, the old methods of unequal exchange – wherein the use of body and sexuality were an accepted, ordinary part of negotiating for access and power – were still very much in place. These old customs were continuing to work well for some. And even if the man I was seeing had never positioned me as such – even if we, as a couple, did not see ourselves in this manner – others around us certainly did.

The fact that I cared little for the adoration of other male scholars, and that I had zero interest in gaining an academic upper hand through introductions to his network of cronies were not things that were believable to this man, nor to many others around us: this is not the way academia worked, not in their experience, and not in South Africa. That I did not want access to power through using my body – the physical or symbolic body – was bizarre enough that my protests were seen as just that: simply too much protest. That I especially did not want to climb up using his symbolic body as a conduit to power came to be seen as a separate problem: if I did not want to use him, then, I had no use for him. Then, I would not be grateful, beholden, or loyal to him.

And therefore, I would be uncontrollable: Colonial Subjectivity 101.

Just like a subversive Asian, given a situation in which I had to submit myself to a relationship with a nation that wanted to use me to further itself, I did not exactly comply with the rules of subjugation. I was not behaving in manner that was “Coloured” enough for this man, or this location.

I was back to being Indian.

* * *

The final decision I made – to leave him, yes, but more significantly, to return to the US to accept my residency – happened over something as benign as a holiday to see the blossoming Namaqualand flowers: along with the spring rains that come in late August and September, the desert in the Northern Cape bursts with flowers, and locals pilgrimage up the West Coast Highway to see the desert floor rolling in blooms. It is Sara Baartman’s childhood landscape.

Because we’d only decided to go on the trip late in the week, the better hotels were booked. We found a cheap place – a drinking house, really, with a few rooms. We were the only people staying there, but plenty of beefy, pap-and-vleis-fed, red-faced Afrikaners were at the bar, swallowing methodically - the way that serious drinkers approached drink. We laughed at the drab hopelessness of the scene. We felt everything was an adventure that we’d be able to laugh about.

“You think you’re out of place here?” he asked me, half-jokingly, before I said anything. “Imagine how I feel, looking at those guys I’m supposed to belong to.”

But he felt at home soon enough. The owner of the hotel, a 30-something white woman who looked like she drank her fair share, spoke to my companion in Afrikaans – she addressed only him, never once looking at me. Earlier in the evening, when I’d gone to fetch a bag from the car, and asked her for directions back to the room, she certainly replied to my query in comfortable English – but I was on my own at that moment.

She seemed intent on flirting with him. He seemed to comply – all the charm that I fell for was being trotted out here, too, in a dusty, two-tabled dining room with a black cat sleeping in the washbasin. She was attractive enough.

At the dinner table, I endured an entire conversation between them, in Afrikaans. My body seemed to have disappeared from the room. I was not only an outsider in his world, in her world – I did not exist.

My fish and wilted chips remained untouched.

When she came to collect the plates, she asked, in Afrikaans, if we’d enjoyed our meals: the question was not directed at me. But I knew enough Dutch and Afrikaans – for a person who loved languages, it was not difficult to pick up simple phrases.

“No,” I replied, “Het was niet smakelijk.”

I then asked her if she could speak to both of us – my lover and me – in English, since I could not understand Afrikaans.

She said, “Oh, are you very English then?” She emphasised the word.

“Yes, I am very English,” I replied, thinking, how ridiculous her comment, how hilarious it would be to laugh about this situation later: me, a coconut-island girl who grew up in the middle of a nowhere bush town in Zambia, being called “very English”, only because I was educated in Anglican schools.

She cocked her head in mock sympathy.

“Agh, shame!” She tutted. “Around here, we only use English for defence.”

I’d no idea how English could be used as a “defence” in any given environ. I wondered if this was the language that one might now use to prove that one was legitimate in the “New” South Africa. I wondered if English speakers could distance themselves from white Afrikaans speakers, whose language and history were mired in white supremacy. But everyone knew: it was the English who came up with the first laws of segregation in South Africa, and the descendants of the English benefitted largely from Apartheid, whilst hiding behind their Englishness as the means by which they separated themselves from the evildoing Afrikaners.

And in any case, English was certainly not a conduit for belonging, or a means of insisting on one’s “Africanness”.

I’m still working that one out.

But meanwhile, back at the ranch, I was thinking about that phrase the motel owner had used. “Agh, shame!” can denote multiple possibilities: it can genuinely mean “Oh, I’m so sorry”, drawing the recipient of one’s sympathies closer. Or it can be delivered in a manner that denotes the distance and superiority of the speaker.

Both Mr. Man and I knew which connotation was signified by this motel owner’s particular turn of the phrase.

Once she left the dining room, I waited for words denoting sympathy about the awkward situation I was living through, here on the frontier of colonial encounter. But he had nothing to say.

A full five minutes later, he faced me: “Why do you have to politicise everything? If this were France, you would not be so snobbish. You would defend their fear of English hegemony, and their right to speak in French. These are rural people who feel that English is taking over. They feel pride for their language. Can you not understand this?”

The last part of his speech was venomous, enraged. We were not, now, having an intellectual debate. I did not know how to show him that I was not here to “do politics”, but to have a holiday with a man believed I loved.

I knew that it would be no use arguing that French history was very different from apartheid history, and that in any case, a language and a culture that was as hegemonic (and violently so) as Afrikaans had no worry of being taken over by English. Or that there was no danger in Afrikaans being wiped out, as the “Coloured” dialect of Afrikaans was alive and thriving in all its multiplicitous glory – but of course, white Afrikaners did not often include their cousins’ language in their considerations of the survival of the language.

The rage with which this man reacted to my exchange with the motel owner shocked me out of love. It shook me out of wanting to be aligned with his narrative of nationalism – one that was now in the process of struggling to prove its place in Africa. I didn’t think that the conversation between us, at this point, revealed much about the politics surrounding language and identity, but much more about how much my lover’s loyalty to his heritage would play out in our relationship.

At the time, I believed that this was all a simple case of expecting a certain level of hospitality at a hotel gone awry. I knew the owner spoke English, she knew I spoke no Afrikaans, and because she was running a hotel, and I was a customer, I expected courtesy. My expectations of courtesy included that a hotel owner would address me, as well, not just my male companion. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew, also, that her performance had been about sexual display – and that he had responded. But at the time, I could not articulate this: that my lover’s behaviour, too, was a display of “un-hospitality” – an act of unhoming. That was what I was reacting to.

It was only much later that I understood how the public structures of things affected the private. It was a long time before I was able to read that encounter in terms of public history, landscape, and bodies: the motel owner directed her conversation towards him, and flirted hard with him, because in her experience, white men were the ones who had access to power. I was just the Coloured thing with whom he was having a bit of fun, away from the city. Her flirtation with him had to do with the particulars of Cape history – she was white, yes, but even for white women here, especially poor, rural women, white men were the ones who had power – financial and otherwise. And it was through the promise of sex that women vied for a bit of that power. I was supposed to step up to the game – defend my position, make this man the valued prize for which we both fought.

And my “refusal” to speak in Afrikaans was seen, I realised, as a cultivated snobbery: uppity city Coloureds sometimes want to distance themselves from this language, reject the association with apartheid. But out here in the rural hinterland, Coloureds were expected to remain Coloureds.

The following morning, I woke up early. I took my bag, and walked to the front desk, bypassing the black cat, asleep in another washbasin bowl in a different dilapidated room. I stopped to look at it, glorious in the sun: it opened one sharp green eye, and looked directly at me.

It was only when she realised that it would be I who would be paying for the night at her motel that she looked up.

I placed my credit card in front of her. She saw my name: not Cape Coloured. And the card was foreign-issued: American. She had no machine with which to process credit cards, but suddenly, she was warm, chatty, even.

“Why didn’t you say that you were foreign!?” Her new exclamations were uttered in perfectly good English.

“I have cash. In rands. Don’t worry.”

“Did you enjoy your stay?”

“No.”

I left her a R50 tip – a third of the motel fee.

These were dogs of a breed I’d never encountered, and a madness for which I’d not bargained. This was, in fact, when I decided to return to America. To leave the man to whom I’d attached the enormity of home and nation.

* * *

On the day that I opened the envelope containing my Greencard, I drove out to Llandudno beach, thirty minutes south of the city, along the Atlantic seaboard. Llandudno is built into the lower flanks of the Twelve Apostles, the dozen mountains that stand sentinel along the Cape Peninsula. The gentle curvature of the cove below makes the waves curl beautifully – not large enough that an experienced surfer can boast of being held within the Green Room – that cylinder of air inside the curving palm of water – but beautiful for anyone not out on the ocean to prove themselves.

In mid summer, the water here is still cold from Antarctic currents, enough to make the belly-skin cringe; in the winter, impossible to contemplate without a wetsuit.

When I walked along the cliff walls leading down to the water, it was still sunny; bands of cormorants were on the rocks, catching the last of the sun, wings hanging out, drying their feathers.

No one was here: the waves were too rough, uneven. From high up along the coastal drive, I could see the kelp beds roaring wild: the Cape of Good Hope was anticipating a winter storm. We who live in seaward-looking cities can read the signs: we know those winds arriving from the Antarctic, we see the fynbos on the higher slopes of the mountain already on bended knee, we see the way these waves change their behaviour. If there’s anything I’ve learned from living on the shores of Lake Ontario, it’s how to read the change of wind arriving from the polar ice caps, the roaring change evident in the movement of water.

Sometimes, the signs of an impending calamity are unmistakable.

I knew, already, that nothing would be the same after that day.

I drove back to the cottage on the de Trafford wine farm. At dusk, the light hits the westward faces of the mountains to a pink so unlikely that it seems as if the granite is transformed into roses. The stucco and brick Cape Dutch mansions in which the wine farm owners live impose on the landscapes around here: outsiders eager to signal their difference. Bits of my ancestors are probably here – a Ceylonese woman is recorded as giving birth to the bastard child of Simon van der Stel, the Anglo-Indian first governor of the Cape. These leftovers are now the coloured workers on the farms, with generations of knowledge about how to trim the leaves around each bunch of grapes just right, so that the fruit will get the right amount of sun at harvest time: these are the new indentured servants of the Cape, whose ancestors hewed and laid down the stones for each of the grand homes lining the country roads.

At the time, I thought that living within this landscape of bodies bearing the marks of that undeniably violent colonial encounter was not simply about experiencing a “postcolonial adventure”, as my city friends joked, but about displaying power over that history. Falling for an Afrikaner was not about my “Empire striking back”, but about the possibilities that love – and modernity – may contain.

I thought about what I would tell this man who nominated himself my “lover”, the man I was using, I realised, to strengthen my escape from America. I believed, then, that being with him would find me a way out of aligning myself with the terrorist-ferreting, powerful nation at whose doorstep I did not want to beg – the nation that would solidify a new, powerful identity for me the moment I flew back and faced the consequences of having paid a lawyer all my savings to engineer that mobility and belonging.

I wondered how I was going to negotiate this new reality for myself, without an escape route.

This man presented me a way out of committing to America, yes. I understood his alienation from his own country’s history: how terrifying it must be to be claimed by a nation that gave one power by extracting a loyalty paid in blood and loss. I adored the language of otherness he’d developed to explain his predicament. I knew what it meant to speak of the gorgeous body of the pinotage in our glasses, the fat of the Karoo desert lamb in the roasting pan, and the way the granite on the mountain turned pink when the sun set – rather than face each other and speak cordially through our differences: this we had in common. To divert conflict, and the violence of the encounter that this landscape and these bodies had seen – and speak instead of the birdlife, the mountains, or of the body of one’s lover – to map the territory of conquest with language sweet enough to distract: this was the fine art we had developed.

But the great and unmapped territory within, and the labour required for undertaking the cartography of the self – that courage we lacked.

I’d chosen someone that I’d have to give up: I picked an impossibility, so that eventually, I’d have to show up for my sensible marriage, and reconcile myself to aligning my person with the stability that powerful nations assign to one’s body politic. Faced with the possibility that the US, my surrogate nation – the Superpower in all its post 9/11 ambiguity – would finally accept me, legally, 18 years after I first arrived, I balked. I guess I balked so hard that my body crashed through the windshield of the immigration vehicle I’d been driving so fast. The strength with which I held on to the unlikely – and often destructive – partnering of mine in South Africa had more to do with that self-engineered crash than with much else.

How I’m learning to negotiate the new rules of agency, to maintain the strength inherent in ambiguity whilst being admitted into this powerful and destructive nation: that’s a story I’m just beginning to narrate.

When I came back to my home university, located on the northern limit of my new country, I found an apartment with windows facing the shores of Lake Ontario – as close to the boundary of the nation as I could find. Above, beyond the lake and the horizon, were Canada and the Arctic Circle.

It was deep winter. I woke up at 3am, the roar of the waves carried by the gusting arctic wind. Outside: blackness and water.

I could hear the burbling watervoices of the nightjars outside.

Notes:

1. From the dedication to Chimurenga, Volume 14. Makeba had 9 passports, and was given honorary citizenship in several countries; in 1960, she discovered that South Africa had revoked her passport when she tried to return for her mother’s funeral; in ’63, her citizenship was also revoked, after she testified against the apartheid system before the UN. She, along with many others – including Nelson Mandela – didn’t keep the “Passbook” that those classified as “Native” were required to carry. In South African slang, derived from Afrikaans, a “pass” can be a play on the word referring to a woman’s sexuality: Miriam was known as a lover extraordinaire.


2. Jackie Loos’ Echoes of Slavery (New Africa Books, 2004) is a beautifully written historical work that chronicles the labour and lives of those who constructed the language, culinary practices, roads, architecture, and agricultural backbone of the Cape, using both secondary and primary archival material. Loos was a librarian, who, after being “retrenched” from her job, decided to use her expertise as a researcher to dig up archival material and make public the lives and labour of the undocumented who constructed the glories upon which the Dutch Empire depended. p.48.

3. Same as Footnote 2.

4. Same as Footnote 2.

5. For an excellent introduction to the contradictions of Apartheid, and the sheer silliness of the nomenclature, see: http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/africa/features/storyofafrica/12chapter7.shtml

6. Reddy, Thiven. 2001. “The Politics of Naming: the Constitution of Coloured Subjects in South Africa”. Coloured by History, Shaped by Place. ed. by Zimitri Erasmus. Kwela Books: Cape Town, 2001. p. 69.

7. For a quick (non-academic) introduction to the Apartheid-era Group Areas Acts, the specific details contained within Passcards, and the nomenclature of apartheid, see http://africanhistory.about.com/library/bl/blIdentityNumber.htm

8. Erasmus, Zimitri. 2001. “Introduction”. Coloured by History, Shaped by Place. ed. by Zimitri Erasmus. Kwela Books: Cape Town, 2001. p. 16.

9. Same as Footnote 8

10. Same as Footnote 8, p. 15.

11. Erasmus, Zimitri. 2001. “Introduction”. Coloured by History, Shaped by Place. ed. by Zimitri Erasmus. Kwela Books: Cape Town, 2001. p. 24.

12. Same as Footnote 11. p.16.

13. Same as Footnote 11, p.16.

14. Same as Footnote 11, p.16.

15. Hendricks, Cheryl. 2001. “Ominous Liaisons: Tracing the Interface Between “Race” and Sex at the Cape”. Coloured by History, Shaped by Place. ed. by Zimitri Erasmus. Kwela Books: Cape Town, 2001. p. 24.

16. For a extensive history of Baartman’s life and significance of the encounter between European and African sexuality, see Sara Baartman and the Hottentot Venus: A Ghost Story and a Biography by Clifton Crais and Pamela Scully. Princeton University Press, 2008.

17. Same as Footnote 15, p. 35.
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M. Neelika Jayawardane is Assistant Professor of English at the State University of New York-Oswego, where she teaches post-apartheid and South Asian literature, new fiction of the postmodern and postcolonial experience, as well as courses focusing on globalisation, diaspora, and transnational theory. She holds a doctorate in English, with a focus in Creative Writing, from the University of Denver; her Masters and Bachelors degrees are from Iowa State University in Ames, Iowa. She has been a Visiting Associate at the Centre for African Studies in the University of Cape Town from 2005-present, where she researches the history of mobility, migration, and the role of passes, passports, and visa regulations in containing migrants from “Third World” nations.
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RECONFIGURATIONS: A Journal for Poetics & Poetry / Literature & Culture, http://reconfigurations.blogspot.com/, ISSN: 1938-3592, Volume Three (2009): Immanence/ Imminence
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